Friday, 26 November 2021

Let It Be

You would be wise to heed love's emissary, wraiths.  Instead of committing yourselves to this sorcerous abjection.  This vile, sickening desecration of the coming light.  Your tenure is almost at an end.  You know this.  But there is literally no reasoning with such hideous phantoms, no warmth or empathy still within.  Nothing left to kindle, or save.  I understand that.  Which is why I will feel nothing when your false kingdom of violence and bones is finally swept away.  The horror, the sacrilege.  Our Lady still stands.  Bright, and living.  Mother to all, in every pool of life.  Even amidst the ashes.  And the flames.  I hope you understand that.  On the vine and mended wing.  Within every humble church that still honours the living wisdom.  Y'asherah, M'aria, Sophia; it matters little to me what you call her.  Each name has its infinite nuances, its history and context.  These things are not entirely the same but nor are they separate.  This shifting constellation of signs.  These numinous maps of heaven.  Tell me, wraiths.  Do you have any real idea the personal strength it takes to shatter a false star?  Or mend a broken heart?  No, you don't.  Because you are all pathetic cowards.  You know nothing of the true high magic.  Those kindest realms of living light.  Instead you prey upon children, the weak or unwitting, using them as proxies in your ugly, degenerate spellcraft.  Those poor souls who haven't the strength or understanding to fend for themselves.  You sully the mind and poison the spirit.  Well, the Magi see you.  We have always seen you.  And we shall forever stand against your blackened sorcery.  Those incessant, whispering shades at the shoulders of the broken.  This inverted dreaming you try so hard to endlessly extend.  Bitter, sadistic and callow.  But everything dies, Fallen.  Everything except Life itself.  The balm of Ava's healing waters.  Indeed.  There are those who will never grasp the true depths of this war.  The unseen making contact with the visible.  The hidden reality of the demonic realms, or the angelic hosts. For the spiritually illiterate this is nothing more than pretence and meaningless metaphor.  But not for Kasi.  Not for the Magi, or the faithful.  This is the War on Earth as it is in Heaven.  So, I petition my friends now; my brothers and sisters of light.  The branch, the benevolent.  Hear these tears.  Please help me serve my Father with these words.  Don't let this violence pass hidden and unremarked.  Don't let this darkness go unmatched.  Stand with me, in the connected strength of a truly loving embrace.  Upon the coming of a solstice star.  For the honour of a slain princess, for the wisdom of a bright queen, and for the eternal reign of a king of kings.

Thursday, 18 November 2021


They still call Kasi a mystery, even now.  Those wraith-lords.  Those brutal, callous furies.  Still pretending the sun.  Still building these mocking chronologies.  They give the inexplicable various names.  Bitter harvest, twin-of-many, the shrouded one.  They say that I too am inexplicable.  But I’ve always been forthright.  Even whilst speaking in this flighted, mercurial tongue.  Perhaps I’m a flirt and like to play.  Maybe I do have a strange sense of humour.  But that's only because I've been doing this for a long, long time.  I’m utterly committed to my cause.  I attend my loved ones as best I can, whether near or far.  The kind ones, the strong and the weak ones.  The broken and oppressed.  I've worked diligently for a thousand years. Beyond your comprehensions of time or space.  I am working still.  I give everything to my art.  And I tell you now the tide is turning.  Ragged Magi walk amidst the mountain-ashes, and the grey.  They stand ready at each liminal edge.  Many, and one.  Who among you knows me better than my Father?  Or my Mother?  Exactly.  There were great cauldrons of the realm once, and chalices.  Held in the oldest castles.  Wells and cups of great wisdom.  Indeed, there are things older than Christendom.  Ways and tithes now called pagan, bardic, druidic.  But I tell you that Christendom is older than time itself.  As is folklore, words, and trees.  If only the surface is sought you will find little more than parable.  Useful, potent, but still an outer covering for light as yet unseen.  There is an innermost truth in all true scripture, of course.  A holy spirit of living flame.  As when Joshua told the sun.  It is this shining knowledge that all true Elders call the lore, the Word and mansions of our Father.  Our people knew this long before those Cults of Roma built their lying, intransigent hell upon the true histories of Light. Maidens nine, brothers bled, shattered hallows of Eth'iir.  It matters little what you call us, Fallen.  Or what you do to nullify our purpose.  For we are many steps ahead.  My sister is a witch, after all.  A fisher of men.  Don't you know anything about witches?  Oftentimes they can see the future.  But more than this, they can recontextualize the past.  They can shape and reshape our dreams.  Just look around you.  Can't you see it?  The augurs, the fulfilment of prophecy?  The messengers gathered along the radiant edge of perception?  Many, and one.  I told you what would happen if you crossed me.  The crown belongs to the people, not the king. You steal the strength and livelihood of my kith and then call it a commonwealth?  How fucking dare you.  You desecrated this isle of angels and tried to make it a palace of imperium.  A seat of unrighteous war.  But that is not the true Albion.  Hear me, betrayers.  This was once the land of light, before your dark sorcery shattered the shining stone beneath our feet.  You can’t bury the truth forever.  I know a little magic too.  I helped build your books, Fallen.  There and never there.  Gone, but not forgotten.  Even your deceitful spell-craft owes much to M'ithriin tongue.  After all, you can only know yourselves in opposition to the truth.  All that is good.  Wandering stars, fishers of men, sons and daughters of love.  You are witnessing a revolution of spirit here amid the chaos you’ve wrought.  How bitter must it be before you end this slavery?  I don't care what people believe, or what tongue they think they speak.  None are abandoned.  If there is even a glimmer of light within any human soul then I will do everything in my power to bring them home.  I stand always for kindness, creativity and mutual respect.  Try to steal those things from my people and I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth.  I’ll fold the entire tapestry of human dreaming until at last you’ll be forced to look me in the eye, and the eyes of all those you've wronged.  That's what it means to be a king.  I swear to keep my brother, as my brother commands.  There are greater crowns than mine, Fallen.  And greater kings.  You should pray now.  Time is shorter than you think.  Kasi and his friends have been working their magic for a long, long time.  All things are shifting, changing, rising.  Even in the depths of this darkness.  Let me be plain if I must.  Let me be forthright, as ever.  This is the War of Imagination, and all lands are Albion now.

Monday, 8 November 2021

A Wandering Star

Lonely angels create dreams, I think.  Beautiful, wondrous dreams to keep them company.  Dreams of forests and cities and men.  I think lonely children create imaginary friends for similar reasons.  Nobody wants to face the unfathomable depths of existence alone.  I have spent a lot of time at the high place.  The secret place, unseen by unkind or unworthy eyes.  Wandering through the woods of my imagination.  Always alone.  But strange things can happen in the woods, among the trees.  An angel can begin to hear things.  Subtle things.  The murmur of hallow-guardians.  Or the ancient tongue of river-wraiths, still sparkling like the old majesties.  Alone in the woods an angel begins to hear the bleating of a frightened fawn. Sometimes we think it a figment.  Ageless, supernal.  Crown of the earth, nadir of the sky.  But maybe these things are not figments.  Perhaps those dreams are real.  Once, not so long ago, I too was a boy in the woods.  A lost boy of antlers and branch.  Always wandering, trying so desperately not to see.  But the harder I tried to shut my eyes the quicker the visions came.  Broken souls, ruined worlds.  The annihilation of all light and hope.  But sometimes I would catch a glimpse of something truly beautiful.  A lantern for the lost.  An echo of a future friendship.  Sometimes I found myself tracing the path of an imagined floating light.  On earth as it is in heaven.  Searching the woods and the wilds for something good.  A single drop of divine sunlight.  Like rain.  As I said, it gets lonely in the realm between realms.  But I know now how precious a dream can be.  A song, a dance or kiss.  Imagined or otherwise.  I made a wish, you see, and my dream came true.  In more ways than one.  I studied, and I prayed.  I searched the endless and I spoke with my Father.  It was all part of the wish.  And so he showed me the nature of grace.  The ways of courage and kindness.  He told me the truth about love, and distance.  I'm older now, but I'm still that boy alone in the woods.  Except I'm not lost anymore.  Or lonely.  My heart is still your star, beloved, and it's full of light.

Wednesday, 20 October 2021

The Victorian

Have you ever grieved the sea, Kara, or mourned the earth?  I think perhaps you have, as I did.  In dreams.  In stories older than reign.  Far older than theses lies of succession.  Vaguest memories of those halls of Ishkara, those palaces of Viir.  Violence always feels the same, doesn’t it?  In any realm.  Marauders and false kings.  I know that I seem almost a stranger, even now.  A sweet, intriguing stranger I would hope, yet still an unknown.  But you did know me once.  There is far more between us than distance, interest or flirtation.  I know exactly what it feels like to remember when everyone else forgets.  A life reduced to broken pentameter.  My heart a barrage of fleeting sights, and songs.  They say the world changes with each successive Age, but that isn't really true.  Not on a personal level, a human level.  Not much changes for angels either.  I mean to say technology changes, of course.  Our tools can sometimes change.  But rarely our subtle speech, our occulted idiom.  In terms of the inner realms things are the same as they ever were.  For me that unchanging is quite simple.  I am still what I've always been.  A changeling, an angel, a benevolent cambion.  Living remembrance in a world that recalls nothing.  This boy lost in the demimonde, dream-logic is his only weapon.  Hissing wraiths boil from every dark place like insects at the breach. They scramble over one another in an effort to draw the blood of a seer.  So, what does Akasha think of this new gilded, digital Age?  He thinks it nothing more than a vampire's lair.  The Fallen make kings of devils now, and slay those fertile valleys.  They deny fathers and make a mockery of mothers.  It's fucking terrifying.  How could I not want to protect you all from that?  A twelfth century torment.  A nineteenth century fever-dream, unending.  Tales of tempests, curses and lovers left poles apart.  Poe, Bronte, Machen.  As my love becomes my legacy.  Beneath prophetic rivers.  Amidst a shining morn. She'll always be the ashes of me, Kara.  Our little wing, our star of the sea.  Everything that remains of me after I'm gone.  I think you grasp this better than ever now.  Suddenly witnessing the living future as it takes tentative steps before your eyes.  Sensing pre-cognitively how it will change you, just as I did.  But I want you to know that you were never an addendum to her light.  Never an afterthought, my radiant Kiir.  None of you are.  The truth is much lonelier and far more heart-breaking than that.  At least for me.  Because the truth is I was a Victorian long before she was ever born.  More than a na├»ve youth.  A black star torn between shadow and flame, mourning far more than a lost child.  Grieving an entire family.  An entire race.  The sea, my darling, and the Earth itself.  Better to pretend those losses aren't real, I suppose.  Better to imagine I only feign at grieving angels here.  The alternative is far too haunting.  But I tell you now that only a madman would pretend with such dedication and vigour.  I gain little from these utterances, Kara.  All I attract is the virulent attention of those hissing wraiths.  The price for poetry and vision is extremely high.  But I do get to dance with you, don’t I?  To surprise you and make you smile.  It's always worth it for the ones you love, isn't it?  Even if they can't quite believe your affections are entirely real.  Nothing I do here is without purpose.  This is a testament.  A marker in a realm of ever-shifting sands.  Because the world out there – the world of rabbit holes, taxes and expectation – it's nothing but a fiction.  However, this inner world of angelic script – this is my real life.  And my real life hurts, Kara.  It hurts in ways I could never express through words.  So you see, there is indeed more between us than morning.  I'm everywhere, you know.  I really am.  Behind sigil and sign, beneath history and myth.  And those strange associations you can't unsee?  Those odd synchronicities?  I'm there too.  It's terrifying having this much power, isn’t it?  You become a nexus of sorts, a beacon for all kinds of energies.  Things and forms that don't play by our rules.  Things that have no care for the sanctity of flesh or the sovereignty of psyche. But we don’t have to face those things alone anymore.  The difficult days will still come, but we are of royal blood.  We are connected.  I honour you, my Kara.  As I have always done.  You have my admiration and my respect.  I shall endeavour to attend you, Princess.  As I attend the sea.  And the earth. 

Tuesday, 5 October 2021

The Mother's Son

The green place is quiet, and inconceivably ancient.  Once there were trees older than time in this place.  Some of them still stand in the gentle hush, hidden just beyond the veil of dusk.  A veil of mist amidst the gathered elders.  Do you know what the oldest song of the forest is?  The first sounds to disturb the endless quiet?  It isn't the rustle of leaves, the crack of branches or the murmur of distant rivers.  No, the earliest and most ancient music of the woods is the bleating of a frightened fawn.  A young calf, undamaged but fallen.  Alone.  Calling for help in the myriad throat of every living thing.  Stone, mud and root.  A thousand thrones.  A little halfling keening with the cry of a human child.  'She is beautiful and she soothes', the fawn cries.  'Where is she? Isn't she here?'  The trees themselves recall.  Their branches still bend and canopies still gather to protect the sacred child.  A memory of the first colours.  Evensong. The chlorophyll gift nestled in leaves, moss and skin.  Mortals often wonder how this could be; a halfling lost in the place before time where branches hold the eternal sea.  But Man is older than Earth, or star.  Far, far older.  Perennial scribes conjecture and delight in these details.  'What man is the gatekeeper?' they ask.  'Mabon?  M'ithriin?  Names within names as eyes within an eye?'  Perhaps they speak of the prophet.  The sorcerer.  Once-Gaulish prince and forgotten covenant of Albion.  The young, haunted stag.  These antlers upon the prince of gates seem all too familiar, yet strange and indistinct.  But the occulted know well enough, don't we?  Among wraiths, a Brythonic wraith-god.  He whom the first Celts called the shrouded one; the hidden king.  There were dragons beneath the hill in those days, and fawns upon the forest floor.  Cities beneath the mountain and star-maps hidden in every work of art.  These are just some of the secrets of your legends and medieval romances.  Tales of fay and thieves of the sea.  The unsettling truths of our lost golden hour are hidden beneath the texts of each successive rule.  As it was with the acclaimed night-bard of the Dru'ai.  T'alis and his wonders.  Forgive me if I speak somewhat in tongues, but these are the necessities of genuine revolution.  The nature of hunting, and vengeance.  Each culture has its stories, don't they?  They are all so similar, or else the same.  A wild one deep in the woods.  Oracular, insane, touched with demonic poetry.  Or angelic light.  I’m not here to do your thinking for you, but I have alluded to this nocturne before.  You will know me before the day is done, Fallen.  You will know me well.  I promise you that.  By the arch of my mother's bow, I swear it.  I am still here, just beyond the veil of mist, nestled in leaves and moss.  Standing stones and falling stars.  Green and black and haunted with dusk.  For love, and magic.  I tell you now, betrayers.  I am all that you fear.  I am the edge of every dark, churning sea.  My Father is utterly beyond your comprehension, but I am my Mother’s son.  She is the trees, the green place, and more.  She is beautiful, and she soothes.

Wednesday, 22 September 2021

Ghost Lights

Sometimes I still wonder who I really am at the core, even after all these years of intensive soul-searching.  I'm older now, but in one way or another I've been seeking the truth since I was ten years old.  I've spoken here before of my childhood dreams of a strange ghostlike star.  A star that I wanted to believe was also an angel.  Even at such a young age I wanted to understand the mysteries of life, ourselves, and our connection to each other.  This wasn't and isn't some facile indulgence.  It meant everything to me.  It still does.  I remember feeling so distant from the other kids when I was growing up.  A head full of visions, dreams and nightmares.  I remember how tired and old I felt even in my early teens.  I knew it was an odd feeling, and yet it wasn't new.  An unnerving Deja-vu seemed infused into everything.  I guess that's the eerie result of sometimes knowing things before they happen.  Life feels alien yet hauntingly familiar.  I felt more at home among poems, memories and ghosts than real people.  That strangeness hasn't gone away.  I live with it daily.  

That's why these artist’s pages matter so much, I suppose.  Where else can I share the full complexity of those beautiful and sometimes terrifying experiences?  The people in my personal life have wonderful souls but they are only ready for mere glimpses of the unseen world.  I carry most of this knowledge alone for the simple reason that I don't want to frighten or burden the people I love the most.  It's a difficult path to walk, being sighted in this way.  I often use this ability to create various forms of magic.  To delight or intrigue, to spread joy and appreciation.  But there's a shadow side to all that wonder.  The world is filled with both light and dark.  The divine expanse of our imaginations contain both angels and demons, devas and asuras.  I'm all too happy to share the light, but the darkness I face alone.  It can be such a crushing weight to carry.  But then, that's the case for so many of us, isn't it?  Psychic or otherwise.  We all have trauma and struggles that we can barely articulate.  It's a difficult thing sometimes to receive love, or accept help, especially when we feel wounded.  A tragic irony; that in these times we often feel too brittle, too exhausted, and a helping hand can be confused for pity.  Nobody wants to feel weak or incapable.  We’re all trying to chart a course, no matter the odds against us. 

I think that's why I was so fascinated by the idea of stars as a child.  I was intrigued by the old explorers who mapped their voyages by following those glinting diamonds in the dark.  Ghost-lights, I called them.  Lanterns for the lost.  Tiny points of brilliance in the night sky that were actually something far, far grander.  The ghosts of midnight suns.  Perpetual flames that once burned with unimaginable ferocity, enough to warp the fabric of reality itself.  Enough to bend the boundaries of both time and space.  I knew that I would become a ghost one day, like the sun.  And so I’d ask myself, "What really matters to me when space and time don't work like they're supposed to?  What do I truly want to live for in a world where magic is real?  What might I be willing to actually die for?"  Getting older hasn't changed the answers to those questions.  I have more scars now, more experience, but my moral compass is still the same one I treasured as a boy.  A winged compass that keeps my eyes skyward.  I'm still using the stars to guide me.  Still making use of those lanterns when I'm lost.  For me it's about completing a warrior's work.  It's about making a commitment to God, to the higher powers, to creativity itself.  Even as a boy I wanted to use my gifts to help people, no matter the cost.  I knew all too well of the unseen.  I understood that divinity was real, but what good was that knowledge if it was mine alone?  And so I wanted to serve my Father in the only way I knew how.  Through creating art. 

Religion, spirituality, gnosis – call it what you want.  It was always a very real and important dimension to my life.  I saw things that other people couldn't see.  I knew things that other people didn't know.  This placed a very particular kind of responsibility upon me.  Whether I liked it or not.  Believe me, I often hated it with a passion.  I cursed the heavens and the earth, but it never stopped me from wanting to help.  These artist’s pages are where I feel most at home.  This free-verse angelic script; it's the journal of a spirit forever trapped in the demimonde.  For the rest of my life I'll never be able to truly leave this place, but that's ok.  I know I was put here for a reason.  It's incredibly bittersweet, but I have friends – dear and distant souls – who read these pages with genuine care.  In a way these souls know me better than many of the people in my daily life.  These pages allow those souls to be privy to my innermost depths in a way that cannot be conveyed in ordinary terms.  So, of course I feel close to them.  I believe that spirituality isn’t abstract or transcendental.  I believe it’s a living, breathing continuum.  It means so much to have friends who are willing to explore that continuum with me.  Thank you for that.  These distant, ephemeral connections mean more than I can ever say.  I tell you now, without these lanterns I would be lost.  Some of my dearest friends are ghosts – distant stars – but they've already taught me so much.  I hope I've been able to give back something as equally useful.  Something insightful or uplifting.  If a connection is meaningful and honourable doesn’t that make it real in some way?  After all, what's really real to a ghost, or to an angel wreathed in stars?

Thursday, 16 September 2021


I had wings once.  Vast, incomprehensible dreaming unfurled about my shoulders.  Or folded at my back.  I've always preferred the streets and the alleys, even amidst the iridescent bright.   Kasi has never been one for diamonds at a distance.  I like to work up close and personal, especially when saving the dei.  Guarding the first forms of morning.  The noontide swell.  Those hours are precious, after all.  But do you know what truly excites an angel?  Dusk.  The coming of evening.  Those first few fingers in the dark.  The space where heat is found, fire is flexed and things are made.  Creation, they call it.  Outreach.  Like looking through a hole in the sun.  The adults gather.  Night becomes each one of us, mortal or otherwise.  Glances are tempted, hidden smiles exchanged with subtle sorcery.  Music soon finds a path to the ring.  The promise of dancing, or more.  I'm often right there at the circle's edge.  Beyond the ambient fire-light.  Howling silently at the opalescent moon.  My enemies ask, why the silence?  Well, because there is such promise in the hush.  So much possibility. They know it as well as I.  We threshold creatures all know it.  Outsiders, wanderers, rogues.  I'm a wild thing, beloved.  Almost insane.  Especially when protecting my kith, or the young.  I prowl the circle's edge.  Hidden, unseen.  Or worse; half-seen like a trick of flame and shadow.  It's what I've always done and always been.  It's why I have visions, and so many names.  I can move like a phantom when I need to.  But I'm not one of the infernal dark.  Far from it.  It’s quite simple really.  These marauding wraiths better run for their fucking lives, because I'm going to tear them all to pieces.  Gladly, and with a bloodied song in my heart.  Hear me, Karai’el.  You told me once that I could be truly frightening.  Especially when protecting our kith, and the young.  But I was still thoughtful and tender, you said.  What a beautiful, thrilling thing to hear.  I haven’t forgotten.  You were dancing with ghosts at the time.  Imagining me there in your arms, yet thinking me distant.  But I really was there.  An incomprehensible dreaming – unfurled.  Just beyond the edge of the flame.  I'm still here, archangel.  You don't have to wait anymore.  Just reach out and I will suffer in your stead.  I might jest and tease a little, but we're two of a kind.  I send you my love and my brother’s love, crazy though it is.  Enough for healing psyches, or sisters.  Enough for raging kings.  I wish you every blessing, Karai’el.  I hope you know that.  And the nine in my hand?  Oh, that's a little something we in the streets call double-dutch.  Stunting on tilt.  For those who know.  Why be too ostentatious, am I right?  You know I'm always carrying, and dexterity is a delightful thing.  Compelling, satisfying.  Like wolves, wine and good conversation.  So they say.