Tattoo

7433c51b7275cad1d03f44107f03fcd7
Tattoo

I think I might have a tattoo.
It is the color of perfume and ashes,
With shades of smoke and holograms.
As cold as intergalactic space,
It follows me wherever I go.
It is even bigger than I.
It is as big as the sky.
It wraps me up in its arms.

It was the only way I could change my skin,
Because I wouldn’t want to change myself.
Anyway, I know, in better days,
I have already been a butterfly,
With a velvet body,
With eyes which have seen,
Into the darkness of Morpheus, God of Dreams,
Into the darkness of Yama, the Slave of Shiva,
Into the darkness of time, the minion of Death,
Into my own darkness, my own magic,
My own metamorphosis.

I’m pretty sure I’m an old soul.
I have done this before.
I can almost remember being inside my own tomb,
My visage taken away,
My blood no longer sticky and thick,
Turned into the salt water from the early oceans,
The frozen water of the rings of Uranus,
Of Neptune, of Nefilim, the mythic twelfth planet,
Turned into air,
The energy of a 9.6 earthquake.

The smell of sex was no longer sweet or salty.
Not the smell of sweat.
Not the sound of moaning,
Nor, the voice of animals rushing to Carnival,
Strands of wet hair,
Confetti rain on the wrong side of the moon.
When I returned from death,
I was brighter than heaven.

But, oh, I keep forgetting,
You, who have a heart of innocence,
The eyes of a child,
You have never been dead.
You do not remember the mysteries of Death’s mask,
Dancing plumage, blind muteness, introspective infinity,
Interconnected potential,
The unbound opportunity for realization,
Out of which anything can manifest,
And, only devotion survives.

Right now, no matter how close we are to the edge,

We are on the side of our created awareness.
Now, time is more than just an angle of perspective.
It dictates our every moment.
It tells Orpheus when he is allowed to sing.

Since we are always in Death’s hands anyway,

Eternity is going to taste like anything he says.
It seems to me, a tattoo isn’t much.

Life is like a stranger, living inside us.
Every day it tells us a bit more of its story.

Anyone can have a tattoo,
But, your sleep is yours alone.
No one else can live your nightmares.
Your dreams cannot be dreamt,
By anyone but you.
Not even by your lover.

Advertisements

A Fractured Mind, Part Three:

515a4e80549b610821e378cf08462c59
A Fractured Mind, Part Three – Not my Artwork

Mine will not be a shallow grave, a perpetual dream, as red as rain. The world dances by. Everyone else seems to know where they are going. The past descends into the earth, into objects, into ourselves, into my gravitational center, to become a black hole and, I am surrounded by the future. I am the center of time’s centrifugal force. I am a wormhole into myself.
The stars, half of what they used to be, are all wrong, wrapped up in shadows, eaten by angular moonshine and mazes. The wind blows wild without direction. The earth no longer supports the sky. I have made no difference and, the world goes on. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will become a lazy cloud. I will hold two young birds safe in my hand until they grow long, green feathers and learn to speak in tongues and reveal the future to wizards and seers. Dust devils will try to break through but will be devoured by the seeds which nourish the minds of dragons, the souls of serpents and the wings of angels. I shall wait on the brink and wink at the ravens while they rearrange the world, laughing because they can or because they must. Who knows how much damage has already been done? Yet, a wild, red flower has bloomed in the sunrise and I am ready to be on my way. Surrounded by branches, I will take one as a walking stick. I will take one as a companion, one as a scepter and another as a wand. I will take one as a weapon, one as a lightning rod, one as a compass and another as a church. And the stars, which are only half of what they used to be, will be grateful I am on the move and they are no longer in the way.

A Fractured Mind, Part Two:

2a202eb93120945616432e3fd24c9724
A Fractured Mind, Part Two – Not my Artwork

There is a madness in the air, more disturbing than the Rite of Spring. The forest is full of thistles and thorns and, the ravens are reciting the history of the world. The clowns are satisfied with my confusion, my delusion, my emptiness, the lines on my hand. My tongue is numbed by bitter toxins, brewed in the belly of a hornet king, eyes closed by lightning, silence of a heart beat no longer mine, in someone else’s dream, a sand painting blown away by the late afternoon breeze, waiting for stars, half of what they used to be.
Battle after battle, until, no one left alive to sing with the snakes. We are the horrible ones, you and I, and, everyone else, even the innocent who don’t know yet of what they are capable. Dark days and dark ways, dark blood, predators who kill without the need to feed. Lightning contained within a rain drop. Tangled up in my own hair.

A Fractured Mind, Part One:

80adcd46a7d38b423022858bc335b32b
A Fractured Mind, Part One – Not my Artwork

A fragmented soul, lost, only knowing the stars are somewhere up ahead, half hidden, half of what they used to be, lost their way, lost the ability to guide, lost in a pinwheel of satellites, lost as the pale, fallen rose petals, the tattered, brown, jasmine flowers of yesterday, the desiccated dragonfly’s wings, lost as clouds of coral pollops in the patterns of the sea, lost in the green, pollen sky, lost in the fractals of my imagination, in the unbearably fragile earth, in the breath of the dying underworld and forgotten memories.

The Present

146f544c739faf8b2197e049c8ee8b8d-picsay
The Present by V. Castellanos
The only way to live is in the present. The present is, however, always an outgrowth of the past. We know this because it already happened. In theory we can reach the future. Actually, we cannot avoid reaching the future, although it will then be the present. Thus, what we have is only a dilemma of semantics. Meanwhile, the future will have grown out of the past to become the present. However, the point is, time is just like everything else which is alive; it eats, it incorporates what it has eaten, it changes according to what it has incorporated. Because tomorrow is an imaginary thing it must eat imaginary food. It therefore eats dreams and desires and expectations and even emotions which, although they are not imaginary, are still invisible. Out of these invisible and imaginary things the present changes into the invisible and imaginary future, which then becomes the visible, tangible present. At least that’s what I am thinking at present. Who knows what I will be thinking in the future?