“I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame.” | Resident Casanova • Poets Apparition | Above all, f i c t i t i o u s.
Abyssus abyssum invocat
Joined May 2012
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IN THE BEGINNING /
a wish to burn bright but stars hang amidst the void as a harkening — Icarus, the warning & the martyr. . . /
It’s MYTH :
angels learn to weep , of
heaven’s metamorphosis , so
death's born shedding scales , now
evil transfigures knowledge ,
: PENULTIMATE TRUTH
‘Why are your hands bloody?’
It's not a hello,
but it isn't a dismissal either.
It's an observation;
your eyes still know of me — the recognition matters.
I hum, sly smile tying my words.
“Hmm, a million paper cuts? Thorns and thistles? Residual nostalgia? Gardening? You choose.”
Fall has barely arrived. 🍂
Let's not make haste and enjoy the lovers (Persephone and Hades) reunion.
It's a secret,
a kiss,
a sin,
a love like ours —
the bitten fruit,
the forbidden desire,
you gasp,
you moan,
and it isn't God you're thinking of
or thanking when you're shuddering,
a creation unmade;
you're the devil's work.
It wasn't simply a meeting of gaze, when their eyes met it would be tame to compare it as two planets colliding, rather, it's more fitting to say it was a galaxy being born — a cosmic cannibalism of two great masses merging : which isn't a singular event but a continuing process.
Two words: Mia Goth . . .
But honestly, I love Frankenstein as is. I will watch every remake, inspiration, or alternate story that is seeded by Mary Shelley's classic creation.
Picking up a pen to write,
picking up a sword to fight:
both leave you worn and torn,
aching, heaving, shouting for more time–
it's heavy,
and I'm tired
but
my hands are already blistered,
and the blood has already been spilled.
