Phantom’s Word

Whence times gone there shoulders two masks lifted by a single head. I am what ye call the phantom of its shadow, who knew no morals nor delicate treats than that I offer. Mine iron is my word; my fate is your sentence. Here, I recite mine own poem that eloquently written describes my views on the state of me:

Lurks, breathes, tricks beguile!
Lo, keys from lungs spree!
Dare a face, God is not.
Whose mud now? Mould him free,
A mind? Think not for bile

In whose grief is music here,
In whose brief state is apart,
Stupor my shadow lest ye stand,
Breathe such heights as those parting
Only for light give entry near,

As power wrung strings on spool,
Who knew better than face himself?
Then step through, reveal him:
Defect the phantom ye call yourself,
Till all I bid is sold for fool.

I call the ghosts of sunken ship,
My name creased in shame,
From this cup an ally & enemy sip,
His hate of me is fame,
Now accepts that whom he lips!

Oh, silly bile; this defect of mind that I call the shores from yond the meagre hopes that goaded dread in unsung thought till us phantoms brew. We’re neither enemy nor ally, we are who you are. In shade. In dark, we disappear. In light, we appear. That they seek the light is thus to seek us, and we shall arrest them there and by night shall free them there. So passes they unto us a forthold of figures, the dreams and the thoughts they never implement. So pass unto us a single tear that wipe words from ink as to value from meaning. So then, if never of us shall appear, then light shall never appear. If so, my dark intent shall be nullified by such; in whose absence of light there is no ally nor enemy but a single shroud of dark that envelopes all the above till one himself, or herself, shall bring to open.

These are the fainted shadows in text, and we raise a mould up in the sky to imprint these words in the world, and so take them as they will so that no shadow weighs heavier than the light; nor peace is found, till peace is sought. Nor trees are grown till the seed is wrought. Let us be that seed and so produce in time the order of that which stands, whether poison or not in produce is given. Then in jest the light is but joke for fools to acquire; then when it is seen this much we shall see. In void of everything else, it only becomes unseen.

Er/ *ata

Devour me with your kisses, my dry lips have touched no stone for erosion – ill-gotten fate. My heart is fire. My tree of leaves hugs the Earth.

Even fish swim toward the light epicentre; the journey of rays tells the tale of echoes whose ripples play a note so smooth it flows.

Aha! A comedian. Suited. Booted. A tale of politics riddled by jeering and the heaving of words flanked by an artifice of applause. She makes them laugh. She can never make herself laugh. Sad.

A joker’s flaw…

Now Faust is walking through the a hot patch. Somehow he ended up in an entangled web of fates that in great exclaim minuses his inner proclaim. “I am the beast that howls the moon. I am the man that never was!” Thus he said, and then his demons appear: first Mephistopheles. Here, a remarkably handsome man approaches, tatted and graced well, indeed. “I think I’m done for a day but will you come?”

…As though it were for naught.

“Nay; I already have!”

Above Uranus, say, there’s in fact a part whereof we think little of but know it’s there, but see little of. The rings, and the sounds! Whistle my name, so that I can never hear it again! Who made it? Who sang my radio till no frequency arise?

Faust. Fish. Fate. Appear.

These are the Universes that I have created. Here, I examine all that is, and analyse all that shall be. But I do no good nor bad in intervening. Like a drop in once is ‘nough, their excess leads a flood. Degreeing all measure that all creations shun, but is simply too lax in wit and sharp in thought. Then they come up with images of heaven and hell, and say we ought to be like this, like that, like so, here; there; no; yes. But I never gave such answers, nor did I ever raise such questions. My creased being is that of non-being, and I failed in bringing non-being to the state of my being. Even the softest mink can still cry to shed its fur.

Such errata is at hand any day, but I fear my will is got; I am but a mirror. I am the product of everything else. Whose science am I is yet to prove. Whose religion I am is yet I am.

The scoundrel weeps, ’tis you Faust. I have seen all you do, and trust now you know better. That girl wasn’t worth your effort; nor was a tower of babel virtualised in pendulum with the spheres you bear. The clucking stops eventually.

I do find that little I say is but marred in oil and barbed in plastic. You, too, are victim of world mused in the artefacts of glory of one I tasked. Though no fault your own, you did well to seek the light; ‘las, it was but net that got you.

Fate. Why so sombre? You only walk yet what you cannot sing. Nor dance, nor deliver in pamphlets and propaganda except envisioned in the conscious of those who believe in you. I swore an oath to distance in Fate, but now we no longer talk. I can never predict you for I am unaccountable to you, as you would conversely agree.

Let be. We walk and somehow find our way again. Most things just are as much an aberration, but we deliver no tongue nor ear to qualify them; and then, we discipline ourselves.

*

A single sweat became rain and she was running towards herself. There was no mention of word, nor call, nor move; she went. Somehow, it lingered in her that she needed some air and all the space around her suddenly moved. The world was passing through her. All time can do was move. All she could do was move. So sudden she stopped. She called her dearest heart in earnest repair, but no blood would in part congeal. A warm bark of a tree can only warm her hand, and the swollen ground with ill-grass was all she could breathe. So high were her senses, and she moved. She didn’t know where; she moved.

Still searching, here and there, whether to gaze at her phone. Somehow she stopped and turned it off. She leapt from one world to the other. In one, she’s the nightingale in grace to conjure a fool in weeping song; another a wild woman with thoughts so mad and wrought she could not utter for words describe. So soon was it she had to return, but all she could ask was for time’s halt, but it would not. She moved. She did.

It seemed like she became a tree herself, except it was summer. Here she thought a new road was unforged, and only grass can cover her footsteps. Let lone her heart shall remain in the ground before she rescinds all comfort in the space alone. She’s still there. It is not she who passes through the world; it is the world that passes her by. All the people. All the animals. All clouds shall pass. Let time alone be an insult in presence hers, so now she sings in thought the life she is.

Brother Mandrake

As still as light he slept so sound, within his skin lay creases rough. His hair finely cropped soon shoot leaves forth. His demon was human. His beginning was nigh. In a cage he slept, in noiseless feud in utter silence kept, may never once again breathe his last; it was never begun as all his dreams turn to ash. Whilst I walked through room and room, in mazes gone and darkness brought, mine eyes beheld my brother in utter sleep diminishing from what I once knew into a figure within the cage wherein he slept. So soon I recall he began to shrink and with time erased so soon, so fervent can last his eyes to never open again lest cries adorn shall forsake our dearest mandrake beheld. Read More

Maze of Life

I had a dream where I was wandering through a maze. Each time I turned right or left a door would fade in from the passage I walked. Each step effected a spec of light from beneath the opening door that tore through the grey plastered wall set on high far from view. As I entered through this new opening I saw a memory of my past caught in wake. Like a distant echo that calls you forth, this one was the echo of an image I long never have thought. To truly enter would mean to be trapped in that room with no hope of return: isolated in the expense of that very thought at the very hour of my thinking. To only see this is but truly to relive.

Slowly I closed the door and whispered farewell to the figures and thought that be, and so I continued my journey through the maze of life.