Lulling Tickles in Liminality

Image by DarkmoonArt_de from Pixabay

As Darkness sways her regal skirt

to the dead’s drumming heartbeats,

I sit still entranced in silence until Being is

and all surroundings disappear.

Sea foam bubbles and kisses itself away in my ears –

the last remnants of the multitude storm

have no sway over the rock of protean lore.

The weathervane slightly oscillates

by the systole and diastole of breath,

reconciling lover and beloved

with the primal scent of lively opiates

in sightless search. 

And to commensurate the sweetness

of honeydew, roses, and rosemary blends,

all dreams entorched wed the shadows

in the tireless dance of visceral cantus

and hedgehog air.

Archaeology of Self-Owned Phantoms

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

Every time I look outside myself, there is nothing. The night scowls — harsh shadows glare from every edgy corner and crevasse, bluntly isolating themselves from the parking lot’s cold light. My humming fills the air of this witching hour whilst my eyes imbibe from the hollow calmness. I roam awake in the sleeping field of humanity, now and again waltzing in the absurdity of my surroundings. These dreams are shards of irrationality. The loftiest reason springs from the cradle of darkness with the germinating seed of a bleeding ideal, so piercing that the reflection of life gives it form and functionality. I have brandished and slain all by which reality breathes in harmony with the blades of stark madness, and like a venomous snake spread the bane of immortality. The aethers gleam athirst for breath’s sublime counsel; for I thieved their wine from their lips, and fed them sand from the deserts of necromancy. Oh, but to feel the warmth of shapely concept and pattern! Oh, but to exit the abandoned cavern of primordiality! One would beseech of himself the zeal to power to traverse the labyrinthine darkness into deeper regions of blackness to gaze upon the light of Abyss, and transfigure consciousness to heights unimagined.

How many times have I rode the horse of delusion by the creed of self-righteousness, and my touch wound the souls of travelers! Yes, I had no heart; for I damned and devoured it. Its rebirth was imposed to unveil the tragedies when I drank from my own venom to comprehend the deathful art of deed and utterance.

Compassion showed its face in the tender observation of all around me.

To appreciate, to love without attachments with the immanent knowledge of my needs and desires: out of comprehension rather than prejudice.

My iron fist has been nothing other than the reflection of my own savagery.

Blood-Month Hypnosis

Crystal mirror and moonlight dim.

Aetherial arms of rusty metal

draped in delicate fantasy.

Like nebulous blades of strings,

its concert casts the will of the puppeteer.

The beasts roam between sleep and lucidity,

yet the colossus still chases the mirage of unreality.

You will hear his screams echo in the wind,

but his ravings are speared in the wall of subtlety.

The eyes that see stare entranced at the infinite,

and thoughts flee from the chamber of wordly lunacy.

“I once was human”, a voice rustles in

from the backdrop of the scenery,

“yet I died in the pyre of my own scavenging”.

“Does it hurt?”, the undines peep out their heads

from the night pond curiously; “Do you weep?”

The voice retreats.

Silence falls on autumn’s lips,

yet the sentient architect knows

the possible impossibility.

Sandalwood, myrrh, and peppermint

outline the edges of myriad realms –

so apart, yet scarcely distant.

Above two poles of shipwrecked mariners

broken against the rocks of lawful quietness,

sits enthroned the lord of madness.

His eyes burn lapis lazulized,

and his domain is the reflection

of his inventive sacredness

still rubified.

Littered Walking Corpses

Crystal bed of sentient quiescence

amidst the dark bedazzled

tombstone of solar haze.

A night of sentiment bedighted

in grim and graceful lace,

watering her wake with dry tears

of lucid bewilderment.

A brilliant spear imbued

with roses and nightshade,

the warm solitude untouched,

immaculate by virtue of rebirth.

The altar of sacrificial breath

for the alluring ambrosia of the dead

tells the tales of an ancient distress:

a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed

by the armament of the deluded flesh.

Exchange: A Smile for Broken Fetters (08/07/2020)

Does your rib not bleed

upon the evil thought and deed

which perforates the tender skin

like a dagger of steel,

and sows its poison seed?

Does the willful sap

in ancient memory and current plea

frolic still in the garden of sleep

with blindfolds of faux amaranthe?

In meadows of lemongrass and chamomile,

in the imperious dome of make-belief

does the pendulum swing

at the mercy of the subtle winds.

And it is this, the giant of multifarious grieving,

which by percipient means stabs himself

and wonders why his pain is ceaseless,

and which by dulled eyes and hope

embraces the tango of the infinitely lost

to drown the torch which brings about

the reconciliation of all the ailments superimposed.