Twilight Tryst (Lyrical Flash Fiction?)

“To what do you allude? I don’t want to start to assume in shades of the implied truth and end up finding I’ve misconstrued its subtle hues of ambiguous subterfuge,” I asked as the 11th hour of my patience passed for what I sensed was the silent treatment from Dusk, after she had winked her Sun at me on the horizon.

I had asked the Twilight to dance after I noticed she was staring strangely, barely blinking as one of her calico eyes slowly looked me over from head to toe… but now she kept it closed.

I confidently met her awkward gaze, comfortable in the limelight, until the rise of her  other eye reached the summit of the nighttime sky’s incline, and I realized that instead of sizing me up, she might just be rolling her Moon at me, over my brazen request.

…Either that, or my company was putting her to sleep, and the Twilight was fighting on the losing side against sleep’s somnolence.

I thought I’d finally caught the drift as her bright Clair de Lune disappeared behind her slowly closing cloud-lid, when suddenly I felt her resilient embrace in the wind, and her violent kiss in the morning mist on my lips.

It had taken the whole night for me to realize the distance of the Twilight wasn’t due to indifference, but her difficult predicament with commitment to merely mortal men, as she has always outlived them, ever since the Dawn of them.

It had taken the whole night for her to realize the naivety of my waiting on her wasn’t due to chauvinistic stupidity, but a devotee’s chivalry and a knight’s committedness to his cause even after others would call it lost.

It had taken us the whole morning to realize that as the 11th passed into the grave of mid-eve, with the Witching hour I could be cured of the previous day’s death and be brought beyond it’s nightmare eve-edge.

It had taken us the whole morning to realize we were both falling up in love to the atmosphere above the vermilion Dawn, dancing to our song, “The Scarlet Solaris & The Cyan Nocturne”:

You are the starlet Solaris―my concerto
Our galaxy’s wedding dance urges
I am the sighing Nocturne―your elegy
History’s authors of hours of dirges

You are my wings, highwind―I soar by stars by you
I’m swept up, up, away in you―I’m head over heels
In love’s heal-spin, red S kissed cheeks turn

I’m the sea thrones buoy―through seven troughs
You found me out at last―you discovered Atlantis
In deep Poseidon’s eyes, scuba-diving in love

You are the starlet Solaris―my concerto
Our galaxy’s wedding dance urges
I am the sighing Nocturne―your elegy
History’s authors of hours of dirges

You are mine, archetype―origin of my dreams
I chase after you always―I only have you here
In besotted Eden, begotten under Aegis

I’m weiss Siegfried’s hand―holding tight Kriemhild’s
You are my life’s Victory―you wisen, widen Peace
In all my names, you fill full their meaning

You are the starlet Solaris―my concerto
Our galaxy’s wedding dance urges
I am the sighing Nocturne―your elegy
History’s authors of hours of dirges

"21 Shades of Blue"

“21 Shades of Blue”

"23 Shades of Red"

“23 Shades of Red”

So Many Sirens (Petrarchan Sonnet)

Tossing waves are what I fondly call chaotic thoughts,
churning seas are what I’m so-calling Halcyon-longing
Siren shoals of Bream-dreams, the oceans’ thronging
tempestuous temptresses calling femme fatale songs
Like Odysseus I survive the Cat-curiosity, limbs taut
paradoxically always landing on my feet after listening,
and never learning anything but skills at death-cheating
the shallow depths Cupid frenzies sink through applause

I’m a Sonneteer braving a familiar frontier
through Atlantic mirrors, Pacific precipices,
poor guesses about whose a catch or snares
Both Warden of the Well, my Wishes’ Prisoner,
I run on Scylla wishing to avoid Charybdis
with a pair of scissors and paper heart that dares

“As it’s been said “all dogs traverse the heavens” and thus cats shit in hell–razed in it’s litter stink, shall I be forever-tied, with limbs taut in limbo? And cat’s eyes betwixt, mixed in with twilights– unsure if I exist more inside each dawn ascent, than I exist not outside it in each dusk descent? Am I lost surviving in death or here living a life?”
— Ry Hakari, prose-form of last stanza of “Schemes of Cat Eyes, Skeins of Dreams

a Rite

Cyan Ryan:

Black Crowned Yew-Krane, to answer your question “what will be in harmony with this poem for you, oh Ry, my King of Water?” I’ll first say, Rai in Japanese, pronounced Ry, means “Thunder; Trust; Lightning”:

“Loki: Vicarious Characters III (Haiku)”
by Ry Hakari

Low-key selfish elf
Chief of Mischief, leaves clown throne
Throws crown — thunder sounds

Loki shifts his place
Sacrifices, finds true self :
Outcast — King at last

“You And I In Unison”
by La Dispute

What will I find?
Some sacred thing to help me handle the tragedy?
Or did I once-Did I have it and lose it?

No one should ever have to walk through the fire alone.
No one should ever have to brave that storm. No,
Everybody needs someone or something.

And when I sing, don’t I sing your name out
Right at the same time that I sing my own?

Some days I swear I can feel you splitting the light through the window frame.
The shapes it makes are always warmer, always brighter than the rest of what comes through.

Some days I swear I can hear you sing to me or whisper my name in the slightest way.
It’s like the warmest light now laid across my bedroom floor is somehow actually you and
Not just sunlight.

I have the memory climb down the balcony.
I put a flower on the back of its dress.
It’s probably best to forget it.
It’s probably best to let go.
I paint it the shade of where the skin and the lip meet,
Only a moment after breaking the kiss. And
I blur out everything else.
That’s how I choose to remember it.

Some nights are a lot like the days, I lay awake too late, I watch the shadows casted
Trace your shape. Those silver slivers on the wall then on the bedsheets.
I hear your song in the trees. I finally fall into rest.
Often later when I’m sleeping you show up in my dreams.
Just doing simple things, like buying groceries.
And when I wake up I could swear you must’ve just left me
Like you got up to make breakfast or maybe just to get dressed.

But the truth is, you were never there. You won’t ever be.
Sometimes I think I’m not either so what do I do
When every day still seems to start and end with you?
And you won’t ever know, you won’t ever see,
How much your ghost since then has been defining me.

I leave the memory up atop the balcony.
I tear this flower from the back of the dress.
It’s best this time, I bet, to just forget and let go.
Paint it the shade of where the lip bleeds and blur it out.
I blur out everything else, just blur out everything else.
And let go, and let go, and let go.

Everybody has to let go someday
Everybody has to let go.

I wonder when I will. I wonder.

But if I still hear you singing in every city I meet
After I blur it all out, our every memory, if
You never fade with the days, your shape still haunting me then,
Should I not just sing along?
Should I not just sing along?

I will sing sweetly hope that the notes change but
I do not need it to happen. I’m not resigned to it. And
If they never do I’ll sing your name in every line.
Just like I did throughout this. Just like I’ve always done.
In every gun, the empty church, and every tortured son.
In all those giving up. In all those giving in.
Until I die I will sing our names in unison.

Until I die I will sing our names in unison.

Originally posted on unbolt:

The Vermilion Moon… I lift up my arms.
Chandra Namaskar. My Saint Vitus’s dance.

My stream is smooth. My breath is deep.
I count pulse. I curve and slip.
Another circle… a bow… a leap…
My rite was done. It’s time to reap.

The Moon is glad. It smiles and winks.
It drips on sheets like bleeding inks…


© All rights reserved 2014

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Manifesto of Residue & Manifest of Resin [1]

“The air flash-dried my lips and brought to me that summer scent of desert towns that is a melange of superheated silica, cactus pollen, mesquite resin, the salts of long-dead seas and exhaust fumes suspended in the motionless dry air like faint nebulae of mineral particles spiraling through rock crystal.”
— Dean Koontz, Odd Thomas

“Manifesto of Residue 1″ is the sequel to “21 Shades of Blue”
“Manifest of Resin 1″ is the sequel to “23 Shades of Red”
In the sequels, Jack Frost’s words are in blue, Hush-Hush’s in red,
and when they speak together, their words are in purple

“Manifesto of Residue 1″
by Ry Hakari

Unresolved wide-eyed sleeper, pseudo-solemn promise maker ―
It’s who I am and have been for long catches, just to drop them.
Resilient, somewhat silent now ― Love, close my eyes then dry your own, and lets sing ourselves a soul song!

If I were a willow? Then never would you walk below me, because I will never be over you ―
But you can grow beside me, if you wish it!

In your eyes I see the stars reflecting brightly ― The sienna I see in them, I am wishing on ―
The cosmos in your pupils are beautiful, I see heaven every time I look in them ―
Now tell me what you see in mine!

The residue left behind ― in my eyes slides down!
The residue left behind ― falls on the ground!
The residue left behind ― lands without a sound!

While you check if falling further holds its breath and hands with its mate flying higher ―
I’m catching wind of and on inside questions, led beyond our outside voices.
New strength, wings healing now ― Love, this lark is soaring, minus the scarlet engine you have stolen!

If I were a pillow? I would let you weep on me, because I am here for you ―
My only swear I will listen, if you allow it!

In your eyes I see the stars reflecting brightly ― The sienna I see in them, I am wishing on ―
The cosmos in your pupils are beautiful, I see heaven every time I look in them ―
Now tell me what you see in mine!

The residue left behind ― in my eyes slides down!
The residue left behind ― the demons surround!
The residue left behind ― makes them drown!

So alone and cold so long, no longer for now I know this rose is closest to forever ―
Separating real from the symbol, I’m able to see the picture perfect and its familiar.
Vision finally widening now ― Love, I’ve spotted the lies on your heart, in the bottle you lost at sea!

If I were a sparrow? Then I would always sing for you, because my heart is your prisoner ―
I wonder have you kept it, or just killed it!

In your eyes I see the stars reflecting brightly ― The sienna I see in them, I am wishing on ―
The cosmos in your pupils are beautiful, I see heaven every time I look in them ―
Now tell me what you see in mine!

The residue left behind ― in my eyes slides down!
The residue left behind ― turns this scowl around!
The residue left behind ― they’re tears of joy abounding!

Some say, sometimes, the truth hurts ― but love, I disagree this time around!
They’re tears of joy and they’re mine!
Its not too much or too soon ― I just landed a little early ―
without looking where I was going!
It’s all right my only ― Don’t worry!

In your eyes I see the stars reflecting brightly ― The sienna I see in them, I am wishing on ―
The cosmos in your pupils are beautiful, I see heaven every time I look in them ―
Now tell me what you see in mine!

Some say, sometimes, the truth frees ― but love, you’re hiding inside your wings!
They’re tears of joy and they’re yours!
It’s not too little or too late ― I feel it just as strongly ―
as I did from the beginning!
It’s all right my angel ― Don’t worry!

In your eyes I see the stars reflecting brightly ― The sienna I see in them, I am wishing on ―
The cosmos in your pupils are beautiful, I see heaven every time I look in them ―
Now tell me what you see in mine!

Live or die, fall or fly, this is why ― it’s not too little, or too late, but the middle!
Rain or shine, gain or loss, again I’ll say ―
It’s not too much, or too soon, but just enough!

Just enough, just enough, just enough!

Just enough, just enough, just enough!

Just enough, just enough, just enough!

It’s just enough!


“Order of the Thistle Intertext 1:
Worth Waiting for Weighted Words”
by Ry Hakari

In my sleeper cell
called “winter”, sometimes I stir
and mumble some words

As Scales sing in sync,
silver-tongue spins golden threads
that hold their own weight

I find some balance
every now and then it seems…
’til lulled by those z’s!

Syllogism sleeps,
syllabary tinkering
in Van Winkle dreams

What ever season’s
promising to change the scene —
I’ve never seen spring

Snow blocks all the roads
out of my little glass globe
high up on this shelf…

Everyone shakes me,
promising to spring me loose…
Hope this time it works!


“Manifest of Resin 1″
by Ry Hakari

I: Alizarin Crimson
Rose Madder ether,
remember Saule tree’s Crowkeepers’
rage shade reliever —
You need not seethe as a seer
to feel present disappear.

II: Amaranth
Eight years under strings
covered in fig leaves, in breeze,
unable to breathe
in the scent of dreamed of Spring —
Lips closed, humming the same keys.

III: Cardinal
February first
marked a new beginning’s birth —
A little bird chirped
her chorus against this curse,
after traveling the earth

IV: Carmine
Halcyon wishes
in the arms of Morpheus,
this will-o-the-wisp’s
silent center won’t dismiss
her words with disinterest…

V: Carnelian
Not listening in,
seconds summer’s whispering,
“Autumn’s undoing”
before my ear’s coveting,
frenzied hands clasp, silencing

VI: Cerise
Wakefulness charades,
Frost I’ve played — Truth? I’m afraid
of what stays awake…
Residue frost mirrors glazed
ground glass shattered past grass blades

VII: Coquelicot
Memento mori,
nuancing a Naïveté,
meandering may
carry secrets to the grave,
but you cannot shrug the weight

VIII: Crimson
Leaving the bad taste
in your mouth tongue-biting makes
as every day takes
a little bit more away
the more you refuse to say…

IX: Electric Crimson
All my plans slip past
like the sands of an hourglass
on a branching path
of fast forgotten fragments
while thunder cracks, as God-laughs

X: Falun
The Cheshire Cat
let out the sealed bag, smiles back,
his attention rapt…
“My restraints all slip like wax
and rain storms, I can outlast…”

XI: Fulvous
Forewarned spores ignored,
core evermore moorland thorns
Pores disgorged formed horns
wartorn tourniquet adorned
Yore scorned — sores implore ‘Lord’s sword!’

XII: Folly
Ignorance is bliss
except when from willfulness’
eyelid bandages
Preferring blinded Justice
embodies a stark contrast

XIII: Fushia
Poet-God? How odd
to be so-called before dawns
break nightmare eve’s drawn
blood of Rilke, smooth sought silk-talk
in willow-vein’s cause — root’s thaw

XIV: Lava
Comfort comes, in shades
Strangely, my pain still remains
intense chains, ablaze,
lava, purifying veins,
decorating human clay

XV: Lust
I should have known we
start seeds, grow into beliefs
before harvesting
spiritual ingredients
for the dough the Baker needs

XVI: Maroon
Knead into something
inside reality, seen
outside of deep dreams,
as more than just sweet nothings
only guaranteed, sleeping

XVII: Misty Rose
It beat heavily
the door to the Heavenlies
My heart already
joined the great majority;
one foot in the grave, sorry….

I suppose a rose,
just like a soul, will not grow
where rainclouds won’t flow…
I’ve grown in the desert, so
is my soul a Cactus Rose?

XIX: Ruby
Apparitions danced
a pejorative dirge, as
death brought me back cracked,
wishing for blue happiness
Asphyxia wouldn’t grant

XX: Rust
Life’s inconvenient
especially sentences
that end up like this:
Living beyond life’s limits, —
lemming’s cliff-lines — means swimming

XXI: Scarlet
with sharks like fish, winds,
waves lift ashore lion’s dens,
where, a welcome friend,
you get back in line with them
for the dish just provided…

XXII: Vermillion
I am learning, though,
to trust, giving up the ghost —
my need to control
the direction of the road
enjoying the long way home!

With time, wisdom’s shown,
after many rains, we’ll grow
into what we’ve sown —
spiritus plowed, limits strove,
yields up to a hundred-fold!

"23 Shades of Red"

“23 Shades of Red”

“She puts the seed in the hole (and the seed has kept its magic; her fingers go numb the instant they touch it) and then places the ring around it again.

Please,” she says, not knowing if she prays, or for whom the prayer is intended if she does. In any case, she is answered, after a fashion. There is a short, sharp bark. There’s no pity in it, no compassion, no gentleness. It is impatient. Don’t fuck with me, it says.

Rosie looks up and sees the vixen on the far side of the clearing, standing motionless and looking at her. Her brush is up. It flames like a torch against the dull gray sky overhead.

Please,” she says again in a low, troubled voice. “Please don’t let me be what I’m afraid of. Please …. just please help me keep my temper and remember the tree.

There is nothing she can interpret as an answer, not even another of those impatient barks. The vixen only stands there. Its tongue is out now, and it is panting. To Rosie it appears to be grinning.

She looks down once more at the ring circling the seed, then she covers it over with the fragrant, mulchy dirt.

One for my mistress, she thinks, and one for my dame, and one for the little girl who lives down the lane. One for Rosie.

She backs to the edge of the clearing, to the head of the path which will take her back down to the lakeshore. When she is there, the vixen trots quickly to the fallen tree, sniffs the spot where Rosie buried the ring and the seed, and then lies down. Still she pants, and still she grins (Rosie is now sure she is grinning), still she looks at Rosie with her black eyes. The kits are gone, those eyes say, and the dog that got them on me is gone as well. But I, Rosie … I bide. And, if needs must, I repay.

Rosie looks for madness or sanity in those eyes … and sees both.

Then the vixen lowers her pretty snout to her pretty bush, closes her eyes, and appears to go to sleep.

Please,” Rosie whispers, one final time, and then she leaves. And as she drives the Skyway, on her way back to what she hopes is her life, she throws the last piece of her old life—the purse she brought with her out of Egypt—out the driver’s-side window and into Coori Bay.

They don’t picnic there anymore, but once a year, always in the spring, Rosie goes out by herself. She has watched the new tree grow in the shadow of the old fallen one from a sprig to a twig to a sturdy young growth with a smooth, straight trunk and confident branches. She has watched it raise itself, year by year, in the clearing where no fox-kits now gambol. She sits before it silently, sometimes for as long as an hour, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She does not come here to worship or to pray, but she has a sense of rightness and ritual about being here, a sense of duty fulfilled, of some unstated covenant’s renewal. And if being here helps keep her from hurting anyone… then it is time well spent.

How perfectly this tree grows! Already its young branches are densely dressed in narrow leaves of a dark green hue, and in the last two years she has seen hard flashes of color deep within those leaves—blossoms which will, in this tree’s later years, become fruit. If someone were to happen by this clearing and eat of that fruit, Rosie is sure the result would be death, and a hideous death, at that. She worries about it, from time to time, but until she sees signs that other people have been here, she doesn’t worry overmuch. …Now it is enough simply to come here, and to fold her clear, unblemished hands in her lap, and look at the tree of her rage and the hard splashes of rose madder that will become, in later years, the numb-sweet fruit of death.

Sometimes as she sits before this little tree, she sings, “I’m really Rosie,” she sings, “and I’m Rosie Real … you better believe me … I’m a great bit deal …

She isn’t a big deal, of course, except to the people who matter in her life, but since these are the only ones she cares about, that’s fine. All accounts balance, as the woman in the zat might have said. She has reached safe harbor, and on these spring mornings near the lake, sitting in the overgrown, silent clearing which has never changed over all the years (it is very like a picture, that way—the sort of humdrum painting one might find in an old curio shop, or a pawn-and-loan), her legs folded beneath her, she sometimes feels a gratitude so full that she thinks her heart can hold no more, ever. It is this gratitude that makes her sing. She must sing. There is no other choice.

And sometimes the vixen—old now, her own years of bearing long behind her, her brilliant bush streaked with wiry threads of gray—comes to the edge of the clearing, and stands, and seems to listen to Rosie sing. Her black eyes as she stands there communicate no clear thought to Rosie, but it is impossible to mistake the essential sanity of the old and clever brain behind them.”
— Stephen King, Rose Madder (1996)


Greek Mythology: “Phaeton, Helios’ Son”.-

Cyan Ryan:

While I don’t normally accept awards, I will accept one in my own way, in sharing some of my allegoric Phaeton prose in thanks to my brilliant, thoughtful and beautiful new friend Aquileana for recognizing me with the Versatile Blogger Award with her new post on Phaeton! Thank you Aquileana, and great post!
“When we are born, we start living our first year. When we come full circle, we claim a full age, and begin another. The last evening of the Summer of 2008, I turned 22 and as a red dawn spilled over the Autumn Equinox, I began shading 23’s blueprints. I’ve never had an ending, just almost beginnings, love touched, just airbrushed lust, infatuation with the emotionally unavailable. I’m attracted to what I can’t have, and if I see I can, with my own voice and hands, I sacrifice myself, the chance, thinking I’m just too savage for saving, knowing intimacy means trusting without facade, another with the true open book that I pretend is 21 shades of blue, afraid to let 23 shades of red be read. With subtle jots, with little tittles, I’ve tried to call out all the shots, to alter what I knew to be my lot. My eyes bloodshot, never have forgot the pain of sunspots in inkblots. A process of drawing my own fire, and losing our plot in the flames after becoming a self-inspired liar, torching memories, bridge-burning synapses-misfiring, reinventing She. A blur of burns from close shaves in changing Aiges and Her names fanning my fickle flames in shame. Hush-Hush, secrets in the telling of fever-dreams’ frozen reveries. I might as well be running in circles around the world recreating Earth as my personal Hell without help, the 21 century’s 21 shades of blue stuck on repeat, static, standing still and I might as well be alone here; without Her here, there is no one who can contain my flame for her Summer sparks of sunspots, freckles, kisses Frost blew shades of red to five Aiges since one True I’ve burned through, with them bridges I’d built of lives spent missing Her’s in them, five years since I began 23, now I’m turning 28 tomorrow’s eve, still differing an epilogue’s leaf…”
— Ry Hakari (written Sep. 20, 2014, the day before I turned 28 last month)

Originally posted on La Audacia de Aquiles:

►Greek Mythology: “Phaeton, Helios’ Son”:


"Phaeton" by Gustave Moreau (1878).

“Phaeton” by Gustave Moreau (1878).



Phaeton (derived from the greek verb phaethô, “to shine: “the shining” or “radiant one”)  was the young son of Helios and Clymene

According to the roman poet, Ovid, Phaethon was the son of Helios, the god of the Sun, and Clymene, an Oceanid Nymph,who was also mother of the Seven Heliad Nymphs (Paethon’ sisters) .

It was not until Phaethon reached a certain age, however, that he learned that his father was indeed the Sun-god. When he realized who  his father was, Phaethon decided to meet Helios. He therefore went on a journey to the East, where he found his father’s grand palace.

Phaeton begged his father to let him drive the chariot of the sun. 

Helios tried to talk him out of it by telling him that not even Zeus would dare to drive it, as the…

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21 Shades of Blue & 23 Shades of Red

“There is a legend of an artist who had found the secret of a wonderful red which no other artist could imitate. The secret of his color died with him. But after his death an old wound was discovered over his heart. This revealed the source of the matchless hue in his pictures. The legend teaches that no great achievement can be made, no lofty attainment reached, nothing of much value to the world done, save at the cost of heart’s blood.”
– Lettie Burd Cowman, Streams in the Desert, first published in 1925

“21 Shades of Blue”
by Ry Hakari

It’s constant winter here
and the stars are falling down,
lighting up the clouds
as the wind cries loud
because love has me
in the sleeper cell
I’m a true Jack Frost

and my name’s hush-hush
I pay off my promises
with the currency
of cold closed lips
so I can live and breathe
in this zero breeze
as it consumes me

under the willow tree
while waiting for the sun
to come out from
above the storm,
down below
to the center blue,
where I stand frozen still

9 …The spirit of the frost has its angel; in the spirit of hail there is a good angel; the spirit of snow ceases in its strength, and a solitary spirit is in it, which ascends from it like vapour, and is called refrigeration. 10The spirit also of mist dwells with them in their receptacle; but it has a receptacle to itself; for its progress is in splendour. 11In light, and in darkness, in winter and in summer. Its receptacle is bright, and an angel is in it. 12The spirit of dew has its abode in the extremities of heaven, in connection with the receptacle of rain; and its progress is in winter and in summer. The cloud produced by it, and the cloud of the mist, become united; one gives to the other; and when the spirit of rain is in motion from its receptacle, angels come, and opening its receptacle, bring it forth. 13When likewise it is sprinkled over all the earth, it forms an union with every kind of water on the ground; for the waters remain on the ground, because they afford nourishment to the earth from the Most High, who is in heaven. 14Upon this account therefore there is a regulation in the quantity of rain, which the angels receive. 15These things I saw; all of them, even paradise. … 1In those days I beheld long ropes given to those angels; who took to their wings, and fled, advancing towards the north. 2And I inquired of the angel, saying, Wherefore have they taken those long ropes, and gone forth? He said, They are gone forth to measure. 3The angel, who proceeded with me, said, These are the measures of the righteous; and cords shall the righteous bring, that they may trust in the name of the Lord of spirits for ever and ever. 4The elect shall begin to dwell with the elect. 5And these are the measures which shall be given to faith, and which shall strengthen the words of righteousness. 6These measures shall reveal all the secrets in the depth of the earth. 7And it shall be, that those who have been destroyed in the desert, and who have been devoured by the fish of the sea, and by wild beasts, shall return, and trust in the day of the Elect One; for none shall perish in the presence of the Lord of spirits, nor shall any be capable of perishing. 8Then they received the commandment, all who were in the heavens above; to whom a combined power, voice, and splendour, like fire, were given.”
— The Book of Enoch 59:9-60:8

“23 Shades of Red”
by Ry Hakari

Hush,  Sigmunda’s sleeping
Aegis-shielded by Angelus

Speak no ill of the deceased

They measure Springs of Regulus’
ancient reins through assessed
Summers of Sigmunda’s
crimson pillowed cloud billows
painting Autumns of Angelus
close as two coats through Roanoke’s
Winters of Terminus’ broken oaths
to stir sleeping ghosts’ dreams
of rain residues and amber resins

The Siberian Winter-sequestered,
the Summer lepers of the desert
painted cerise and crimson folly,
drinking scarlet vermilion wine

Sovereign winds’ shining providence
grind the horizon axes’ azure-purge
as electric crimson cloud’s raindrops
roll sky-wounds across thirsty deserts

A second-hand’s minute-difference
swirls hues, tints, shades and degrees
of heart’s palettes butchered inverses

“Our attitude had not been a sincere one. To listen to us we were, of course, prepared to maintain that death is the necessary termination of life, that everyone of us owes nature his death and must be prepared to pay his debt, in short, that death was natural, undeniable, and inevitable. In practice we were accustomed to act as if matters were quite different. We have shown an unmistakable tendency to put death aside, to eliminate it from life. We attempted to hush it up, in fact, we have the proverb: to think of something as of death. Of course we meant our own death. We cannot, indeed, imagine our own death; whenever we try to do so we find that we survive ourselves as spectators. The school of psychoanalysis could thus assert that at bottom no one believes in his own death, which amounts to saying: in the unconscious every one of us is convinced of his immortality.

…We assume a special attitude towards the dead, something almost like admiration for one who has accomplished a very difficult feat. We suspend criticism of him, overlooking whatever wrongs he may have done, and issue the command, de mortuis nil nisi bene: we act as if we were justified in singing his praises at the funeral oration, and inscribe only what is to his advantage on the tombstone. This consideration for the dead, which he really no longer needs, is more important to us than the truth and to most of us, certainly, it is more important than consideration for the living.”
— Sigmund Freud, “Reflections on War & Death: II Our Attitude Towards Death” (1918)

Winteress’ Beautiful Skin Is Just A Hint Of Her Center’s Allure (Winter 2013)

Warmth in the Winter by Carli

Warmth in the Winter by Carli

“Music brings a warm glow to my vision, thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering.”
― Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World


Her cold shoulder, her icy silence, her cool nonchalance
Astonished with shock, jolted to a stop, caught by the short hairs
A rambunctious rhino, a runaway train, an unstoppable juggernaut

Her gleaming glacier eyes stunning my heart like a sudden gun,
Her soft and full smile — wide, hungry and wild like a Cheshire cat’s
Her silky-smooth thick, beautiful skin just a hint of her center’s allure

Already in love when awake, when I dreamed of her differently
When she was smiling at me, Wintress and me and our love child son
I learned deeper meanings of words like “Family”, “Future”, “Courage”

I knew I’d beat shooting stars to the draw, outrace the pace of the moon
If they were competing for a chance to be a part of the art of your heart
I awoke unable to beat around the bush, so I set it aflame hoping you’d see

I’d raise the sea floor to the surface ceiling, if that’s what it would take
To find the perfect places to dance, after you walked down the wedding Nile
To start life as wife to a reformed rhino, chosen choo-choo, smitten juggernaut