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.

Alice’s petty disease

There is a voice inside me
that wants me
to shrink more
and more and more-
less is more-
Corset training,
sight of
sternum, hip,
collar and cheek
bones
Russian twists
less is more
special
defiant
different
but aesthetic.
I’m a doer
not a moaner:
I dislike, I change.
whilst there’s still
a beating heart
in this carcass
no shame, no blame
I’m not brainwashed
I just have eyes:
I see the sensual
in the phantasmal
maybe I will find me
once I get to Wonderland-
“Off with their heads”-
that’s always been
how I deal with
inconveniences too
some would say
my mind needs
beautification instead,
but they don’t know-
regardless of what it hides,
my mind is already beautiful
and beautifully scarred.

X-woman

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.


Otherness can be disarming

I needed stimulation in order to nurture all those worlds within
No, not that type of stimulation, you’re all too earthly for me
Otherness can be disarming, but who cares about that when
you’re metaphysically displaced yet see others all too clearly
even if they swim in muddy waters to get away from the core?
Occult nocturnal escapades through the woods would do the trick.




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.

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: 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.