Our Mother

Our mother of sorrows

our mother of the thousand faces

multifaceted jewel adorning the universe

breath of our breath

heart of our hearts

the soil we walk upon

the breast that feeds us

the embrace that receives us

when everything is said and done for.

A million thanks to her

written in blood everyday

in the blood of her children

slaughtered without thought or feeling.

Mother, please forgive us

for we know not.

I am so

sorry.

Dervish Wisdom

So what is desire?

Hormones?

Smells?

How about desiring someone you have not met?

Is that really desire?

Yes, he has done a considerably good job at turning your brain into a bitch in heat. He snaps your fingers, you jump. But you also bite if you need to.

Go with the flow.

The flow is slow.

The river is full of greenery that rots.

The waters are lazy and filthy under the sun. Your head is buzzing like so many flies.

You suddenly feel the need to kill.

You see your beloved Dorian in your mind’s eye snapping someone’s neck with his bare hands. It is a gratifying sight. It offers you comfort.

You’re aware of the absurdity of everything.

The Heart of the Ages sings from In the Woods.

A small black kitten is running and playing on your bed and biting your fingers.

Last night you were crying for that kitten and how small it is, and how there are so many things out there that can harm it.

Last night you were crying because innocents must suffer.

He’s waiting.

Perhaps to hurt you.

Perhaps to hurt himself.

There will be ample time to discover.

And perhaps make amends.

The black kitten wants to sleep.

The other kitten wants to play.

You want nothing.

The perfect equilibrium of no desire.

But what is desire?

Cat's cradle

 

Hello my conscious self,

Reality didn’t just slap me in the face yesterday. It slapped me with a door in the face. Just as I thought things were back on a good track, reality said, oh yeah? And used the steel door of a safe to slap me around a little. I feel a bit battered today, that's all. Just an elephant size bit. Oh well. It's not like I wasn't aware of the problem, but naive as I am, I was certain it was better. Never mind. One more relationship down the drain.  

Despicable bastard.

You're not helping me any.

My hormones are making this even worse.

I honestly wonder what the hell we need hormones for.

There is no answer to that.

There is no answer in general, and that forces me to come up with new interesting variations of an answer. And new fantasies I am too tired to do anything about. Just thinking, thinking, thinking, and consequently feeling horny, and eventually the day ends, and a new day comes, ad infinitum. The days succeed each other in the same meaningless manner. And I am about as aware of residing in flesh as the average ghost is aware of haunting a place. Hmph.

I was watching a friend of mine talk about martial arts and I envied him. Envied the ease with which he moves, envied his effortless posture. And thought of one of my characters, my beloved Takeshi. But there is no meaning there either, trying to live your life through other people's experiences. 

Where is the meaning? My inner voice demands. Tell me where the meaning is.

There is no meaning other than what we choose. 

I am so tired.

I did not lie when I said to my friend your energy is barbed. It has thorns and fangs and barbs and it's dark red, almost crimson black, solid and wet and sticky at the same time. Like the inside of an exotic flower that first attracts you with its smell and colour, then traps you and sucks you dry. But at the same time it gives, it gives fever dreams, nightmares and weak mornings. You are all devouring, all demanding. You leave love bites and secret poison as proof of your having been there, and finger marks on wrists and napes. You make women muffle their moans in between sheets and inside pillows, and next morning as you make your bed those moments fall on the ground like the beads of a broken necklace. I wonder, truly wonder how happy you are with what you have.

Are beings like us ever meant to be happy? And I don't mean be happy together. It will never happen. I am just wondering, that's all.

It's not like I am doing anything more noteworthy anyway.

 

And the shitty mood persists.

I have no illusions. It all vanishes in a blink.

It disappears faster than snowflakes entrusted in the care of sun.

Life as a collection of misconceptions on the way to the end.

Moments of ecstasy, moments of terror all mixed up like photos thrown out carelessly on the street after someone emptied a house.

Moments. What entire lifetimes consist of.

Precious, meaningless, countless, finite moments.

The sword of my speech is dulled by age and disappointment.

It can no longer reflect my face.

Perhaps the face it reflects is not my own.

Perhaps I do not recognise my own face.

Perhaps I am nothing I can recognise or associate to anymore.

The sword of my soul is dulled by grief and inconsistency.

The sword of my soul is dulled by battles I cannot win and I myself have chosen.

There is no sword, and no soul, and no battles.

Look deeper.

Open your eyes.

And see.

"Some are born in endless night."

It's the dark night of the soul.

Only dawn can follow.

I have seen the face of my enemy.

I have to be careful. If I slip now, it has all been for nothing.

She said he can change or postpone some things but not everything.

She said there are things he cannot postpone or change.

And that's true.

As for what those things are -if they ever happen- it's something that will once more end in tears, grief and heart break.

He wouldn't want to change or postpone that, would he now?

Going around in circles as a small-hours-of-the-night-specialty for the writer.

I wish, oh how I wish I had a smidgen of my past understanding.

A moment of time at your side.

But I cannot stop now.

I cannot rest.

And I am so unbelievably tired that my soul itself feels replaced by ashes.

Life, of course, goes on, and I am still consumed by meaningless chores and meaningless conversations.

I wish I could still my heart.

I wish I could put my heart to rest.

But the hunt is on, and the great beast beats his wings once and soars high.

He cannot be stopped.

Run, hide, do what you want.

In this lifetime it ends, even if I have to go down with you.

It will be worth it.

DEATH XIII

Lightbringer

No matter where one chooses to lose themselves, it's all valid.

Time goes at normal speed only when we are deeply shocked and brought back to our senses. Then each moment is rich with gravity.

The wine of understanding is the blood of stones themselves.

There are no mistakes.

There are no meaningless days.

Don't let yourself be lost between someone's thighs because you have nothing better to do.

Don't let yourself be fooled; most things you buy and most things you do count for shit.

Yet every little helps.

Time is just another tool in God's toolbox.

So much pain, so many times repeating the same things over and over again, so many lives of going through the same things for what?

The red eyed bunny has no answers as it is crushed between the wolf's jaws, no more than a human has answers when shot to death in a dirty street for reasons they do not know.

Life is cheap.

Life is priceless.

Each death, written in a bland book, is no more than statistics.

Each death experienced on a personal level is nothing but a full fledged tragedy.

Can't you see?

There is no actual line. No distinction.

Each person you meet is yourself.

Greet them with a smile.

Take some time to listen.

There are no mistakes and no meaningless days.

Discover the meaning for yourself.

Be brave and shine, shine from your deepest core to the outside.

Shine till you burn.

Peruse

Re-reading stuff here in the blog.

Surprising myself sometimes with the validity of my written speech.

Yet no words can describe the colour of your hair.

No description would ever do it justice.

Black.

Always black,

firing blanks at your shadow.

And the smiles, and the hypocrisy, and the questioning looks she gives me.

All while pretending innocence and genuine care.

You can have him. He's all yours.

He's not mine

He's not yours

He's not his either,

pity.

Beware of Greeks bearing presents.

And gifts fashioned in the green mist of jealousy are the worst to receive any day.

Yet I accept them.

And she thinks she wins.

No-one wins

no-one loses.

God is playing dice in a cheap bar.

You both lose.

I know the one for me.

He's mad.

I know the one who made me what I am.

He, too, is mad.

It's only fair that he'd be the fairest of all.

No such thing as coincidence.

The serpent inside my spine unfolds.

My wings open slowly.

Painfully.

The dice come into my hand.

My turn now.

Mistake

I am sure I have made a mistake somewhere.

It can't be explained otherwise.

It makes no sense.

All my choices, though valid, take me to dead ends.

I rerun this story in my head and yet find no escape.

But this is not how it was supposed to turn out.

No, it was not.

What have I done wrong?

Your hands, my beloved, look so immaculate.

What have I done?

My eyes cannot be read anymore.

You will never know.

Even if the time comes, you'll never know.

I'll make it gentle.

But late at night

When I toss and turn in my bed

Thinking over and over again

this sad turn of events, that might turn me

into the hand of fate

Who will take away my sin?

Who will grant me sleep?

Even you

the one supposed to love and forgive us all

the one who stayed in delicate balance

you ask me to do

what you could never.

You cannot absolve me.

I cannot absolve me.

I can only pray

that future will never come to pass.

No meaning

Sleep

sweet sleep

give me back my meaning

When the sky fails and the wind falls silent

silent croon of dreams

partner in crime

give me back my purpose

When reality refuses to hand over

what is rightfully mine,

give it to me and pry it back tenderly in the morning

from my unmoving fingers

Sleep

sweet sleep

Motherfather of all realities

sacred thread in the hands of the Weaver

open embrace of the divine

void between the heavens and the blood drenched soil

Give me back

the mind of a child,

the wonder filled eyes

and the open heart

of the miracle maker.

Things not meant to be put down.

[Beautiful photo by http://girltripped.deviantart.com]

In the old times, women used to kiss the lips of statues in the twilight, praying to the heartless god of love. Nothing has changed, save for the fact we kiss old photos and computers have replaced the glorious, lush gardens of the past.

You come quietly at night to claim me, dressed in moth wings. Wearing a long cape of blood and memories. My velvet prince.

I miss you. So much that sometimes the screams I never utter cut my insides. Like a mouthful of broken glass.

You whisper my name in your sleep. You seek my face. My caress.

I call out your name in my waking hours. I need you to be here.

Yet we don't meet.

Sleep claims me like a coma. Life claims what's left of me. Onwards I stumble, determined to take it to the end.

We never meet.

Sometimes I try to imagine what you may be doing. If you are happy or sad, busy or bored.

It's useless.

It all matters. It's all futile.

I throw away old love letters and recently acquired phone numbers. Again.

You keep yourself perpetually busy.

I am tired all the time.

We both know what's going on. Yet I am talking to your photo and you are talking in your sleep.

We never meet.

Writing poetry

I write poetry all the time. This alone shows my state of mind. I feel like shit. And the more I search, the more I unearth stories from the past that have no happy endings, only blood, violence and death.

Goody. :-/

I suppose I should give it a rest. I feel very lonely though. The kind of lonely that makes me suffocate. The scary kind of lonely that seizes me by the neck late at night. That kind of lonely.

Goody...

Wearing pink today.

Got myself an account in deviantart with the same user name (indigojester). If you click at the first link on my links list, it will take you there. Advice: stick your hair with glue on your head before reading it, so that the damage does not show afterwards. He. Been racking my brains as to what to publish there. Then the fairy-kissed part of my brain got up and in all seriousness said: poetry. Surreal poetry of which I have a surplus and actual poetry. No stories or story ideas. Poetry doesn't sell, unless we are talking about Kavafis or Robert Frost, so the possibility of someone stealing my precious mental children is very small.

Perhaps photos of me in underwear would help. Perhaps photos of my feet, tits and ass would help even more. But for the time being I'll stick to poetry, I think.

A writer's constipation

And the worst thing is that all I can write lately is lame poetry!!! The kind of poetry others politely compliment when they read, but you know that they'd rather be doing something else. Like stuffing their ears with barbed wire and their guts with living lizards. How do I know? Told you, I am Supercrap Zombie Girl. I bloody well know, okay? Now buzz off.

What do you mean why I am not publishing some to support my claim? Ef off. I do not have the copyright yet. When I do, I will proceed to do so and torture you with it. An artist's ego is as huge and inconvenient as a giant fluffy pillow. One can even sleep on it, but other than that, it is just a nuisance. Now matter where you try to place it, it always takes up too much space, has absolutely no practical use and sticks out as pleasantly as an inflamed monkey butt. Believe me.

Soup! Soup is calling me. I hope great Cthulhu does not decide to rise from its depths on top of everything else.