Subway Scrying (Crossroads '29th cycle)

_ _ _ _

Trains… they click… and clock… and knock…
Who’s there?
Only winds… and moulds… and crackles by the metal rods…
And you… watching me in the tinkling obscurity of glass, staring eyes at my blurring reflection.

What do you scry?

We are like pictures in the tremoring sub-gallery…
An artist of two spirits – underground…
There we are, acquainted through the subway lens: two persons of our third imagination.

When you turn your head to see, if I am real – you see different me. Profile me. Plain portrait, sealed in corridor of lights, and seated bodies. But you seek the eyes, waiting for the sign – the turn – and almost whispering…
Are you the one?
Am I?
No…
No.

And then – re-play. Re-staring at each other, we re-make our momentary art, which would – at any time – re-place the models. Them – have left, and now we are subjects of the subway scrying.

What do I scry?

While the train is squishing night before us…
While people hide in tones and roles, and scores…
Still do we stare at each other’s snapshots on the tinted glass. Exchanging frames…

This is a triangle of life: reverse and not. There, on its top, we’re pleased to know each other.
But our bodies – not.

__ __Sub-window__ __

Me__ _ _ _ _ _ _ __You

Sub-Me. Sub-You. Sub-scry. Next station – is the end of my soul sub-way.
Our fantasy shall rapidly deny…

Such were my thoughts, desires and delusions. The train arrived. The station called my name. Then doors unveiled the womb: to let the glow-worms open to the sky.
Yet, not for me.
I saw you leaving – wearing my body.
Just for free.

Soon after you’ll cross out ‘S’ from ‘Scrying’, crying of being me…
_ _ _ _

Thus, spoke him off the underground glass.
_________
They changed for each other’s reflections.
On the 29th day of the moon...

Arder (of fire within...)

Arder

by Villard L. Cord

There is one person I would like you to meet. Face to face, eye to eye – for an instant or two. With no strings attached, in particular. Only flames. I just want you to try not to burn in this random acquaintance, for you never shall know beforehand if he comes. If he touches you, turning to ashes.

Now I wonder if anyone could bear his touch…

He was born as we all do, unleashed through the transom – like some undeniable drift. Unexpectedly, he set the birth-bed on fire – there his mother departed to dead. And the father… they sought after him, but eventually found out him coaling the urn. Thus, instead of a background of life most people inhabit, fire-born put himself into series of troubled events.

Surely, you can imagine man’s soul as a bonfire. This person I want you to meet, can be fire itself. Being under my guidance, don’t wear any gloves or another protection, my friend, there’s one chance in a while – either ashes or sparkling hearth. No, you shouldn’t beware the streets and the watery lanterns, nor the houses of unspoken grieves and devious concerns – this acquaintance of mine is beyond the flourishing reasons of earthly diversions; rolling different planets in his handful of sooth. He is ardently ardering the ardorous space of arduous ardensity...    

Do you happen to feel?

Compliments, sentiments, denouements, revenants… is this the circle of life?

When you’re gazing at fire, he’s climbing the aerial ladder up to the high, even dying to ends. And he may, if you are hypnotized, wed everything ‘round to blaze. That’s how the spirit I need you to see holds his head: ever holding to step he stuck on – for respite – thence anew climbs the heaven.

There are so many roads to take… have you considered being maniac, my friend? Or just being dead… but, dead you are – if you envision flesh and world (this world of fake) are real. Run to the transom open wide and squeeze yourself through to become... un-born. It’s all reverse, just get it.

But he, the fire I do commend to take, is spiralled up.

Your vessel shall burn anyway, now or later. But, the risk is to sail afar. Much farther than flesh can imagine. Much farther than waves show the way. Much beyond the horizon, where stranger sun is bleeding, lamenting over the human one…

 _________

Commit to yourself in the mirror.

On the 29^th day of the moon...              

           

Frame Head (from Crossroads '29th cycle, update every 29th lunar day)

Frame Head

by Villard L. Cord

There once lived a man or a woman – in a kind of a town devoted to visual arts. It (for I shouldn’t decide on the gender) did not have any name, just a curious gap in the head. Some people – meeting en face – described It as a sensitive type, preferably using such words as romantic, desirable, keen. However, getting to know Its profile, they could only exclaim grosh and weirsh – hushing hast’ly resounded hissing. And the case being – Its curious gap in the head.

Thence they wondered – for an instant or two – how could this undoubtedly pleasant en face human being wear incredibly hollow unwelcoming profile. But thereafter discovered (with fun) that might get a new look on the things through Its skull-shaped, yet convenient gap. Thus, followed with inviting It to any place they were excited with. There, while some should involve in a kind of a chatty distraction, the audience would comprehend through Its head as a frame.

Not that It didn’t know the purpose of all these decoys, still indulged their weird wanting for gross entertainments. Though, questioned Itself, how the picture is changed through Its head…

It couldn’t ask them. It was shy to speak about Its gap. It actually always pretended to live like a normal gapless human being, without ever noticing amazement of others. So, It smiled in return to Its en face encounter, while attempting to catch but an echo of murmured and mumbled impressions they got through Its head.

One day in a kind of museum It heard…

‘Now this is bizarre…’   

When Its head framed within the painting of Van Gogh’s “…skeleton with a burning cigarette”…

‘Feels like watching two sides of a man: evil skull to the right as opposed to keen tip of a smile.’

‘Here’s an image of split personality!’

‘One is either way lit, when another portrays an example of hollow morality.’

‘Whatever sense, they fit.’

Some another a bit lucky time It eavesdropped on them, facing the walls of a cinema, being distracted by blabber of young and provocative miss…

‘What is this, French erotica?’

“Emmanuelle”.

‘Feels like action takes place in the head, like a thought thus desirable that can be surely delivered to madness.’

‘Here’s an image of perversive mind!’

‘But perversive is one, if before never had met such frenzy?’  

‘Either way, makes me wish to be there.’

…to the carnoval groans.

Later then It succeeded to grasp a few breaths from their whispers of Lee Lawrie’s “Atlas”…

‘Well, that’s quite a romantic athlete!’

‘Now, this one is holding the skull-sky!’

‘Or struggles through frame of the head to unseal but at last his vast powers...’

‘All in all, through the gap – he’s too small.’

Then, It just got enough.

Of them – analyzing, bethinking, unlinking and binding together a duck and a pig’s tail – It just got enough. And It cancelled them all, all at once – all their whim invitations. Closed Itself shut from any connections, abandoning visual arts.

Not that It didn’t relish the arts, yet It wouldn’t go out to see them. Those men were the case. Whereof It – in wicked unrest – beleaguered Itself with the question: why don’t they just use their own heads…

That night It was drawn to the music. Sat on the chair and listened to crackle of tape in Its gap in the head. The frame was painted blues. It sat with closed eyes, split into glimmering shreds, unsealed to the mind of the universe. Only thus, the scraps of knowledge would be wed …

Then, they sneaked to Its home…

_________

They said It donated Its head.

On the 29^th day of the moon...                   

Secret Life

I have a secret life. A secret lies beyond.

An infantile character of their barrel-minds.

I am the leak from them.

The ruin of their world.

The devil of their god.

Inside.

In my secret life I am the knife...

...the virus...

...the disease...

I laugh when they shed tears,

While hurting them goodbye

Whispering lovingly...

Die...

But unfortunate, poor things...

Oh poor thinks...

Death is the prize

If you learned to use wings

When the secret life is real

And your home is beyond

Death comes to meet you in person:

Drink some tea, do some talk,

Make a love...

Now you are old, but still alive...

Poor thing...

Death had no interest in you.

Wait for the plague to rest...

Suffer until...

My wasted dead.

The Ever-End...

No thrill.

Updates

Here's the brand new photo of myself, taken during one of the park promenades in Saint Petersburg. Just to keep you aware, I'm alive. However, death is never still, while life could be quite deathly.

As for the further updates, I'm going to post at least twice a week. The more - depends on inspiration.
Soon you shall meet one of my dearest friends - The Autumn Vampire - and his rainy singing...
Shall rehearse him now. Autumn fiery kisses, my dear.

MEMOIRE d'ARDENTE bark is searching for the Crew...

Then the band proceeds with album record. This is the kind of music you'll crave for and wait whatever long.
But we'll try to make the period of waiting shorter.

A building emerges from bricks. For the building of Art any brick must be seasoned to masterpiece. (c)

What can an artist with un-spoiled brain provide?

to those who are still the Artists in these days...
_________

What can an artist with un-spoiled brain provide? –
To this un-comprehended territory,
Where every soul is so much alike
And their physical’s above the psychic story.
They call for money, which therefore they lay
Into a feeling of a coming day,
And as they fade away – ain’t got no feeling...
Then why? What d’they expect from all that reeling?
Prohibited the drugs, the borders’re closed,
You’d have a passport nailed to your clothes;
The care is – body, never mind the soul
There’s always something they would reckon foul...
There’s always something they would blame you for:
Like – being an artist... whether being their foe?
As you should know, un-spoiled as they are
The real artist wouldn’t get this far.