Philosophy of the Piercing Spear

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Learning to discern the fine line between due effort and unnecessary pain is a type of art by which fashionable human behaviour seems rudimentary or obsolete.

Little do old philosophies and popular ideals beget before the face of one who is maddened with a reason to be himself when fundaments do nothing but drown and suppress.

Neither humans’ factual nor romanticized nature can stand between his essence of being and its realization, although some may disagree.

A question to ask often would be, “To what extent am I myself, and to what extent am I the product of something or somebody else’s puppetry?”.

A puppeteer needs not be the common fiend we like so much to incriminate, externalized or dwelling in the crevices of ourselves – consciously enacting the ways of vileness, or obliviously carrying on the motions of pre-ordained mandate.

The collective’s and the individual’s torment are loftier and more complex than words can articulate.

And he who has neither knowledge of the world nor of himself little can avow, contemplate, or rage against to see his boons or change his own predicament.

And on he goes, collecting chains from all the sources he has entertained, as well as consolidating those already dragged to his own strength or detriment.

Whether we are the armchair taster of ideas or the living incarnation of the knowledge we acquire, there is more to find beyond the layers of anything which we may lay actively or not our eyes or any other organ of awareness upon.

Wide-Ranged

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An ivory tower climbs above the soft, clear clouds. Its majesty peaks beside the sun of late afternoon in an embrace of glory in a regal ballroom. The city below is entranced by its own reveries of pain and lust, while the Pegasus gazes upon it from its Empyrean abode.

By the city’s port swims the Swan of Dreams, sun-kissed, starlit – a graceful sight, a loveling. From her back, red roses blossom and wave in the breeze.

Unbeknownst to the citizens, the Swan passes by as it is her journey to be.

Her eyes are diamonds of sacred curiosity, yet the citizens miss her dock for their own sentence of death in life perpetuated by the ebb and flow of oblivious breath.

A Little Bright Nothingness

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Cotton clouds thinly spread across the clear sky like a holed quilt through which some sun rays may still grace the land with warmth.

I put the crimson book down for a moment, partly dazzled by the light reaching the white pages, and partly due to entranced eyes and mind, still bearing the introspective silence of my previous meditation.

The universe breathes. On it goes the show of created life with its myriad coloured lights as it sits within the Eternal Void. In the heart of movement, there lies stillness, and so the observer gazes without disturbing her breathing.

Fancy unto Fancy Eerie

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The headstrong child

was carried down the river

in a casing full of nonsense to avow.

Only when the Crown brimmed over

with sensitive sere spectacles

would the young-ling be allowed

to take abode with the focal point

who speaks from the shores never seen before.

The headstrong child

gazed upon the drear yon horizon

and spat upon the pall word

with might of grace and poignancy;

for if there was such a fate of acrimony,

it was well known that the task

required a core so bold to live and die loving

the multifarious regions of the netherworld.

Womb Liturgy

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Come to feel my heavy heart

as I bleed for you tonight.

Come to soothe my laments

as I stand for you in Light.

I run to you to die,

for there is mercy in your arms.

No love compares to yours, Forgotten Mother of the World!

Come to me, my shrine — my haven, my heart!

Sing me a lullaby,

and guard me with your mind.

Embosom me, Endless Dark!

Kiss me into your essence sublime.

Release me from the chains that keep away the Night.

Cockroach Juice – Chapter I

The sun hid behind the ashened clouds of the desolate afternoon as the melody of rain and the fragrance of humid earth danced in through the ajar window.

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A butterfly clashed against the windowpane. The wind dragged it into the silent chambers, and laid its corpse to rest upon the snout of the sleeping performer.

The cat sneezed at the touch of the dead insect, and opened his eyes alarmed as the memories of the previous night returnt to him.

Lord Kamsim Mira jumped out of bed at once and staggered toward the towering double doors at the feet of his place of rest. He looked for pommels, yet found none. Scratching away the darkened wooden colours, the feline reached a solid wall. The doors had been a painting all along.

In whimpers, the cat turnt cold on his heels. He dragged his sore feet window-ward, and inadvertently burried his paw in his chest when he felt the weight of a million chains yanking his heart away.

With great strain, in tears, and with a runny nose, the cat fell on his four legs and crawled to the window sill. To the furtherance of his dismay, there was no afternoon that his senses could entertain, and much less a ground upon which to land and escape. The weary sky flickered. The illusion was uncapable of self-sustaining as the feline alternated sight between its falsity and the great black void below.

The aroma of earth’s union with the cleansing beads of heaven slowly painted images in the artist’s mind’s eye. Treasures of another time rendered the cat speechless as though his grieving bleeding chest denied him the utterance of his agony.

Overcome by a weakening uneasiness, Lord Kamsim Mira’s chest fell beyond the window-sill. Nauseous, the feline made an attempt to recover the equilibrium, yet his paws slipped off as waves of sickness increasingly rushed in. The bile trespassed the cat’s threshold, and he regurgitated. Blood vessels exploded from the corners of his eyes as the blackened vomitus poured out of his shaking body.

Impotent to hold himself any longer, Lord Kamsim Mira plummeted into the abyss; however, the visions followed him into the pit.

Dead & Awake

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In the breeze lies no breath

for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.

In every garden a pricking thorn

for every poignant rose worth keeping.

The tides wash over the sands of my soul –

wax me stagnant,

gorgonize me on the spot,

tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.

Erewhile it had not mattered,

but the name of her burst forth of every mouth

in the hopes the prayers were answered.

They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged

at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,

that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,

to spare myself of beholding her face.

Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,

and pouring ceased not thereafter.

The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,

and in her stead a young black star was lauded.

The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.

The sun alone perished without warning.

Solemn Pleasure

Feather feet tickle the blackened reflection of forgotten regions.

The fathomless mirror weeps with tears of oblivion

as the mystic voice of some divine creature denudes with tender touch

the skin seared in the truce of sweet perdition.

Silken vocals wrought from the salt of reasonless reason

declare war against the bearer of gentle breeze and warmth of spring

that if the bosom dare be tranquil still,

thorns of nightshade and opium dreams will unearth the graves of youth-besotted shards

beclothed by the deranged pure minds of the sheltering lamps

in a world of dark delight.

Cockroach Juice – Prelude

The fair cat in a suit of velvet blue looked with disgust at the raindrops trickling down the roof at the entrance of the old cabaret.

Tonight, like the previous night, and countless others lost in time, Lord Kamsim Mira had performed before an audience of dispirited souls.

The prominent feline had sung for so long that he, too, had nothing but emptiness in his once wild heart. The cold starless sky was the extension of his withered smile. Each time, he greeted it with the air of resignation of a man who ignites a fight just to surrender and die. This was his drill – the endless gloom of post performance nights, when the void that corroded him came alive and brought about the gall of an immortal with little regard for life.

Tonight, the minstrel of the drunk and the swine, still cursed and breathed in the fumes of his earthly prison; however, the cat was not of his reason.

Overtaken by the desire to escape his malediction, Lord Kamsim Mira closed his eyes and jumped into the streets in a warcry.

To his discontentedness, no carriage, and no murdeous shadow deigned to relieve him from existence. Instead, sundry legs and eyes filled his vision and cornered him behind a building of stone at the other side of the street he had crossed.

“You are one naughty cat”, said the mist who kept him from harm.

“Unhand me!” cried the feline, yet the oily musty stench of that fog saviour permeated through his nose and claimed abode in the residence of his lungs.

Soon enough, the gracious cat laid unconscious upon the hardened ground — tongue hanging to the side, tensed lines of furry brow slowly yielding to the sphere of dark.

You Are Responsible for Yourself

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In my mind, I simply behave as I like when I please.

In your head, I am the summary and reminder of the tears you’ve shed and the anxiety you’ve given yourself into.

It’s not my intention to aggravate your pain, and I often come to the conclusion that I innately know how to reflect your inner world to force you to face the shades of your dead.

Not for a moment fool yourself with the thought that your words or deeds can affect me. Only you will suffer the whole price for your nescience and your insolence.

Yelling, taking offense, won’t make your turmoil go away. The more you resist, the more the themes that tint the walls of your consciousness will be projected onto your surroundings.

You will see me and others enact your fears and your blockages until you decide to convert them and use them to propel you toward the next stage of personal evolution.

Whatever you do, I will observe impervious.

You will display your most child-like behaviour when I break down to you your mental processes as you’ll feel denuded before the imposing truth with no way to retaliate against it.

You think your age validates your comportment.

Before my eyes, you are but a snot of life who was never taught to rise above the detrimental patterns of the sleeping rusty ones.

For once, ever since you were birthed into this world of lies, ponder upon the reasons behind your impulses, and stop hiding from your internal problems.

Do yourself a favour.

Know yourself before you engender a monstrosity you will later regret.

Sovereignty of the Mourning Brat

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From the ashes of past

’till the shadow hereafter,

the wrath of my soul shall breathe you terror.

I will laugh and conjure the fire of the nameless stars

as I relish your agony and frolic in this crown of tar.

You let me down, little bird of the sky —

bound me to a life in silence.

You stringed my limbs as far as it could have lasted.

There’s nowhere to go in this world forlorn

for one who takes not the spear of divine role.

Caged in your own disaster,

you will yearn for my poison dagger.

The winds will deny your voice and swallow your words

as penitence for your narrow-mindness.

Give me your tears, Asinine of Unsuited Matters!

I shall drink the nectar transmuted in the entrails of your delightful mother,

and free the world as I drag you crestfallen.

Sigh of the Blooded March

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In a summer land, a kingdom of ice stands upright.

The sun perishes before the stroke which forces masses into stone.

The walls of a neutral core may break alone to give way

to grey rocky protrusions of painless pain,

and defy the natural order to command saline rain.

The shards are alive.

They contain the secrets long lost to men,

yet bane their gist exudes to the soul whose midst is uncouth and strained.

The fiend of the flat nourishment baits with the hand of flatter aliment.

The blob abhors that which translates to growth and refinement,

yet let abhorrence be the might of their supine power.

Down come the storm of glacial fire!

Wash our hands and lend us the eye of the deeper waters.

The shards breathe from borrowed life,

their iridescence stolen from the sweet guitar

that accompanies my cries every night.

Atavism of the Alligator

“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.

Image Not By Alyona

“¡Sí se puede!”

I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.

Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.

Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.

Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.

Image by Alyona
Image by baetzpetra from Pixabay

Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.

I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.

Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.

With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.

I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.