The Hermit Chronicles: Castle Of Singularity

“…Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope flies from it: He resolves to become a Hermit, and buries himself in the Cavern of some gloomy Rock…” – Matthew Gregory Lewis, The Monk
seattlestravels

I existed alone, in a little cave of nowhere, and was quite content to be exactly where I didn’t know. Gladly retiring to my castle of singularity, I sensed others, not prowling, but curious of my existence. I hid quietly, waiting for them to pass by like so many times before, but then the rustling stopped, the leaves breathlessly announcing a turn in the path leading to me. The steps crunched closer and my hiding place is revealed. I’ve discovered many places to hide, and in spite of my camouflage, there I’m found. I don’t want them to find me, I want to remain secluded, my resources won’t support their hunger and thirst. No matter how I try, they come. With desires no man can tame, they press me out of my comfort, pushing me to give a portion of myself. What is it about a man who desires no pleasure of company, that lures so many to invite themselves to just that, his company? The more I push and pull from society, the more curiosity I inspire. Can’t they just pass by and stop following me down these endless circling, rocky paths? Only to lay on me the guilt of their choice saying, “You never looked out for us, you led us down the wrong path”. Turn back little ones, fair maidens, here in this dark cave lies great desire, desire that will fuel the pain of loss, for only when you desire much can your hopes be dashed against the longing, when all you sought disappears in the dark once again.

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Endless Sky – An Intimate Encounter –

“I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.” – Edgar Allan Poe, The Black Cat 
shemakesdirty-wordssoundpretty
I lit the coals with yearning, 
deeper than times sand.
I stoke them with nature’s trinkets
Mischievous I take yourhand.
Tender violence my guide
Bringing you to passions door
The flames burn hot and long
We consummate the lore 
Fighting to feel not wanting to resist
Together in universal rhythm we tread 
Heat of friction driving your desire
Caught in throes, an endless sky our bed 
Tied with bonds of forbidden
Bringing creation to savor the burst,
I find you my sweet fragrance
Satiated with passions thirst.  
Scarlet silk creates your hidden visage
Tide of lust breaking ground in blurs
Flamed tongues burn hot and long
Embracing you a yearning stirs 
Air controlled by a strangled grip
Crashing through passions door
Leaving you shaking in pleasure
Gliding on weakened wings we soar
Pain creates a direction to edges new
When again on those heights we tread 
Let the torrid heat drive our desire high
Caught in throes, an endless sky our bed05152013

Related post: Holy Sanctum
Also published in Broowaha Magazine
First published in Opinionsofeye.com01262012 

Analogy of a Tic – Two Views of People Who Use You

“We’re a different sort of thief here, Lamora. Deception and misdirection are our tools. We don’t believe in hard work when a false face and a good line of bullshit can do so much more.” ― Scott Lynch, The Lies of Locke Lamora 

 “Yet the evil still increased, and, like the parasite of barnacles on a ship, if it did not  destroy the structure, it obstructed its fair, comfortable progress in the path of life.” William Banting 

 

thepursuitofepicness
 

They wander around my perimeters, parasites, drawing from me like a tic. Working my way through the jungles of the game, they latch on. Suckers, filling themselves with my blood. I let some hang on, knowing they’re there, keeping an eye on them; I’m in control. The tic’s bold, so consumed with satiating its desire, it doesn’t know or care that it’s life is in my hands. One day I’ll squash the tic, making a blood stain on my leg, smiling with gratification of my power over it. It’s funny to watch little creatures plying their wares, I feel compassionate for their limited life span and the narrowness of their existence. I play with them, and while others are scared, I’m intrigued. In the end, the game will be played out again, so I entertain myself with my current companions, a symbiosis of sort, the tug and pull of life sharpening my senses.  

There’s another way to see this game. Being gifted and talented on many levels, I’ll draw success in a variety of forms. This abundance isn’t meant just for me, but for others. I’m a stream of cool water, those who are thirsty can dip their hands in and draw from my abundance to satisfy themselves. I’ll be filled again, not by them, but by the hand of my Big Daddy (God), who is my source and fountain. It’s my purpose to be filled and emptied in service to others, to humble myself and provide for them, no matter how shallow or misdirected their desires are. Hunger is hunger, thirst is thirst. God causes the rain to fall on the just and unjust. Perhaps in satisfying their errant desires they’ll soon grow tired and turn to my source. I’m thankful that if not for twists of fate and circumstance, I’d be the tic. This inspires me to continue to give and provide, not with reluctance, but with satisfaction, knowing that, if not for God, I’d be the sucker.

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Sieve – Losing All Through Me

“You are to be my command laid on my enemy. you’ll make a hole in him through which he’ll drip away until he runs dry. As he drips out darkness, we’ll smile together, me inside, you outside. We’ll crush him between our smiles.”- Margaret Mahy, The Changeover 


A little gap, in which I must wallow

Just a hole, one of the many to follow

A poke again, a partner to the first

Its just a hole, draining the water for thirst

This sieve of soul, now bleeds my affection

Its just a hole, so no need for correction

I catch the drops, so many all around

It just a hole, but I lost all I found

Imp – Making the best of your vile thoughts

“ ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.”
Welcome my dark intruder. Let me tell you about myself. An evil little imp I am, born in the refuse of evil thoughts amassed. Yawn. What awaits this beautiful horrid world today? I grow strong pushing these carts of petty human imaginations. Thinking with no care, they litter my world with debris of vacant, selfish, and wicked thoughts. The perverse thoughts are the best, they’re so malevolent. I love to share these with my friends, with glee showing those thoughts aglow with an undead life, delightful in green and yellow decomposition. I wander through your churches, finding the best pulsating cast off there. Their thoughts never disappear, though let go, they stick to the walls and ceilings of their abodes or float through the air in a stinking mist. My job, of which I am quite partial, is to pick through these thoughts. If humans could see the clutter of stinging stench bearing piles of vain and perverse thoughts they thought no one knew, perhaps they would think with more vigilance. No matter, I love them, collecting them for the fires that burn cold and brewing a thick stew that never satisfies the hungry, nor quenches the thirst of parched wayfarers. That is the end result of their foolish contemplations, dissatisfaction and endless wandering to the next exciting vanity. I take my leave now of your company, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now until we meet again, go easy with those vile thoughts of yours, I grow tired of my chore (wink)! Party on my dear fellow, and be sure to let your mind get the best of you, be undisciplined with it as you like for I need a few more trinkets of pulsating collectibles to fulfill my impish delight.

Imp – Making the best of your vile thoughts

“ ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.”
Welcome my dark intruder. Let me tell you about myself. An evil little imp I am, born in the refuse of evil thoughts amassed. Yawn. What awaits this beautiful horrid world today? I grow strong pushing these carts of petty human imaginations. Thinking with no care, they litter my world with debris of vacant, selfish, and wicked thoughts. The perverse thoughts are the best, they’re so malevolent. I love to share these with my friends, with glee showing those thoughts aglow with an undead life, delightful in green and yellow decomposition. I wander through your churches, finding the best pulsating cast off there. Their thoughts never disappear, though let go, they stick to the walls and ceilings of their abodes or float through the air in a stinking mist. My job, of which I am quite partial, is to pick through these thoughts. If humans could see the clutter of stinging stench bearing piles of vain and perverse thoughts they thought no one knew, perhaps they would think with more vigilance. No matter, I love them, collecting them for the fires that burn cold and brewing a thick stew that never satisfies the hungry, nor quenches the thirst of parched wayfarers. That is the end result of their foolish contemplations, dissatisfaction and endless wandering to the next exciting vanity. I take my leave now of your company, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now until we meet again, go easy with those vile thoughts of yours, I grow tired of my chore (wink)! Party on my dear fellow, and be sure to let your mind get the best of you, be undisciplined with it as you like for I need a few more trinkets of pulsating collectibles to fulfill my impish delight.

End Of Night – Not all is good at the end of night

“Sometimes you wake up from a dream. Sometimes you wake up in a dream. And sometimes, every once in a while, you wake up in someone else’s dream. ”
Richelle Mead,
Succubus Blues
 
Darkattic

Again the Succubus calls, answered by my willing compliance. At the end of night, leading her further down the cluttered path, I grab her by the hand and take the fake offerings, momentary escapes void of relief. Grabbing her, my Savior, “Please speak kind to me, sooth my ache and dark thirst.” There are no companions in this empty pursuit, I barely make it out alive, who will follow me in my destruction? Holding the works of addiction, I set up a fix that never satisfies, only to do it again and again before the end of night. Many will lead me there, then abandon my desperate body to its agonies of thought. There are no tomorrows in this never land, dreams are abandoned on the altar of deprecation. The birds sing, announcing their joy of the morning. Their spectators that look on, mocking the death of ambition and hope, increasing my dread that comes at the end of night.  Shake yourself my drugged soul, find your escape and run from the pain that finds you; a great price is paid in the dressings of celebrations that go on until the end of night. Caught again by the arrows of habit, striking me with precision through the errant presumption of safe chambers that open in the end of night. With no deliverance, shackles bind tighter with each twitch of resistance. To relieve myself of these panicked flights, I seek sleep, now stolen, hidden from my ever reaching mind; yet, I fight, until the end of night.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine
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