A Half-Dream

Partly written on the edge of oncoming sleep

Found myself again in a crop of stars
Reaped by own impossible hands
Light turned dense and thick
Perception gradually lost with the
Amounting ponderousness
A plunging into the deep dark within
A dark coloured of yester-memories and
Unbridled lustful fantasy
Sequences infinite in scope and breadth
And myself lost in the night-forest
A forest of speaking stars

M.M. — 28-Dec-2014

Notes on Time

The greatest curse of being human
is not so much that we feel or are aware that we exist,
but rather, that we feel or are aware that we exist through time.

The humdrum repetitions inside my head
only worsen the realisation that we are able to remember
the past, to think upon our future in light of our past,
making it all so much more poignantly exacting.

Yes, cursed be time.
Our bones rattle like the rattle of dice,
like the rattling of the universe.
I can see it in my hands;
I look at it in the creases of my face.
The maddening of it all.
As we stretch ourselves,
and are stretched by time—
how we struggle to even perceive it.

But blessed be time,
for in it is our salvation.
Just as in it are the hopes of unwritten futures.

Though it is with the weight of time
that we suffer in anguish;
it is time, and through time,
that we seek our own salvation.
We feverously desire to leap
through the continual affliction, to the point
of catharsis, of release;
wishing things would be so much easier—but they are not.

Time is slaver.
And yet time is salvation.

M.M. — 27-Dec-2014

Benighted winter come

Darkness the shroud has come again, cloaking your ever enervating body and shadowing the outer edges of your mind. Coldness, with serrated teeth, gnaws on flesh and your flame. Now you are but bones for the succumbing heralded by winter's clarion call. The call - its chill - frosty breath - speaks volumes of the declines and recessions. Of the shortening of day and dimming of light are the themes written and lived in this darkening time. Your night lengthens like death spreading out its robes of pitched eternity. Frosted scripts dictated by tenebrous thoughts deep in the hollows of an overcome spirit. And neither the world around is left spared. The timbered limbs of trees - ruined monuments of nature in cycle - stand bare and exalt, in unwilling morbid ostentation, the conqueror season. Your embattled body and its trials against the iced speared pricks of winter winds soldier through the darkened days and night's dominion. And it is through this - through the frozen, silent halls of winter - through benighted winter come - that you struggle and survive.

M.M. — 04-Dec-2014 

Truth and love

In an age where knowledge and information is free, accessible and omnipresent more than ever before in history, there still pervades contrarily a great degree of falsehood. Whilst the perpetuation and embracing of disinformation, misinformation and outright lies is a powerful thing indeed, Truth, I think, will always be much more potent a force. Take love. I think it is fair to say that in the modern day, the term "love" is quite a fluid and flexible notion in constant evolution. This makes defining love a less than straightforward affair. However, no matter how fluid or flexible one may deem love to be, I hold that love must above all be True. In the face of expectation, compromise and dictation from culture, society, religion, politics, our peers and, yes, even from our own selves - love must stand strong, love must stand tall, love must stand true. For if I am to assert that lies, deceit and aspersions are vicious tongues slathering the peoples of this planet with spittle into our eyes on a daily basis, then I do so whilst also brandishing this weapon: that love is Truth, and in this truth there abounds an indefinable source of strength and enlightenment that can tear away the veil that obfuscates the sight of us all.

"When the wolves return"

When the wolves return to the room, and ravage and rage once again, swarming and tearing you and themselves apart, seek the calm in the midst of chaos. The brooks and the slow rivers flow from the centre-mind. When the walls begin to crack and collapse once more, entwine with the still beating, still fighting heart. The world continues to whirl round but you must continue reversed; fall away from the ever-descending stair. Hold fast, hold on to strength, even in the savage slaughter of the wolves, and always bite back.

Ex Tempore LXXXIX
M.M. — 11-Oct-2014 

"Come the end"

Come the end, at the edge
of the desert of night,
we took in one last terminal breath--
one last reason to fight--
and saw all that we once were;
all that we once had.
And realised that life past
was all we ever wanted,
all that we wished for and more.
So there at the crossing
we fell to the starless floor
and hurt and burst and birthed
and rose again, aflame, once more.

Ex Tempore LXXXVIII
M.M. — 24-Sep-2014 

"Inside me, inside you"

Inside me, inside you,
Inside us all: a tree.
In every tree, and every leaf,
In every root: a life.
From death, from life,
From all between: a time.
Come time, comes dreams,
Comes what you are: a being.
Being here, and one day to be gone,
Be full and be all: be your own song.

Ex Tempore LXXXVII
M.M. — 02-Oct-2014

"Salvation shall be found in my fall"

Salvation shall be found in my fall
When I am cast down from dogmatic heights
I will fall toward the phalanxes of Love
And its upward-pointed piercing spears
Into the arms and caresses of the inner shining light
That dwells deep within the earthen mould
The mould of ash and gold, of flesh and stardust
A dweller in darkness become, to prise wide eyes
Seeking Promethean flame in the ice-plains of the South
Wanderer, the wanderer in the night, bringer of light
Forsaking self to rebuild atom by atom the self
Or perhaps to grow and to evolve and to form
The residual echoes of a long-muffled song
Will be symphony once more, and down on the floor
I gaze upon the vault of the celestial sphere
And ready my throbbing, outstretched pinions
To ascend as unshackled son, son of the sun

Ex Tempore LXXXVI
M.M. — 07-Sep-2014

"She stands at the foot of the bed"

She stands at the foot of the bed,
arousal palpable in the ambience of the room.
Lights dimmed low, illuminating the rising heat in the air.
She stands like a bedevilled Eve in the garden of passion;
smooth, delicate—tautened strength in supple limbs.
A shift and a motion and the warm light quivers as she draws closer.
Electric storms like love's naïve, expectant first kiss.
Coronal mass ejections like the relenting of higher wills.
A staggering, a stifling and a kinetic chaos
—then a succumbing, a slowing and an enfolding collapse.
Her silver whispers stir residually quavering darkness
as sleep starts to steal us away into lesser dreams.

Ex Tempore LXXXV
M.M. — 27-Aug-2014

Monolith

The monolith stands imperiously deep inside,
tendrils deeply rooted and extending far into the core
and into peripheries. Sometimes obsidian-black obelisk,
sometimes billion-year moribund sun eclipsing everything.
In its vasculature, branching in itself fractally, flows
thick fluid of starless night that pollutes the estuaries of
thought and dream. The monolith is nourished when fear
is sown and reaped in fields of beleaguered heart.
Dynamic as life when life is beset by tides of turbulent sea
and lightning from an electrically painted sky—And the sky
always filled with swirling vortices of dark and sodden grey cloud.
The shadow of the monolith is the shadow of self-doubt,
and there in the suffocating shade light is starved and slain.
It speaks in infrasonic reverberations, in a language of silken darkness.
It suggests, it hints and implies, it weaves possibilities and futures—
The forks in the path, that lead back on themselves, are of the monolith's design.
The struggle against it is endless; it stains hands black and reveals
the voids and chasms that perforate even the most armoured mind.
Lightless and imposing stands the monolith deep at the centre;
solid, fluid and eternal, the monolith erected itself deep in the heart.

Ex Tempore LXXXIV
M.M. — 24-Aug-2014