Monday, 11 February 2019

In Dreams



Thorn of the Briar
Gate of the Rose
Each vision to choir
My cherished one chose
Every open heart
Rags
Feathers
In dreams
A single kiss sustains me
Held in darkness
Carried with sight
Given in legend
As the harbour blazed
With light
In Love


Friday, 8 February 2019

My Fragile Tender



Between each secret
Notes of a hidden song
Mercy for who
In all that is wrong?
Every open vista
Where sky kisses ground
Your kisses songs of silence
Within every broken sound

Never knew such a calm
My fragile tender
This avalanche of word
Pinning lights to rhythm
For everything I've heard
Nothing so beautiful
In all my life

Trembling strength
Our diary of moths
Where one becomes
The other becomes
The other
I wait for you
Within notes
Of a hidden song


Tuesday, 5 February 2019

Songs of Centre



There's nothing I really need besides love.  Those things that mortals crave – a touch, a kiss, a caress from someone who knows everything – I crave them too.  But I can live without them if the song of my centre is shining.  That's all that really matters in the end, during war or peacetime.  I'm under no illusions concerning the depths of the battles I'm fighting and the repugnant nature of my enemies.  My friends matter to me.  I would rather I was hurt than them.  So, I'll take the brunt, if I can.  The war is very, very real.  And the scars I carry equally so.  But I'm stronger than most can imagine, for the simple reason that I treasure those songs of centre so dearly.  Open, earnest, without guile.  I don't see sweetness of spirit as something to be fed upon, unlike the monsters I fight.  A weakness, a vulnerability to be exploited.  No, I see it as beauty.  Strength.  Poetry incarnate.  Something to be honoured, guided, commended.  It's the difference between a warrior of light and a mercenary of darkness.  I'm not for hire.  I don't fight for money or power.  I have enough power.  Plenty.  I fight for family and friends.  Lost ones.  The voiceless.  Heroes and heroines in the making.  Those who didn’t forsake their kindness and honour.  The wraiths and their familiars have made a cynical world, but I'm not cynical.  Far from it.  Though I'm a man – older than most – part of me is still a boy.  A tired little boy forever hunting monsters.  And though that boy is full of sadness he's also wise enough to appreciate true solace and light when it's offered to him.  And brave enough to offer it in return to the ones who really matter.


Friday, 1 February 2019

The Hell for Leather Salvation



I'm not here just to write beautiful poetry.  I never was.  I'll always seek and express spiritual beauty, of course.  Because I'm not insane.  But I came here for a reason.  A mission and a purpose.  I intend to complete that mission and fulfil that purpose.  Death won't stop me, fallen.  It never does.  Torture won't stop me either.  And fuck, how you tortured me.  The rape, the constant defilement.  Disembowelling my psyche with every sickness you could hope to conjure.  Such wraiths and their avatars have never truly left me alone.  My childhood, such as it was.  The little boy hunting monsters – tired, terrified, resolute.  I've been spiritually abused my whole life, awaking every other morning with scratches and scars that were all too physical.  No human being, man or woman, is truly comfortable discussing the ways in which they were violated.  Especially when faced with such a dark world, in which the notion of healing seems like a distant dream.  When their abusers are still too present, or ugly, or hiding behind stolen power like the cowards they are.  Demons, deviants, rapists and killers.  It's all the same shit, in the end.  Evil – metaphysical or otherwise – is always revealed as utterly banal once the various glamours are removed.  Banal, insipid, stupid.  Where balanced thought would reach for light, manifesting such, these deranged psychopaths reach instead for darkness.  To wilfully seek mental illness whilst styling yourselves as Children of the Abyss is so grotesque and ignorant.  But such is the way with vampires and their human familiars, being thieves and violators by nature.  

But I have witches among my brethren also.  There are many kinds of magic, fallen.  So, hear me.  I decide the times and the contexts.  I will be the one to place those secrets within secrets.  Many things are possible in dreaming, after all.  I decide the depths and limits of this dreaming.  Not you.  Never you, callous ones.  I suppose it sounds quaint to you, but the only reason I'm here is because of love.  The only reason I come, and come again.  I'll let you in on a little secret.  I never really leave.  I genuinely care about the voiceless, the weak and wounded.  I actually fight on behalf of those kind souls who are too traumatised to fight for themselves.  Because I'm a fucking rock star, and you're just a sick little bitch.  I can take my time, and still move faster than the mind or eye or glass can see.  I have real power within me, just beneath the skin.  It isn’t stolen.  It’s always been mine.  Soon come, fallen.  I can smell your fear, and you know it.