Depression (Iteration 2)

Were I to give you my name it would be
Hopelessness.

Were I to give you my word it would be
Weariness.

Were I to give you my thought it would be
Anxiousness.

Were I to give you my mind it would be
Emptiness.

Were I to give you my heart it would be
Weightlessness.

Were I to give you all of me it would be
Darkness.

M.M. — 06-Mar-2016

"She was in my dream again"

She was in my dream again.
I saw her as I knew her once—
a caress upon my cheek,
a lightness come over my heart.

It was all like some memory
that never happened.
A fantasy filled with desire
and an ageless aching longing.

I wanted her as I once did—
my body pressed against hers,
myself in her and she enfolding me.
Motion and heat and carnality.

But just as it was back then
it ended before it even began.
I would have pushed aside the world to be hers.
But she is a dream.
She will always be just a dream.

M. M. — 04-Mar-2016

Ownership in the Love Ultimate

Since submitting my PhD thesis this past Thursday—an accomplishment that I will not be ready to fully take in until I defend it—I have been ruminating on the things that I own, my possessions, the things that are of me, that are mine. The PhD is the quintessential piece of evidence that I have been blessed with an intellect, with a sharp and rational mind. It is this that has made me into the young man of science and letters that I am today. That is unquestionable. My intellect, and the faculties it consists of, are mine. And I am not modest enough to deny that they distinguish me from a fair proportion of people. But, are they the most important things that I possess?

I am not a rich person, or a poor one. I want for nothing and I want nothing—nothing physical I mean, nothing that I can buy. I am quite content with my financial status and will be happy with it as I earn more income in the future (which will happen as a natural consequence of my progressing in my professional career as a scientist and nothing more). So, my things of financial worth, they are not the most important things I have because I don't value them that highly.

But when I think of the people in my life.... The story then changes. What do people (my friends and family I specifically mean here) give me? They give me companionship, friendship, understanding, hope and love. They give me love. I have love. No, I have certain kinds of love, and they are all important to me. But, the most important?

No, not these various kinds of love, but all-encompassing love. The love ultimate. I mean the love of one other (in my case, anyway). The love that I have been searching for since I finally began to understand what it was and that I needed it. You see, everything I own and have gives me tone and nuance. Love, however, gives me meaning. Love, to me, is the most important thing. The only thing I think I really want in my life. The thing that will save me from a life of just tone and nuance. Love is what will free me. Free me from myself—because I am too much of myself. You see, everything and everyone in life constitute things and persons that you interact with, that you have exchanges with. You share these things or you share yourself with others. That, however, is not the case with love, the love I mean. With the love I mean, the love ultimate, you have an ownership that is not just your own: it is an ownership of two parties, you and the one you love. This is very different from all else I've been talking about because love, by definition, cannot be unless it is a thing owned by two others. Therefore, the most important thing for me is not what I have or what I possess. The most important thing is what I and another would possess, would have. Love is not a thing of single possession. It is shared... no–it is co-owned. And that to me is what I desire most, what I want most, what I need most.

M. M. — 28-Feb-2016

Depression (Iteration 1)

I am just built like this, I guess, and
that little fucking voice of mine in
my head is just a consequence of
certain atoms assembling into place,
certain DNA and certain cells
deciding to act up as they wish. Which
would be fine were it not for the
shadows...the shadows...the shadows.
I dwell inside myself, and the walls
are not painted. There are things
scurrying around, somewhere, in the
pitch black. I talk to them quite a lot.
It makes me weary, though. Intensely
so. But at least they talk back. I think
it would be worse if they didn't. Well,
maybe not. But at least the scurrying
things want me. Maybe they love me too?
That wouldn't be so bad, I think.

M. M. — 23-Feb-2016

"What little thing"

What little thing of yours is it that you fight for? That you lie for? What meagre treasure that you clasp so tightly do you shield from the wolves of the world? Is it a woman, a man, a child? Do you bear arms and blow the clarions of war for another? Just some person? Perhaps it is some small thing that you call love for which you build bastions of steel and light across the lands, the seas and the heavens? What paltry thing is it I ask you? That you would cut out your own heart for? That you would end life for? That you are so afraid to acknowledge? You would bring all the world to its termination for this thing, wouldn't you? What then? What is it that holds sway like this? Does it fit in your hands and yet you cannot hold it? What? Tell me? Please.... Please tell me.

"He placed at the feet of the world"

He placed at the feet of the world tinder to which he would set alight a blaze as fierce as the sun. An inferno that would climb the trunk of the earth up toward its decrepit crown. To the head of the beast and its impregnable cerebrum. With the fire from which he had birthed anew he would ignite every plane and every sphere. Such was his: a mad design of psychic science, aeons-old yet nascent in this existence, at long last coiled to the realm of the corporeal.

"There were just words"

There were just words; they had no real meaning. Just a random assortment of sounds and utterances, like the scattering of stardust that follows the death of a sun. But to him they were everything. They defined the very reality in which he stood. They held him together, sealing the seams of his mind and buttressing his will and conation. He would have been lost, would have been nothing, without words, without his words. And there was nothing more in the world that he desired than to bestow them to another, as a gift parcelled by his trembling hands with the entirety of his love.

Love in the Time of War

Coming careering back from the battlefield
with wounds bloody and firm hand on steel,
the Devil himself could not hold back my love.

'Midst the cacophony of war and the rage thereof
it was you that I dreamt of nightly in the fearful cold;
it was you who kept the light burning, kept me bold.

I hacked and slashed and cut innumerous men down
for an unseen king, but I only ever will bow to your crown.
My Queen, I gift to you my life entire and my soul.

For it is by your love alone can I ever atone,
Can I ever forget the disfigured faces in the dark,
Those that have left in me bloodlust's hideous mark

M.M. — 17-Jan-2016

"The moon rose" [Incomplete]

The moon rose like a portent of
Doom for those blind as I
Who bereft of light and unpolluted mind
Roamed grief-stricken and bare
Neath Luna's spiteful glare
In wood and mire like a dire vampire

A ghoul wanton and wayward
Knowing not toward what I flew
Whereupon I come upon
A mere of black icy water
That sung to me as strongly as
Its liquid that stung me as I imbibed

A psychopath's dream drew me in
Down to the depths of malice and sin
Wherein I found a vigour much older than sin
A voice spoke with sibilant note
From that black water under the gleaming moon
Gave me a vision enwreathed in fire
And in my hand all that to which I aspired

M. M.

The Whore of Babylon

So, when She came like benighted night, to topple the Crown of God, I asked, "Why?"

Because I rose a shining and rotten Star, the Great Whore of the World
From gutter and pit, to a kingdom of glass and the marbled faceless
Child of nothing, begotten from nothing, and now Aught and All
Venus-anointed and Gaia-born—a helm of razor-locks, weaponed with a spear—
A spear, a phalanx, a staff, a rod: an Arm erect and unsheathed
Because I tore off my shackles, flaying my dimmed flesh
Which now glimmers in the face of the downing Sun
Shimmering in blood and dripping with the sweat of my sex
What was my course if not this? A Helen who prized herself
Who chose to stand at the precipice, at the Gate of Damnation
Who now refuses to further regurgitate the vomit of Dogma
Heathen, defiler, wretchedness embodied; once a body, now a Will
She who tore out the Pages, who broke the Tablet
Born in Sin and borne by Sin—
A wayward Star that knew no other course
Than that which was forbidden, hidden and barred
Because I shall place atop my crown the Crown of All-Light
And so be destroyed, destroying with me the whole of the World
I: Whore, Warrior, Woman
Who stands before the Infinite and the Eternal
With but Rage and her everlasting Will
Risen from the desert sands, made of earth and ash
Who now stands at the highest peak
Destroyer of Light, the Bringer of Life
My womb will be the grave of the Word
My victory gestating from the afterbirth
Because I stand, with God, above God, beyond the Universe itself
A being of nothing, that will give birth to the End
All this because I have etched my Fate in the sky-vault above
An Act, by my hand, because I so willed
So it was to be and and so it now is
From a lifeless Death to deathless Life

M. M. — 04-Jan-16