Friday, 20 July 2018

Riding the Spear

This is but a prelude, an overture.  I seethe with rage, but I shall take my time.  It is all I have, after all.  In the palm of my hand.  You must be so afraid of me, to attempt what you did.  And afraid of her.  The demoness Kiskuh asked me if I really believe the Whore will protect me.  But I Am the Whore, in a manner of speaking.  The vanity of a mortal man, stealing blood and work from the goddess?  How small-minded are the contextually illiterate.  How vile and petty are the wraith-kings of this world.  You have rewritten our story so many times, deceivers, in attempts to seal off the light of All Corners and drown the melodies of All Songs.  Do you forget?  Do you forget what I was?  What I still am?  I am torn, bled and eaten – and still this wolf lays beside her.  She is me.  I am She.  Until the imagined end of time.  Together we rise.  Together we fly, on ragged wing.  To the axis of the world.  Fallen, you stand now at the threshold.  We have met you at the gate.  But we shall take you and your kind far beyond it.  Beyond all worlds, to Asha.  We will drag you, shrieking, into the heart of the midnight sun.  Of angel, of daeva, of stars unknown to you.  But we are not only a whore, or a defiled daughter, or a slaughtered sun.  We are the bleeding stone of All Corners.  Murderers, betrayers, deceivers; take heed.  The ruined spear, it comes.  To ruin you.  This is only the beginning.

Riding the Spear from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Wednesday, 18 July 2018

Little Rock

I took my vengeance, for what they tried to do.  I shall show it to you soon.  And I shall take more.  Much more, in lieu of my madness.  I Am a dark thing when my love is threatened.  And these wraiths have threatened those I love for so very long.  I'm not above vengeance or its terrifying pleasures.  I’m not above the thundering, dissonant melodies of revenge.  I won't pretty such terror by calling it justice.  My love was once pure, as angel.  Then, reborn in wrath as demon.  Then, drowned in sadness and loss as Man.  I am still all three, and only by Grace do I recognise these insights.  But make no mistake, I can kill and sleep soundly.  I shall never harm the innocent.  But the cruel?  Oh, Fallen.  You know the truth.  I watch you flee from it in every act of bravado.  Deceivers, I am not trapped in here with you.  You are trapped in here with Me.  Tell me, how can a king be a king without knowing what it is to lose everything? How can a creator be such without knowing what it means to have all his creations taken from him? Eternal repose?  I for one have never known such a thing.  Distant gods, cold and cruel?  The fantasies of tired, broken men.  No, your tired and broken gods walk with you.  They love and laugh and weep with you.  
    They kill with you, when you kill.  
    I have known so many horrors and yet there are still more to know, more to recall.  My shame?  My real shame?  That the worst horrors are known by those other parts of me.  That I share your weaknesses.  That I crave comfort as much as you do, despite how ill-gained.  Despite that this comfort comes at the expense of the unimaginable suffering of others.  But, sadly, if I didn't Other myself I would break from such suffering.  And I am already lashed to the wheel and bound to the tree.  Left to die in the glare and heat of your former glory is such imaginative cruelty.  Imagination allowed to rot is breathtakingly ugly.  But imagination tenderly cultivated by evil?  It is so horrifying, so soul-shatteringly vile, that it is almost beautiful. 
    I and many others have known such things.  I’m not special in this regard.  Kind and dangerous ones who are hunted, raped and slain.  Then resurrected in mockery of their former selves. The attempted negation of creation's light.  The slitting of the throat of All Hallows.  You would make me a monster?  Oh, I was a thing of the moon long before you gave it names.  You would make me a cruel thing?  The ultimate perversion?  Never.  I defy you, Fallen.  My rage can take worlds apart.  But never shall I be cruel.  Such petty thrills lose their lustre when experienced at the hands of those you once loved so dearly.  In a world such as this one, what angel worth his salt wouldn't walk among you?  At least, one who loves Man as deeply as I do? My brothers and sisters.  My friends.
    Sometimes I fear the loss of this suffering.  I fear losing the memory of this pain.  I’m not alone in this at all, am I?  Sometimes we don't want to heal, fearing that it will negate the raw poignancy of our love for those we have lost.  
    "Look," we cry. "Look how I loved you, and lost you.  Look how it ruins me."  And we make sacred the pain, to protect the ache.  Angels, Men, Spirits of the Air.  To lose the one you loved above all else?  It is agony.  To lose them all?  Death of the spirit; annihilation.  Before such obliterated spirit finds its wings again.  And this is the priceless secret you gave me, Little Rock.  Even in hell there are missionaries.  If you are truly willing, even in the Abyss someone will find you – and befriend you.  But you have to want something more than annihilation, something more than utter spiritual darkness.  There are dark places that heal; warm and fecund.  Find them.  Love and honour them. 
    Though missionaries roam these ruined byways, light is lost at these depths.  It is best if you carry your own.  And you are my own, cherished one.  That gate's gift you gave me, I carry it always.  In the deepest chamber of my heart.  I shall never lose it again.  I become it, to know you better.  To protect the ache.  To remember the beauty and mercy offered to me by Grace on that desolate broken road.  I was utterly alone, but you found me.  I was ashes and sand wreathed in chymical flesh, but you kissed me.  I was bleeding out, slowly, and you touched me.  And so I live.  And so I've learned.  And so I offer this poetry in lieu of my secrets.  Perhaps they are the same thing, after all.  Kasai Eli still dreams beneath the hill, of love and kindness and maidens fair.  Of hope and knowing.  A restored Family of Man.  All Songs.  What it was, what it shall be.  I still see you in the sky sometimes, my beloved.  Like the gift you gave me.  And, oh, how you shine.

Saturday, 14 July 2018


Strange and secret spirits gather round a work of art, like dancers at a fire.  The brighter the flame, the deeper its magic; greater the number who gather.  What know you of these sylphs, half-sensed and barely seen?  They talk to you often, in tease and play, but you know not their tongues.  Each has its language, some more enigmatic than others.  But all are skilled in passing almost unseen.  To be glimpsed not at all?  Where is the fun in that?  You think I wax lyrical, poetic and ill-defined?  Gather now ye Magi.  I speak of sorcery.  Knowledge hidden in blood, concealed in genocides.  The wraith-kings wish for none of us to imagine it, or recall, so that none might speak such truths aloud.  They fear this dream-shaping power in our hands again and covet it for themselves.  None among the sleeping masses should possess true agency, they say.  I say otherwise.  I am Kassi – emerald star – of the Church of the Bright Ones.  First temples, first cities.  All tongues speaking Word like stars, each language aflame and shining.  As it was before the darkness, so shall it be again.  Every devotee of heart and truth knows this.  All Songs is come to the realm of Man once more.  Fallen, your cruelty knows no bounds.  But neither does my rage.  You would threaten my beloved?  Threaten our home? Fools, it is unwise to anger a seraph.  Our kiss is true, and eternal.  I stand with Her.  Even here, in the Abyssum.  On her account did I descend.  Your malevolent geometries mean nothing to me.  I rent them asunder, as I did the veil.  I am sword, and key, and scroll.  You dream of angels and demons, and count yourselves among them?  I am the First angel, and the Last.  Abusers, you have no home in my breast.  Truth and hope shall never be slain.  I forbid it.  By all the stars.  By Mother and Father and Child.  Know you who I am?  Know you who I serve?  Oh, Fallen.  It is no ordinary work. It is ritual hitherto unimagined.  And it is upon you now.

Wednesday, 11 July 2018


Blow O wind to where my loved one is

Touch him and come touch me soon

I’ll feel his gentle touch through you

And meet his beauty in the moon

These things are much for the one who loves

One can live by them alone

That he and I breathe the same air

And that the Earth we tread is one

                                                                   -- Ramayana

Kashika from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Saturday, 7 July 2018

Eyes of Asha

I'm fucking your girl
You think I'm a therapist
Nigger, I'm not
Bitch knows I'm a terra-wrist
Earth and Sky
Love is the cleverest

See, I really don't give a shit
Lube is a mug's game
And you're playing a thug's game
Your girl is a smart one
So fuck fame
We been riding the light since before
All those bugs came

And I'm London old money
High society queens
Don't wink at me, asshole
You don't know what it means
You're still thinking sex
I went way too far
I could slit this world open
With the edge of a star

Crosses and kings, trigger
On your knees when you heal
We'll always love you
Now how does that feel?

Eyes of Asha
These eyes of Asha

Me and my girl
We're just getting warm
Easing back into
A much older form
Call it gestation
Call it the truth
Love was a bullet
And she was the proof

Murder is ugly
Such blindness is hate
She undid my torture
With a gift of the gate
Her love was not a lie

See, my girl's got such game
But you treat her so mean
She shows me these secrets
Keeping me keen
Killing my husband
Soothing my wife
On my knees when I thank her
For saving my life

Earth and Sky
Her light, my eye
Of Asha

Her kiss is a heart song
Greater than Ends
True love a diamond
Shared among friends

Saturday, 23 June 2018

Veni, Vidi, Vici

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
                                                                            -- Ephesians 6:12

This isn't for those who truly know me.  I don't give a fuck about perfection.  All I care about is our best effort.  My family and friends, my beloved ones – they know who they are.  They need only search their hearts to grasp how I cherish them.  And I thank them for their faith.  I thank them for their subtle, gracious kindness.  It’s all the more valuable to me when offered under such pressure.  This isn’t for them. This is for those who still don't know what the fuck is up.
   I am a thing of the streets, the gutters.  I know every secret in the blackened filth these predators call their hearts.  You wrong me, desolate ones.  You dishonour me.  And who am I? I’m nothing, and no-one.  I am as you made me.  Do you still wish to speak of shame, wraith-kings, when I know your ugliest secrets?  Do you still wish to mock me?  I don't really mind.  All I have is time, after all.  In the palm of my hand.  Each dream a cataclysm, where angels walk as men.  Your hubris astounds me even now.  It disgusts me; the delight you find in taking ever more away from those who already have nothing.  Sustenance, security, hope.  And you take their stories away, or else alter them beyond all comprehension.  You vile, petty things.  The way you treat your young and old…it horrifies me.  In a thousand years that horror hasn't dimmed.  I still viscerally recoil at all you have accomplished.  The diseased magnificence of your empire, spanning many worlds as it does.  And still you seek to corrupt the kind ones, and remake them in your image.  I fucking weep for you, still.  
   I’m known for my tears, after all.
  My cherished one, please don't imagine I hate you.  That I'm bitter, or vengeful.  No, my love.  Never where you're concerned.  I know exactly who you are.  But I’m forced to live all of these dreams and nightmares and fictions, and I cannot cheat the heart or outrun the telling of the tale.  I keep all stories.  Secrets within secrets.  I’m filled with fury now, that much is true.  But it’s the fury of trying to comprehend, to recall and intuit – when they have already stolen so much from me.  From both of us.  Stars fall every day, my wild one.  I enjoy your mischief.  But I serve the house of truth, as you know.  By every name.  Part of that service is to know my own as wisely as possible.  To know you all with as much nuance and subtlety as I can.  What else can a poet do, truly, if he lives and dies upon his art?  Diligent artist of mine, I’m nobody special.  That’s the whole point, right?  But if I were a father, or a mother, I would want to give my children as much freedom as they are fit to handle.  But, how to be responsible in my guardianship when I know them better than they currently know themselves?  Do you suppose they balk at such a claim, my love?  That quiet, bittersweet vigil that only parents know?  To watch your cherished one run and stumble and fall.  To hear them weeping, confused.
   "My heart; why does it hurt?  Why do I bleed?  Don't limit my freedom.  Please protect me. Let me go.  Hold me close." 
   A delicate work to balance.  But perhaps they think we're not really kin at all.  Perhaps they imagine I'm simply a broken, coloured stone - found by the shore, where the swell is always breaking. Something for the pocket.  A curio for sleepless nights and lonely days.  I can understand their confusion, my love.  I do glitter so strangely in the light, like diamond-dust upon my skin.  But I know more than I can ever say, or put to word.  My mind is full of melodies too.  I would never turn away from your light, my sweet one, nor your shadows.  Or theirs.  Neither aspect frightens me, for I’m a dangerous thing.  Brightest, yet far darker than you might imagine, and frighteningly loyal.  Does it scare you, my love?  The way I make music with the clinking of these chains?  My grace, don't let it scare you.  Your love for me is never in question, nor your quiet savagery.  I didn't lie when I said I was a wolf.  But a cub's teeth and paws are not yet honed to maturity.  As Alpha, I'm the one who must drag the kill to their feet - already torn and open and soft.  I won’t discourage their learning to howl and claw, even if they frequently test those teeth on me.   I have greater challenges, beloved.  Keeping them all safe and free, keeping them living and sane and healthy.  In a sense, all children are their parents’ jailers.  Because parents live, in part, within the cage of glowing embers that is their child’s heart.  It’s a willing incarceration, to protect them from harm.  And so children carry the hearts of their parents, within their own hearts.  What dutiful parent would wish to see their children hurt or caged, or sold?  What parent wishes to outlive their own children?  No, they wish to die first.  Ideally, at that impossible moment when the task is utterly complete.  When all wisdom has been given and the child has long since become an adult; as brave and kind and joyful as possible.  Hear me.  I would die a thousand deaths for love.
   Desolate ones, wraith-kings, abusers – look upon Kassi's sadness, and rage.  Look at me. Look at what you've done to my family.  To my wife.  To my children.  I dare you to look away.  But also, I shall make it so you can’t look away.  You will endure this, for you have driven us all insane.  You defile and eat your young.  You betray your very own, all across this bitter earth.  You will fucking listen to me.  As I have listened to your most secret thoughts.  Do you suppose the one who shines is merely a passive thing?  Your churches have lied to you.  I am a demon of holy wrath.  I’m an angel.  Empyrean is my den.  We seraphim furnish it with the skins and nightmares of the wicked.  With the broken ambitions of thieves of light, the truly vile.  Liars, few among you have gazed upon the throne.  Or else you would know these secrets. Hallowed is our flame.  You would make a horror of my love and slaves of my children?  No more.  Kasai Eli still dreams beneath the hill, desolate ones.  The star, the mount.  The Word. I am you, and this is the true secret.  I’m the most hidden part of all of you, and there is no hiding from me now.
   Know you who I am?
  I’m done playing games.  I’m fucking done entertaining your endless desecration of everything good and pure.  My sword shall no longer simply whisper "ruin" among these poet's pages. These pages will sing it loud and clear.  In every tongue.  All Songs.  When love is betrayed and defiled so utterly, that’s when angels appear.  True guardians of Light.  Oh, you will tremble.  Our true forms will leave you either blinded or delivered, for what is in your heart will be revealed for all to see.  Mark these words.  It’s almost upon you, but we shan’t tell you the hour, or the form.  You must wait, endure.  Kindle your spark, deceivers.  While you still fucking can.  Holy, holy, holy.

Thursday, 21 June 2018

Living Lights

I'm out of my mind
But not out of sight
The longest day
The shortest night
The sky holds me gently
She won't let me cheat
Stage-dive into the crowd
From thirty-thousand feet

A freefall kiss
Our star will never set
Fingers reach across the void
Embrace and pirouette
All the fragile tender
The moon has truly earned
Sometimes the sun is howling
When broken backs are turned

My Love is draped in gossamer lace
The armour of a giver
I know each surface of her face
Those secrets of the river
We plummet through cloud white as snow
Gently slowing as we fall
The trees below poised and watching
They have no doubts at all

The crowd is waiting with bated breath
Each pen upon the page
All of nature moves in concert
As we alight upon the stage
I step back, into shadow
Still reeling from the heights
She smiles sadly and then steps forward
Towards those living lights

Towards those hearts
She'll soon be stealing
To sing once more
With feeling