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CallMeVenus Jun 2018
Spoke to a Baphomet
Down by the willow
He was watching the moon bathe in that same river
That dissolved everything in its way

He whispered:' This is your version of Aegri somnia'

I tell him that this is not a bad dream and that
I really am shattered in thousands of pieces
And that
I came to lay my burden down

So, he offers a rope and I suddenly see a brighter season

He plays me *****, one for the shepherd none for the sheep

I asked for my own Beatrice back

she burns in a pit
9th circle - still have her knife in my back
And only then he tells me the rules-the waiting game begins only when the lights go out


Game over.
*lat.troubled dreams; sick man's dreams
*Dante's lover, Beatrice
Medusa Aug 2018
once we were one, so close
now turncoat in lakes of
oleander, creeks run poison
we two betrayed

what stolen ideal cast
in stone against her?
my anima still wants love
from me, yet twists on proverbial


coats were rejected
colors negated, unflown
prisoner of tumble town
chained like a queen

a shanty wish disregard
so no wings, air of nonesuch
grace barrio color to fly

in my mind, sleeping
mariachis playing loud,
my anima rescued me

real,  such desert here
just my shivering id
skinned seal, bad memory

still hopeful still here
surely mi anima mi alma
will grant my dying


I am the traitor of my anima
I am a traitor to my anima.
noun: traitor; plural noun: traitors

    a person who betrays a friend, country, principle, etc.
    "they see me as a traitor, a sellout to the enemy"
    synonyms: betrayer, backstabber, double-crosser, renegade, fifth columnist;
No need to drift away or dismiss you
You are not going anywhere
Here to stay you remain as close as my body
Your lips pressed to my skin I feel where you fit in
I am ready to stray in the shades of your symphony
We awake in limitless wonder as the thunder rumbles
We drown in laughter all too familiar
I observe the faces of welcomed falsehoods
All the systems that agree to disagree
Yet we still somehow believe in infinity
Life is love beyond the scope of our identity
So sit back and smile at the infinite perplexity
We are bewildered and filtered through our ego
Shadow shrouds and then tries to hound you
Why are we proud of the crowds
Who never move or think to refuse our gratitude
They just bruise themselves
With the truths they borrow but can’t uphold
We are bold like the gardens
Financed in the autumn
Love is warm like a pool in summer
We are tumbling down barren hillsides
I found my anima and now she guides my mind
Yet there is more death here
Than anyone could ever hope
To put a rhyme or reason to
Subservient nymphs
Wrapped around my hips
Servile sylphs and nubile lips
Used to keep me dazed
And drowning in confusion
But once i tasted your kiss
There was no other lover
That could ever again aspire
To water down this fire
Eleete j Muir Aug 25
An enamoring dowsabel at Ib's eve
Zion proclaiming 'hosanna'
A peri lifting the anathematization off
The recusant hand of the eternal by
Dinn of God; within a whirligig of death
Rearing the abscence of perfection,
The misforgiving serpent fangs,
The Herald star. The father of lies
Circumscribed: a Dybbuk
By a ghostly tear, the revealer of truth
Upon the brilliance of the inner most
Flame in the mist of the fire entering
The ecosphere subsistent as a profession
Of the faith; to work out ones
Salvation clothed in pain, to console
A mourning soul within the sovereign
Lady to know thyself.
Life a flame of fortune!

Lovely Nobody Apr 15
I've loved before
But back then it wasn't me who loved,
It was my anima.

The fake love
Was just my body and someone else's soul.
So then my shadows
Showed me my darkness.

My introspection
Showed me myself.
So I grew to love myself
And love as myself
No more fake love.

So here I am,
Loving all over again
But it feel like never before
I know it has happened
But this time feels like first time

Coz this time
Its not my anima in love
Its my persona in love.
Love yourself Her: anima
Love yourself Tear: shadow
Love yourself Answer : self
Map of soul : persona
Paul Mackenzie May 2010

A broken path of pleasure,
Confronts my waking mind,
Skeletons line the carpet,
The path I seek to bind.


Uncertainty surrounds me,
But so the way of life,
An infant artist,
An unconscious exuberance,
The perverse I secretly entice.


Duel opposition's approach in unison,
Fighting for peace with each,
The true anima hides beneath the blood,
Narcissistic emotions naked on a beach.


Forbidden in reality,
The dark caves of the primal soul,
The lost murmurs of effrontery,
Tortured desires repressed explode.
Tempus Fugit:

Nought is eternal,
Nox is ephemeral,
The Charred Canvas
The Night Sky
(Noctis Lucis Caelum,
Scala Ad Caelum)
Bedarkened & besmirched, bespeaks
Love-Worn Wayward, Wayworn.

In the
Of mine
Temporal Heart
Streams infinitely
As an
Exhalation of The Ethereal One.

The Chronology of
The Arbiter of Fates
Shalt Destine,
Herald Eternitas
The Phantasmagoric Horizon
Mine Mind's Sky
Days of Yore.

(The Hither,
The Thither,
The Morrow.)

Luminescent Children are
Are born
To wax Luminaries
Wax Nebulous
For all eternity.

O, Metempsychosis;
Born of
Edicts Unseen,
Of that
Which was,
Will Be.

All things
Circular & Cycling,

We were conceived
And beyond.

Let He, Let She
Ears & Eyes
The Unuttered Anima
Be unstopped, unfurled
To resonations:

Deep within.
The Emerald Lifestream Anew
Dost begin.

The Sovereign of Songbirds sings
Esprit d' amour
To those who wait.

(Se' Lah.)
Cosmic Reverberations
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love,

The Communal Oneness
The Denizens
The Macrocosm


May You All
In the
Aeonic Light
The Empyrean One.

~Excelsior Forevermore~

-Sanders Maurice Foulke III-
Jade Hell Nov 2018
Quando sparisco
ti sembra tutto calmo
ma è una calma apparente!
Tu credi io sia morta
che mi hai persa per sempre..
ma se guardassi oltre l’apparenza,
vedresti un angelo che nella notte
piange lacrime nere e raffina la tecnica,
affila il coltello per conficcartelo in testa.
Non preoccuparti
che poi tanto l’altra me
verrà a portarti un fiore sulla tua tomba
e cambiando ancora anima,
allontandosi si volterà ridendo
compiaciuta del delitto che ha commesso
perchè infondo ti avrá restituito addosso
il male che tu le hai fatto dentro!
Hae Sun Jul 2018
Today I saw Picasso’s self-portraits only to realize that at 14 years of age, he painted a man 5 times as old as him, believing that it was how he looked like or at least how he sees himself. At 15, he painted a woman who, under any circumstances, does not look like him nor his mother. As he grew older, the paintings became more distorted or rather abstract and surreal that some even looked like there was more than just one person in the frame. His last painting, I assume, is a face but if you look closer you will realize that they are pieces from different puzzles, that somehow, although they fit together, they are not from just one thing – but aren’t we all are?

Picasso, consumed his days thoughtfully to paint such masterpiece that reflects who he is – that he is not just any other person, that he is not just one person. He is a combination of many, the past and present, his mother and his father, the anima and the animus – all these are parts of himself, who, when put together become the Picasso who he knows.

Picasso has mastered it ahead of us – that we are more than just a face, we are a parade of many and if we do not recognize it, we might end up painting faces we don’t know, becoming a stranger inside a home.
Magic, St. Patrick, the Tragic
        Madonna against Camille Paglia
                     Like a Prayer still in the air
                        Coincidences quite curious ...

              the Cloud of Unknowing
      or anima mundi somehow showing?
Ankur Jan 7
You remind me of someone from a half remembered dream,
A silhouette from an epoch
That I have journeyed through fleetingly.
And then beside these sempiternal embers
I indulge in a pestilenntial reminisce,
Of the antiquated aeon of camaraderie
When the befuddlement inundates my anima like a swinging ragde.
I have been spooring thy sigil,
Through this deranged tourney of metampsychosis,
Only to be impelled by your unequivocal,
Benightedness surrounding my subsistence.
mango Jul 15
A man who takes pride in his modesty
took whiskey with his coffee.

To my dearest sir;

Your beaten, dry hands are no silky cloak
and yet they clung to my quivering shoulders,
bruised and breaking bones;

A silver, rusted ring,
which smelled of bygone perfumes,
hung onto your callous finger
and cleaved my spine to shards.

Your words painted with gold,
stung like lead to my skin,
and by the end of it, it was I who sang to you
a grateful lullaby.

— The End —