Tuesday, 9 July 2019

The Lucky One

I broke my hands
On the hearts of old lovers
I tried to stand
With those fathers and mothers
Who cried for their daughters
They kissed the devil
Or crawled through the wreckage
Sealed safe in the knowledge

That sons can be noble
And not all is ugly
Such angels weeping
Please let them hug me
The way that she held me
In kind

But I broke my mouth
On the lips of the wounded
Only so much silence
In song
So I stitched a letter
In the flesh of her shoulder
A thank-you
Though I knew it was wrong

Kissing these flowers
In dusk-lilted hours
That shattered the Earth
Like a storm

I still break my strength
On the cleft
Of these daughters
Who love me
Though I never stay
But I’ll hold their hearts
For those mothers and fathers
Nailed to the price
That we pay

Monday, 8 July 2019

Further, Still

Life is such a strange and wonderful thing, even here in these fallen places.  I didn't always know the truth of this, my beloved.  Still I hear the weeping of those broken souls for whom this Earth is an ungodly hell.  Cruel, violent and unjust.  A wraith-made darkness.  It's hard to keep the wonder centred in my mind when I hear such constant weeping.  It wears me down, Asha.  And these shoulders have known the weight of many worlds.  But it's no less true, that strange magic.
   I know this because those weeping souls are never left unattended.  If Man could see the unseen healers that surround the oppressed, his breath would be taken.  If humanity only knew the truth of kind angels fighting always for their liberation.  But that's what this deception of a world is built upon, isn’t it?  The removal of truth.  Theft of the ancient sciences.  The obliteration of nuance and context. All genuine spiritual efficacy has been leeched from the realm and presented back to its denizens as frivolous romance, but in reality it was once the science of the shining realm.
   The physic of Ishkara.
   The deception sickens me, Asha.  Fractured fractals, corrupted chronologies.  And Mankind thinks Father hates them, and that Mother is dead.  That's why I’m trying to restore this inverted sky, sweet one.  Living here within a defiled dreamtime that consumes the earth, the weak and the young – it sickens the spirit.  Witnessing a hierarchy that offers solace only to the most brutal and power-hungry.  A hierarchy built on lies.  I don't abide it.  No true warrior among the Magi has ever abided such ugliness of spirit.
   And so I try, Asha.  Even though I'm murdered and abused for it.  It’s so much better than the alternative.  A hideous perfection of wraiths.  Darkness, slavery, humiliation, and nothing more.
   So I reach for you, with vision and choir, hoping to lift your heart and your step.  Kissing the ground beneath your feet.  Bleeding from both hands in the hope that you wouldn't have to.  It’s too dark a gift, beloved.  Despite your incredible strength.  Too heavy a burden, especially for one so young.  I'm just sorry I couldn't carry it all for you.
   I'm sorry that I couldn't halt the falling, that I didn't have the words, and that it hurt so much.  I treasured your centre even in those dreams of derangement.  The way you held me like no one else.  The way friends and lovers should be held.  Your calm didn't shatter when you discovered the shriek of the world.  But I'm sorry you couldn't always carry it with you.  I pray I've been able to walk elegantly enough beside you, holding some of that breath of home.  Earth beneath our feet, wild star.  Emerald canopies above.  Moss, leaf and branch.
   Asha, I'm sorry for all the unfortunate things in the world.  I'm sorry for anguish, and injustice.  I'm sorry the gift of choice can result in such terrible extremes sometimes.
   I went too far, my love.
   Way too far.
   But I can say with my hand on my heart that I went there for you.  I go there still.  To fall, or further, for love.  Far enough for you to breathe again, but still close enough to catch a kiss. Beloved, please don't misunderstand this dreaming.  We were never monsters.  Neither of us. We were only dreamers and Magi who rewrote creation so that we might fight the monsters. Attempting to hold the blindness of an entire realm so that others might still have a chance at sight.  I'll carry the weight of that burden now, sweet one, if I can.  I'll try carrying it for both of us.  I won't inculcate this living death.  I won't prey and steal and feed as these dark ones do.
   I knew that bringing you back was never going to be the same thing as always keeping you clean, but it's still my greatest regret.  The regret of all loved ones torn by war, I think.  That I couldn't offer you an unsullied life.  My protection wasn't complete.  Even the most profound sorcery couldn't achieve that.  You still ached so deeply at times, because you were alive again.  It hurt, your youth.
   But you were alive again.
   Held in affection by those who loved you, by the rustle of leaves and the birds beyond your window.  Held in colours, and songs.  Asha, your quiet little writer is still at work.  She's finding the words at last.  Please know it as I do.  That all these pages are dedicated to you.  Recall these feathers, my darling.  This place of light and life.  This Gate of Love.  I will keep trying to move heaven and earth for the better, until my final breath.  Even though I still recall the terrifying romance of night.  The frightening allure of winter snow.  But I was offered a kiss truer and greater than all of that.  And I think you know it still shines in my heart like a diamond, more precious to me than anything.  I can love because I was loved.  Baby girl, I told you I would find a way.

Monday, 1 July 2019

Centuries Ten

Asha, there are so many things I would like to say to you.  Words that have waited a thousand years.  Truths so old they became myth, then truth once more.  But I’m not sure where I would begin.  I would begin with the heart, I suppose.  I would hope to end there too.  With you, in spirit and song.  The words I can bear to share publicly I share here, while I still have the chance.  I can’t be sure of what tomorrow brings.  Where would be the fun in that?  For other things I wait patiently for a quieter moment.  A private moment. 
   In many ways I'm still the boy I used to be.  The lonely boy hunting monsters, forever wandering beneath midwinter skies.  In other ways I've changed, obviously.  I used to think I was gentler in my youth, that age and experience had darkened me terribly.  But now I’m not so sure.  There are kind angels peering into our world from the outside who have never lived as mortal flesh.  They know nothing of what it means to exist with tainted blood in their veins.  Sour winds swirling in these hollow cultures of the fallen.  I know it terrifies many of them.  The thought of existing here.  Those bright ones often judge mankind a little too harshly, despite their open hearts and good intentions.  But it's easy enough to do, isn't it?  To judge from a distance, without the knowledge of experience.  It's another thing entirely to walk with those you attend.
   I realize now that even as a dreaming youth, armed only with poetry and the fragmented memories of an angel, I was far too cynical of the mortals around me.  The shallow gestures that seemed to pass for romance in their eyes.  I understand now that memories of Ishkara and Empyrean made me judge my mortal kith too harshly.  Still more angel than I’d reckoned, I suppose.  I’m far less cynical now, having learned from my experiences.  But those fragments of Ishkara still keep me from everyone.  
   From family, friends and lovers. 
   Lovers come and go, sweet one, but they are not my heart.  I try always to be warm, playful and thoughtful, but I know none of them can stay forever.  It's painful but I see no other way to exist here now, unless I choose complete isolation.  And there’s only so much loneliness I can take.  But I can't talk about who I really am, can I?  What on earth would I say?  Would I begin with dreaming and magic and falling angels?  Would I speak of wraith-priests, burning cities and bleeding kings?  Most people fear the sound of my Father's drums when they hear them, regardless of how open-minded they claim to be.  So I'm silent.  It’s better that way.  I walk and work and live in silence.  
   These days the silence feels louder than ever.  
  Asha, as a boy I never imagined love could be so intricate.  The lost angel and the wounded man trying to find mutual rest within the same tired flesh.  At least my skin is no longer at war with these wraiths all around.  Small mercies, I suppose.  Beloved, as a young man I quickly realized that my heart already belonged to someone.  A shining thing from my dreams.  A girl I never truly expected to encounter in the real world.  But I searched for her nonetheless.  I searched for my heart again. 
   Miraculously, I found her.  
  So, if I were to die tomorrow I think it would be a worthwhile death.  Because I fought for what mattered to me.  But I have no plans to leave yet.  If my Father is willing I want to stay here for as long as possible.  Not because I like it here, sweet one.  Far from it.  I want to stay simply because you are here.  And you are everything to me, as I would hope this gate and these visions attest.  Vahishta, I was with you on that day you drowned and rose again.  I soothed you, held you.  I hold you even now.  I want to give you every gift I can.  A prosperous, exciting, joyous life.  What else is love, if not gifting your beloved with passion, genuine care and ultimate freedom?  
   Hear me, Little Wing.  
  I love you too much to demand a single thing from you.  Mine is to serve my girl as best I can, to show her incalculable wonders.  To hold her heart as delicately as possible.  I want to watch you wield your magic with ever-deepening skill, Asha.  I’ll enjoy our secrets if and when they come to me.  There is no need to rush, or be afraid.  Not with me, sweet one.  I am your friend and guardian until death.  I promise you.  There is nobody else on this earth who could take your place.  Not in Kasi's depths.  Fathoms and years, my wild one.  A thousand to your name.  Consenting to be wrecked upon your kiss.  I’ll cherish my friends and lovers for all eternity.  I’ll love and fight for them always, honouring them in every way I can.  But here is the truth, forevermore.  No matter who shares my bed there is only one soul that claims the depths of my entire heart.  My Vahishta’s soul.  Asha, Asha, Asha.

Saturday, 29 June 2019

Kisses in the Reign

Laurels crown
And colours climb
Beneath and ever after
Held in sweet repose
When others silken the land
And give the voiceless song
Blood wreathed in ribbon
Flesh wreathed in mist
Promise, union, tryst
Kissed upon all my agonies
This dreaming held so delicately
Flesh of the sea
Upon skin of a rising angel
And the rain is singing somehow
These honours held and shared
So freely, among friends
A friend that I can speak to
Enfolded in these wings
As safe as I can keep you
Above and ever after
As now
Colours are climbing
Laurel's crown

Tuesday, 25 June 2019


An empty church
A listener sits listening
Speaking his fears
To a sacred heart

Hark, the angels sing
In dreams only, it seems
Yet I know there is more
Upon Revelation's Road

Jubilees and hours witching
Of sky and bell
A soft place
To fall, or further

Grace quiets the shriek
Lends me peace again
Where fear would say
She is dead
And love means nothing
At a distance

Hark, a thousand years of winter
Came and coming still
To Bethany
But I love you
Near or far

This heart is all that’s left
Vision of a thousand intimacies
Of death, and life
Princess, I’m going to change things
I’m going to bring you back

Saturday, 22 June 2019

The Quartered Path

It's a strange thing to be gutted, spiralled and crossed.  It's a frightening thing to be a shadow, as much as the light that allows such shadows.  One can question identity to the point of disintegration, finding infinite sadness in one's shame.  Reasons to deny joy, or kindness, or context.  We are so often our own worst enemies, after all.  Our harshest critics.
   Of wine, or angels.  Of greetings from our demons, or our friends.
   Devils and details, I suppose.
   They say it's all in how one gets to choose.  I'm still unsure of the mechanism of choosing for a crossed and spiralled thing, and I've had a thousand years to ponder.  But, my friends, perhaps it's not in the choosing.  Perhaps it's in the enduring of the choice.  The unimaginable power in the most fleeting or committed of gestures.  The crossroads of our core.  The crucible of our knowing.
   We have such power in our hands, even now.  Power enough to change this earth for the better.  Hear me, friends.  This once-shining realm is now a hideous ruin not because we lack agency but because we have always been brimming with it.  We have been tricked into negating this agency upon the vicious apex of warlords and mercenaries.  In doing so we have unwittingly helped them to tear our home apart.  I know the hidden signatures of predators, regardless of the masks they manage.  I’ve been hunting them for long enough.  Those wraith-priests and false kings who hide behind stolen power and perverted law, or else claim to speak and choose for us.  They have hijacked our vitality, our chronology, and have used it to rape and murder Empyrean.  On earth, as it is in heaven.  Violence tailored for sanguine mornings.  Tranquillity’s Sea, dimmed with wine.  Listen closely.  This is the crossed one speaking.  Those callous priests not only defile and subjugate.  They intentionally create arenas and appetites for subjugation.  We need only look at our art, and our courtesans.  Our art is violent, deranged, dangerous and beautiful, like ourselves.  We need only look at our supposed masters, or better yet our beloved, shining mirrors.
   Still we fight wars and pen poetry with the images we find there.  We love our mirrors.  Too much, and not enough.
   All of us carry the wounds of such shattered sight.  Many still live with shards of mirror lodged in dreamflesh as we negotiate our avatars.  As we dance, bow, fellate, and deny the courtesans we are.  The broken courtesans we have been forced to become.
   The court was once lucent, gentle and truly egalitarian.  Slavery didn't exist there.  We kept our brothers and sisters, of every culture and creed, in heartlight.  But something unimaginable occurred.  A cataclysm.  A horror.  Angels began to fall, from sky to soil.  One after the other, until paradise was on fire.  Shining cities burnt to ash.  Those golden gates were sullied with filth and the feathers of the fallen.  Countless children perished in the unholy war that stole away our joy.  I remember.  Parents wailed as peace became agony.  John bled, like so many of them.  Jack raged and howled, like all of them.  Inverted sky.  Folded dreamtime.  Sleep and Song.  I’ll never forget.  Dancers were bent backwards, becoming more spider than human at the radiant's most nightmarish edge.  If the king is still a king of this court at all, at the very least he has darkened.  As the court has darkened.
   A court of dolls, monsters and vampires.
   And yet, Empyrean is not truly dead.  My Father's house is a court of miracles, still.  Even in these broken, violated regions of dreaming.
   What kind of dreamer turns away from the eyes of his brothers and sisters, as they search his soul for the truth of valour or shame?  What kind of king is an angel, if that angel lies with his hand on the hilt, or the crown?  What kind of son doesn't kneel before the righteous throne of his Father?  My Father kneels in service and falls for love in each moment.  And I pray I shall serve as he does, in perpetuity.  Because Love endures.  Grace taught me that.  My Father's Grace is wise beyond her eternity.  I once saw my love – my very heart – murdered right in front of me.  Midnight of my Day.  That wound has never healed.  It bleeds, even now.  But I don't have exclusive rights on suffering.  So many of us lost our most cherished.  Too many of us.  So, it's not for me to immediately grasp everything of my Father or his mysteries.  Indeed, the artist in me would never accept an unearned revelation.  No true artist would.  And my Father is an artist without equal.
   Artists like to work for their truths.  We craft our stories with care, and devotion.
   I suppose it's enough to recognise the difference between care and sadism, between obsession and devotion.  Friends, don’t get lost in petty abstraction and the nonsense that comes with empathy's lack.  To do so is to forget that the battle between good and evil is very, very real.  A battle waged within every human heart.  Where else do spirits and gods reside, if not there?  Do you think heaven or hell excludes the heart?  Think again.  Man can never truly negate his sin, or his shadow.  It is the entire point of this storytelling.  All he can do is experience, and choose with increasing nuance based on that experience.  All Man can do is be wise and kind, choosing love when he feels brave enough, or else exist in the apparent absence of love.  Either way, you are held in your Father's palm.  In your Mother's breast.  You cannot escape the mysteries of light, for they literally cohere your psyche and your flesh.  You are of its essence.  Living mystery, given form.
   Thank you, sisters.  Thank you, brother.
   Who am I, after all?  I'm just a poet and a dreamer, forever honing his craft.  All I do is feel things, and write stories.  I'm nobody special.  You’re the special ones, friends.  The chosen ones.  I’m just an angel.  A messenger.  I don't care about riches, or recognition.  I don't care about crowns, or titles.  I'm only a king in dreams.  I'm only doing this for love.  For you.  For her.  I fell madly in love with someone a very long time ago.  Before the shining realm was scorched to black.  And I would hope that some vital part of her is still in love with me.
   I am light, and shadow.  As we all are.  But perhaps playing both sides gets you torn to pieces, over and over again.  Until we learn.  Perhaps there is wisdom in picking a side.  For most of us, at least.  Because I'll tell you a secret.  A terrifying secret.  I'm quartered each night, like my kind.  Murdered with resurrection each morning, like my own.  All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Kasi together again.  Despite their efforts.  Only love can do that, in the end.  And love is still trying.  Still singing in her sleep.  Dawn at dusk, dusk at dawn.  Your kiss is all that sustains me, Asha.  I hope you know that.  A diamond, shining like All Songs.  I pray that we can light up the world this time, baby girl.  And save what can be saved.

Tuesday, 18 June 2019

The Different Kind

A perfect mind
A different kind
Taken up
Or left behind
The angel and her skin
A map of the stars
In the pores of a seraph

A little contact makes me teary
Under contract hybrid theory
Blue gene samples
Connect the code
Spiralled ladder
A la mode
Sixteenth century hues
Upon transluminal hegemony

Earth and star and distant rest
If love could land beneath my chest
If home was granted
Could I resist?
To miss the girl I've never kissed
Mornings grey and evenings black
John took his brother upon his back
So says Jack
Oh, Mother

She wept
Splicing light to life
With wanton need
We'd rather drown, and bleed
From star to soil
Such a long way down
My Love