Masquerade

The Masquerade

 

 

I

 

Staring a half-hearted wonder of who you really

are into a crackle and glow of home comforts,

I swill serene glass of Margaux round and round

in a hand that writes and re-writes reminiscence.

 

Commuting through those sullied Surrey suburbs,

did the severity of your suit cut a sharp intake of

my breath as I pushed through the hollow crowd?

Poetry flames in devotion, an awakening in motion.

 

Far away, but recklessly closer than you think,

you slowly shut your MacBook down in disquietude.

Restlessly twisting vexed metal round and round

on finger that has reached out to any port in a storm.

 

Paroxysm of ravening strikes at being lost within loss,

eternally searching for your own fire nymph of fervour.

Body ages with resigned alacrity and mind unkempt,

a lonely clandestine, mixing glitter with fool’s gold.

 

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

II

 

Our host never lets guise slide as he enters

the ballroom, face familiar but unknown,

creating mystery with grammar school tones.

An iridescent blend of anxiety and cunning

He tastes debauchery with decaying eyes,

every flavour of colour through a screen of lies .

 

Host of followers delightfully exposed

on account of his whims, letting masks fall

dancing hither and thither, beautiful curves

weave and smile, they come – and they go,

but what he really craves for is a beautiful soul.

To keep him alight as years ember and cajole.

 

 

Clock strikes darkest hour before dawn,

he divines a brilliant blue flame in the hearth,

an uncomplicated complexity, rising a

Pandora’s paradox with hell-fired hair.

A nightmare dressed like a daydream

in libertine gown, tempered high heels,

an antagonist extreme, holding brave glass

chalice of mistrust, and whip of austere suspicion.

 

She strides – cracks right through his marrow,

Hands him her whip and blood-red drink

Even though they have only just met

She smiles an indecorous, whispering light

“Don’t look at your face in the mirror,

look at the nymph that sustains your soul.”

Stroking ashen hair at his tempestuous temple,

“You are not so faded yet – I think.”

 

 

*Excerpt from Dylan Thomas – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Transformation

Fortitude

 

Solitude

 

I remain free

my own lost saviour

a follower of no-one

sorcering a new novena.

 

 

Awakening

 

I still storms

in steadfast spirit

a respectable sinner

proclaiming the illicit.

 

 

Doubt

 

I demure uncertain

face reveals and veils

heart throes stone to flesh

keeping close my seven devils.

 

 

Fortitude

 

I am graced

with all virtues from history

my archetype immortalised

amidst this scripture of mystery.

 

 

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

Storm of Silence

miranda-1916

As the indecorous breeze does billow

ebb and flow of his dreams,

swelling a deep desire

for her to return

within each tide

of hesitation.

 

As the unconscious ark of salvation,

sinks slow beneath his sleep,

drowning a deep desire

for her to return

he lies laconic

of malediction.

 

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Resurrection

Resurrection

His unravelling – of sacred shroud.

 

The suffocation of

her melancholic madness

by cloth of self-belief

blesses a new beginning.

 

The emancipation from

Poetess to temple Papess

his ruin miraculously raised

to unrepentant penitent.

 

The revealing complete

unveils fervent holiness,

his new bride of a Christ

in divine ambiguity.

 

His lost gospel – finally found.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

Forsaken

 

I search

for your soul

in every passing stranger’s face.

Knowing it is too late.

 

I dreamt

we met again

soothing all the pain between us.

The cruellest of dreams.

 

I crucify

time through mourning

yet it cannot hold back dawning,

of my emancipation.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

beata-beatrix_1863-70_

La Petite Mort of Creativity

Katy Vampire May16 small[1]

Let me bleed out a moment’s release,

from this contemptible inner peace.

 

my tears are too clear of midnight ink,

my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.

 

I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,

for owls, magpies – among nests of unfamiliar

 

I churlishly spread my coquettish legs

seducing any passing stranger’s death.

 

To be touched – trembled by fingers of grief,

so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath

 

I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,

traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.

 

I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return

to break open my heart, leave me spurned,

filling this barren womb with words

that haven’t been born, read, or heard.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

Cacophony in the Second City

 

I amble amongst the snake trail
of crowds and loud streets
of consumer rights and political fights.

 
Then he came and  asked me
whether I had any faith at all
and I shook my head in a lie
while he thrust a pamphlet
of salvation into my hands.

And he said “Are you religious
as I am not and never was because
it binds you too tight but do try
as you might to turn to God my love.”

And he wished me a happy life
and a good day before he took
shelter in Subway as he was now
more than hungry enough.

Then I turned to a man who
had a plan through Islam
offering me an English copy
of the Quran while the busker
sung and smiled that he was
loving angels instead.

And my ego smiled back
and for that one moment
he was the prophet
that I sought amongst strangers.

Meanwhile, beside the homeless
and tomeless a lady mediates
in the rain for human rights
among the remains and pain
in a city of mistaken identity.

And I cannot hear any sound
of despair above the crowds,
but here in the air the
call to prayer is everywhere.

But paradise never comes.

©  Katypoetess 2016

 

paradise2

 

 

Preaching

Preaching

 

 Acquire my peace within yourselves

 

She is nobody’s disciple,

a dither of image and noise,

amongst everybody’s daily causality.

 

No crowds will gather,

as she looks into the eyes,

that lie tied, and tired in front of her.

 

She is every colour

of skin, every age, every weather,

every obedience and whim, with no morality.

 

Dwelling in a magdala

of immortal solitude, amongst

houses of those who murmur against her.

 

Anointed teachings worn

that her saviour gave to her, more than all,

because, she – woman, was most worthy.

 

A heroine for faith

and faithless, contemplating salvation,

while drinking penitence from jar of alabaster.

 

She is subliminal free will

kissing thinning seperatedness

between determinism and uncertainty.

 

She is veiled opportunity

presenting itself, avoiding the past

that dances between resistance and surrender.

 

She is echoed resonance

of what might never have been

bestowing golden gifts of serendipity.

 

Staring at timeless stars,

loving with fear her own prophecy.

An outspoken, softly silent soothsayer.

 

Seven sacraments set,

yet no one hears her judgement,

that salvation lies in doing, not knowing.

 

But isolation is her myth.

All Gods and scientists roll dice,

 

and there is

no straight path

to paradise.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

*The Gospel of Mary Magdalene 4:1

 

 

 

The Silencer

 

She whispers an aberration,

with mouthful of soot stained metal.

Pointing out deluded self-doubt,

muzzling lies with targeted fire.

Seizing breath without sound,

at least four Turks and a Russian

With little or no repercussion.

 

Synapsed heart from sharp to steel.

Drinking shots after taking shots,

murdering time as it flies fast home,

past window of his decamped reality.

For queen and ungracious country.

 

As he ricochets between

brittle past – hyper-vigilant future,

she holds him shell shocked.

 

In the here and now.

 

©  Katypoetess 2016

 

 

The Temptation of St. Anthony II

 

temmptation2

From Emperor to Vampire, then a journey to resting place of amoral monk.

Dwelling in ruined fort, living in a sin of retired idleness. Momentary desires

to follow the birds south, he spends his days tending a garden of lilies in the desert.

 

Anthony holds his poetess captive for too long without his hands, she now writhes

naked and tied to column of lost temple. Tresses burnt dark from exposure, tantalized

by a God that brings her an ambrosia of light that transforms her dishonour into beauty.

 

He kneels to pray, lifting his eyes to see diamonds that sparkle within cobwebbed clouds

of time. Lips thin as he repeats supplication to attain a separation of will from his saintliness.

He exists in immensity of memories that create an illustrious sun, slowly beating him ashen.

 

“I should have been tied to the column near to thine, face to face, under thy eyes.”*

 

No Queen of Sheba, Greek goddess or any other mirrored manifestation of Magdalene

can stir him from his solitude. Solemn palm stands proud, shading him from enticement.

Every supper, when he breaks bread, the serpent wrapped round it slides away to the sea.

 

Amongst pillow saturated by aroma of the palm, he is eased into sleep.  An owl’s wing

softly brushes his cheek, powdering his skin against succubus of lust, that swells in unrest

and desperation, clasping him in persuasion to give in and cry out together, never again.

 

“I feel my heart growing as the sea when she swells before the storm.” *

 

He dreams of faded flowers, fruits too ripe, which fall away into the thickness of the night.

Clinging to twilight bride’s back, she shows him stars that burn eternal and hold no limits.

Come morning, he remembers nothing. Only echo of memory, a thought – of distant remorse.

 

“All have passed. There remaineth me”*

 

*Gustave Flaubert – The Temptation of St. Anthony

©  Katypoetess 2015

Baptism

Magdalene Baptism

 

Drowning.

 

When love

cuts deep

with grieving,

one immersion

bleeds into

the next.

 

If she gave

herself

in forgiveness –

would her shadow

follow her?

 

She unconsciously

weaves threads

of the past

summoning shroud

of the future.

 

Touched twice

in the laver

submerged in her

saviour’s perdition.

 

Condemned to

cold isolation

wet and dripping

with desire

in the font

of being saved.

 

Saved. But not quite free.

 

 

©  Katypoetess 2016

The Temptation of St Anthony

 

 

From Emperor to Vampire, journeying through to final place of amoral monk.

Dwelling in ruined fort, a habitual sin of retired idleness. Momentary contemplations

to follow the birds south, he spends his days tending a garden of lilies in the desert.

 

Holding his demon captive for too long without his hands, she now writhes naked

and tied to column of penitent temple. Tresses burnt dark from exposure, tantalized

by a God that brings her an ambrosia of light that transforms her dishonour into beauty.

 

He kneels to pray, lifting his eyes to see diamonds that sparkle within the cobwebs

of time. Lips thin as he repeats inability to attain a separation of will from his essence.

He exists in immensity of her shadows that create illustrious sun, that beats him ashen.

 

“I should have been tied to the column near to thine, replying to thy cries by my sighs.”*

 

No Queen of Sheba, Greek goddess or any other mirrored manifestation of Magdalene

can stir him from his solitude. Twisted palm stands proud, shading him from the abyss.

Every supper, when he breaks bread, the serpent wrapped round it slides away to the sea.

 

Amongst pillows saturated by aroma of the palm, buoyant bouquets of narcissi ease

him into sleep. An owl’s wing softly rubs his cheek, powdering his skin with omens of

death and lust, swelling in unrest to clasp each other and cry out together, never again.

 

“I feel my heart growing as the sea when she swells before the storm.” *

 

He dreams of faded flowers, fruits too ripe, which fall away into the thickness of the night.

Clinging to twilight bride’s back, she shows him stars that burn eternal and have no limits.

Come morning, he remembers nothing. Only echo of memory, a thought – of distant remorse.

 

“All have passed. There remaineth me”*

 

 

©  Katypoetess 2015

 

*Gustave Flaubert – The Temptation of St Anthony.

 

 

 

 

 

Empty Tomb

 

Magdalene Tomb V2

Swaying

a sweetness,

trespassing

salt-cracked hearts

that pass in prophecy.

 

Stumbling

upon angels,

awaiting

steadfast negligence

of tranquil demands.

 

Rolling

stony silence,

coveting

words that ache

to be born

into my arms.

 

Time ticks wanton.

 

©  Katypoetess 2015

 

Not to be taken (lightly)

 

Dark, dangerous moods,

light, romantic notions,

she mixes his tempers,

tastes resulting potions.

 

He is potent and addictive

as an absinthe fountain,

without the silver tap

to gently control the flow.

 

waterhouse_the_sorceress_BMJ

 

 

Ecstasy

Ecstasy V2

His discipline
was her most
desired mercy.

He subdued
and elated her
simultaneously.

He affronted
her with exquisite
hedonism.

She kept him
with sacrilegious
possession.

Reminiscent
of a memory,
she was yet
to treasure.

In their intimacy
he humiliated her,
until she learnt
humility.

Unfounded –
they remained unfound.

In ecstasy.

 

© Katypoetess 2015