ESOTERIUM

Milk from a stone

Sequine curtains
Deepwater moan
Blood from a cheek
Milk from a stone

Stir until it screams
Sinks into your dreams
Dries the roots
Drinks the fears

Throw me in the water
Chuck me in the ink
I will swim
My anvils will sink

Cut me open
When I'm all alone
Instead of red
You'll see a tone

What I long for
Doesn't have a name
Cold as a spectre
Warm as shame

So I look through the dark
To see what I've sown
From spark within a spark
A door has grown

exit

my senses
died
in a toy-church
when I was young
and still unknowing
lovable
but didn't know
what love was

I dreamt of wars
beyond the level of my eyes
raging through the brain hills
and no one was ever winning
it only ended with sweat
and my eyes wide-shut
and my mouth wide-open
filled with fear spilling over
like bread-crumbs
crumbling mountains
crippled limbs
floating serenly
through the endless vacuum

I knew this wasn't me
even though in my dreams
I kept getting lost
in unlit supermarkets
with empty racks that cried
in half-starved hospitals
where all the beds were waiting
for me
but I was just running away
trying so hard not to be seen
just looking for a hole
to shit and piss into
without being seen

and I never dared to look up
to see if somebody else
is opening up the door for me
to pass through
so I escaped
through the crack
in my throat
the voice was tiny
but screaming like a boiling kettle
in panic
the impeccable mother approaching with an impeccable baby
perfect but braindead
walking towards me like in a lynchian movie
but all the light-bulbs died
saving me from the horror

I was spilled to the ground
still trying to find the form to take
but each day I'm sure more and more
that I will find
the exit.

Listen to Exit on SoundCloud.

Every beat of the heart brings change
Inhale, exhale, never the same
The only thing constant is the variation
Dripping into the veins of the air
Scattered, then fused back into one unit, then divorced from the unity again
Nobody's
But a part of everything

painting by Petra Rubar

Lights on / Lights off

This is an interesting habit/feature of many Earthlings I've encountered so far:

during what they call ''day'', outside (under natural luminance), or in closed spaces (under artificial luminance), their faces appear featureless and empty, their skin flat and plain and their behaviour conditioned by many patterns in which they happily ravel, thinking it makes their lives easier.

But at what they call ''night'', in spaces where all luminance (both natural and artificial) is gone, Earthlings start manifesting an interesting feature - the inner luminance. In the first phase it comes out of the eyes and builds up in concentric circles, and it's usually the only phase for most of them.
But when the second phase occurs (in those that have too much luminance in them so the body is unable to bear it and has to find another vent through which it will let the excess light out) - it happens through their skin. The skin starts cracking under the burden of light, so the light starts dripping, oozing and emanating through the cracks.

The light they release at night seems to be altering their behaviour completely - they cease to rely on the patterns, they are liberated from every shackles. They are more true to themselves and to others, and all the fear of digging deeply into themselves and uniting with the hidden material buried in there - is simply gone.
When the new day begins, they return to their featureless selves, and at night they start emanating light again, and so the whole cycle starts anew.

Darling, make sure it's the vacuum-cleaner, not shoegaze.

Infinite division

It’s just a void
to be filled.
You place the hand
in the right place
in the right space
and it’s done.
But it’s not my hand
that fits
anymore.
What should I do
with all this space?
They say that heart
can be given
but how many cuts
does it take
to divide the heart
take it apart
so there’s nothing to give
anymore?
I thought I was just
a unit of dust
with nothing to give
nothing to receive
but where there was a wall
now there’s a hole
blending in with the hand that fits.
But what when the hand
gets pulled away
letting all the flood
turn to blood?
Please teach me
to make a mold
that fits into a hole
which is this heart
this infinite space
this infinity.

Mooktawan Meditation Sanctuary, Thailand, August 2015

dead men

four little white teeth sitting on my lap

three bony freudians filling up the gap

two dead men dining in my bedroom

I killed one - now there’s two

hangman gangman clayman dead man

in my navel in my cave

in my womb in my tomb

in my room in my room

in my bed in my head

my heart’s still pumping!

I’ve got no heart I forgot!

look my heart’s still pumping!

I’ve got no heart! I forgot!

heart piss pump red cry red snow

she shouted stop stop but I shouted more

one skinny dead man lying with no shoes

I killed one - now there’s two

one fake gardener levitating by and

twelve brooding chest inspectors cannot tell me why

two tepid dead men talk in my room

I killed two - and now there’s two