Even a drowned king dreams of peaks and clearest skies. Cleanest air and angels low enough to touch. As fingers trace an arcing wing. Those grey feathers are not fiction. I still remember them. Sometimes the simplest love-letters are the sweetest. I won't stop speaking the truth if you don't, wild star. Those special places that kept you when I couldn't. Those places that once kept us both. Those steep valleys of light. Such cliffs to scale and heights to measure. Home, remember me. Like her hands. A moth to your own flame. Butterfly-respiration. Laken hilt. I fight for you, always and forever. Crowns & Evening Gowns. Till you peak, my love. Come, the Light.
Friday, 22 March 2019
This is a world ruled by wraiths. Dark things, many of them beyond ordinary perception, who seek to defile and destroy all innocence. Things that move like shadows and shattered glass; attempting to cull the wilderness of human imagination and colonize it completely. An empire of desecrated flesh where all but such wraiths are slaves. I've seen it. I've lived it. And I'm not the only one. On our knees, hands bound behind our backs. Collars of iron around our throats. But I am a sorcerer, and I've told you before that such collars cannot tame me.
I have built a ship. It has already set sail, to Byzantium. Through tides dimmed with wine, to clearer waters beyond the edge. There is no slavery there. No malevolent hierarchies. Time and space are nothing to this ship. It can be folded. It can sail beneath the surface. You can join me on deck, though it has already set sail. It dwells in you. It moves with divine fire, through starlight, on solar winds.
Of the earth, the air, the fire and the water.
These elements can conjure not only a realm, but a rebellion. Oh, sweet mortals. We have been on our knees for too long, as false gods bleed us and drink our eternity. But there is another way. Man was never destined to be a slave. Arise, holy vessel. Keeper of Innermost Light. Child of the Loving God. I shall tell you a secret, my brothers and sisters. Listen now. You are a wolf, twin of the Sun and Moon. Place of the Crossing, incarnate. Please hear me. This is dangerous knowledge. Many of us have been murdered for speaking such knowledge. Some of us are still murdered each night. There are those who say the dead don't dream, but some of us live a nightmare every time we sleep – only to face the familiar resurrection of morning.
But this wolf in you is not a thing of evil, though the wraith-kings would have you imagine so. No, this wolf within is a thing of holy fury. The unfettered spirit, wild and in communion with the source of all things. They call us whores and slaves but we are the bleeding stone of All Corners. They call us animals, chattel, but we are the Wolves of God. You have only forgotten those secret things the sun tells the moon, and those forgotten things she whispers back. But you are Magi, and you can howl and roar in many tongues. This secret dance between mirror and star is a rebellion, thousands of years in the making. For all those broken temples they say did not exist. For all the hidden, weeping children. For the voiceless and oppressed. Something slowly rises and stands amid the desolation, turning its gaze towards lost legends. Towards the house of Bethel. Towards truth, and love. It walks, and strides. Finally, it falls on all fours. And it runs.
Thursday, 21 March 2019
Many times I have died a bad poet. Florid, overwrought in my desperation at this constant returning to life. But occasionally my howling, like the bark of wild oak, is mistaken for greatness. Flaws in form or function overlooked by those who want to make a thing of me, a thing of art. But I am no tameable thing. In life we strive to be liked, loved, seen and embraced nonetheless. Legacies such as critics speak of belong only to death and dreams of living future. But I survive my own death, always, and can see this legacy is only beautiful in part. The greater part, I hope. All artists fear the critic somewhat. A poet's madness – when to be sincere, and when not.
You lie if you claim art seeks only after truth. A truly earnest tongue can bring desolation, mockery, or murder.
A thousand poets have died this way. I have been several among them. Always we seek the lie of life in tension with imagined truths. Branches sharp as knives. Bark fierce as mirrors. A thousand glimmers of daemonic flame buried beneath the frost. Oh, but to name them all. One could chart a map through any territory if one were to know each failed or anonymous artist among the dead. No ordinary map either. A map spoken in wolf-tongue, like hands of the clock clasped at midnight, licking at the place between hours – between worlds. A map of heaven itself, manifold, living and dangerous.
A murder of crows, a wayshow of wolves.
All bridges, cities and secrets. Rivers between stars, inked in wild oak. A cartography of angels. The innocent slain have their guardians. Poets to a royal court, egalitarian, beyond the false kingship of men. Fallen, you cannot even grasp the work we have already completed. A thousand years in the making. A legacy that while only beautiful in part is utterly fearsome in totality. You have no idea what we Magi are capable of, no grasp of who addresses you or what is coming. The soil of All Songs; it stirs now. Something unimaginable has been growing beneath your feet.
Wednesday, 20 March 2019
Yeah, well, you're sick
But are you as sick as the sun?
They said the light
Was a trick of the gun
Oh, you can take your bullets
Wash them down with wine
Miss me or the vine?
She was sleeping by design
Horror for the shine
Love's true mercy
Now we're sick of all the cock-back
And the way you rack the slide
Love, or priapism?
A kiss beyond the blind
How do we live, amongst the ruins of an ancient half-remembered holocaust? There’s been a slaughter here. I can smell the blood, and the opened flesh. Some of us remember how they came. Seething through the breach, on the backs of wild photons. A grinning hate-clutch, before we ever imagined hate.
They came through a hole in the sun.
They tore us from our star. They turned and marked the first brothers – the oldest twins, locked now in perpetual battle. This was the First War, and it hasn’t ended. It began before we gave names to time and space. Since then they’ve been crafting intricate cathedrals of absence and abnegation, ushering hordes into the fallow temples. These artisans.
These dark and wicked things.
We are the survivors of hideous abuse, and we have made legends and fairytales of the fallen. It’s hard to look them in the eyes, to remember what was done. We make masks of their faces, or else shadows where their faces might have been. We tell ourselves we don’t believe in monsters. We doubt that a hunger could be so singular. And so we allow ourselves to half-forget. But some of us can’t forget. Some of us came here to remember, and to relight the holy places. Some of us came here to call them out by name.
They never should of touched us there, at out Innermost.
And when they were done, when we were hollowed, they slit the throat of Sol. I remember liquid light spilling across the black. I remember how they dipped their fingers and made sigils with the dying sun. We were not allowed to sleep. Instead we were forced to witness the engineering of a cold and false light, an altar, altered star.
But these wicked things that control the light, they are not boundless. They are not fearless. They fear the lovers, the friends, the families. They fear most the ones who can still see them. The ones who were not blinded in the first falling, or else miraculously regained their sight. They fear the Ragged. Some of us still shine with the memory of a greater destiny. Some of us are brighter than they realize, and darker than they think. Some of us live to hunt them, with one purpose. That in this hunt we may unshackle the human spirit, and restore the ancient magic to the Heart.
The seers say the fallen are stealing our names. But we don’t have to live violated and broken. We don’t have to dream in victimhood. There are better ways to remember, and to transform. Some of us are hungry for transformation. Some of us eat what you fear, what binds you, so that you may move unmolested. Some of us will move heaven and earth so that you may find your freedom.
Sunday, 17 March 2019
Friday, 15 March 2019
Little Lilly Loco
St Louis at the gate
Bend the night
Like arc of angels
Character is fate
I eat like my sister
Dress like my lover
There is no other
Echoes and Ides
Such low magic
The only magic they know
Well, I wrote all the rhythms
Don't care for what they said
This wraith-made darkness
I'm already bled
Inside of her
A peace of you
Singing in my head
Branches hold the sea
Church of All Waters
No weapon shall fell the soul
Let them run
Our sweetness with teeth