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.

A poem: Wayward girl

You step out of the darkness
into the light,
then into the darkness again
carrying sapphire light within you-
your inner compass, your greatest strength
Carefree, out of the corner of your eye
you see shadows shy away from your
disarming nature;
you are an unlikely saviour
awakened in serendipity-
you give them freedom to either
spend their existence haunting
or let your light guide them and peel
the darkness without pain
Unencumbered by shadows,
you embrace them whilst
your mind renews itself,
white magic, healing witch, infinite soul
You walk towards locked doors
and pass through them effortlessly
the key is your charming,
revitalisating smirk,
wayward girl,
your obstinate nature makes sure
your dreams live on
and turn into phantoms haunting
new, greater dreams.

A poem: The Rite

Her face aglow,
she performs her rite
gracefully, like the snow
in the silver lunar light;
deathly hair, startling eyes,
soul-enhancing
white night purity, necromancing-
nude porcelain skin,
beauty within
whispers of sin.
knowledge sought after
flirting with disaster
secrets held in astral shells
uttered in diffuse spells
the occult- her only master.

A poem: Unfiltered

Clinical,
surreal emptiness.
Chocolate-scented wood.
Smell of new and
non-alcoholic intoxication.
Life as art for art’s sake.

Neon light flickers as you blink
infected by dizziness.

No longer tone-deaf to the harmonies
of your own soul,
you don’t shrink for someone else to grow.

An invisible corpse in the plastic bag
winks at you from the corner-
madness, it grows
in sanity.

Lifeless but intense:
you don’t pray for another,
you prey for yourself.

 

A Poem: Bloody act

Two bodies wrapped in an embrace
in a tomb of glitter and frost-
the blood lingers while they kiss,
then it pours gently down the legs
of the cradle surrounded by mist.

The lake of tears reflects the moon of sorrow-
trembling, fluid, unpredictable;
their red eyes locked, unblinking,
while eternity replaces the morrow.

A poem: Vis-à-vis

Quiet and frozen:
A reflection approaches
within the glass
I seek meaning
in a meaningless palace
of empty eyes and half-hearted smiles.
Statues of philosophers vis-à-vis-
From expresionless to sad,
their face changes mood:
they empathise.

Neither pain
nor pleasure felt-
My mindless mind projects
conflicting eyes
filling a void of thought and

I succumb.