Fresh Poetry ~ “A Siren’s Theft in the Aqueducts”

Madalina Lardache Bukov levay(I.) the air is full of souls—show the memory of a
ghost bride. hear moans of this
impatient child, a bearded fish
losing the power to beguile once
crimes
of her looting & piracy are
discovered;
vault after vault—the Vision simplifies into
each sphere; unheard whispers
descend
into plains
of illuminated aspect.

 

listen: her strange song builds adobe bricks in their
minds—a pueblo of shattered network;
of high jacked references which bespeak a
need
for self-sacrifice; secrets
to immortality aroused, then
blocked.

as above, so
below; nets are cast to determine
whether
there is worthy love.

(ii.) a battle in purgatory rages the shattering moment
she realizes the crimes of her voice; she amasses force
that is no
mere novelty; nets are dragged through
foul swamps.

spirits appear unseen to their hosts., wheeling & dealing under false promises
of devotion; slowed by demands of the cult, a battle of Ascension draws nigh.

the siren sings for constant access, to entrap & bewilder hearts of eager sailors who jump the waves,
their crafts set towards the sea’s swiftest parts.

enslavement to ancient song falters; sailors fill their ears
with wax; universal karma falls out
of service.

her therapist is distressed by frequent
references to bi-location. Flesh conquers spirit yet when there is no path back,
she lies.

in establishing new temple records, the siren’s previous
water crimes
favour a disadvantage. waiting
to be cleaned, souls swirl by the waterfall tiled
with ivory combs.

(iii.) An icy breeze surrounds crescent-shaped
objects; in sanctum
13 witches pray over fresh-borne music:
the Seed, an Egg & their belief
in a Renaissance to master
this
catalogue of layered
voice; watery netherworlds
through which the
most passionate emotions
escape.
Listen: Wands of the deacon cross
for protection;
a trio of liquid voices beset the mind with serpents
of anxiety.
Recognize the melody? Into this
world
she comes as hallucination, her dark side
lies & deceives,
auto-tuned to hell.
Listen: Women clothed with the blackest
parts of a sun
lower
shadows past fussy
gatekeepers—for those who
steal from
sacred fountains, future catacombs become
impossible
to navigate
without a guide.

(iv.) The final song begins with a charm to
stop
evil worlds; another network of invisible fluids
connect
to exchange dirty,
invisible water—recycled for salvation.

As below, so
above: that trip back to Taos where she met the
shaman,
a Hopi Indian who swears her in
through
sacred curing rituals, along with the memory
of the oldest rhythm.

In long forgotten aqueducts, the siren
still conspires over the next
symbol; enlightenment
explodes
under the occult influence
of sound.

{Image by Madalina Lardache Bukov levay}

Mother Orchard’s Playlist

www.chapterlilaria.com(A love of fresh air
frames this effort.)

a hundred miles below
at tasks of watching
blade-striped
bees
crawl
into foxglove bells,
half-filled with dew—on a good
day
there is
lavender.

 

lightly settled in

a new moon, washing the
winds while we work
enchanted
to good deeds & kind
words, pulling evergreen
thoughts
from
Mother Orchard’s
silent shadow.

witnessed here
by the waters
of life—we are
harvested
in gorgeous
sunlight.

{Image from www.chapterlilaria.com}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Triple Goddess”

Lulafay1) The Sewing Thread

This purgative connects
to a memory of
the Flood:
I see legendary wickedness; we are
safe
nowhere—cast salt
into the fire & transmogrify
strong passion
into
astral particles. After
years of fanatic stupor,
powers of good
surf
those most desperate & saturated;
a veil of allegory
shelters
staggered humanity, those of us
latched
to the gold-winged
cups.

2) A Royal Warrant

This part relates to
the moon: After
quickening
the birth of wisdom,
once the triad disintegrates,
the memory lives in a wash
of images
calling to shore
the waters of mind.

In such times
of disclosure,
we must hide fear
or lose
forever the sacred
seeds.

3) Message Control

Every time I pass
a television,
people are clapping or
waving their hands
& screaming fever.

What happened?

All across these screens
associative powers sell
protocols
of conduct into
manifestation.
In this karma, the spider’s
supply
of binding silk
is endless.

{Image by Lulafay}

“The Kick” ~ An Outtake

menobodyknows.comOnce upon a time, when recklessness was generously shared, we used imagination to learn everything together. We had our wicked ways, didn’t we buddy? While everyone else was playing it safe, too wishy-washy for our breed of theatrical delinquency, we grew drunk on the excitement of an entirely unexpected friendship. We howled at a blessed moon, believing that collective strength would protect us from anything that dared to challenge a taste of pure freedom.

Before we knew one another; before curious wills merged into a brazen streak of foolish youth, what were we like? I can’t remember & it‘s only been months since you died. Were we stronger apart? Luckier? Did consequence bear the same impact, in the way we would become accustomed? Our discoveries became so interchangeable; growth was shared eagerly. Promises were made & those words cascaded sparks so vivid we were set ablaze—never would we lose the vows of trust.

Remember when we watched our first movie? There was tension in the air—an apprehension for the level of potential appreciation. We worried that our passions might not be aligned; over-eagerness would be interpreted as perversity of taste. We sat in silence, familiar images rolling by & though we had both knew the film by heart, the dynamic was fresh because we were watching it together. Distraction was guarded against because it was a purity of experience we desired—a test for the depths possible formed by a shared religious experience.

When the film finished, we waited in the darkened room, pretending to read rolling credits but instead we savoured the success of an experiment. Both had passed, that was certain but where was this success to lead? A bright, exciting future lay before us, even brighter when we hit the club’s dance floor to celebrate. With this infusion complete, an experience shared so perfectly, months would pass & it was that initial magic we were always re-creating. Like junkies chasing the invisible dragon, we re-lived the dreams born from that initial ritual & with just the right amount of magical thinking, destiny was set.

Media PsychoticMemory can be a prison from where the future is only anticipated, peering between cracks that form in the walls of choice. But it is a limited vision—a single ray of clarity that can only be read in the narrowest beam of light. In the midst of our movie, that hectic, living imitation of art, a crisis we never anticipated caught us unaware. Not some minor change, nor disaster; not flood or famine but the finality of disease & death. We were undone by an evolution of fortune as we retreated in separate directions, towards the guilt of different decisions. We went desperate in the search for a different perspective, a better setting, compelled by unique terror.

We needed a happier ending than was inevitable.

Now contained to all that remains possible, memories blend into a mixture time stirs smooth. The past is easier to digest, though original agendas evolved warped or broken. Is there still potency in this reduced offering to the world of adventure?

vimeo - pickyrickyProtected within a glass orb of memory, we are frozen, remembered in time.
When this forever-friendship is shaken, space once again comes alive with magic. In this light, paths of unparalleled happiness once again spread possibility.

For this I shall remain grateful, eternally.

{Images:www.menobodyknows.com, Adrian Ghenie, pickyricky@vimeo}

Quotation from Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Without music I should wish to die.”

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

bookhaven.stanford.udu

{Photograph from www.bookhaven.stanford.udu}

Quotation from John Muir

www.eiu.edu“Climb the mountains & get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their freshness into you & the storms their energy, while care will drop off the autumn leaves.”
~ John Muir

 

 

{Image from www.eiu.edu}

Quotation from Madame Blavatsky

RK Schlueter“The origin of nearly every popular myth & legend can be traced invariably to a fact in Nature.”

~ Helena P. Blavatsky

 

{Painting by RK Shlueter}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Pseudo Grandmother Moon”

Max Ernst…for the love of B-sides, obscure sequels
& failed enlightenments.

A strange shadow runs
through the randomness of
instinct; an assumptive layer
of interpretation—a ghostly image
pulled through prophetic channels
by
reflection & contemplation,
driven wild from instinct by
an inexorable drive
to barter for secrets of the Labyrinth,
to take it all back into
the seething clay;
a quest to avoid disaster;
a purified tapestry blessed with the art
of detecting divinity & demonstrating
a bias for
pure sacrament.

Fragmentation is epidemic—who’s mind
is reading
who’s?
Repentance is fear & hope
combined with
any form of goodness becoming
unbalanced
when carried into extremes.
Can nemesis be blocked?
Myth equals oral tradition;
keep all truth for yourself,
those joys of hazing blind faith,
the interior scenes focused on symbolic intervention
but
offer sacrifice to repair the
lonely damage—fakirs, monks & nuns
alike, those conscious souls
programmed by faith—sanctuary
for all who
without admixture of matter,
don’t make it past the state
of modern theology,
perfidious & cruel.

Are you the one who named it,
you ugly believer?
Then you get nothing—ask for
an autograph. You lose
the most infamous instance,
hence the chipped crown,
that symptom of the Apocalypse
dark & impure, wise beyond what is
practical, doubt-addicted
in a place of honour,
full of obligation & renunciations—the secret delights
of calling
the shots.

Who among us doesn’t have
a secret?

Given supernatural abilities,
after weighing the risk/reward ratio,
this world is more eerie
than before.
Think of the many
hundreds & thousands
who
remain anonymous along the trail
of altruistic action;
chivalry of the West
joining philosophy of the East,
fuelling dense Ætheric mental vehicles,
corrupted beyond hope,
knowing
truth only through metaphor, hidden
within
archetype & symbol.

In trying to make sense of
the story,
signs of preservation emerge:
the currency of this empathy is
blue, the colour of Isis
underneath a blazing star—
lascivious scenes spinning concepts
of cohesion,
from control to surrender;
manifestations of will inclined to separate
death from the web
of life,
from a centre pin initiated by the force
of Ancient wills weaving shadow
into armour;
from a thick dark bubble critical
for remedy.

*Enable comments*

The revolution will be looped.

{Artwork by Max Ernst}

Quotation from Manly P. Hall

Willem Goeree“Blessed are those who can profit by the experiences of
others, and can add to that which has already been
built, their inspiration made real, their dream
made practical.”

 

~ Manly P. Hall

 

 

 

{Illustration by Willem Goeree}

Fresh Poetry ~ “The Terrifying Beauty of the Rib”

The Terrifying Beauty of the Rib - Goya

In
establishing a subjective life-myth
inside this Luciferian structure,
the following is essential:
We must find a rose,
the one with casino eyes, spinning fierce for
truth & breath;
capable of being
glamourous, gratuitous &
Modified; in need of calibration;
able to create universes
[for better flow,]
applied literally since
there never was a Plan B.

In light of recent competition,
anomalies proliferate: for all the tea
in China,
what is there but to deepen charm & drama?

Transference is complete; settle in.

Planning to bite
the naughty apple & stay
in the glorious garden?
A matriarch with scattered clan — we all have
our temptations but where to start with this precious
pool of Ætheric warriors?
Taking notes?
Speaking in tongues?
Float the howler that
witches have power over the weak; her loyal
clan. A thing can only exist through its opposite so
neutralize calmly:
Super-normal powers & magical abilities,
vibrational compatibility;
secondary chaos
in the sphere of Operation.
It all reminds me of how in the movies people
come together to get things done, in name
under the carrot & some slick
innovative teaching methods which fall
like a psychic hammer
creepy, weepy & exactly
where the partygoers are drinking & dancing
inside the hidden ballroom of
a mysterious castle,
glowing like Brahmin; all
controlled demolition concealed.

Trace a myth: Does it help to stay
in the Holy Garden if you
peel the apple
before biting it?

Understanding comes from
a rapid interchange of symbol;
the different ways women give birth.
Soon we learn the price of disposable friends:
shake the kaleidoscope of a shared past;
delete the perfectly dystopian text message.
Every line read esoterically
why not account for it?

How could this be hero worship? There isn’t
a single heroic thing
about her.

*the vigil candle flickers.*

She’s still on the bale
that slippery witch,
exploiting all notions of loyalty &
slyly reminding us that rich men
eat soft clit.

You wanted someone who would give it
uncensored, right?

*shuffle, shuffle, shuffle*

In the dream she stands — that man is naked:
the whole school jumps
to their feet
applauding her bravery; for openly sharing
information pertaining to the nitty-gritty on power,
all for the benefit of instruction,
for a safe mental space
the stuff of urban legends.
When knowing the outline of history,
all the alphabet soup
from succulent streams; anticipated & annexed,
enormous, bloated senses
the cold, kerosene smell.

Answers to time & space come from nowhere:
There is room to explore
in the world of the Gods but a
native converted
is a native
spoiled,
banished & returning with a need for
re-introduction & re-consideration
she was not always a weedy neurotic,
this former child of my heart,
like a privileged tenant
under the sway of karmic law;
attachment versus disavowal.
We can’t be impatient either way,
to lust for conversion,
to see the fruits,
eat the apple,
stay in the garden.

The trophy fish swim by:
Faith hangs withered
like a winter apple on a tree,
it is time for conclusion in the form of lyrical prophecy
dipped in blue, rising strong,
let resentment congeal & dissipate.
Allow cruelty to devour Memory, leaving only
shame & this lonely greed
for bitterness
free from that.
Liberated by tolerant television & the sweetest songs of love;
back to the natural state of calm & serenity;
before the fire.
Can you smell the freedom
through silent consensus?

Our circle is complete.

{Painting by Francisco Goya}