Tuning in to Lazarus

Your heart, Lazarus,
returned from the realm of light
to a cascade of earthly voices
demanding intervention
Strangely channelling messages
on the tails of the wind
that stoked her questioning heart
tuned in to the songs you were playing
through your bandages
for some were familiar;
but every pulse of her being
rebelled at the onslaught
of Dante’s purgatory
that spilled forth
from your possession
Lazarus.
She mirrored in it
an allegory to madness.
The wind laced her face
with a veil of sorrow
as she walked through
the first circle of hell,
where she saw sentinels of pain
ricochet on walls paved with
the devils of the future
in the ninth circle of treachery.
The kindness was
the weight of an anchor
trailing at sea and the ship
had never sailed.
so they read
the tea leaves together
and found only tannins of regrets,
notes of stale memories
festering on skin
like the blemishes on the moon,
a carcass of dead emotion
now that the soul had cruised
to a swan song.
The love had left the tea
and in the dregs of the leaves
were sunken hearts,
she knew this because,
lazarus had risen
after 8 minutes of flat lining
so he could bring back
the messages of the living
into the silence of the living dead.

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Sometimes the divine muse is available to poetic license. I read about near death experiences recently and an observation of those that have had an NDE, resort to spirituality to help with the ensuing PTSD. Many of them also report turning psychic.

I am also intrigued by the fantastical relationship of Dante and Beatrice, as one of dedication and the glorification of the feminine as he sought to mould it in his writing. She never knew of his love but he exalted her to a stature of perfection in his writing especially after her death.

I find his use of Beatrice as a muse needs to be separated from his patriarchal proclivities to create the image of an unreal woman, a woman that does not exist.

I wonder though if he would ever love Beatrice the way he did if they shared a bed together or a love immersed in the temporal. His love for her did usher in his best work though.

Long live the muse.

The cowards karma

Your eyes gazed at them writhing/ a strange singularity of purpose/ in the intent of a message spewed/ across the nerves of time/
received by a voyeuristic silence/ of cowardice in the age of man/ A tool of oppression as the hungry beg/ from the eyes of those sated/ chastising them for not earning their keep/ or your urgent priorities of self gratification/ but the thirst is now/ the being needs bread/ not a message from the pulpit/ They hear you in the silence of the preachers/ the silence of the dead/ and the silence of the peacenik/ for it is the shame you will carry/ to the place beneath your epitaph/ Here lies the coward that hid under a cloak of good intentions/ and masked his traitorous silent omissions/ as an eternal love for his people/

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I have always wondered of silence as a tool of oppression; silence to what is being asked of in the moment, the deflection of supplications, the gaslighting of those that suffer to make them appear crazy. Sometimes the mean spiritedness of pathology can mask itself as a good intention, the character of a pacifist and yet the omissions along denying food to the hungry, mercy to the victims of any outrage, a ear to those grieving and a heart for those that suffer is perhaps the most grievous assault on a vulnerable humanity. Nothing hurts as much as those that kill empathy through misplaced silence. It is the sin of omission.

Throwing down the gauntlet in the heavens

Constellations of anguish spark the demise/ of a thousand brilliant baubles/ disintegrating in space to a better place in the heavens/ Perseus threw down the gauntlet in the arena of hate/ but the sky looked like love/ A duel of star chasing star/ but the binary eye of the demon saturated/ in the love song of the galaxy/ could smell the sickly gladioli on earth/ grave flowers taken residence/ on epitaphs etched in marble/ Medusa persecuted/ for the advances of the amorous lord of the seas/ and brother to Zeus/ an aspersion to her chaste light/ and they glorify the hideous in his loins/ in books of invulnerable men/ setting hallmarks to strength and limits to tears/ Her tearful light now a beacon for any oppressed moon/ whose sanity reverberates in the chambers of a gaslit glow, wondering who, if, how and why/

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The myth of the celibate mortal Gorgon Medusa being ravished by Poseidon in the temple of Athena never ceases to appall me, given that Medusa was punished by Athena for the crime and the powerful Poseidon, a God, got away with it (the account of Ovid). Medusa is also demonized in Astrology as the demon star Algol. Although the nature of the human is to exalt the invulnerable in their mythological texts, is this a way I wonder to render themselves invincible if not immortal. In their perennial quest for immortality, the closest the human race can get to this, is by denouncing vulnerability and putting on the grand facade of strength and parading it around as behaviour worthy of emulation. I think a vast majority of our interactions with each other resonate with the archetype of Medusa and Poseidon, the persecution of the vulnerable, the exaltation of perpetrators.