WindingCosmicSerpent

We danced & copulated among the bones.  Just like before, when I first came in contact with the original tribe, I felt a revolution in my head. Even more distanced from the ghostly nature of a man who bore down on me for all those years.

With aeons between us, circling the axis to its foundation.  Soft but hardened stone, wet but dry kiss.  Embraced on all sides with love or violence.  Rapturous with brutal dominance … Never hesitates to burn its trials; remaining stoic, godless.

Destroyed are the ramparts of a narrow vision - Slave trembling in its station.  Frothing intuition gets loose & takes off for the sky.  Another soaring meteor, carrier of chromosomal evidence.  Burning as it goes, rending all glories & triumphal conclusions.  Leering back at me from the emptiness of its final vision.

Sword point aimed at the center of my head.  Eye of Gibil.  Draining seas to make his bed.  Architect of that most ancient city - Just born.  In the presence of an honored guest.  All trembling forces standing by to witness its final passage - A death, too, will come to pass.  They will pay tribute to it, at all costs …

Returned to a primal state.  Poised, lethargic, with no sense of direction.  Joy.  Grief.  I am all of these things - Oscillating, then fade. Rudimentary negation.  

I do not feel a thing.  A vessel no more, I float above scattered sea beds to watch planets align.  Penetrated by infinity’s sharp edge, light enters my brain.  Crystallized Eye forming the crust of new metals.  Tolling embrace of a once imperfect pair, faded into a singular entity …

-From ‘Return Trip’

Odilon Redon (French, 1840-1916)

Blue Poppies, n.d.

Underwater Vision, 1904

The Red Sphinx, 1912

Between Two Worlds (study for a recurring dream of ichor baptism fashioned as a portico fresco cartoon), 2016 

I have experienced the vision twice so far: in my childhood (around 1984) and last autumn. 

I enter a concealed pavilion and immediately hear a soft female voice speaking an unknown language. There is something about the timbrе that robs me of my will power and I gradually lose control over my body. The sermon brings me to my knees and pulls towards an imposing figure of a pitch black priestess - her features and details of her attire flattened by uniform blackness. I realize before long that the voice is no more and the scene is now drowned in a solemn silence. The lady tends to a peculiar suspended vessel and places it directly over my head. At her slightest touch it tilts and a warm, living substance pours down upon me. It covers me whole and eventually locks my body in this hard resin shell. Panic surge is quickly replaced by the most glorious sensation of myself imploding within the shell and falling endlessly through the soul’s looking glass into the unknown.

Necromantic legacies.  In the realm of spirits.  The air around him is thick with confirmation.  Even Volos hides in these cold spaces, after burning for so long.  Otus senses his presence along with others who’d been afraid to abandon this place.  Clinging to this world as if it was the only one.  Assured by forms they once inhabited.

At the heights of war, scaling surfaces in order to monitor the materiality of those who were trying to maintain control, Otus sensed higher & lower states of consciousness.  While hierarchies of its perennial wasteland sought revenge on whatever threatened their way of life.  The crone, however, snuck in lessons of retribution whenever she could.  Even as she rallied for his cause in the eyes of devoted leeches who spied on her every move.

Plague ensued.  However, sickness spread throughout all the tribes & was never seen as being an isolated epidemic.  Sleepwalking in times of blood sacrifice, nocturnal drugs, apostasy.  Otus awakens after many terrifying & revealing visions only to forget them at Daybreak. Back to war & the mental struggles of life.  Eventually, grown bitter by acts of feigned assurance.  Soon & he would rather see it all go up in flames …