word jalad

Poetry

Original Fiction

The Other Half

Sonnanelle of Lu

The mother of Art is inspiration, and the mother of inspiration Memory. May Mother Mnemosyne grace this art, with Graces (Euphrosyne and her sisters) in throng, harmonizing with their nonanic cousins' bright whispers, from Thalia to Melpomene, verse in triplet chords of clarity. Disburse these thoughts, Memory: Array them in kind, that they form vibrant archetypes; and find joy in their sculpture, that I ne'er wander from your exquisite designs, ne'er fonder of silence. Lo, I pray your breath impart divine Truth upon my ecstatic heart.

~ ~ ~

To Acropolis on bated broomstick, in memory only, lithe and green Rhys dove low toward the dashed, austere relic, haunted knowing the source of such debris. The barren sight was a chill wind. Instilled in the same bleak breath that it purified, the apparatus, hide and metal, stifled such a jaded breath just as bleakly sighed. 'Grim and pungent lucid Wormwood confers unpalatable truths in man's future. Yet we are but carrion observers, those fostered by The Three Ways' tour, vultures in a wake of naught but the dust of metropolises, wrought null by lust.'

In the dawning of an age, a hard age, the true emergence of mankind's rebirth— a second Prometheus did encage the sacred Pantheonic lightning, worth the dreadful weight of the world and more; and with this force did subsequent scholars give rise to he who the gods would abhor for his effrontery, to harness the stars and make of such great Mystery mundane. Raw civilization sprang forth therein. This one crazed man, driven to profane action, begot the downfall of all men. This Tesla earned the gods' greatest of ire, and all for insolences borne of wire.

For years the Electrifier witnessed a great prosperity sans reprisal; but then, the gods' retribution egressed --LIKE A THUNDERHEAD-- to strike down man's gall with the instantaneous furor of lightningstrikingconflagrated frenzy, turbulent, storming within Fulgent Jove. The Worldmind seared to a severe degree, and rang the heavens, and dashed whole nations to total desperation. Ten years cursed, man denied the gods' forewarned frustrations, and they through invention sought ends perverse t'nih'late distant lands. The world at war found Tesla dead, penniless heretofore

Contour molds a corpuscular hollow, fringes kissed by trifled tin instruments; expiry of ego bloats evident in a fermented seafoam confetto of sawdust, chalk, hair, and plaster; flyblow gluts vacant, wriggling in the spumescent raw lugubriousness it represents. Identity presumes no form. Although

Doth the mind whisper with thought so fierce and brave and true? Its control yields sensations knowing of that which one ought do, absolution Dawn which all reveals, yet dissension rains and nerve steels, reining in glory, succulent success. Alas! True success not yet made real, necessity shall e'er her quest express and empower her charge with healing zest, tempting him with tyrannical power.   His pure ideals she bears upon her breast   tending them dearest so he might tower   o'er nations. Essence and intuition   rule at his side, fate now in fruition.

Strength lies in potential, unleashing all indecision. Within mental turmoil, tribulation and melancholy fall away; and though peace and dogma might coil about the Boughs, e'er susceptible to one's intellectual trepidation, non-commitment abandons all efforts. Revision incites trying starvation; misery renders resolution bent, dissolution of disillusionment.   Practical schemes shred dogmatic intent,   unstable visions balance subsequent   inconsistencies, confide in secrets,   and roughen intention without regrets.

Complexities enshroud bless'd elegance, dancing in eyes cast coyly in passion. Fruition's forebears forever chance great prosperity through such compassion. Balance depress'd doth adjustment instill an insatiable lust which engenders tryst most sublime. Wanton addictions thrill ev'ry sense, blind of hopeless, dashed splendors. Intoxication overcome, joys gush forth. Forever overflow chalices dix.   Inspiration sculpts reality, thus   giving birth to our greatest fantasies.   With rich dowry, emotion marries mind   when all nine muses' whispers intertwine.

creationdissolving ^v^v^v thick with nothing v^v^v^ { g h o s w r a i t h a u n t e d } hollow white vestiges cosmicuntangling =world=w=e=f=t=e=d string long-discarded «gemprecious» prestiges

nebulousyndetons, polypunctured syntax shred 'sunder by penitent whores miracledeaths, here entropyvulgared genesisrevelled drippingcracked ichors

dia||eresis ++ gemini//infracture disastercrashing #crushed# destructioncalm . a . u . t . o . l . y . s . i . s . of this worldnascent<< ((sphere)) deusvisions faded on dustdulled palm

Then all the hurlings of the world --whirling,                 swirling,                              turning,          yearning-- came crashing down, here now unfurled in sootblack wind of fires' burning; gyrations ceased, axes rent immobile, poles frozen and hoaried by magnetic filings cast hot by friction made noble --here now illuminated,                                    made glass-slick-- Stark monuments here stand, wrought iron deus-visions edifying gated Edens, an unwilling god's hand.

Cellophaned Aurora, white Dawn's Iris descent, spectral and prismatic, stays locked at three, suffocating in glassy, Vesuvian breaths, an augury of ghosts, intestines strewn carelessly without portent of souldusk.

The palm of God drips with ichors Spilled carelessly by wry juvescence Drink deep of the weeping Godhead Drink deep of his suppurate flesh His is the ambrosia Of dystopia

Inversed, The Tower peals, repeals its standing, with reminiscent bells. All edification tumbles headlong to Malkuth below, a crumbling Babel. quelqu'un doit nous sauver mir zakonchitsya segodnya secus nobis ceciderit, nobis sepelivit, attrivit nobis ede, nobis ede edebamur esi esse The serpent coils 'round again and strikes like lightning. Oroborus ex Boreis, snake-skin bloated in autolytic Eucharist. Swan-smooth fingered Dawn tickles at the base. Sediment and cessations, dust upon the palm of God, an unction, a sacrament, blessed juices spilt for the redeeming; make that mystic icon upon the brow, and make of two one.

nobis ede, nobis ede edebamur esi esse

Austere pyres judge these victims of diaereses, salt-pillared Athamantis dashed against the froth-and-foaming seas; make of her regretting body the great foaming waves that birth gods and ghosts that haunt in monochrome, vagrant, useless thoughts, daffodils crushed underfoot; taste of the phantasms, the wraiths that linger in the stench of sweated brimstone, cast down the hills, valleys, rivulets, trickling destruction calm about us as an aureole that fades and dulls with passing time. Swathe Hyperion deaths in vestiges of memories. Die in the moment, but live in the memory. Wallow in these murky waters, and be that pair of ragged claws, misguided Cancer, deluded in the lees. La Tour a nous abolie.

The world is no more, the world never was, nor will it ever be. YOU ARE BUT A THOUGHT. Delusions, illusions, deus visions on dust dulled palm. Ozymandian depths, sunken depths, solipsisms of giving and craving. Famish your tongue, word-heavy with every thought ever willed into being. Kill the craving. In neci renascor integer. O swallow swallow--

nobis ede, nobis ede edebamur esi esse

to be eaten, to be drunk among whispers

I struck disaster last night, wrecked myself

RED and& BLACK and& BLUE

(&and WHITE)

face crumpled, neck crushed, body left to  s w e l l

in the fluids pooling from my excite-

-ment--

            indistinct wet hissings emanate

from torn lines gushing vital crude liquids

== wretched suffusive velvetfletched caudate

dangling from my thighs ==

                                      teethclenched thick eyelids

celestial silver cast from orbit

knocked loose by some worldshattering titan

whose will to dash this shell was so befit

to throttle me to glistening

                                         tighten

constrict

             around me this sacredgilt paint

'bout my form

Tell me how sex became a religion, (in that silver-lust night I screamed "fuck me") when the act made it sacred, and pigeon holes became home to all your decency.

You've looked down to see; you've looked up, to see; made golden idol of the Shadow. Such actions prove a most hallowed litany, edifying, consuming; let it touch

your soul deeply, Precious (but not too much) and wax upon the deepest black pleasure that derivates a philosophic hush. Yet in such a fumbled-toward measure,

Your verrous touch cools me all too quickly; I start to crack, the heat within conceit overwhelming as it smolders in me; I shiver, lust to wax myself replete

as the light dances on your frigid air; fingertips on yours, unrelenting pain wells within me as you return my stare; with that failing, weak deception, try to feign

that you do not burn in this luxury we indulge in! I see the vain fire in that lust-curled, cruel smirk that's so utterly maddening; but, that euphoric smile's mine.