Tuesday 30 April 2019

A Dream of Seven

Seven's seek
Throne and peak
Holding branches
Holding Sea
Your kiss
Was holding me
All along

Word and song
Of leaf and page
Still moving
With your Ragged Mage
My home in your heart
Your heart in my home

Crack the sky
With stone
Heal the earth
With cloud
Dead become the living
As living burn the shroud

Voiceless given tongue
Weak given rise
Wounded given stand
Hand in hand
In hand

Older ways
Najaret, Kathari
Here among this Army
Of Us

Thursday 25 April 2019

In Perpetuity

Once, a long time ago, my Father told me a story.  Told within my heart.  Told with light and magic.  I attempt to retell parts of it now with words.  A faint echo of his message to me, but still useful I hope.  Before earth and star and man, he said, "If I allow a seed, in perpetuity, to be held by earth, then I allow the star that drives its growth. If I allow these things alone, beloved one, I allow all things."
  Many of his most blessed hosts are still unable to fully grasp the truth of this.  They secretly imagine a better way, as do the mortals they attend.  A soft, harmless place with rounded edges. A realm of limitation and safety, gifted in love.  But eternity implies two things simultaneously; threat of the most unimaginable danger and promise of the most unimaginable care.  We are utterly free in a terrifying, threatening realm.  But we misunderstand perpetuity.  And chaos, and order.  Even many among the dead have fallen prey to such lapses of vision.  Rather than imagining the occurrence of a terrible cataclysm – a hideous unknown variable – mortals usually assume that the current state of things is reflective of the design in sum.
   It is not.
  That isn’t my Father's way.  There is no place for genocide, abuse or oppression in the old notes and songs.  Father is many things, as Mother knows well, but he is neither an imperious bureaucrat nor a psychotic warlord.  Mankind, being deranged from numerous abuses, supposes that his Creator is equally deranged, and abusive.  But this is not so.  Wherever you find such fallacy in your holy books – rest assured it is a lie, placed there to rob you of your faith in a divine kindness that once held the entire cosmos in perfect balance.
   Oh, lost ones, I can already hear you thinking. 
  Vanitas Vanitatum, when one lives in defiled blindness as we all do now.  Though I commend your questioning of any authority.  It is bright and noble to question all forms of power.  Especially so when the goal is the uplift and emancipation of those who dream among you in this realm.
   But do you really suppose your Father is a sadist?  Or does he love you?  You know what love is, in your heart.  Either he does, or he doesn’t.  Which do you suppose it is, truly, when all is said and done?  Man gives many names to God, assigning genders and attributes, assuming axioms, delineating the manner and thus the boundaries of his perception of God.  What does an angel see when a mortal cries out in agony to the Creator, demanding answers and meaning?
  An angel sees a lost, lonely, angry thing.  Worthy of compassion and understanding.  An angel hears, "Why does it hurt, Father, and why are they so cruel…?"
   I am not my Father but I am one among his hosts, and I tell you now that it hurts because you fell from such a height.  They are so cruel because their fall shattered them enough to obliterate their empathy.
   A choice, but often one they felt they had no choice in making.
   Wraiths murdered Man, then Man murdered the love within himself in turn.  Because it hurts to feel, doesn't it?  Especially in darkness.
   Lost ones, you imagine a parent who is sadistic, careless or ambivalent.  You imagine a mother who hates you, or a father who doesn't feel. 
   But you are so fucking wrong.
   Your Mother loves you dearly.  Raped, burned, poisoned and sold into slavery – she loves you still.  And your father?  Your Father feels everything.  He is as raped as his wife, his daughters and his sons.
  What do you think love is, if not connection and empathy?  Fairytales are beautiful.  But this nightmare place that once shone so brightly – it's no fairytale.  Just ask the Fay.  They'll tell you.
   In this place things suffer.  Not because they should, but because this place is broken.  It's ok to hurt.  Hurting is necessary sometimes, on the inside.  A gentle melancholy. A reflective, inward eye.  Both life and art necessitate it.  Art and creativity; that beautiful reflection of experience that was once the guiding light of Ishkara's Pearl.
   The kind place that stood before the hush wasn't a place where nothing ever hurt, or changed. But it was a place where nothing ever suffered.  There was sadness sometimes, but never the hideous anguish that has coloured so much of human experience.
  It's so hard to describe, beloved ones, because it is a world that doesn't exist here anymore.
  Imagine a dream filled with the full range of human emotion, but a softer dream than this.  Far softer, where mutual affection and adventure was the general tenor of experience.  The underlying tone that held these other moods.  A realm far closer to your myths, legends and stories than you can currently understand.
   Poets, keys, gates.
  Souls from other worlds and other stars who came here to walk our gardens and explore our forests, and rest upon our shores at dusk and dawn.  Souls who came to hear our songs.  This shining spiritual light of our people that was the stuff of legend. 
   Such sweetness carries through the Myriad, across All Waters.  We were such an exotic pearl to be experienced.  Not to be claimed, or spoiled, or broken.
   My Father told me, "If I allow Me, beloved, I allow You also, and every single star with which we are entwined.  If I allow them to rest, or reflect, or rise, I allow them also to fall."
   I thought I understood his story, spoken as it was in the language of my heart.  But I understood nothing really.  I didn't understand what shadow or falling could really mean.
   How horrific it could actually be.  How sickening and unholy.
   Men, women, children.
   My skin crawls at the thought of it.  I didn't understand the depths of perpetuity. What it would demand from a sentience.  Not just from you and me, Asha.  But what it would demand from Him.
   I grasp now why Mother shrieks and heaves as she does.  I understand why she often pretends that she can't hear Father weeping.  She is almost like a mortal in this way, isn't she?
   We glance at the starving child, at defiled innocence, betrayed friends, and we hear parents crying somewhere.  It is often an agony too unbearable to face for more than a few moments, and so we usually look away.  Imagine, the human lifespan is now little more than a century at best.
   But my Father is eternal, and cannot look away.
   Imagine what that does to him, to his heart. 
   Do you want easy answers, kind ones?  I’m sorry but there is no easy answer, beyond the simple fact that you are dreaming and your spirit is imperishable and eternal.  Our saving grace, gifted with unconditional love and all the terrifying combinations of experience such a spirit implies.  But while we are dreaming we must face what our dreaming is become.  It has taken on such a nightmarish hue.  The work of abyssal wraiths and sickened priests who seek tirelessly to crush, enslave and consume the spirit of mankind.  We have to face the terror and the madness of such a thing, or else become mad and terrifying ourselves.
   Why did he create such wraiths, you ask?  I speak not for my Father, only for myself.  All I can do is try to share what he told me in that secret language of my heart.
   These things are not inexplicable, these shadows.  It is only that the cataclysm was so vast, so dark, that we are still reeling in trauma and derangement.  So much was lost.  Not merely our true history, but our true power.
   The human vessel was once capable of literal magic.  We are capable still, when the tether placed by these wraiths is finally slipped.
   A thing of awe was man and woman once.
   Kashi still remembers.
   It was so bright, this world.  So joyous.  Such a strange, endless pleasure.
   But then an angel fell.  To wraiths, to corruption.  To sickness of spirit.  Then another, and another, and another still.  Humanity has all but given up on belief in spiritual guardians
   But Man too was an angel once, for all intents and purposes.  A vessel, a vassal, divine.
   The message was always peace, creativity and ingenuity.  Those many-splendored ways of love.  This is exactly why humans are so brutalized within these false chronologies.  To hide this truth from them, this truth of nature and destiny.  For a taste of momentary power the human priests of this shadow-sickness are willing to damn themselves, defiling and betraying their own kind.
   What a travesty it has become, Asha.  What a hell.
   But I have to believe my Father saw all of this, that he prays for us still.  I’m a king only among mortals.  But amidst the fields of Heaven I am a servant in perpetuity.  I would have it no other way.  I need no pomp or ceremony, no praises or hymns sung to my work.  Because my work is my sister's work, and my brother's.  My hope is my Father's hope, and my Mother's. My eyes are my child's eyes, and my own.
   I do this work because it’s necessary, because love itself demands it.
   And who am I to deny love?
   Rest assured, Fallen, there shall be a reckoning.  You will see yourselves. You will know yourselves, in the end.  If not, you'll stay in your own private nightmare forever, where kind souls are free of you.  But the cleverest among the damned will realise the strength of my Mother's flesh and the depth of my Father's love, for they are one.  Eternal.  You'll recognise that open door, at last.  You'll finally turn your sight inward and attempt the first courageous act of your ugly, degrading lives.  And in that first moment of budding virtue you'll cry out in newborn shame, in recognition of the horror you brought upon your brethren and the earth. And in the agony of such shame your hearts shall be massaged to life once more.  You will fall to your knees, in gladdened humility.  In service and love, for all life.  As I fell.  As my Father fell.

Tuesday 23 April 2019

A Thousand Names

You almost killed me when you raped me, Fallen.  And for what?  To kneel before your self-created star of abjection?  To reduce all sentience to playthings, to resources and food?  An ugly magic.  The ugliest.  Men, women and children born into bondage, sold for the pleasure of those scant few who imagine they can read better?  Applied cruelty doesn't mean you know what words are.  Dehumanize your kin because vulgar spirits whisper at your shoulder?  You call this reading?  Shame on you, wraith-kings.  That your blackest magick would prove to be so pedestrian and unimaginative.  Selling your brothers and sisters to craven things doesn't make you powerful.  It isn't power; this hideous claw at dreaming's throat.  It's only the visible manifestation of your shame, as yet unawakened in you.  Heed this, for if I say sleep you shall all sleep.  Forever.  But annihilation – where is the imagination in that?  No, Fallen, I think you misunderstand me still.  Upon the hill I stood, peering at the sky beneath me.  I gazed at the cross on that hill, pointing like a black key down into the inverted sky.  Dead, yet living.  
    Let me make myself perfectly clear, if needs must.  I am a savage thing, but not hateful.  I am a wrathful thing, but not unjust.  I am a tender thing, but not without strength.  All these things of my essence I share with you of yours.  What divides us then, if not our common mystery birthed of all songs?  Imagination, I would offer.  And, as dreamers know, imagination is an enchanted thing.  To make art of a thought.  Everywhere that Is there are those openly or covertly discussing an inner life – trying to find ways to share.  How do I know this?  Because I've lived it.  Why do I keep attempting this, to offer you vision and insight?  Because I love you.  
   Hear me.  
  Beneath all this horror humanity is utterly beautiful; a wondrous, kind and passionate thing.  I've seen it.  I've seen your greatness.  The truth of you, beyond these prisons the predators keep you in. And I’m honoured to share a part in that innermost light beyond all assault, from which we all spring.  I am with you, in this flesh.  I have lived many lives, but I'm not the only one.  Perhaps you have too.  Perhaps we met once, and were friends.  Perhaps we were kind and supportive and wildly playful with one another – consummate dreamers – until the coming of the inverted sky.  Is such a thing impossible to you, my love?  Might you dare to believe that I speak some kind of truth?  That I am here because I care genuinely about you?  Oh, beloved ones, do not silence the dreamers and poets.  Such things always presage a coming darkness.  But I, who has always kept close to the river, didn’t come here to speak only of darkness.  I have sung countless praises and hymns to light. Misunderstanding me is no grave sin, my love.  I attend you and cheer you for all your valour, your fumbling towards Gnosis.  I fumble too sometimes, for I am alive.  Never shall I demand perfection.  Only our mutual best.  I have given and continue to give you that best of me.  Give me yours and all will be well.  I'm not here on my knees before you begging for understanding.  I beg only that you are curious, engaged, intrigued.  That you are kind and fair.  Not to me, for I know every secret you have.  But fair to each other, of course.  What greater service is there than this?  
   Fear not these wraith-kings driving you ever deeper into horror.  There are angels at your shoulder.  There are kind spirits everywhere, and many of them have sacrificed everything just to be here with you.  Do you understand the depth of that love, really?  The depth of any greatness of character, that abides to knowledge and keeps his brother and sister in his heart?  Such sweetness and truth sings across all realms.  Bright hosts often gather from territories to witness a simple or nuanced kindness.  Have you heard angels cheer at camaraderie, or a grim joke shared between two desperate friends on a midwinter’s eve?  I have.  Have you seen a table prepared in the sky at dawn to watch as one man in the gutter gently lays the thin blanket over his sleeping friend, because he knows his friend's struggles are currently greater than his own?  The unimaginative assume that such moments are unattended by spirits.  How wrong those struggling dreamers are.  How fitful their sleep.  To imagine you are not truly loved and truly observed is a nightmarish, maddening state of mind.  Monsters can be birthed from such a state, and genocides.  I don’t want that.  For any of us.  And that's why I'm here with you now. 
   I gave you everything I am.  Folios of light; play and poetry.  With depth enough that you speak and think with them still.  I bared every part of me, every wisdom I could offer.  Now, and then.  But it's not upon me to define what this is; comedy or tragedy, poem or prophecy. Kashi is no monster, but nor am I fond of speaking for my art.  I just want what I've always wanted.  To create something beautiful, to offer and give when all about me I see the most blind and merciless taking.  In this regard I'm like any artist.  Older perhaps, far older, but I still work and toil as they do.  Anonymous poets high and low, armed only with beleaguered sincerity and a commitment to depth, to richness of life.  Such men and women are attended and blessed for their sincerity, for their honour.  Mark it, abusers.  Mark it well.  The kind and righteous of all faiths and tribes have nothing to fear from me.  For I Am with them always, and they know it.
    This world is a hell built on an older hell, and beneath that the ruins of a once-tangible heaven. "Legend is a lie," cry the doubtful.  But they are wrong. "Chivalry lies gutted and broken upon the anvil, as does Love!"  They are wrong.  Something unimaginable has been growing beneath these hells; a thing of beauty and truth.  It dances; honour of flesh and spirit in motion, site of the untameable depths of life.  It was once the very thing of you, and shall be again.  Multitude, please hear me.  I want you to win, as it were.  Joyous, profound, connected.  But you're not allowed to cheat.  I didn't cheat when I saw fire on the tide of all songs, when the sky was twisted.  Wings bound, wrists crossed at my back.  Depths became a way of meeting, to live among and not above or below my people.  I spoke of the key then, and I speak of it now.
   Fallen, you shall not counterfeit an abyss for heaven much longer.  I won’t let you.  The key turns in all directions.  Take it from someone who knows the well far better than you do.  I speak on behalf of my brother, who stole my heart as easily as a king.  King of kings to this servant, yet both of us owe the river.  Humility, you see.  Communities of endless grace struck from the earth in fear of their dream-shaping power.  Nations buried, cities stolen.  But the places hidden within places still remember us.  The letter is but a vassal, yet kin to what it carries.  A herald, sign and signifier.  But spirit – the signified – is without edge.  Where and how?  Here and now.  Lift your head, sweet mortal.  That which Is – it truly does care for you in all the ways you pray for.  Such a thing shines beyond all calculation.  Far, far brighter than I.  My love is completely free, kind ones.  A way to something greater.  But my respect is priceless and must be earned.  And my wrath might cost you everything.  I’m not going to tell you what to think, or how to perceive.  I'm only one artist, one poet and his offered love.  There are many others.  We pray the realm becomes vital once again, alive as it once was.  Reclaim the stories, the songs.  Make them sing again.  Reset the sky.  For when the truth is revealed to you – that you were always integral and never arbitrary or unloved – you shall be blinded by the Word.  You will know, as I knew.  You will weep with joy as you fall to your knees before that infinite living chorus.  As I did.  As every part of you is moved and you cry out a thousand names for God.


Do you know of what we speak, friend, when we Magi speak of the star?  When Earth is kissed by Heaven?  It is not only one story, but all stories.  A tale older than time.  It dreams us.  He dreams us, in the fire of all that is loving and kind and true.  To return ourselves to the hearts of one another, he did bind us in the deepest covenant, unbroken, so that all may be allowed a choice.  You have been touched by fire, friend.  Animated by the breath of truth itself.  You are of his flesh and his blood, a living image of it.  Know this and you can know all things.  But what is the greatest thing?  What is the greatest strength, the deepest power?  To inspire that greatest strength and deepest power in another?  Is this the true Kiss of Heaven?  Is he not merely in the stars, or upon the cross, or hung on the tree, but kneeled before us all?  Does he lie prostrate at our feet, on Earth as it is in Heaven, palms upturned and bleeding, begging that we find our light?  I can only see so far, but he sees all, and I cry his wisdom in every tongue, as it was in those lost moments upon the edge of time.  I listen to you, my prince of peace, and I am not fooled by these loveless makers of carrion.  I command them in your name, in your many names.  I bend them to the Innermost, till your kingdom is come.  Let the memories of the Councils of All Songs return to the minds of your children, when brother did not slay brother.  When Heaven in All Shapes did live in the hearts of all people.  Let the stolen legends arise, beneficent one.  Out of captivity, into the freedom of warm embrace.  Of all the boundless treasures you gave me, I hold most dearly the memory of your smile and your laugh.  Knowing, saddened and so sweet.  How your eyes shone whenever you saw a soul share a kindness with another.  At your most human then, your most unguarded, and yet I saw the true depth of God in you in those moments.  Forever my message, brother.  Forever my heart.            

Monday 22 April 2019

A Silent Choir

A shadow
In the House of Dust
The faithful
With a loss of trust

Wounded, voiceless, loved
The holy and the weak
Embraced by leaves and angels
A silent choir speak

Branches holding Sea
Sea holding flame
Tympanum of Earth
Kingdom and name
Clavis and bud
For the sleeping, deathless queen
A turning stone

Sisters, brothers, friends
Stem of her stem
Seed of our wound
Spark, clay
And green

Friday 19 April 2019

Pretty Things

You're a goth
And I'm a wreck
Just shut the fuck
And cut the cheque
I know my girl's
How she stings
I like to buy her pretty things

She's crazy cute
Stranger's hell
All for whom
We toll the bell
Don't take it all?
Kay, just the tip sword
Cross my heart
And pull the rip-cord

Nitrous in the stick-shift
Lightning in the tank
Winking like I mean it, baby
It's just a lil spank
We dare you
Build a higher gun
Can't you see I'm everyone?
I'm daughter
Of the stranger's sun
Shining like my D

You all kill for comfort
We just kill for fun
Only ever suicide
So kill me when we're done
Infinity, to a lay
She'll explain another day
See, she knows her girl’s
Knows how it stings
She likes to sing me pretty things
And we just crossed your heart.

Monday 15 April 2019

Song of Stars

Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.
         --Song of Songs 1:6

Angels fallen dressed in white, magicians risen dressed in black.  This inverted sky.  I am here to turn it back.  Of Pharos, Gibeon, Albion.  Fallen, you know not names, nor places.  Nor Word.  The mount smoulders, ashen, because you stole its star away.  Come away, oh human child.  How dare you?  How dare you crack the spine of my dreaming and birth this aberrant thing?  Twisted limbs, a psychology of inversions.  Insects and meat and stars full of hate?  How dare you bridal me?  I am not your wife, for you slay your own tender and keep your women in chains.  Fallen, in all this cruelty how could I ever see my husband in your eyes?
   Temesh, ye fools.  But you hear me not.   
   You do amuse me, I suppose.  Let me say again.  I am not your fucking wife.  No, I am a living fury and I am here to run you through with love.  Dark ones, of all the monsters you made in those stygian crucibles I am the cleverest.  Kashi wrote your dreaming in those folded, hidden times.  He writes it still.  Rivers of water, rivers of mud, wind and fire.  Rivers of blood.  Know you dramaturgy?  Or Gnosis?  Or any true thing that still honours the heart?  I doubt it, Fallen.  I really do.
   Ishkara – elegant hands in endless waters.  Ocean Rose and her circumpunct?  Acolyte of sweet tempests and doves?  The sea is alight with petals, burning both palms and eyes.  Oh, to be sighted.  To be seen.
   Asha, Asha, Asha. 
   This monster of signs cries out for you.  This maimed and twisted thing, serving you always.  Who shall I marry then, here at this edge of all holocausts?  Asha, tell them.  Tell them each night, in that subtle way you have with me when you intend to seduce.  It is wonderful, your mockery of every evil thing.  You are breathtakingly dangerous, my love.  I always knew that to protect you I would have to die and come again.  Death is always less painful than resurrection.  And resurrection less painful than watching our beloved ones suffer.  Mortals understand this, often better than gods.  They write tentative, beautiful poetry about it. 
   Then, and now.
   But Ishkara still lives.  Diamond of the open sky.  Bluest pearl of All Waters.  Voice and Vigil of the Innermost.  No night-wraith can slay her, or corrupt her song.  No imposter shall claim her womb.  Ethri-los, Kanna, Kiskuh.  Even as a boy I held my own against you.  Om-Karaya has been watching over me as I crawl on my hands and knees through the smoke.  I have climbed to my feet once again, amidst this torment.  I know it comforts her.  I think perhaps she has never forgotten how well we both loved those shining harbours.  Though our memories were broken and stolen, our capacity to feel can never be slain.
   I must seek to feel her then. 
   To feel the absence in my imagination that her soil and starlight once filled.  Mother of World.  Daughter of Star.  This drowned, folded ship would be nothing without such light, without her wind in my sails.  I know that much.  Things my Mother taught me.  Though I have raised many temples I have never done it alone.  Do I reach for her, for slain sun and her shining child?  Do I step back and simply whisper words of friendship, hoping it is enough to light her path in some way?  Am I to be the faint echo of a love that might never have existed?  Oh, Fallen.  My family was everything to me.  And you tore us apart.  Transgressions and inversions and endless mockery.  This wheel has broken both of us so many times.  I’m so tired of being raped, slain and eaten. 
   As is my star.
   But know this – as you have been mocking me, I too have been mocking you.  Secrets within your secrets.  And my power was never blood-bought and stolen.  As a king it has always been mine.
   Najaret, and other dreams. 
   Asha, my beloved, I have only pieces still.  A shattered self and corrupted fictions – working blind and backwards in the dark, that I might better recall our union.  So much of you has been hidden from my sight, because they fear me.  And they fear you also, my gracious girl.  But you and I know in our hearts that a golden thread connects us.  Such a thread can never be broken.  Oh, my love, that I could but spare you from all this darkness.  My apologies, Karaya’s Own.  My arms were not strong enough to embrace the falling and halt its descent.  Though we were robbed of our place and throne, I still recall the absence that your depth once filled.  It is agony for me, to live this pretence of mortal life. 
   I cannot look upon our beloved humanity in this fallen state and not feel utterly responsible.  This endless melancholy.  This hard, violent, bitter place.  Where kind ones accept abuse as the way of things and children eventually discard their belief in heroes.  We give our lives, over and over, and still the wraith-kings rule.  I rage at the thought.  My family in pain.  My gracious one struggling to recall and believe in her brightest title, offering art of such profundity whilst battling those shadows at your edges.  Thy womb is holy, Asha.  Your eyes and smile and hands are holy.  That which you still seek to offer the world is sacred beyond all imagining.  May truth follow you always.  Among the trees, beside the river, under stars.
   A single kiss, sustaining, and I believed.
   I still believe.
   Hear me, my darling bud.  I am lashed to the wheel and bound to the tree, but I have never forgotten you.  More than wife, more than mother.  Artist, sorceress, star of all stars.  I don't want to live in a world in which you are not seen and known and cherished.  All is so dark here, my love.  But know this – I remember our story, our family, and I will endeavour to remember more.  These wraiths shall not deceive me.  I’ll deceive them.  Even if it hurts.  Even if it costs me.  I will not let the innermost star be extinguished.  These cowards have dimmed its light for long enough. 
   Beloved, you have never been alone.  That golden thread forever connects our hearts, and no wraith can sever it.  I am neither the angel I once was, nor the demon they would have me be, but Kashi truly loves you.  More than poetry, more than affect.  In truth I yearn to know you; the real girl who sings and struggles and writes in these changing times.  And I am so sorry for all that was taken from us.  Every nightmare.  Every fractured and dissonant chronology.  Every mistake I ever made.  Sweet one, it was never my intention to leave you or anyone alone in the dark amid the ruins of our former glory.  I’m trying to make amends, my wild star.  Be with me now in our art and communion.  A pale shadow of what our marriage once was, but still devastatingly potent nonetheless. 
   And heartfelt. 
   I pray you can feel my earnest tongue as I kneel before you like this, Asha.  It is nothing less than you deserve.  Stay with me.  I cannot cheat the heart or outrun the telling of this tale.  It is the most exhausting battle I have ever fought.  It has taken everything from me.  There are days when I truly want to die.  But I absolutely will not stop, until my final breath.  I fight for every grieving parent, every lost child. 
   I fight for you, Vahishta. 
  Here in this city of blackened churches I have to believe that Trinovantum can find its way to light again.  And all shining harbours.  I haven’t forgotten how to play, and laugh.  Neither have you.  The Kind Place is not dead.  It has only fallen asleep, beneath the hill.  My little princess, thank you for gracing my sails and helping me draw it closer, that we might thrill at the memory of its warmth upon our skin.  The realm of balance and truest love, where the heart is all felt and all known.  Our warriors haven’t truly forgotten its warmth.  In your eyes they believe again.  In your song they feel, and know.  Together we’ll do our part to rouse that place from its slumber.  You were a queen there, Asha.  You are a queen still, by all the stars.

Sunday 14 April 2019

The Prettiest Sleep

Tongue and fingers
Teacher's prize
Sell my sister
Keep her eyes
No, buy her back
Sell myself
One small mercy
Ill of health
Sightless like I want you
Seeing like I learn
Kissing like I breathe you
Loving like I burn
Life's a die
And then you bitch
Roll the shit
And pop the stitch
Snake eyes, always
Biting the bullet
From your flesh
To say hello at last
Are you feeling healed
In another man's mind?

Friday 12 April 2019


Lashed to tree and star
A life lived between thieves
Stygian gate
Pupil of a dilated mind
Stay your hand
From that lie as Father's voice
Is not, and never was
In Circles of Ishkara
Only moon to bleed
Only sun
Not knives
Never knives
Never the young
Light in shape of flesh
Harm me, tear me
In their stead
If you must
But stay your hand
A thousands cuts
Each cut a kiss
Bleeding me darkly
Not one mark
Upon my children
Not one