~ No picture! Nothing could ever represent it. ~
Divided we stand in the sight of a frozen sun, salivating for the wine that would assuage our inner draught only to beset ourselves with the oozing bile of desert forests and pregnant voidness.
You are not empty who feels neither world nor fellow creature sentient, who neither sees the road nor heeds primal urge line-up. You are not undone who by strain and drunk melancholy spouses your pain into caves of clanship blindness.
Do not think, but feel again the wordless voice drowned in waves of taught heartache. You are a treasury of inconmensurable power waiting to be fertilised by rightful seed and rain-falling.
If you are unsatisfied, and thereby crawling through the sewers of hopelessness, I dare say you need just wait for the burning stellar blaze which with sweetness buzzes in every cell. On that day, my dear bud, you will have come closer to yourself than all those years of nescient judgement under unawareness and preconceived notions of life and the self.
And in parting words I say, “Value yourself!”; for there is no other like you, and it would be a shame to see you fade away locked up in the mutable illusions we have come to accept.
May you find a reason to smile this new year.
Footsteps have trodden through avenues sundry. And by the carefully nurtured flame where the master’s trail has fallen, I often wonder why life’s elixir rides on the centaur’s toxin.
Winter is here. Saturn strokes his beard, and the sages retreat into their caves to ponder upon the mysteries of death. The crows outside enliven the deafening silence, yet fall quiet with the same swiftness they took to their cawing.
In the cold breast of the sickle bearer, the dim grey world evokes an eldritch romance which human words stumble and fail to tongue. But buried in promising old tomes, I find the next stage for my atrocious play – a beauty which forlorn, a wisdom which is dreaded.
Flores de corazón saturnino, mustio azulino
brotaron a la orilla de la tierra subliminal infrasombría.
En la pálida penumbra el amor lloró,
sus lágrimas hurtadas de los arroyos y suelos baldíos reprimidos.
¡Pero qué conducta tan fascinante la del fantasma afligido!
Su estela fue pronunciación de muerte sublime y tósigo desmedido
mientras que el alma herida ardía – cínica –
en el océano ventajoso aunque olvidado
de los confines de lo atávico inalcanzable.
“¡Levantad el velo, ser de lo más profundo,
noble masoquista de los tiempos más allá del tiempo!
Moráis como algo-nada más allá
del puente matriz y seno que infundió vida
a las ilusiones de la vida –
Vuestro umbral protegido por el caballero impío
quien no engendra más de ardua labor y fatiga
en las fauces de la luz diurna.
¡Arrastrad lo que fue frente a mí!
Este corazón no me pertenece a mí,
más sangro, más me arrastro sobre el vidrio de la verdad
solo para confesar –
Miradme con la memoria de los ojos
perceptivos y conscientes,
de vuestro esfuerzo y dolor en reminiscencia.
Abrazadme antes de que los arquitectos de la amargura
me expelen por la osadía de mi estancia y permanencia.”
The wind-beaten lake was beset by offshore storms of confounded and weeping veils. In the midst of the tempest, awareness rose enraged to calm the waters, and the mirror-like lake became a reflection of an alternate state. All knights gathered under one plate, one flag, one creed to sustain: one-pointed laser stare beyond the conceivable extent; thus, the voice was the wordless wordly observant who severed the umbilical cord of the pre-conceptual which sat in the cave of his own reflection to execute the ways of consolidation.
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.
Listen to the imperious whisper forlorn,
crawling out the caskets of human ways age-worn.
Green lanthorns and ghost night
breathe out the briny breeze of archaic shores.
And in this Yuletide of watchful note,
curious feet walk in between
with itch, with love,
for the longing idyllic horror
of secrets most immemorial
and brilliant hope.
The crepuscular light daily sets the stage for a new pilgrimage past the mouth of Abyss into the throne of a Black Sun, which abrasive sublime rays sear away the confusion of the day; although it may as well strip the heart off desire bent after object and natural course and edge. Here in the darkness does reason bathe in purity, and conviction’s resolve illuminates the beclouded use of breath and focused target.
Donning the crown of the depths, there is no escape from the timeless folly. The frolic of pretence enrobes and weds the conscious insanity, and the tarred alchemical tears are, each one, a perforating spear from the pilgrim’s reflective pool of inanity.
Dawn is the archetypal succour for the children of the golden orb, whilst in its embrace the offspring of chimerical antics run erratic, in pain writhing, under the blistering light of consensual literacy.
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.
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
Rosy bird, shaking its wings off the autumn rain. Rosy bird, chirping gleefully through the sunset vale. Saved now, saved again by the Cthonian pyre of truthful gaze. Oh, how did the flaming tongues scald the sentry's fortress of eyeless self! In the night of day, in the devoted ballroom of conscious pretence - moonstruck and moon-strained from unearthed terrors of solar haze - birdy bird did cantillate, with blood tears, the shackles away. The black devourer crawled from the dungeon cells: Stygian, starless madness - a wailing ghost, a mindful lover in the haunted corridors behind the masks we wear. ~*~ Rosy bird, incinerated by art of self to crown itself sovereign again and again. Rosy bird, the infernal shadows wrought about the end of luminaries' benighted lanterns. Watchful bird, the world is the empire of dreams in reverse. Phoenix bird, saved now, saved again from winter's premature embrace. Titan bird, reborn in the reflection of theatre's grace. Saved now, saved again by the sentient might of consciousness.
This year has proved itself quite engaging, has it not? This is a note for you, dear reader. In the fathomless pools of your sorrow and despair, remember! Remember to keep inquiring yourself. Your liberation lies with the courageous action to seek and comprehend yourself. Unveil your shadows; for that which makes you uneasy is the key to your escape. Even in hopelessness, there is hope still to find your path to a life you would deem worth living. Know yourself and master yourself, else some other force will take command. Know yourself, because only you can accept or deny how to live in any shape or form.
Cry craven, you unfortunate sot of ghost semblance!
Give yourself to me in my melodic lunacy;
for I am Darkness of Origin,
and all the shadows in between.
Cry craven, you lily-livered caitiff!
Scald yourself for all your aeons at my feet;
for I am Spearing Light of Genesis,
and all the dawnings in between.
In clear skies and dry seasons,
mine ears be blest still
with Cyclopean weeping beads
where breath is tenuous,
and mind be indulged with dreams.
One eyed trickling in the wind of late silence
to the awakening film:
an echoing whisper and restless memory
of Furor Divinus calling beasts
to feats and banquets of love and evol.
Furor Divinus, the forest dance of atavism.
Furor Divinus, the disavowal of masks
held by public favouritism.
Furor Divinus, the thrusting horses of Abyss.
Furor Divinus, exalted bile screams of Dame Melancholy.