To Polina, my anchor, through all my lives

Between dawn and dusk
on the precipice
in shades of scarlet
stood a magnificent house

Strangers and I were enthralled
by the neon red foyer where
Francesca and Paolo welcomed us
to the house of a thousand doors

Each door an invitation
to delicious desire
each room a seduction
of perilous passion

One door opened —
three bare women holograms
drank from a small lake and
brandished wicked, feline smiles

At my feet a church of cardinals
glowing with tears, heat and sweat
whimpered in their prayers
but the pope watched from afar.  

He speaks—
the mouth at once is an eye, an abyss
and a hurricane from Pandora's box

Then I am I no more — a cardinal in crimson —
but no shame or guilt guides me
when blood-red lips land on mine

"Do you not see
there is equal courage
equal purity
in giving
into
temptation—
the kind
that appals the devil
to revel
in the hurt, the open wounds,
and the agony
to dive deep—
into the depths
and say all the yeses
to embrace the darkest demons
of your soul?

Enter—
and you shall find
hell or heaven within yourself."

“ Master Blacksmith, I would like to commission a weapon most formidable. The mere mention of its legendary name shall strike fear in my foes. “

{ In Hephaestus’ name, I craft you this }

So I will hone your heart,
Set fire to your lungs,
And conquer all your unanswered prayers
Into a battle roar.

I will boil these tears.  
A stinging, blinding pool at the bay of your eyes,
Use them for crystal clarity,
To sharpen the mind like a whetstone.

I will forge a sword from your fury,
And the hate of your enemies.
Temper it with thunder,
Cut a path out of illusions.

But not before this:
I crush your spirit a thousand times,
Force you to your knees.  
I will show no mercy on your soul —
Not even if you beg for it —
Bleed it, wring the daylight out of it.
To your despair, growth is the cruelest devil,
And I its most loyal advocate.

But in time you will learn Strength,
And to heal;  
Through the growing pains and screams
Mend all broken bones,
Stitch up all the open wounds.
Dripping, drilling, stilling.
You will, you will, at your will,
Lace together the miracle, the magum opus: Your undefeated self.

No comfort or ease lies in death.  
But all phoenix bathe in flame and ash.
Selves and egos, they died for you to live
— So live!
Dance on its grave with manic abandon.
Honor it with your new life.
Transcend it, over and over again.

A summer dress, perhaps
deserves a summerish redress.

In the witching hour, solitude's domain,
there is naught but
I, and the white-hot eclipse for my eye.

I have one hand beneath your neck,
and another behind your knees.
In these gloves, I will drown and resurrect
my fair dress, one-and-only Sunday Best,
sodium hypochlorite cocktail mess.
My alternative hydrotherapy
is a remedy from my enemy.

You traffic through this well of hell in ease.
A fire drunken on the Lethe.
Deliquesce in clinical scents.

Your skin thrives on the purge,
but mine cannot survive.

.
to Emilia,
you are the method to my madness

I will cry my heart out now
for every hypothetical tragedy.
I’ll break my heart now
so I don’t have to— in another life,
or a life yet to come,
drown myself in some apocalyptic loss.
Unceremonious

departures. Haunt me for life.
Mourn you for all the ways you’d die.
Prepare myself for inconsolable grief
in a simulation of a graveyard.
Tombstone upon tombstone:
Dug, prodded, buried, sunk.

My dear,
to my dismay, you are but a mortal,
implicated in the immortality of love.
In the book of all conclusions,
written in an indecipherable tongue,
your name engraved in feeble marble,
an expiration date in bright, blinding red.

How can we cheat Oblivion?
How do we defy Death?

You shrug with a confident nonchalance.

What is Death to Love Imperishable?  
What is Eternity of a moment to Oblivion?

We are in the dress rehearsal
for the season’s première and the grand finale.
The Universe has been on our side all along,
it’s poured every blood, toil and tear into
years of conspiration and orchestration,
for our one delicate point convergence.
One chance against all odds.
One intersection against all parallels.
So come what may—
Take my hand and break a leg.

I dress in black to a funeral
to mourn someone
that i used to know
and linger
let her haunt me
like a mantra  

her former skin
her former bones  
her former heart
her former mind
her former strength
her former spectra  

funny how
i am the ghost
the pale phantom
in her mirrored image
standing over
my former self.

Love
You use it like a currency
One coin — after another —
when slipping through the mouth
of a vending machine
is no longer enough
You shove and pound on!
Until I gag:

moneysecurityopportunitysuccesspridepowerstatusdreamshappin­essthingsthingsthingsdeadthings

When I ask You:
“Do You regret gambling away
in me the Life that was promised
to You  
as a wasteful investment
when my open hand holds only
Disappointment?”

You answer with conviction
suffices to convict me
“Blood is thicker than water
so I will try harder”
as I swallow — each —
and — every —
— well — meaning — copper —
flood my throat
in the ****** beautiful taste of Love
Love
Love
Love
Nothing
but Love.

I shall never starve for Love
if only I had the stomach for such Food.

Sacrosanct sacrifices  
collide in a mirrored image.
There’s a dual grace in the anguish
as the High Priestess tears
a beating heart out —

It lures a half-crazed
Apollonian hymn from you,
harmonized to the devil’s interval,
for my repertoire of Dionysian dance,
attuned to ballet’s feral ceremonies.  
On the lunar stage of ecstasy,
we sedate and ******.

But how far do you dare to rival the muses?
“As far as it takes, and then some more.”
You say to me, in consummate hunger.
Or are we just fools drunk on nectar
in a tug of never-ending war?

The masters with whip in hand
Shall ring it like a bell.
On the slave's bloodied flesh,
It chimes and echoes
and sings softly,
into the free winds:

Shame,
Shame,
Shame.

The endurance

Locked away in millennial slumber

We dreamed again of the glorious days

In golden halls of apotheosis.

The conqueror shall return the old ways,

And they shall kneel and sing the songs of praise.



All hail the first emperor

Of the great empire that would never fall!

Exalted among men, long may he reign.

We who on wintry mountains once stood tall,

‘Neath the earth now, humbly await his call.



The intruder

For centuries, we stood still in silence.

Curtains of darkness were the only light,

Behind the shut gates of the mausoleum.

Sealed in the abyss, not a soul in sight-

One strange voice rides on lonesome winds at night.



Silhouette of a stranger on the wall

Brings forth a light that would perish all.

Eyes on the throne of our supreme lord,

He sees not of the shadows of his steps.

Come forward, stranger who shall meet our swords.



Lied forgotten, but we will not forget.

We are the guardians of the emperor,

On war chariots, in both life and death.

Tread lightly, trespasser, to where you enter,

For this journey you should not have ventured.  



Hark now, careless wanderer, eyes greed-blinded,

Who seeks to steal the treasures of our prime,

And slither away from our anger,

Thief, you have awaken the dragon’s sleep,

You have reached the point of no turning back.



You have brought corruption to the holy place.

Our master stirs, and commands us in rage.

We shall stop at nothing to cast his vengeance

Upon foul men and free him from his cage.

Witness the destruction and dawn of the new age.



The ascension

The intruder lies quietly on the ground.

From the ancient times, foes who crossed his path,

We promised to leave none of them unscathed.

He who commits this unforgiving crime,

Is bound to taste the dragon’s wrath.



Do not look into the abyss,

Or may the abyss look back at you.

We once rose as a great empire of might,

Now we rest under the light.

We shall rest no more, and linger no more.



Rise, Legion of the afterlife!

Rise.



We have waited.

We have weathered.

We have endured.

We have slept.

We have dreamt.

We have awaken.

To Jess

The heat, the humidity,
And the bright blankness of the sky.

Handicapped by fear, not darkness.
Shaken, yet their bodies vigilant.

Bold crimson seared through the flesh
Like fresh sin bled into it.

A conspicuous scarlet letter.
I was a public display, a warning to all.

An audience of whispers whirled before me,
But I did not waver like they did.

Cross after cross, crisis after crisis,
Crucifixion made hands sandpaper dry.

My sentence was final. A full stop.
I danced with deadly weight.

I was hell itself. I had walked through fire.
My skin marked unforgiving constellations.

So what was that little light of yours,
To a shell dead inside?

Master made a tax collector out of me,
Graced me with the scent of gold,
Fresh and stale and warm and cold.

The masses warned me for my fate to be
"The Forth Circle awaits, behold!"
In hushed whispers I was told.

But a poor, blind man now I cannot see
The price upon my head sold,
One more soul to collection old.

To Jess

She wanted to bury me alive
but i will (not) hand her the shovel
to dig my grave.

She wanted to ignite me
but i will (not) bathe in gasoline
and revel in the incense.

i almost thought i saw heaven
when hell had me at hello,
almost.

But i am flesh and fire,
i am iron and ice.  
Do I burn?

And burn and burn,
reduce her
down to
ashes
and
(if I have to)
light the torch
to My lungs, My bones,
My skin, My blood and My sanity,

Burn and burn and burn until
nothing
is left of
Me
just to cremate her?
(as I yell with shortness of breath,
"sic semper tyrannis!")

or do i fall
and let her take all?

Part I

Out of death,
My shallow grave,
I rise.

My eyes
With godlike vision,
They can see through

The dark
The gloom
And the mind.

Lonely is the road,
tread by wheels,
Watching them go.

Spectrum of colors,
Halo's gold,
All fading into oblivion.

Vacant houses,
keeping - lost words
- in

Lines that cross faces,
so familiar,
Don't write their names.

No recollection
of the light
in their eyes.

Captain of the Titanic,
Sail on.
My skin is cold.

Stale blood running
in veins,
I can't help but to overhear.

Roses on a wooden box.
The world is dying,
I remain.

Part II

Of eternal life
and punishment,
I confess:

The sin
of Nostalgia
in my static heart-

For longing
to burn
down the world,

Not for creation
of new
in the ashes,

but for destruction,
that will
end all destruction,

for one last collision
of life and death
joined into one.

The pool is a
Wary heart of
Swinging moods

Light from the sun
Reflects the waves
Like constellations

Suspended forms
Floating around
Wandering in the sea

Aimlessly they drift
To the foreign shore
Where the winds are warm

We all have temples
And ruins in ourselves,
Yet I got to be my own devil.

Full of fatal advice
Was the altar in cold Styx
I set myself upon.

(I, a princess perished afterwards.)

But with these meager, mortal eyes,
Had I ever seen anything so terrific
As the face of a god?

Thunder roared.
Fiery heart.
Fever in my palms.

(I, a goddess of madness now.)

From a thousand miles away,
Or at an arm's length,
One could hardly take their eye off
From the spot in a sea of white.

Amid the identical bleats on the grassland,
Stood a distinguished creature -
The only one of his kind -
Legendary, no less magnificent.

Yet, since a little lamb,
he was obscure to the eye of his kin.
They squinted and scanned and studied
him, even liked the lame better.

Never did he understand
The reason behind his isolation,
Why a lovely creature like him
Was born to walk alone.

His traitorous heart longed for more
Yet the soft clouds were not home.
So he wore his color like a badge,
Blazing darkness in delight.
  
On his fours, he staggered forth.

I lie in bed sick
but it is not disease that
is crawling under my skin.

A million mouths speaking
in monotone -

(how funny it is their lips are
a thin line.)

sleep
sleep
sleep -
(it rhymes with sheep!)

One more hour
One more night
One more howl into the abyss
(does it howl back?)

The dead silence of the night
it knows my mind - too well -
too much -
like a hammer knows  

Where to land
to strike a nail
like a surgeon knows
not to slash an artery
with a tremor of the hand.

I pull down the darkness
and pray for it to take me,
swallow me whole,
"Take me anywhere,
anywhere but here."

A million mouths hissing
in unison:

(how strange it is they have snakes for tongues)

sleep!
sleep!
sleep!
(it rhymes with weep!)

One more hour
One more night
One more scream into the void
(does it scream back?)

I lie in bed sick
but tonight I shall dream
of voices ripping me apart.

Decade and a half ago,
The world still fresh and new,
Good and kind. Air - not what we choked on
Your ray of light flickered
In my careless recollection
Of course, that was once upon a time.

When volumes of infusion is the blood in your veins,
And scenes change day by day, curtains drawn,
You are at the end of the line, spent, and you're
Holding up yours hands in the air, no defiance.
There is sadness in your eyes, even when you smile
"The war is not won." I said.

Bitter taste of medicine
Lingers like diseases on your tongue.
"To be or not to be"
Is a statement, not
A question, not a
Matter of choice.

Excruciation, or maybe hell, in the purest form
Perpetual realization of pain
Of the crystal mind in storm,
Peeling the psyche of it, driving it off to the edge.
But do people still go to hell
When their lives are sheer suffering
Through and through?

Know that,
in afterlife,
it is not a crime to be born
out of time,
waiting for
the end of an era
that never came—
soon enough for you.  

Are you seeing the immortal roots of the trees
you’ve planted springs ago,
in the garden that has outlived you?
Because I hear you in
the leaves’ rustling whispers:

All life returns to the ground,
but this is how you inherit the earth.

Since when did we  
carve coffins
(with a coldness we can hibernate in)
out of each other’s cruelty?

Had i known gods perish
by their believers’ hand,
i would’ve stopped you from swearing
— on our mutual martyrdom —

“Cross my heart and
Hope to die.”

Harbinger of death
On the road to Valhalla,
Tall on stallions of silver,
Eternity you shall deliver.

Golden wings and iron fists
Shake the heavens, strike the earth.
Saints or sinners, blessed or cursed,
Our fates written in reverse.

(You have shown us how to fly,
Have you come to take us all to die?)

Chooser of the slain,
Cruel justice be your guide.
You have fire in your eyes,  
Burning brighter in our cries.

(Your wings aren't silver but are gold,
Have you come to turn us cold?)

Your name,
it is wet blood that clings to my lips
Invoking it, choking on it
I have summoned You
Haunted as I am,
as desperate as I beg to be possessed,
I release You —

For I know by nature’s law,
the living does not belong with the dead.

How I prayed fervently for a love
that shall make me holy, whole,
and sacrificed myself to the devil I forged from fire.

A home more than a house.
The kiss of The One.
Mending schism between two minds.  

When I stopped praying for such doomed ambitions,
and started looking inward,
I find in me my Deliverance:  

My home.
The love of my life.
Harmony of the head and heart.

(To fools without fear)

So I implore you,

To sit at Death's table,
and eat his fears;

To dine with fine wine,
and season the spine of darkness with pain;

To be drunk on hope,
in crystal glasses made of tears;

To be high on communion,
and poison Chaos' reign;

To look into his eyes,
so blank, so bleak, so black,

and laugh.

Make him tremble.
Make him proud to take us.

When your first looked into me
— the eye of a hurricane —
You mistook my calm for peace.  

But every breath from my teeth
comes out like a siren’s scream.

I am made of
war
war
war.

When I sank Atlantis,
and brought continents to heel,  
you begged and pleaded
for mercy
too late.

I grinned
like the fool you are.

Of countries deluged,
mighty vessels drowned,
and all the storms they weathered,

you named them after us.

When will you learn
we wake war and wonder?

She used to hold my hand as she goes,
Cracking serious jokes,
And our hearts locked close.

Her hair the color of a raven's wing,
Glasses on her nose,
Wise and sharp like an owl's they bling.    

Now the years have flown by,
And some stranger guarding by her side,
For her body failed her, she cried.

Long, curly locks no more.
It was summer, then it's cold.
White as snow, to the core.

No words come when we talk.
But the tv's on, which colors
The speechless nature of our dialogue.

The splendorous veil
gave listless nights character.

Like a fretful child's shallow dream,
waiting for the lighting to shatter it;
Or waking to neon lights in utter blackness,
Weariness coated with melancholy of boredom,
Discomfort and disturbance at the finest.

Such a sweet thing, such stillness,
A mix of sulphur in the air,
and the savor of ripe fruits rotting.
Its vacillating presence roared
with the village's dirt.

The tiny sticks of burning fuse  
Formed a ring of fire we called shrine
That worshiped the spirit of liberation.
Unadulterated laughter was our prayers
Of the present soon-to-be told in retrospect.

Distant nights in Eden was heavenly.
No blooming roses, tall trees or the moon,
but a wallow in the decadence
of rubble was as good
as a midsummer night's dream.

Today I leave nothing to the imagination
In a historically accurate setting.
I, your narrator to navigate through
Corridors of a physical mindscape
(no escape)
Decorated with impressions and caricatures.
Follow my voice,
I invite and incite all Memories:
A curation of characters and sentimentalities.
Taxidermy preserved to its last breath.
Exhibitionist curiosity.
I must be an architect
to reconstruct a desolated house.  
"Welcome home," to my
Recollection residence.
Archaeological labor too, to unearth
Buried civilities and forgotten feuds.

To stand in the ashes of
A prison of twelve winters
On summits is a struggle
To surmount shades and shadows.
Pouncing, pulse,
I suture each slash with sleep.
But here you are,
pilgrim of an echo,
breathing life,
you have struck a chord
—And a dissonance that
thrusts me into the future—
that rings through my forlorn past.
This time, in that foreign country,
a new page slowly, slowly turns.

like so many things,
it is a state of mind.
it comes from within.

a ricochet between worlds.  
a progression, a gradient, a spectrum.  

like a child’s mind,
it grows and grows and grows,
always evolving.

but it is most like
a flower:
even with the kindest elements,
it must flourish on its own.

To a.g., and all the clichés that suffice.    

Here lies the Ocean’s haunting question:
Is it a curse or a gift to be who I am?

                                Who are you then?

Soft touch suffices to smother.
Songs that scream with thunder.  
Hidden depths enough to drown.

Through the sound of the waves
Swashing, breaking, stilling...
The answer of the Earth dawns
In resounding cadence:

A storm is but another name for baptism,
And the Gift of Life I embrace.