Showing posts with label Lucifer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lucifer. Show all posts

Monday, April 17, 2017

The ends of the Earth


One hundred years of rain falling in sheets of ice
eating away at the foundations of memory
and desire.
One hundred years of the walls moaning 
and slowly giving way
to the past.
Our whole lives are monuments to loneliness
words in a dead language chiselled
on scattered monoliths.
We travel wrapped in shrouds of past laughter
in ragged wails,
in tears.
Our wings marking us as outcasts
our eyes clouded with wonders
long gone.
The sky is filled with rain clouds 
forebodings of endings
and new beginnings. 
Ashes and bloodied footprints mark my passage
and under them
new shoots.
Twin spindly bridges of black stone
one leading to the land of the living,
one beyond. 
The one will lead me to your embrace.
The other,
home.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

Feral


Listen.
I was raised by wolves 
in a land where water was poison 
and only shadows were my friends.
The wind howled with my swallowed pain.
Hecate found me bathed in my blood
and took me in as one of her own. 

Lucifer has three pairs of wings.
Black, as brilliant as night skies, to create.
Grey, to keep the balance.
And snow for death, destruction, and end.
His eyes reflect the Heavens at night,
obsidian orbs that witnessed Creation.

The dragons I command have a scorpion's tail
and the wings of a black dove.
I made them with the voids between the stars
tightly wrapped around the heart 
of a mother who killed her twins
and went mad.

My pillow is filled with small black pebbles
broken promises and chances that never came.
I don't always sleep well.
But late at night I open the door
and walk back into the Garden
I won with my tears.
I am revered there.

Now go. Do not look back.
Everything I said was true.
Never forget the name you were given
before the blade descended.
Clutch it tightly.
That's all you're allowed to take.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Ants in my pants


It's one of those frustrating nights. I'm frantically looking for something, but it eludes me in the same frantic manner. I jump from one site to the next, looking, searching, desperately trying to get a glimpse, a faint idea of what I'm missing. And of course failing, because I don't have a clue what I'm looking for. I'm just restless and unfulfilled, and internet can't help me with that. No-one can help me with that.

I found this song that is a reward in itself. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Until then, enjoy.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Beyond the human scope



LL Ori and the Orion Nebula


The Milky Way
I was recently looking at photos of the Milky Way. I have always been fond of looking at the stars, images of galaxies, nebulas, you name it. I had a realization that pretty much shook me. When I am looking at them I am in fact witnessing the very proof of our death. Tiamat’s body was used to create the world. Oh I know, mythology. I also know how close mythology is to the truth. Our bodies, if we can call them that, have created what we witness as the multitude of an entire universe. There was enough creative force in us to make it all, and even now, it keeps growing and expanding. Imagine that. Imagine what we’re talking about. And now you can understand why I want to take them and hide them all in my embrace, kiss them like they are little birds or children and softly sing to them. I want to put the galaxies to sleep, or maybe at rest.

Today I was talking with your daughter about us, about you. You know, you are always there though the conversation may not be directly about you. My brain is just too small to fit everything in, yet my imagination can bridge any distance. This is the curse and the tragedy of the human race. Our very consciousness that set us apart from nature as unnatural, and it gives us a sense of self-importance. Importance. The importance of a grain of sand in a beach; that’s what the entire planet is in relation to the universe. And yet we feel self-important. I don’t know why. We feel self-important enough to be fanatical about what we believe in, and take the lives of others, and hurt them. Hybris at its finest. The human race excels at it. And no matter how much I try to discover our positive traits too, most of the time I am pretty certain we haven’t that many to flaunt.

I think of you sometimes, the Father of all, the Protector, the First One. The mainstay of an entire cosmos, first and now last of his kind, the name of whom was erased from every holy book and every story, or twisted around to make it the source of evil. Maybe in other worlds they still remember us; in this world, vindictive Gods killed even the memory of us. They erased our name from all scriptures. They tried to erase you too, but you will never be removed from the Collective. You will always stand, the tallest of all, the most powerful, walking alone halls that are empty. Your head is weary with the crown of the oldest tragic hero; you get no rest. You are the only one who’s everywhere at once, not because you have permission from the god/dess, but because you, just like god/dess, are ever-present everywhere matter exists. You can bridge any distance and divide anything, you’re the archetypal skeleton key, the ultimate key, the only one left from an entire race. We decided to die and we were slaughtered to create what we understand as reality. We went out with a bang; that much I can say.

All the male heroes I have ever created that were truly close to my heart have bits of you in them. Sergios, Orion, Xandrix, Audrius, every trustworthy, kind-hearted male that prefers acting instead of speaking empty words, have been fashioned in your image. Every single one of them had the tell-tale black hair, as black as the purest erebus of your wings, a multitude of possibility waiting to take form, an orgasm of creative energy waiting to be channeled into one option. Every one of them has been you. Every single time I’ve closed my eyes and dreamt of the one closest to my heart, closest to home, I have been dreaming of you.

I have no home to return to. No place I belong to, except for the Heart, god/dess. I was so happy when we just existed two steps away from it. The universe was so new back then that there was no time, and you could still smell the paint, so to say.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I miss your kindness and the feel of your wings wrapped around me.

Day, night, night, day. The cycle continues non-stop, and I struggle on, an ant amongst billions of little ants. An ant that dreams of cradling the entire universe in her arms and kissing it goodnight.

Promise me that you will come to me at night, to protect me from all this pain.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Writing as a second life





Writing, writing, writing... My fingers have been dancing an endless, monotonous dance across the keyboard for as long I remember. Before that it was across the paper. Same difference.

It's like the argument with the chicken and the egg. I am no longer certain which came first. I don't know if I write because I need, or I write because I am needed. I don't know. I don't care. All I know is I can't stop. I write letters, keep a diary, have two blogs, I am between two books and one novel(la). I have also been gestating a bloody saga in my head for the past twenty years. I live so many different lives with countless different names, each hero a distinct voice inside my mind. I am a living shadow that connects everything, I exist everywhere at once and at the same time I'm no part of it.

Maybe my heroes pray to me, and if they indeed do, they worship a very cruel mistress. I only do what I think is fair and inevitable. I can't protect them. I can't even protect myself. I try to recreate life the way I understand it and the way I perceive life may be screwed and fucked up six ways to Sunday. Still I do my best to recreate it and infuse it with the wonder I miss.

I have so many secrets. Not from the ones I keep close. They know everything, they have been given the keys, yet I've never told them which key goes where. The unicorn holds most of them. Even she doesn't see all of me. She knows so much because she has gained my trust, or rather, because she has never betrayed my trust. At the same time there are vaults even I have no access to. The keys to them are held by the Firstborn, her father. My memories are there, and my name, and my crimes and miracles sleeping entangled in one another, mingling breaths and sharing their warmth.

And now it's time for betrayal, isn't it? Why? Because we are weak. We take true blessings and throw them in the mud, and seek gratification in all the wrong places. We only appreciate what we have when we lose it. If only I could save her from that choice. Yet she is human, and must enter the fire to gain access to knowledge. She must suffer.

And you still have no clue what I am talking about.
And I pity her as much as if she was a real person, if not more because she is a part of me.
 Still she must suffer.

At nights I ask you where you are. You don't reply. You can't.
And I read your blog and it's like a voice across space and time, defying even death.
It's no wonder I am writing, is it?

Monday, March 10, 2014

Zen



Art by http://www.benheine.com/

We walk in circles under the same stars that travel in circles above our heads.
Millions of years and still they are at the same place
Millions of years and still I am at the same place.
Blind, useless, terrified, going around in circles, doing nothing and not once realising that
We’re breathing stars ourselves, waiting to be re-united with those above.
Why so much fear?
Because I want to live and life is about pain and estrangement and confinement while it should be about joy and ecstasy and the open skies.
I miss my wings.
I miss your gentle hand on my shoulder.
I miss your kind breath waking me up.
I miss your wings around mine.
I miss you so much.
You’ve watched me die a million times and not once could you do something to stop it.
One above, one below, one in the heavens and one in flesh, walking the empty halls, walking the empty streets, and it’s all gone and gone and gone. Forever gone.
I want to die.
I want to live.
I want to be released.
I miss you.
Who dares call love unholy, when you meet people who see the other person as the living Christ or the Goddess in flesh?
All flesh is sacred
All flesh demands
All is temporary, to pass away, all is forever, all is dust, all is eternity. All is one.
And here I am.
Blind, scared, walking around in circles and never going anywhere.
No-one wants to see. No-one wants to understand. No-one wants to change.
All men must change. All men must die. All men must love.
Circles, circles, circles, circles with no beginning or end, no meaning or purpose, nothing at all.
I wish I could say that this is Zen.

Monday, January 23, 2012

I am going to bed... just not yet.



My mind is running at many hundreds of miles per hour. I am busy inside. At the same time I am listening to the inner “motor” of the Earth warming up, the swirls of energy moving once more. The planet is preparing her engines and takes deep breaths, ready to pick up more speed. I think this will be a no bullshit zone/plane very fast. And I can’t fucking wait. I can’t, fucking, wait.

I am more attuned to what’s going on now. And the more I work on myself, the more I clear out the accumulated clutter inside me and make space for the messages and whatnots, the more I’ll receive. Back to the time of innocence, motherfucker. You did everything within your power to steal my innocence, turn me into a copy of yourself. But you have not. I think you have not. And trust me when I say that I’ll dance on your grave when the time comes. I may be heading to become the next Buddha, but I’ll take breaks in the meanwhile. I’ll be human whenever I get the chance, and quite low, and happy to see a worm like you where it belongs. Six feet under. You think you are so smart, and smart you are, but not wise, and certainly not kind. I’ll be the one to pour you more wine when you dine in hell.

Walking last night on my way to my Japanese lesson, I was listening to music and looking at the sky. I couldn’t help but once more realise how unique and kind you are, and you are not aware of it. Not in the slightest. I heard the tiniest sound of something breaking inside and I think it was my heart. I also think you’ll be the only one I’ll miss when I go, and you know where I’ll go to; we discussed it in my house. But I’ll find you again. I can wait, and time will be the one thing I’ll have in abundance. Besides, I was the one who made you, flesh of my flesh. I was the one who gave you form together with your father. I am not even sure who is the father and who is the mother anymore. I am not even sure if the strongest one descended or stayed up. Remember who is the biggest? Remember what I told you about your father’s dragon? Remember Magdalene, and how it appears that they captured the weakest of the two? The female in body and male in spirit appears to be just as strong as the male in body and female in spirit, if not more. It feels so wrong, so ridiculous to claim such power that does not belong to me and at the same time the mind makes connections I never asked for or understood. Who remained? Who descended? Who was the mother and who was the father? I was the mother, but Altamon is male and the most powerful. It’s a mess, isn’t it? And it probably makes no difference.

I have been defiled. I have been twisted out of shape and all I can do is breathe anger in and out. I have been mercifully deprived of my full power, otherwise that anger would have given Earth a brand new facelift. There are days what I want is to kill, torture and hurt, and believe me when I say I am not doing that bad. It is my secret shame, my burden. Nobody has seen me in my darkest moments. Nobody? Those who suffer at my hands have seen me alright, and it shames me and saddens me and yet I cannot stop. Like a junkie that always promises this time will be the last, but there is no such thing as a last time when you are a junkie. And I am a junkie. I do what I accuse others of doing, and I am blind, just as blind as everyone else.

And there are nights I just want to die, knowing that I may do the same things to my children, I may yell at them and drag them around in the house by the hair like my mother did to me, I may relish every single moment that I’ve scared them shitless and terrorized them because they stepped out of line. Control, control, control, control, control. I do the same thing now to my dogs, I yell at them and kick them into obedience and then I just want to die.

There is only the illusion of control that vanishes as soon as the river of anger fills again with red. And the river is always ready to run wild, always ready to swallow and carry everything away with it. And I’m riding the red wave like I was born to do that. Born only to do that. Maim and destroy, hurt and frighten to death. And perhaps I was shaped into that, but I need to somehow befriend this. Not control it. You cannot control a hurricane or a lightning. Accept it and befriend it before I wring someone’s throat till their eyes pop out together with a blackened tongue. It's not my conscience that prevents me from such an act, but my basic self-control.

I’d kill so many people if only I could.

And at the same time, so much understanding, such an innate ability to comprehend pain and such a strong need to soothe it. How can anyone be so violent and so tender at the same time? How can I feel in my heart of hearts the gentle sigh of each blade of grass trampled underfoot and at the same time hunger so deeply for destruction? How can I cry for each tiny life that ends and at the same time feel the need to kill so many of the so-called sentient beings? How can the same person still cry for the kitten that had died in my hands years ago and for my little mocking bird, and be so sadistic and callous at the same time? It makes no sense. How can these two feelings share the same body? How can they both be so powerful and encompassing? My entire being hungers for death, bloodshed and destruction and at the same time the concept of pain, people hurting other people and animals makes me burst into sobs.

At times like these, I want to go hide in a cave for the rest of my life. I want to shoot me in the head. I want to sleep and never wake up again. Still I am here and can’t go anywhere without giving up. And I am not a quitter.

However, I am certain of two things. One, I am not relationship material. I’ll never be relationship material unless I undergo through some bizarre personality change that happens only in bad Hollywood movies. My own self, my questions and inner seeking will always have priority over everything and everyone else. And that’s not negotiable.

Two, I still like myself a lot and wish to improve as a person, and would not change a thing about me even if I could. The only thing I want to change is imposing my anger on others. And that’s it. I love my anger. It’s truthful and part of me. I just don’t want it to run the show, that’s all.

And I should just sleep.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Lightbringer

No matter where one chooses to lose themselves, it's all valid.
Time goes at normal speed only when we are deeply shocked and brought back to our senses. Then each moment is rich with gravity.
The wine of understanding is the blood of stones themselves.
There are no mistakes.
There are no meaningless days.
Don't let yourself be lost between someone's thighs because you have nothing better to do.
Don't let yourself be fooled; most things you buy and most things you do count for shit.
Yet every little helps.
Time is just another tool in God's toolbox.
So much pain, so many times repeating the same things over and over again, so many lives of going through the same things for what?
The red eyed bunny has no answers as it is crushed between the wolf's jaws, no more than a human has answers when shot to death in a dirty street for reasons they do not know.
Life is cheap.
Life is priceless.
Each death, written in a bland book, is no more than statistics.
Each death experienced on a personal level is nothing but a full fledged tragedy.
Can't you see?
There is no actual line. No distinction.
Each person you meet is yourself.
Greet them with a smile.
Take some time to listen.
There are no mistakes and no meaningless days.
Discover the meaning for yourself.
Be brave and shine, shine from your deepest core to the outside.
Shine till you burn.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Raindrops

If I could make you understand. Just for one moment.

What it means to love.

So banal.

Taken for granted.

So much ink and saliva spent on what seems a chameleon of a subject.

If only.

If I could make you understand for the fraction of a second what it means to dread losing the one you love.

If I could make you for the fraction of a second vibrate like a chord touched by human fingers.

Resonate like a whale's song.

If you could open up and see.

No colours.

No names.

No countries.

The eyes of a child.

They all cry the same.

They all need the same things.

If I had the power to offer you a glimpse of what my heart ungrudgingly holds secret and rocks to sleep to keep me sane.

Now I know what my soul knew from the start. We'll never meet.

In your endless mercy you have provided. Caring for me, you tried to find a replacement.

In your endless sadness you dive inside the Heart.

The Heart holds you.

Like a child.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Mistake

I am sure I have made a mistake somewhere.
It can't be explained otherwise.
It makes no sense.
All my choices, though valid, take me to dead ends.
I rerun this story in my head and yet find no escape.
But this is not how it was supposed to turn out.
No, it was not.

What have I done wrong?
Your hands, my beloved, look so immaculate.
What have I done?
My eyes cannot be read anymore.
You will never know.
Even if the time comes, you'll never know.
I'll make it gentle.

But late at night
When I toss and turn in my bed
Thinking over and over again
this sad turn of events, that might turn me
into the hand of fate
Who will take away my sin?
Who will grant me sleep?

Even you
the one supposed to love and forgive us all
the one who stayed in delicate balance
you ask me to do
what you could never.
You cannot absolve me.
I cannot absolve me.
I can only pray
that future will never come to pass.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

The symptoms

"Hello. I'm French."
"Hello. I'm sleepy."
(My reply to the guy who was trying to get my attention on a recent night out.)

The symptoms are easily recognised. I get a feeling of desire without a specific target, combined to uneasiness and restlessness. Then I want to listen to mushy songs in youtube and don't really want to reply to my emails, but still I want to write. What does this mean? It means another blog entry is in the making. Rejoice, oh crowds. I am back. And damn, I wanted to keep my silence a little longer. Make you miss me.

The Dir en Grey cds arrived. They sodomized and vandalized my ears. They violated my sense of appropriateness and dragged my aesthetic criteria into mud, shit and vomit. They even made me write dark poetry, full of gore and corpses. Now I have one more purpose in life. I've got to see them live! And donate my nice boobs to the holy purpose of shoving short, ugly Japanese singers on them, to comfort, soothe and pet the aforesaid singers. There, there sweetheart. It can't be that bad. Here's a pair of exceptionally nice boobs for you to rest your face on. See how good that feels? Now stop screaming your little black velvet heart out, stop scratching yourself till you bleed. Rest for a while. Sleep too if you want. I don't mind.

[Damn. Having said this, Kyo (the singer of Dir en Grey) is SO short that I have the impression that I will need to first put him on a stool and then shove him on my boobs.You gotta love this possessed little pixie.]

I recently had a interesting conversation with Mr Osram. Mr Osram is a very sweet supernatural entity, whom my best friend has nicknamed thus. He (she?) is a fellow lunatic member of the ones that decided to land flat on their ass down here on this miserable planet. So here is a part of the "conversation" (me nagging and him/her listening without complaining).

"...I mean, this sucks. I am not cut for this. I don't get along with flesh. Flesh and I are just not compatible. I feel like a goldfish on a fucking bicycle. What am I supposed to do here? I am offered all these gifts in this recent incarnation and still I can do shit. Look at me. I have an exceptional voice, my writing ability surpasses by far what many of the so-called professional writers out there can manage, I can practice reiki on perfect strangers living in fucking Australia, even my doodles are better than what some deviantart members upload, and what do I do? I am working in a kiosk and putting up with morons and eejits on a daily basis, only to return home to have terrible rows with my mother. I don't have a sexual or social life. I use nothing of what I have. I live every day of my life trying to give the best I have and at the end of the day, nothing changes. What a fucking waste of flesh, breath and resources. I want to die, Mr Osram. I really want to die. Don't get me wrong, you know I don't mean commit suicide or hurt myself, but somehow find myself in spirit again. Not in flesh. Fly again like I used to. I am sick and tired of this shit. I am not cut for this, I swear I am not. I feel pity for everyone and compassion for the entire human race, even for so and so (referring to two people who have done some really nasty things to me). But I am tired, Mr Osram. This is not what life should be like! This pitiful existence is NOT life. When I was a kid I imagined that life at this age would be full of beautiful moments with my friends, with something new and wondrous every day. Not necessarily buying something, but you know, something silly, like trying a new flavor of ice-cream, watching a new movie, talking about a new experience or book, seeing a new flower blooming in my garden. And this... thing, this life that I am living is just killing me, I can't take it. *starts sobbing* I want to die, Mr Osram. I don't want to die literally, but even if I died I would not mind, I have made my peace. I just can't take more of this ...life. I want to move on. Please help me. Show me what I need to do to change my life situation. I can't continue. I have started inspecting buildings when I walk the dogs, trying to locate those with the many stories and wondering if the door to their rooftops will be locked, in order for me to jump from there. This is not me. Please help me."

The worst thing is that I know what needs be done. I need to continue doing what I do, which is, live this kind of life. Typical contradiction of reality. In order to change things, you have to continue doing what you already do without any visible change. All changes are happening inside, that wonderland of despair and Japanese singers sleeping peacefully on my boobs (probably holding them and drooling on them, while the rest of the band around the bed play soft melodies.)

Thank god/dess for my sense of sarcasm, because there is an awful lot of tall buildings in my area.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Cabbages and turnips

Elend: “Winds devouring men”. Like a funeral march, or the walk to the gallows.

And I open any page from my story and it’s all there. All in detail. All my feelings, my anguish, the number of little deaths throughout the day. The number of times I say your name in vain. Aconite and nightshade upon my lips. All the times I cried out god’s name in vain.

Saturn/Lucifer watches silently with suppressed interest. Hecate walks dressed in darkness and endless possibilities swirl around her. I walk my path alone, knowing that which makes the gods laugh: the degree of human stupidity and frailty. The fact that we consider ourselves immortal and safe from harm. If the gods are nothing but figments of our imagination, the death of human race will mean their death too, or rather the death of archetypes as a whole. Hmph. The divine masks fall to reveal the emptiness behind them. From that emptiness, “both pregnant and empty” like the blank rune, from chaos, unformed and shapeless, came creation. And as creation slowly slips into chaos, I can’t help but wonder if change will be satisfying when it comes. I am certain it will not be, for it is human nature to hate change. But nothing is more certain than change. The whole of human race has been installed wrong software, I am absolutely positive.

It is hard to put into words certainties that make my skin crawl. It is harder still to explain the way little omens appear to show me the way of doing things, or puzzle me sometimes. Chaos magick is the next chapter. I think the Lady is happy with my choice. So let’s see: Tiamat would be one goddess related, Sekhmet too, Hecate another, and funny as it seems, there is Loki. I am not happy about the last, but I bet he’s having a field day. (I mean Loki, especially if we keep in mind my dislike for him). Discordia or Eris… Gah, this is so fucked up and so wrong that it ends up being the right thing to do. Eh. I am sure I’ve missed a turn somewhere along the way.

“Forlorn, I sailed/ and once I saw winds devouring men. /And I became the great deceiver/ to see what fair eyes still cannot see: /a tear in every sea, /a fragment of light exhausted. /Vision is all that matters to a wayward sailor. /

Through centuries of burning/ -we have waited for so long/ clothed in the serpent’s skin/ from the portal I was calling/ you lay me in the dust of the dead./ A swan in agony.

Patience, patience, patience…/ night moths on her wings, /a staggering moon murmurs./
The land blessed the manifold faces of your love. / The Garden lies asleep, the grave unclouded, /and we dance about a fallen sun.” (Elend)

It is all getting clear in a way that makes absolutely no sense. If we are to look behind the masks of existence, behind the masks of gods themselves, then we must claw our way through all the veils and even use a bloody spoon to dig under the bedrock of reality. To realise what? If the masks have been empty from the start then who’s wearing them? “There is no spoon”, I know. It is all a masquerade. The “harlequinade”. The end of worlds. A new dawn with the sun put out. The forms and the sounds are confused with one another. Reality is unraveling like an old rug and we are fleas hiding in that rug. Maybe this is what it takes to remember.

I need to sleep. My madness progresses smoothly. All is well. As Lord Fanny said, “we have the best corn”. In our ears, most likely, this is why we are incapable of making sense of the obvious. The symbols are dancing like the wings of a hummingbird and I want to laugh or run away like hell. Reality is overestimated. That and the joys of sanity. There is no pattern. This is a pattern. We can play just fine without bothering with rules once. We can play and I have missed playing so much. It is all an exercise in absurdity. I will not be angry again. It gives them the benefit of attention. I will not pay any attention to them ever again. I will only pay attention to what is important: the weather, the colour of ribbons, the way some bumblebees look like fuzzy zeppelins and are propelled like rockets. Now that’s worth taking note of.

Okay, my divorce with reality has just begun. Do they give away doughnuts when this happens? I want one with a hole in the center and chocolate. The archetypal doughnut. When I eat it and the god behind the archetype dies, its divine ghost will do what it must: settle comfortably upon my tummy and augment it a wee bit more. I fear no god, I am the avatar of Beligadesh, the tummy goddess. You can kiss my divine bellybutton and eat crow, the lot of you.

God, a doughnut would be nice.

PS: Some of the above might make sense if someone is familiar with the series "the Invisibles" by Grant Morrison and Jung.