The Night Before . . .

Slow, hours, grinding by with mocking cackles whispering intermittently,

I am crucified in an ocean of blankets and stone.
the clock laughs at my glance, telling me that it will move even slower if I watch

Time, the Old Man of my madness, punctures my body with a wrenching clench of yet another blemish, 

Another disorder,

Another vexation,

Another ocean of tears for this or that, faces I do not know, entities I see only in seconds.

They say some madness is necessary, is a gift. And yes, for a NachtQueen, ’tis true.

Seeing is another matter.  Seeing above the winds, above the sound of the crashing earth, seeing your feet on the ground that is breaking,

Knowing the world is falling down willingly. 

These processes begin at night.  Well, certain nights.

Take me, sweet one, my beautiful devil.

Dance me madly into the heavens,

Then swirl my trembling form back down in the paths of shadows

Where beauty and mystery bloom.


Image Credit :  "Grief" by Chryssalis on Deviant Art

Catharsis Divina

Reach up.

Take it.
It is there, hovering above you.
It seems so far away and your arms feel so short, your fingers unable of a grasp.

But it is there, Dear Heart.  In this pit of blackened pain and sorrow, you have stood.
You have fallen, you have languished. 
But, you have survived, thus far.  And the survival of such ghastly pain is the key.

Who knows why?  The gods?  Your guides?  The Universe? 
Are they knowable and even believable, you ask. 

Fear and shame have been your companions for far too long. 
Queen with a misshapen, battered crown, falling from your head, gems crushed into nothingness. 

You are not as weak as you think.  Not as old as you make yourself.

In the solitude, you have found answers.
In the pain, you have found wisdom.
In the moments when you felt lifeless, you have found what it means to refuse to give up.

Take it.
All it takes is one gesture, one reach. 
Fear will shorten your grasp and exhaustion will spin lies about your ears,
They will tell you that nothing can save you, now. 

Lies. 
Lies spun as deftly as tapestries adorning walls for hundreds of years.

Yet . . .
You are NOT done. 
You are NOT dead.
You are NOT over.

Reach up.
Take it.
Look unto the stars which gave you and all things birth. 
They blow themselves into bits before shining again.
So shall you, shine again.



Image Credit Mobuzsolutions on Deviant Art

Sickness

 

You’re dying to commence.
This wretched little bile-driven cuss of a sickness waits for you.
Tear me to pieces and find your only ecstasy.

Twist your knife self into me and shred it all,
Slide through the blood and water pouring away,
Pulling you in, the stained legs of my own illness wanting you more.
You don’t know any other way, do you?

You must kill me and resurrect. 
Through clenched teeth and a hard twist of my flesh, your breath quickens into a rush
The pain quickens you as you send it into me with a grip that feels like oceans.
Destroy and create, all the while cackling madly over smoke and screams.

The most wicked part of me dies to die at your hands.
Evisceration is a kiss,
Being gutted, opened to the wide world against softly-burning walls,
Still clinging to you, begging the one who slices me apart to put it all back together again.

With every fist to my body, you tell me I am lovely.
Every slam that my bones rattle through, I see across lifetimes in your eyes.
Torn open and wracked in flames, through watered eyes, my flesh burns for you.
The tears are a remuneration caught in your hand.
And when years of blood and ashes bleed through my skin, my warped mind still adores.

I am covered in the refuse of lies.
Cold memories from a tall, frost-ridden cowboy who almost met his demise.
The feeling there, the nudge, the push, it will not subside.
You ride dark clouds and pull me through the electricity, delighted to see the pain.
Flung forward through the tepid morning,
when you tire, I collapse, crumpled to earth,
a fall from a height soaring above countless eons, broken.
You let me go without a thought and watched the plummet, eyes lit by flames.
Above, before taking Death’s arm, I behold your rancorous delight.



Yet,
 the Sickness raises her head from the gore and the bludgeoned flesh.
She smiles knowing that you are just as wrenched,
sadistic torsion screwing your mind to a remorseless point where pleasure is
further desecration and sultry offence,
Gathered like thorned flowers,
You offer me this sinuous bouquet,
And all are lashed across my mind as you demand more.
Your quickening is hungry, and I am its cuisine.


Hence,
I am a new gift on your doorstep.
Rip me to pieces, open me again,
Draw your blade and carve your name across my shattered heart.
Just own me, Ma Chèri.
Let me sit under your desk and wait.
I am woven into and through you. 
Burn me, beat me, rip me apart.
We are still sewn into timespace and bound to eternity.

Anatomy of a Twinkle, or A Tumble into Quiescence

Took med 45 mins ago.
 You know how sometimes, for no particular or an unknown reason they just burn you down and blow your ashes across the air with how high you become?  

Yeah.  That’s me.  Right now.

Seeing across time and space, fingers on Her cheek.  

I wonder if this is how passing through realms feels.  

I wonder if I shall ever be so light of body . . . .

Is this what a repose into the embrace of the peculiar is like?

Because I’m lying on those clouds . . . the ones that happen at the end of a storm.  

This is the physical course of being inside silent lightening.  

You know those flashes that happen when the storm has subsided, and gotten too far away to hear? 
Where you still see the ripping of the atmosphere and the bending shards of soft illumination?

Yes.  This is an extension of a wink, and the exact point of action where your eyes are equidistant.  

They are as far open as they are closed.

It always surprises my soul a bit when I feel how many lifetimes a mere glimmer may be . . . .


Image Credit: Artist Unknown

Hildegard In Ecstasy

 

I felt the rise of her soul above the crests of endless clouds.
Her breath was sweet on my lips, wafting words into my throat. 

She sighed like a goddess, pushing the peak of her spirit into me,
and I was flung into the universe,
gloriously helpless,
vibrative with the pulse of Time,
the rhythm and voiceless words which spoke Creation into being. 

Life itself unfolded as I tasted the mists of luscious earth on her fingers.
Penetrating into me, deeper . . . it felt as if she threw her entire being into each gentle thrust of turbulent thought into my body. 

We bloomed,
opening ourselves to each other,
her soft lips plunging covenants of fire into my mouth, downward to the core of my own self. 
Nothing in Heaven or Earth had ever been so ethereal, yet visceral. 
I died and was reborn in the swirl of flames she fanned with her breath. 

In her soul, I found my balancing force.
In her thoughts, I found the poetry of life’s excruciating hunger for its own touch.

In becoming one with her, I was thrown to the abyss of death,
only to rise in floods of air, ALIVE.

For Imzadi

Ophelia's Tears

Time becomes motionless.

Or, it doesn’t.  

Then, it moves at the pace of bedlam, stopping, starting,

Over again, again.  Weaving through the fingers and rings of an Old, Lost Queen. 
  She breathes quietly.  

Alone, the Solitude can murder and hate, or lift into the moonlight.  

There is no up or down, no left or right, just the Caught.  

That peculiar taste of knowing there is very little one can actually do. 
It barks and bites the back of a tongue, held silent by flight.

An Edge.

Yes, it is close.  It beckons, promising to be the releasing angel, the stave that will oddly hold up what is left.

But I sit, locked in time.  In and out of it all.  

I do wonder what remains.  You see, blindness, well . . . it comes and goes, laughing furiously, madly.  

One never comprehends when the flow of Inertia will rave and dance, holding everything taut, 

Anxious and Panic, her children, wanting to play another game of Chutes and Ladders.

Yet, I do see.  One does still have eyes.

Whether they open to Oblivion or just rest on the image of Nature, never vexing on how she will eat or drink, . . . 

She broods not.

And, it is of no matter.  

This too, shall pass.





Image Credit:  "Tree Leaving Earth Jigsaw Puzzle" by Gianfranco Weiss