Night Mentions

The Fall

2009-01-10T21:26:00.000-08:00

I am finally here. The fall has been breathtaking. I could offer up a multitude of emotions to describe it, but the best is to say that it came like a long storm with fears, imprisonment and loss. Like storms, the fall cannot be stop or halted. I could have went willingly, I suppose, rather than kicking and screaming, but either way, all was as it should have been and the finale is spectacular, in the sense of recognitions emerging and clarities after the clouds dissipate and the mist parts. One might think that arriving at an Avalon is the end. It is only the beginning. School starts now, just like a small child, and as they learn through the senses, so am I.

I can feel things as if an increased awareness has peeked through. I don't know where it comes from excepting that traveling on the spiral is a good metaphor. It is not enlightenment, nor the void. One might be able to call it the Land of Nothingness, but it is more so, the Nether, a place of hollowness that suddenly gets filled with one's shadow, embracing it like a reunion with an old friend. I am here with a Nether me.

The Way She’d Go

2008-04-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

I thought she was heading East,
last I checked to see which way she was going. Little did I know that there would be a labyrinthine journey she would expect me to keep pace with. Well, ‘expect’ it is not the right word to describe how she banished me into the depths of myself (lol). Facing East was so much easier. There was always a solid foundation, memories, and of course the support of subconscious indoctrinations. It doesn’t matter now whether it was a tight rope walk or a tight rope. Going nowhere to get to there desired to be an accomplishment. All that was, still is, when looking at it from the point of view as stored in the files of the minds of world wide thought systems. But is it ‘still there’ in the catacombs of my being after ‘perspective shifting’ and ‘annihilation of the false assumptions,’ in favor of ‘do you really know,’ which equated a different type of technique for the wiping off of the white wash of life for the oil base masterpieces. The wheel turns and the brush slowly wipes away dust as if an archeological dig for my own bones. It is the upside down of the right side up that showed up in the middle of a tumble sault through a cerebral mid-western twister. So it was: the western weather, the southwestern fire, the northern low lights that crafted an eastern exile.

Vashti
Art and Prose Copywritten 3/2008 by Vashti

can you

2008-03-16T21:34:00.000-07:00

can you go into where the truth tells lies
where the word places fiction in the mouth
of tellers of the future, calling prophets
who write scripts for unconscious minds.

can you go into where the truth tells lies
where the shatterings press
reality against its own skin
where edges are razor sharp
a steel place where only will survives.

can you go into where the truth tells lies
where raw firmament shakes you brutally
the wetness of the wanderer, a subtle storm
keys in the core of ice glaring in a doorless dimension
of fabricated fictions telling lives what to be.

Copyright 3/2008 by Vashti

Not a Bete Noire

2007-11-17T17:35:00.000-08:00

While coruscating melodies
play in flickers of shade,
a fingertip reaches
in cautious curiosity,
engaging in touch talk
of royal luminosities
in shadow courts.
Her frail benevolence
cradles distant corners --
an embrace
of surrealistic rhythms.
Albeit, a stretch
to hail it a bete noire,
better a copulative affair
with black roses.

Unshorn of thorns and threats,
her love embraced indigo soils.
Not a fragile heart,
she absorbed,
irrespective of an empathic overload
or woolgathering sing song
looming to play fear games --
tales of crypts and cryptics
behind ‘Take 22”.
Her virtual song
wrote its notes, nonetheless,
of the happiness she possessed
found in the spectrum’s spectacle
of light works.

Art and Poetry
Vashti (c) November 2007

Looking for Voice

2007-10-14T08:10:00.000-07:00

white noise, and liquid lavender light
slates of ice slipping, for the love of travel
seeking that which comes in sleep
fragments of lessor years beseeching
tandem tell-tale memories
phases of phantasmagoria hurling
SOS signals of unreal warnings
dimming radar spectrograms
while only partial sleep comes
for the listener who sits
and quietly dances to the unheard notes
in time’s regions
random cards are drawn from the
deck of the sea flights,
bounties acquired in fantasy
tokens of disregard and brightenings
on a pathless pavement of forgetting
joined to neither indigo or pale
the center invisible to sight
unseeded seeds waited patiently
the Astrologer notes the good time
to look at reasons and rhythmic beats
experiences, products, artifacts, words,
feelings, and impressions regularly spawned
speak you's inclinations
the darkness and dawns,
of Inanna and sisters of the moon
the speak of throat chakras hailing
and other centers aloof
mercurial legends and hermaphrodite longings
linger in-between letters
yang rising, sometimes,
and occasional yawnings
a prank here and a
serious note floating in mid-air,
memories surfacing and
emotions wearing thin,
delight does a belly dance
while parrot sermons stop scribing
child-like allusions craft pottery
beyond the eddy of recognitions
where a walking wall brings hands
for transfiguratives.

Vashti (c) 2007

Midnight Blueprints

2007-10-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

She used to study interior design.
Colors and textures, emerged,
meandered and motivated her eye.

Polished marble fireplaces
calculated wall spaces, angled
to seat those needing relief
from the chills of life.

Ebony bath styles, trimmed
in gold, invited aquatic delight,
their shine attracting without
mosaic imagery slaughtering
imaginable possibilities.

Lines, contours and gradations
were the creative source.
Points of departure and arrivals,
followed with intent to capture,
color, calm and delight dwellers
and visitors, human psyche’s
and emotional tides.

Inanimate they think,
yet move they did into internal
environmental halls, performing
their scenes with color schemes.
What red said and crimson mentioned
made orange reach for dimensional
recoveries, while olive discovered
relational patterns and indigo
shadowed matter.

The mind was couched and floored,
awed and absorbed in crafted metaphors.

Vashti (c) 2007

The Hang-Over

2007-05-02T11:28:00.000-07:00

She sipped of the elixir,
a holy combination of
a one spirit.

A dizziness poured into her blood.
Her soul was giddy with
the unexplainable.

Her beloved charmed her
with intoxicating elements.

Boundaries disappeared
as boldness was born.

All storybooks and fairytales
dispersed into a wordless place.

She had trouble selecting
voices that would make this
love known.

The outer world faded behind
the screen of her lover.

This androgynous and sexless place
enticing with an odd
array of copulations.

She rose higher and higher,
spinning in the circumference
of the hub holder.

She danced with the indescribable.
She caressed the untouchable.
She drank of the Innkeeper’s tonic.

Higher and higher she rose.
The knowings took her away.

Suddenly, her drunken passions ceased.
A gyrational spin began.
She was not in control of these matters.

Her lighted body became heavy with descent.
What had gone up must come down,
Gravity told her.

An elusive darkness dawned,
and bravery eclipsed into
the unreachable whirlwind.

Doubt and despair clamored
with images of otherworlds.

Mine’s menagerie released
strokes of misanthropic
juxtapose.

The whirlwind shattered
equanimity’s content, with a
labyrinth of confusion.

Pain pounded,
heartache haunted,
memories miscalculated,
and logic languished.

Only a lover’s thread
kept her bed warm with
enticements of returning.

She waited in the weights.

The Mare

2007-03-22T19:00:00.000-07:00

The mare sometimes neighs when the lids cover worldly sights.
Lines forming together making apparitions of fright,
Waving streams of energy releases, untouchable.
Oozing as if, but never mustering the reach.
Smiles amidst that which freezes movements for mentions of Poka-dot Perils.
The lips of Fitz
The lips of Cryst
The lips of Myst
Speaking paradoxical delights
Disguised as messages behind the unformed murals in twilight’s light.

Night Sweats

2007-03-07T14:49:00.000-08:00

Night sweats and symbols find their way into the places of closed eyes and clouded realities.
Decoding the meanings lay risk to perceptions decrees.
The body twists as the infiltrations visit with intentions beyond anticipations.
Wonders of consciousness levels released.
Beckoning attention, foreign speak profounds.
The eyes squint to understand, as if the forehead muscles can expound
Concerning brief interludes with the places in-between the lines.

Eclecticia Sentencia

2007-02-08T22:09:00.000-08:00

Dipping into a thousand pastries
A jelled existence wallowed.
Fortune shown in glimmers
Paged vehemence.
A jester clowned the king.
Fruit fell to the ground while
Saturated penguins gleaned icicles.
Fishing gear made haste.
Jack's dragon inhaled brews.
Maggie met up in the fog.
Dry ice scents told noses of
Fad's rise to hide the real.
Dread a lots,
Punk mainstream,
Madonna's in trees,
Stop the squirrel on the path, a
Collector of nuts on arm extended roadways.
Vagaries of patchwork revelrie and
Placid Streams enumerate niceties.
A scar's brood clarifies eclectic habits.
Sheer edges escape Centurions.

Dressings

2007-02-03T13:16:00.000-08:00

She was wearing an explosion
Strange music come to town
The pounding rhythms flow blood
Branches abreast, shaded with moonlight
Light watches the wherewithalls
Her talon pushes a lock of hair
Her ear a convenient hook
Slivered night lines gathered

Boundless Boundaries

2006-10-29T17:46:00.000-08:00

Chaos billowed in on a still cloud of blackness,
pulling the eye from left to right, ahead and behind
tearing it into peripheral matters.
The Am I’s tried to find the I Am’s
in a pool of potential,
where water cannot be grasped by the hand
and life is coated with a slippery escape mechanism.
The shrouds demanded professionalism in madness.
The aching of resistance remained silent.
War was a futile waste of the breath of life,
keen on living free-style.
Difficult as it is, a small thread remained for freedom.
Contortionist chameleon delusions looked
for adaptable minds pliable to newness --
reconditionings of conditionings being a fairy tale
with hidden agenda.
Freedom was dressed in a prison and
the prison was real.
The boundless was binding and
the escape routes were dead ends.
Rotations came around to then in a now.
Consecrated heart tearing ceremonies
offered deals of unfulfillments.
Prose filled cries never becoming poetic license,
captured in the chambers of fiction.

Sliding Down the Neck of a Peacock

2006-10-07T21:36:00.000-07:00

A flight through a Peacock's tale.
A kaleidoscope eye,
And the other side, reveal
Black diamonds casting a multiplex.
Looking from inside out and outside in.
The house of mirrors suggests,
The many versions of one.

Art by Marne Jaye

Folk

2006-10-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

Typecast riddles covered in the darkness darker than darkness, without the feeling of a walk explicit in revealing what cannot be seen.

Chaos as an all-pervading dark silence that desires conceptions. Seeds dazed at finding fertile grounds.

On the other side of silence babble prevails as projections of arrogant mind junkies trying to implant petitions of madness.

World genius boasts of bank accounts. The costumed walkers of type-cast project the know-it-all.

Neuron vampires demand conformity to the “Well, it works for me.”

Amen. So be it. Conclusions of small universes without sight of the tunnels leading to parts of the whole.

The monster asks, “So, you want to be this? Let me show you the road ahead, the carvings that you can master. I bring you those advanced into a negative ten times worse then thee.”

Transference causing a transmission that is a pounding display of veils taking away clear vision, and mirrors displaying 'has been' and 'could be', the virus roars like a haunting contagion, demanding battle with rat race symposiums.

Shields bare witness.

Artwork Artist Unknown (c) Somewhere.
Prose by Vashti (c) 2006

De’bauch

2006-09-24T09:10:00.000-07:00

Traveling debaucheries surface in the inopportune.
Telling stories of the unseen corners of mind,
Where shadows hold truth about nature.
Enslaved and chained there, a voice cries out for release.

On the surface, a different story beheld life.
Deep ocean tides spoke of other pathways.
Like a buried body entering a new format,
Consciousness traveled to secret caves and saw.

The surface face squinted in distaste.
Realizations of self displeasing the looker.
Cravings to deny the wholeness rose,
While parts whispered they were still there.

Placing a fingertip on the mirror’s image,
A sensitive surge emerged and asked for love.
"Do not run my friend.
My name is polarity and I know you."

Saints blow breaths to erase the saga,
That wants to tell the tale of all you’s.
Braced for the impact,
Debauchery surfaced and spoke.

All Rights Reserved (c) 2006

Night Fade

2006-09-09T11:31:00.000-07:00

Brighter shades of black are painting on the mind mural.
Attempting to aide a crippled heart with crutches
As it limps along the byways of trajectories.

Feet do not have the power of wings.
Gravitational pull clutches onto skin,
while feathers are free to fly.

Levitational magick carpets sold at the caravansary,
Look for new types of energy,
Bubbles for dreamscapes, maybe.

Eclipsed by a mellifluous umbra,
Stepping barefoot in fields of reflections,
The scene paints feelings that take flight.

The weaver stays behind, grasping a thin thread,
Erasing fears of the battle of sole and soul,
Weaving potentialities.

(c) 2006

She's Full

2006-09-07T20:23:00.000-07:00

Mesmerized

2006-09-04T16:43:00.000-07:00

They say the night is for sleeping.
That the world is more quiet and settled in.
Those who stay awake know of Her beauty, the intensity.
Like the night shadows, thoughts, desires and imagination hide in regions of the unseen, comprehended by perceptions laid bare.
Dreams build their panoramas here, in this place of secrets more exciting then mechanical chores.
So difficult is it to escape its beauty and ecstasy,
I often wonder if I will live my life here.
Can I escape the exquisite style of synchronicities and flow?
It is as if the moon doesn't know it gets its light from the sun.

Wisdom and understanding beckons.
The self-inquisitive judgments and mercies demand attention.
The heart longs to retake its throne.
But the moonlight mesmerizes.
Feelings move seductively in the currents.
Imagination creates lives better then life.
Thoughts write fiction novels that pretend to be real.
The belly speaks like a pregnant womb carrying a fetus called muse.
The gods and goddesses make love in willing beings.
Where is there a place better?

All Rights Reserved (c) 2006

Husbands in Disguise

2006-09-01T07:19:00.000-07:00

My husband came to visit last night.
Well, not in the flesh, so to speak.
Thousands of miles lay between us,
But touching has not ceased.
Making no mistake,
This is not a gutter song.
Divine wine being served, and all.
As I sat upon the lotus chair.
The hanging mobile swayed in the night breezes.
The diamond shaped squares swirled within themselves.
It was a delightful moment in time.
The engulfings were his way.
Whether standing between two luminous mountains,
Or floating across the oceanic tides.
I knew exactly what the moment entailed,
Knowing him as well as I do.
I vowed that this journey rise.
And so it did,
And the darkness swallowed me.
For a moment I felt defeated, in a way.
Until the vapors rose through a deep slit in the appetite.
There I stood, now flying in breathing light,
Dressed in marriage apparel.
Transfiguring into symbols of beauty.
Then, I drifted off to sleep.

All Rights Reserved (c) 2006

Grayscale Gratitude

2006-09-01T06:47:00.000-07:00

Night’s velvety touch surrounds me.
The cool warmth of presence comes.
Yet, I remain unaware,
peering into shadows rather then
the silvery reflections of exposures,
complaining of dew drenched feet,
rather then drinking in the washings,
allowing its beauty to remain a metaphor of depressions,
never realizing that impressions carve images
on the canvas of my mind.
I shake my brain hoping for erasures of the muddy paints I
have chosen, when satin black and the multi-glimmerings of
grayscale’s vast panorama speak so highly of Night’s grace,
finding interest in the fact that it didn’t choose the limited
palette of ebony and ivory, but mixed white into black and
created a vast middle ground of silver grayscale.
I was oblivious to the silk silver swaddling cloth it placed upon me
Corralling the uncontrollability of my raging arms and kicking legs
which demanded polar scenes, but only stirred up muddy waters.
It wished to teach me to be an artist of the gray silver world.
It promised me that when I accomplished that, it would let
me once again play with colors.

All Rights Reserved (c) 2006