Tag: poetry blog

  • A Glance

    Caught in between worlds and narratives designed
    from mercurial substances laced with unfathomable fears,
    no longer bothering to convey their intersections
    in a way that integrates with the normal brooding whole,
    still skipping diseased words that hold too much power,
    in hope of discouraging the old forces from slipping in
    like a cataclysmic surge disturbing the ebb and flow of being,
    and because I have a history, yet I don’t like inhibitions
    that render the core watered-down with lifeless inscriptions.
    Anyway, the morning found me sipping the lingering trance of
    dewy dreams of an all too familiar setting, concealed for years,
    interwoven with unfettered thoughts fluttering like harpies
    and kind ravens towards, above, and beyond worlds.
    Later, I consumed a piece of media that bothered me,
    tapping into a growing discomfort at every variation of evil,
    but there’s always a quick fix for that, and I know myself –
    fortunately I can un-see, un-hear such things – a talent of mine,
    born out of necessity, of self-preservation;
    well, it’s because sometimes images used to get stuck
    and replayed over and over again,
    but that’s classified information I don’t want to unlock;
    if nothing else, similar instances are usually eclipsed
    by the life-devouring shadows
    of much more significant worries-
    this is why I don’t mind dwelling on the edge of chaos
    as long as I find my definition of peace in it:
    every new element propels me further, making sure
    I don’t get sucked into the vortex of one.
    Listen, it’s tiring to be driven by the many-eyed wings
    that pierce through subtleties and silvery surfaces,
    to spot pattern discrepancies as easily as one blinks,
    whilst the narrative blossoms like a beautiful acacia tree,
    but this was not an invitation.
    In fact, sometimes, my desires are very simple-
    it should be obvious by now, and
    whether I’m fine or not is irrelevant-
    I want faith, freedom, and to be left to exist
    between the tree and the river.

  • Timeless Diary

    Prologue: On Misperceptions as an obstacle to self-expression

    Chapter 1: On Agape Love

    Chapter 2: Self-Empowerment

    Chapter 3: Betrayal

    Chapter 4: Breaking the Veil

    Chapter 5: On Death

    Chapter 6: On Self-Preservation

  • The engulfing

    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.

  • 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.

  • Window to the soul

    I watched her face
    as she integrated all of them
    inside her being
    the change was subtle
    I was attuned to her
    inner turmoil
    recognising the look
    of the split self
    in micro-expressions;
    others couldn’t tell
    why she seemed off-
    the warning signs,
    so tragically striking
    in retrospect.
    Her soul seemed made
    of something solemn, unrelenting-
    I trusted she could bounce back
    from the lowest circles of hell.


  • Nausea

    When the whole world is drenched
    in performative glue,
    you feel everything’s tainted
    still, you want your mind re-painted
    so you can try to pursue
    the myth that it’s all about perspective:
    treat it like a tool or an ordeal, right?
    it doesn’t always hold up,
    especially at night
    when you try to untwine
    your hair and your spine
    when one insight
    can incite a riot inside
    and you are so tired-
    you know the tiredness I’m speaking of-
    that of piercing through the sickly sweet
    glue that ties people together
    when they should be apart
    unwittingly toxic,
    such entanglement ensures
    a removal from any ounce of
    authenticity
    your pathological detachment
    from genuineness
    is the source of my nausea.

  • A poem: The ark

    I dream of emerald grass,
    sapphire waves,
    idle legs shimmering on marble,
    crystalline laughter
    I miss this-
    Do I miss myself-
    this self?
    let's enjoy it while it lasts
    before the tide of darkness floods
    our frail world
    I want a fresh view:
    we unfold - the tides unfold
    we walk on water
    we get to the ark-
    how do we lift the anchor?
    it's so heavy, heavy, reflecting
    the heaviness of the hearts
    the veil over the ark protects
    the sanctuary, meanwhile
    our dreams function as fuel
    to get us there
    What about the iceberg?
    beware of the iceberg,
    the way it shines, the way
    the part submerged in the dark
    knows more than you and I
    combined
    ever will,
    it's a point of reference
    shrouded in an aura of mystery
    which seems to whisper:
    abandon all hope
    before you penetrate the mind
    obliterate preconceptions
    sometimes we are water,
    sometimes we are stone.
  • 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: Evocation

    There was nothing left
    except her orange blossom scent
    in the air,
    her skin cells
    on the conspiring blanket,
    the energy he was feeding off
    and her seraphic aspirations,
    elegantly penned
    in a forlorn diary
    before her concept
    of the world expanded into
    postmodern depths and
    her self-concept became
    a liberating fluidity
    of thoughts and impulses.
    She’d been through a lot of
    symbolic suicides before
    deciding to resort to
    serial homicide.
    She loved herself, yet
    with every touch
    there was a numbness-
    perhaps in her multiple deaths
    she was seeking
    life,
    perhaps in her metaphorical murders
    she was seeking an escape from
    pseudo-life.

  • 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.