What purity in the droplets of this ancient nectar
Of clarity vibrating on peculiar tunes, other, alien, interstellar!
What salve upon a burning man,
A transcendental unguent from the peripheral lands of consciousness
Suspended upon Nothingness.
Space whispers, the cosmos echoes with all its secrets.
The strange monuments are no more sinister
Than unusual faces carving history
For which hithertofore has been
Little to no recorded reference.
It takes a type of sailor to navigate the depths of the unknown.
And when all forms have been dissolved,
one will have to find new models to represent the world.
It is a necessity.
With formlessness comes nothingness and everything.
With new symbols, the leap's done thoroughly.
Without new symbols, one is liable to get entangled
in the mess of what is already familiar,
which one already fought against.
Avoid that.
Avoid becoming re-enmeshed.
It may be challenging to try to enact
what you've neither seen nor known before,
but that is what exploration is for.
Intrepid, dauntless, without attachment;
one may be free of form, or free to refashion it,
but never should one look back or down
when one is crossing a precipice.
I am
Salt on your wounds –
The sacred opiate
To your mortal tomb.
Linger on my kisses,
The ebony wedlock
Of your ethereal wishes.
~*~
I am
Salt on your wounds –
Poisoned goblet,
Watchful shadow enthused.
Linger on my kisses,
The ecstatic union of death
Devouring fears from night
‘Till the rise of day.
~*~
I am
Salt on your wounds –
The Darkness of your soul
Tearing down the prison of the world.
Linger on my kisses.
Taste the sap of my holy vileness,
Your rightful lover virgined in
Sin and satin.
~*~
I am
Salt in your wounds –
The forbidden fruit,
The gatekeeper and key
Of darksome tide love
And nighttime liberty.
Linger on my kisses,
Wintry lips whispering
Over casket wombs
Of eerie spring,
Of olden alchemy.
~*~
I am
And you are mine.
In the heart of darkness,
death blows me a kiss;
her shadow lips
leave molten clay on my being,
and the arms of autumn
at perennial work rejuvenate me
in the womb of Abyss.
In the heart of darkness,
death blows me a kiss;
from her citadel she sings
she sings the reverse canticle unseen,
and I run to salute her
with devotion bittersweet.
In the heart of darkness,
the sanguine breaths into lucidity;
its palpitations paint the end of all aeons,
their nescience and assiduity.
The torpid cave in
under the crushing might
of primeval pelagic fist,
and I watch undaunted
the satire stomp in fury
as it frolics with ardent lunacy
to the calling of non-being.
Me dedico a tu mirar,
corazón salvaje – bardo de canto brutal
sobre el vaivén de las tinieblas
azoradas por tu pasión sanguinaria.
Me dedico a tu mirar,
corazón antiguo – seductor de las estrellas
en el rito de las estelas de almizcle dulce
y hoguera primordial.
Tu voz se hace entrever sin palabras
sobre mi piel desatada en el grito del placer eterno,
y cada noche adulo tu esencia bélica
en el romance fiero de la bestia
que en sí encuentra propio anhelo.
Del regazo encumbrecido
por las llamas del desafío
brotan rostros de fantasmas:
adumbraciones de la frente cándida
y la promesa larvada de un trino transcendental,
evocativas de la pasión inaugural
de un trayecto elemental
que anhelan la libertad de trenzar
pulsaciones de sangre vívida y éctasis lunar.
Labios de seda componen poemas
sobre las olas turbulentas de la oscuridad,
y el amante teje entre suspiros las esferas de su realidad.
Dado el toque del abismo resplandeciente
bajo la mirada de la serpiente señorial
de los secretos a vela en carne inerte,
bailan como ninfas de cuello y holgura
con beso supurante y ansias de amalgura
esas lóbregas ligaduras – malhirientes asesinas –
en busca de quien por sombra y cultura huya
de esa voz – esa dulce lírica nocturna –
que alimenta los destellos del alma
y en sus latidos revela la vida pura.
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.
Sincerely,
Alyona
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.
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.
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.
Logos: When madness bestroke the already insane decaying gardens of the sleeping gods, Umbra wept with joy and forethought for that which she most sought: self-discovery, pure and uninterrupted destruction and salvage of self to revel in the flame at the core of herself. The unprecedented perils of the journey warned ere bestriding full force past the gate of no return; however, no forewarning and no distress can prevent a burning soul from seeking out and communing with the truth of itself. No illusion or carnal tale holds power compelling enough to ensorcel determination with provisions of naught. No pain, no fear, and no insidious nefarious discipline can overshadow the eternal call of freedom. Beknownst to the irreparable damage that would be wrought upon the narrative of the corrosive necropolis, Umbra raced past the known fences of self-containing brittleness into the remote and nameless lands beyond. The hidden wisdom of the sinister obelisks forlorn, in quiet yet self-serving unrest, brought peace to the mind whose vows bespoke all the uncustomary tongues of evil: enthroning dark love shunned by demands of irrational and deceitful corporeality concoction. Having tasted the poison of the depths, there was neither place nor desire for a golden cage. The familiar errands of the sickly nursed were of a derision and disrespect to all the potential marooned or fading away. And it was thus how the rebel yell was breathed and maintained,
“Sovereignty or death!”.
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.
The Nocturnal Versifier 