Spiralling,
A beckoning sign.
I’ve been teetering on a thin line
The catalyst-
Something as simple
as a knife twist,
disguised.
A reframing of purity-
turned glacial.
A false sense of security,
dissipating.
Withdrawing, inward
submersion.
It’s coming, one step forward-
the possession
the engulfing
It’s on.
The switch has been turned.
The demon has been summoned
I sense the first intimations of life,
feel its claw without being touched,
almost taste its void, hushed
She picks up and licks the knife
it turns into a magic wand in her hand
the open wound morphs into a black hole
I can no longer lick it to exorcise my self
She is free to bleed into me, she’s in control
The last protective layer is pulled off, violently.
After a battle spree
progressing morbidly, artfully
I summon the will
to lull the beast to sleep
before I get silent and still
I’m in it really deep
yet once again manage to make it all seep
out of me as I get ready to take another leap.
poems
Siren’s prayer
In my dream
I was a siren, dwelling
in a pool of blood
filled with corpses
of preys
awaiting
their starved predator;
Musical, aquatic Scheherazade-
unwilling witness, captive,
or cold-blooded accomplice
with a gnawing change of heart-
so not so cold-blooded after all?
Moon-intoxicated, I sensed
your presence from afar,
running, teeth-clenching-
anxiety rising,
clinging
to the last tidal dream,
I wonder – who am I
supposed to
hypnotise:
the new live prey,
the ghosts of the dead,
or you?
Reluctant to find out,
I sing my melody, inwardly
to drown out the sound
of your blood feast.
November light
Dark November, darling November,
my birth month, a glorified time
of contradictions,
of re-emergence from dreams,
wearing adornments
and smiles of
miss “seen it all, heard it all”
Scorpio depth,
shrewd intuition,
and inner power-
It’s nature and nurture
even when the nurturing is done
in a glass castle
it is said that art is life intensified,
heightened experience
is this what it was, an artistic process?
all-consuming, delving deeply into
my life force, the closest I’ve ever got
to a spiritual experience,
however demonic,
in all its ambiguity and uncertainty-
was it but a psyche glitch?
is that what it takes, a cognitive distortion,
to erode the pillars holding up
a self-concept, a world,
in a most magical way-
heaven knows no human could do it-
aren’t most, if not all spiritual beliefs
a coping mechanism against
cosmic futility?
Here I am, inevitably returning
to the eternal question
that injects everything I do and feel;
Surrendering to Phoenix wisdom-
with my Eagle’s eyes,
fresh perspectives materialising
from the flames of the opposites
inner chaos leads to stillness
leads to outward ascension
from a special hell-
the tension of the opposites
within;
oblivion is laced with sweetness
it’s a universal truth: life is escapism,
just like wearing a tiara on your birthday
to forget about the flow of time
Although shifting from limbo
to a personal dystopian hellscape
and then into whatever followed
(labels have become frivolous)
has made me revere time,
realise I’ve had a coddled existence
for the most part
You can’t write words revealing
you are convinced of
your innate grandeur anymore,
without being deemed narcissistic
A good night kiss bearing all
the gentleness and sacredness
of a celestial being
should be a tell-tale sign
that it’s not pathological
but it’s hard to understand
a moment of uncanny ecstasy,
an awakening, how deeply moved
a sceptic can be, on a soul level.
Pour your life source into me
and lift me up
I am trying to be authentic
but I am not estranged from
the light and darkness of ego
something tells me ego
has shaped you in my mind, too
Whether external forces were at play
or you are just a part of me,
I have to say
thank you and
no, thank you.
Labyrinth
Within this labyrinth-
sacred lair, profane shrine-
I roam to banish anhedonia
I am seeking something
I know I have in me-
an elusive land
of ecstasy and renewal
My mercurial mind feeds
and fights
with itself
in the process
There are two main levels of feeling
I acknowledge as relevant-
the bipolarity is astounding, so
let’s just focus on the second one,
I wish I could teleport there
instinctually
[I can’t, I overthink everything
and only over-feel the negatives]
I have to dig deeper, and yet,
the more I dig, in a frenzy, the further away
I seem to find myself, somehow.
I try to hunt it down,
following the arcane trail
the anticipation
builds- the warmth melts the ice
it’s a basic state of being and yet
no matter how many maps I read
or people I ask for directions
along the way, it seems
despite their devotion,
no one knows the right way
and it eludes me at all costs
the maps are contradictory anyway
I know, deep down,
I need to pave my own path
Precious force,
Awaken me and I shall blossom
on the way, shed my old skin,
and leave a trail of petals from my past selves;
my scent lingers on and intoxicates-
entrances some, bewilders others
as I go deeper and deeper
into my idea of nirvana
I am content, but that is not enough
I don’t care about your concepts
My life is not a blank canvas
onto which generations can paint
cloned expectations
I won’t adjust myself to fit into a pattern
You don’t have the power
to influence me
if your mindset doesn’t fit in my utopia
The promise of that place throws me
into hypnotic depths;
it would have been easy
if it was at home,
but in my case, it isn’t, and
easy isn’t often
intensely good
not to mention
I’m a drifter anyway,
seeking a mythical land
I -a wayward nymph on an odyssey,
mesmerised by its promise
of feeling and being filled
with bliss,
Come with me, you,
special one,
Come with me
to a place of worship
But tread carefully,
with the right mix of
unconditional protection
unparalleled care,
and carefully chosen acts
of reverence
to honour
this labyrinth within.
A poem: Sakura season
The world was sick – physically, mentally,
we were part of the minority left uncontaminated.
My calcified shell unravelled
down by the river
among sentient trees,
shimmering shrines,
underneath celestial splendour,
next to your magnetic presence;
Bonded by the common revulsion at
destructive forces, we were here for the art
of letting go, unburdening the heart,
re-emerging from ourselves,
this arcane ritual, this sacred moment,
this hallowed place-
I let it permeate me with light.
Enraptured by hanami,
I shed my outer skin
and drank in the beauty of the instant
until I was intoxicated;
I let myself feel instead of thinking
because life was safe here-
I felt tingles that were going to reverberate
throughout decades.
For the first time, I believed in something
other than myself:
you, the radiance of the moment,
the glimpse of eternity
in a landscape filled with
reminders of mortality.
I had witnessed too many shared delusions
to fall for them,
but this wasn’t a fall-
it felt like ascending,
like a slice of life that’s borrowed from heaven-
a strange view coming from a secular soul.
Your wisdom was gonna stick to me
and I would wear it like armour
in times of hardship;
I could tell you shared what you believed in
and felt religiously-
you exuded your truth
through all your pores
and it resonated with the murmur
of my soul,
of the river, of the petals;
now every time I find myself
at the crossroads, this mantra
is loud and clear in the midst of chaos
“Look, we are what we believe
and nothing else truly matters
except that your heart is invested
in the right thing. See how that light
travels across the river?”
I will always see the light.
A poem: Velvet glove
An iron hand
in a velvet glove,
soft veils over roots
unwavering- your core,
honey-mouthed- your discourse,
your silence.
Within,
there is the hibernating
alpha-serpent,
awaiting resurrections-
you bathe in the light of
her uttered incantations.
You spot the red flags
of the dark triad,
you never wave white flags,
for there’s no fire in your soul-
not the red type that burns,
and destroys the self, no,
only blue flames that glow,
soothe, and create the selves.
What about the heart-
underneath the layers- is it
iron laced with velvet or
all velvet beneath armour;
is it slippery?
What about the flesh?
the snow melting under the skin
until it gleams?
A poem: Reliquaire
J’ai une vaste collection de jolis cadavres dans le placard;
Je les pêche en pagayant à travers les eaux
les plus profondes de la vie;
Je les nourris des morceaux de mon cerveau de loin,
pour dépouiller leurs os du pouvoir.
Ce rare reliquaire reste
immergé dans l’inconscient
intact, distant, aliéné à travers
des états compartimentés et dissociatifs;
toute âme qui réussit en quelque sorte
à trouver une lumière et ouvrir un tiroir
se retrouve dans un état squelettique
encapsulé dans le même placard,
avec des fleurs parfumées qui en sortent,
du brouillard et des miroirs tout autour-
visualisez-la.
A poem: Heavenly aspirations
I want to purify my body and soul
to reach my version of
blasphemous heaven.
I want to summon the stillness
of the dormant light within
to exorcise all feelings
provoking inner conflicts.
To become an empty vessel
for a moment,
penetrated by light
no longer dormant,
now shining so bright.
Such cravings are born out of
a darkness
with the power to enslave
any spirit
and yet, I am its conqueror
I have tamed it and moulded it
into something beautiful,
fulfilling, ever-growing, and hopefully,
ever-lasting.
Once you taste this version of
inner freedom, untainted,
it’s the only nurturing addiction,
the most welcome overindulgence,
the most heavenly sin.
Various poems
Catatonic state
I feel your ashes
like quicksand
I’m sucked into
so I’m standing still
trying to enjoy the view.
Your faith
I never confessed this but
your faith helped keep me
anchored in myself
whenever the currents started
hitting from all sides.
I just wanted to thank you
for still existing in my mind.
Extensions
Extensions of me
are ramifying under
your skin.
Does it hurt when
I unravel your bloody
nightmares?
Discrepancy
As you weed them out,
slowly, the space between
you and the other you-
both mental concepts-
will become smaller
and smaller
until they merge into one
at which point you will look
around, filled with life,
no longer tainted, you will
open your eyes and see
the discrepancy is abolished
but so is everyone else.
A poem: A smile among ruins
All dead things are
resurrected
by the phantom smile-
you conjure it
when the world collapses:
that lovely,
foreign yet familiar
equivocal smile
your mind translates into
life and pure hope
stays engraved in your memory;
through mirroring,
you borrow it
and unknowingly pass it on
to someone else-
that is the sweet beauty
of connection.
–
Alternative ending:
that is the bittersweet beauty
of apparent connection.
DIANA MARIN 