archonofdarkness

[archonofdarkness]

Dreaming through her Poetry

a mirror a chaperone a meandering girl looking frigidly at me affixed to her Dreamtime in a giddy September day and I see her glowing in the dark the feral sighs the vulgarity of whispers ,,, are the euphemisms of her erotically erratic romantic tinctures of her life stuck in the corridors of her asylum the blessings of her eyes the hissing of her footsteps & her allegiance to the darkness hurl me into the soul of her mirror … and its fury … here i lie in silence secluded in her illness drunk in the marrows of her hot poetic verses

[archonofdarkness]

The Damnation of Her Spirit Elixir

the future arrives with another poem a neon manuscript riddled with love and salutations dribbling from her soulful celluloid lips and thighs meanwhile her words howl ever so gingerly through her clandestine metaphoric lips with carnal imagery and silken tubes of flashy burlesque nibbling at my feisty pores flooded with sinister syllables. I’m so amused at the delicate sway of her dancing sticks erected like chopsticks at the wind of the monsoon unleashing the paradigm of her vernacular odes and poetry seeking the hellhounds of fornication Facebook and Tumbler are her crucifixes gnashing with her nightly blood and semen as I lay in my coffin waiting for the metallic bolts to coerce my delirious mind to cease thinking of her as too much elixir pours into these veins of her mad hell.

[archonofdarkness]

uterine fury uterine fury was the guiding light of pacts with the devil … hysteria winked an eye fomenting the disruption of natural desire … the chess master hid in the cellar unaffected by the shift in morality Anna Goldi the last witch sentenced to death dies in Switzerland and the calendar year reads 1782 … libidinal energy changes the sour mood of the moon when Freud becomes a doctor and the calendar year reads 1881

[archonofdarkness]

the miraculous seizure

you were once the moon resting on the winds that carried me across the many silent catacombs you had been the scarlet ether nesting on the wings that carried me across the tombs of bestiary crows now, the finite has disappeared and we shudder … as voices from the other side tremble violent footsteps cremate the earthworms and i stand still … frozen before your blazing eyes

[archonofdarkness]

poetry and all that jazz

riddles of paper metaphors soughing under the weight of darkness check themselves into me the kick-start of demonology lies here in this imaginary coffin created by illusionists - the predatory sisters of the sky simpered words fly addictively from my tongue morsels of stained glass syllables holler for release morphine and poetry surge with the humming of heresies and i paint myself into the colour of madness and the maniacal as i sing soothly dreams to shadows turning humans into ghosts. oh, my beastly poems how they claw and howl like manic whirligigs while i meander lost in heaven or hell blistered by dirty harpies i write of sinful crucifixes (credited by bishops fornicating with witches) and of all the jazzetry that rages in the cellar.

[archonofdarkness]

we troll into the whirlwind

we gaze into the swollen testicular moon we flutter into the narratives of its nature then … why are we running … after the old centuries? the sun is here … sharply twisted into focus; do we see how it blinds us? the moon rests its case perched on the corners of the coming darkness when is the cataclysm? the sun has barely reached the burial of its enlightenment we are the leakage of anxieties prompted by staccato nerve cells trolling into the whirlwind the cresting of gnosis dies in the news slipping into a thousand and one asylums here in the hook of this earth there are no entrances and there are no exits … a meaningless tower hangs in the air dripping shadows upon the wretched … and here i stand trolling into the whirlwind … and the nightmares reach out unexpectedly with tender hands and grotesque faces.

[archonofdarkness]

she lives on my pages with her poetry

she dances in patterns dizzy with ague her vajazzled strut runs slick with memes, twisted paraphernalia, and swanny theories she knows the secret of perfumes and crinolines sliding with slitted scrims slurry and slutty she writes and fondles Nietzsche waxed in plummy aphorisms in her mind cold bullets fly with hot heresies … gangsters stir her soul and she hisses metaphors - she calls darkness her misty god ghostly with tainted restlessness swimming in the fragments of her tattered soul … but … for me she lives on these pages like an attractive form of eschatology with love … with poetry … defective … but innocent … here and there … strewn with vapours … a patina … a smudge … an asterisk; here … on tumblr … and i cling to her poetry as my life depends on it.

[archonofdarkness]

the floating life

her bones were drunk with yesterday’s fireworks when footsteps in the night spun floating cobwebs in my right bleached eye as quizzical satire rubbed her tongue into coughs tampering with sleep … i see a skein of archaic veins wandering into canyons snarling at lunar markings … and … in the sacrament lies the agenda … where … a masterpiece of weaponry for pessimism draws close by engineering wasteland drama in stupor chasing you or the wind is the same … the darkness roams backwards.

[archonofdarkness]

the haunting of night time flesh

she scratches vulgar words on herself voluptuous with slopes of a tragic train wreck … a summer routine of trash and toxins soft satin dreaming of Sappho … of liquidating flesh and the poetry of things; her frothy lipstick of the moon’s diary sheened with dense light burrows its flesh into mine … past midnight i hear vague tones … a gloomy wind jostling the hatching of insomnia … busking … with fever … and signatures … of things … in the dark. … it’s her again.

[archonofdarkness]

mind in a box

carried my mind sat it in a box never saw it again flew away there under twelve moons … it sees a knife cutting the ocean teaching strangeness i look but i do not touch … my index finger searches for nothings but the lure of her eyes whose fragments fall deviously into the layers of the box with the fragrance of a red osmanthus as the wutong tree screams at the box … and … a mob of opium dreams rebel at the gates … the box just shivers - nothing else.

[archonofdarkness]

the path in an asylum

problems in the graveyard ghosts got to make a living where awestruck road dogs twist into lullabies a medicated moon goes soul feasting in the virtual gutter it was an acoustic winter of weed and wine and the wind was a vagabond slithering blissfully where literary peasants marched with human boots … but … my path reeked of bourbon, vinegar, and, the wild women of ancient stones long ago in the asylum. sometimes i’m still there ... the journey comes and goes ...

[archonofdarkness]

caressing her poetry

i'm back from the grave the dream the asylum - i walk home caressing her poetry the manuscript horridly trembles in my dirty hands … with grackles and corvids eyeing me from roofs and treetops the wind whistles the shadows close in on me a cold glare casts illusions by the lantern … the stillness engulfs me her poetry is so tenacious hanging in the air before my crooked eyes & wretched soul … this poem written on a midnight’s moon fills the approaching night with thunderstorms turgid melodies supreme erudition …. and my fate flutters … the ritual of reading her poetry brings me to currents of madness cycling in fragments of quantum fields i long again for a taste of the grave the dream the asylum … that’s where we had touched each other in the illusion of what we were … at the beginning of the poetry … next to the gate of the moonlight …

[archonofdarkness]

she’ll be coming home tonight

selcouth she-wolf wi-fi darkness of silver astral blood … she’ll be coming tonight … strutting with the merrymakers from a ruthless lazy paradise holding lanterns for thunder ah, with the sound of switchblade blues in the delta … and with wild felonies stamping her footprints she’ll be coming tonight … with a rictus smile … she plays the coquette with blithesome facebook manners … aa she reads Cynewulf in the evenings with a soul of many seasons she gives me an enchanting frisson her wisdom in leechcraft breathes darkly tales and … the puissant ensorcelling wind will escort her.

[archonofdarkness]

she writes poetry on lethal adultery

she drinks with the wastrel … howls at the moon & writes poetry with a dark fragrance … the clutch of the moon upon her words embroiders many horizontal addictions between the silk sheets where she plots the angle of the knife … tempered in fictions … she spits war … with overheated dreams of flimflam boys with erotic confidence and meaningless flowers … her poetry erases herself away from the scholarship of sexual climax … and … unfinished poems by the window ignored by crows … go to sleep and the grip on reason begins to snap … … everyday … the soul relocates itself at twilight and the long nails search for another feast of metaphors on pages of blood …

[archonofdarkness]

the cult of her poetry

she sketches California in conjured dreams i tattoo her bootleg poetry from the infirmary scented with the neon of Friday night jazz & the feeling of the rain with the vacancy of her eyes - a queendom of false light … dark & deadly … she deals me cards of a gothic ghost hanging from the ceiling in the seven hours of crawling hymns and cultish praxis … her poetry walks by in glossy textures … cadenced with rhythmic claws digging my grave already devoured by fictional crows & poetry … and … the recitation never ends as the cult of her poetry … reaches for the sky.

[archonofdarkness]

her killing kind of poetry

she writes of the horror of the scars clotted in conjugated verbs of detumescence styled in the lumbar of sexual fashion she warms her skin for the misgivings of the flesh heated in sin … and … a poem drifts across her mind dancing the tango with her illicit tongue … creating … the overkill of love oozing with soft monologues laced with erotic imperialism and diplomatic disturbances … she meets me on the tongue with the outburst of her aristocratic poetry there’s catharsis in this quirky whirling kitschy luxe - it’s like a beautiful apocalypse -

[archonofdarkness]

the rain of the festivals

… with my gentry way and your strawberry path champagne dripped from h e a v e n … from flux to flow dancing into your pretty acoustic rain … like unction in a deserted blue landscape it blesses you & me with the purr of the wind jostling the cairn of the old ancient arthurian platoons of asteroid soldiers we are organized by telomeres - amphibious relics of androgynous angels whispering totemic secrets to the steppe winters we are gendered in the chokeberries of our literary botanies quivering for the nudging of a shivering dark angel … sent by the festivals of the rain.