Borders of the Mind


 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/border/#like-249996

Border

Walls and Memories

 

Yesterday is another country. Borders are now closed.

TEDDY BUTLER, Midsomer Murders, “Vixen’s Run” (2006)

 
But Sometimes the Past Memories come back to haunt you. The borders are permeable. There are holes in the fenced bricked walls. Thoughts within the intricacies of the mind have no fear of protective barbed wire. They weave over and around like ghosts through cemetery gates.
 
As much as you attempt to put the past behind you it hangs onto your coat-tails and sticks like fly paper. Where you move it goes. Forever your shadow real yet intangible daring you to leave it behind because you both know it, they, the memories, flaws and failures will always be a part of your life like skin to bone. Muscle to fiber and tendon. You can never forget. Swift Rivers carry bodies downstream to surface with the Spring thaw. Sacrifices for the Funeral Pyre. 

 

The Immolation of Brigadier Jaynes

 

Brigaider Jaynes. He went insane.

Not all at once. But in bits and pieces.

Dying upon tracked grill. For the rats to get there fill.

Leftovers charcoal broiled. Pigeons, Roaches and rats gather for a feast.

He once went for Reyna Angelica. Ms. Lady who did a pole dance with a tracker trailer at the intersection of a State of Insanity. Stopping traffic for miles around.

Bodies stacked like cord-wood.

Behold the Char Man Cometh

His Fiery Frame set to blazing coals.

His disembodied entrails offerings to the Underground rat-tail gods.

Char-Man ~~ A Jumping, Jaggling, Waggling, Corpse doing a Macabre Jig inside the tunnel.

A Sign Shouted Danger/Peligroso! For Gotham is a Bi-Textual Town.

Another of the Mole People succumbs to the savageries of Life.

At Dusk when the warmth of the Sun has ceded to Night’s chill, Char Man comes to me offering to turn my bed into a living breathing fireplace with me as one of the perpetually burning logs. His eye never quits straying from my side. The Eternal Inferno Burning Spectrum infests my dreams like creeping ivy and mold. I am just an observer. If he can’t have Laura will he take me?

And so it begins once more.

Oh Laura! Where have you gone?!

Twin Peaks Dancing Dwarf

 

Hypnos, Morpheus and Phantasos mock me!!  Phobetor, god of nightmares is my Deity.

 

I’ve suffered from Nightmares, Insomnia, Night Terrors and as an adult Sleep-walking. When I was younger I used to see demons at the foot of my bed and felt some type of demon or evil being sitting on my chest! Thankful that finally went away.  However Sleep has rarely been peaceful or restful for me! 

 

The Man from Another Place is Waiting for you!! For at Midnight all Black Cats are Grey and Dying men sometimes transmigrate into lesser animals. For you see I am not from Gentleness but from War.  I am the Midnight Marauder a Succubus come to steal men’s souls as they sleep!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cloud Mists ~ For Lucy


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fog/#like-245700

Fog

Foggy Misty Morn Central Park
Foggy Misty Morn Central Park

Misty Foggy Morn

Foggy Misty morn over Central Park in the ball field
Foggy Misty morn over Central Park in the ball field

 

Cloud Mists ~ For Lucy

Mists Cloud your face yet never your smile, laughter, your cheerfulness, your precious spirit.  Life moves on but there will always be an empty space where you once stood.  You were a sweet and gentle soul. All the world is passing by and I want to shout, Stop! Wait a minute! Don’t you know a melody has ceased playing? A familiar song is now silent?  Here I remain stoic yet crying inside wishing I could reach through this veil of tears and take your hand once again.

20130930_074209
Misty Day

Remembrance

Though we be in the Autumn of our lives we still beam the Girlish Dreams of Youth. When the cord is cut mid-stream will our dreams be cast into the raging seas…..ashes scattered to the prevailing winds blanketing the Earth like so many strips of confetti after the parade has ended?

Are our dreams lost forever or merely transferred to future generations. When death stills earthly dreams do they take wings and fly towards the Heavens.  Do our Ancestors dream of those yet to join them? Are we the living dreaming Lineages cut short who seek a bloodline vessel?

Girlish dreams beckon faded broken bodies. Minds kindled by the flames of youth —- yet the structure could not hold.  BOOM!!  And ever so slowly and softly one million photographs gently wafted to earth to be gathered by the Memory Gleaners and placed in the gallery of Lost Souls.

Minnie Riperton: “Memory Lane”

http://youtu.be/2-Z2z5a4mQ4

 

Do Heavenly dwellers have earthly memories?  Can Memories transpose the veil?  And we, if we be close enough or strong enough then death will hold no obstacle.  Essence travels freely no longer bound by fleshly concerns.

Foggy Misty Morn
Foggy Misty Morn

Evolution of Childhood InterPlanetary Dreams


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/planet/

 

Evolution of Childhood InterPlanetary Dreams

Underground Railroad

Grandmas Reign Quilt

Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer -- Grandmother
Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer — Grandmother

Epoch Heydays beat rhythm time Tempo bringing Glory Days and Golden Age into Earth, Space, time Continuum alignment around my being. Spiritual Discernment begins the convergence of planets, Moon-Womben Star-gazers endlessly birthing heavenly bodies and floating orbs.

Underground Railroad_2

Mother Africa as Creator Goddess singing Reign Blessings upon her children.

My World, the ones I saw in my Grandmother’s Quilt and the ever expanding Galaxies beyond Earth, Sky, Sun and Moon-Daughter Wishes, Hopes and Desires.

Ancient hand stretching finger Ancestor Dimensions reaching forward into time and eternity bringing revelation knowledge of history long past yet made fresh daily.

Troubles beating bloody fists upon my pate.

Belladonna into Nightshades.

Tethered by an unholy umbilical cord to a dead albatross. Dreams deluge.  Green metal Frigidaire Fan blowing air opposite it’s promised heat relief. Stub toe late shift Dad curses Castro and his Convertible. Bucolic heat wave summer in the city. 25 cent Ice Cream salvation dispensed by Mr. Softee. Martha Reeves and her Vandellas gyrating to Dancing in the Streets while kids follow her Piped Pipers.

Kool-Aid libation sugar screams ensue while transistor talking heads Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson called Shea play by plays. Bygone days of Tri-Corn braids.  Fletcher’s Castoria Beef Iron Wine cocktails.   Childhood freedom beckons signalling release from adulthood chain gangs. Teeter-totter bring unbalanced superimposed idealized memories to double-doubted times past. It’s 1964 and my Dixie Peach anointed head snuggles with Panda pillow transcending time once again in the loving arms of Grandma Eva’s patchwork quilt.

Island of the Damned -- Bocklin

A Building at Rest ~ Goth Holiday at the Museum


A Building at Rest

The museum Thanksgiving Day 2012
the museum is populated by a wonderful yet mysterious quiet & peace undisturbed by the frenetic masses. Silences punctuated only by flowing water, the endless hum and shifting of building machinery.

Even normal noises can be unsettling. Especially those associated with people. The building has become a living breathing organism Uttering creaks moans sighs groans from nearly 150 years of footfalls, voices, radios, songs, cantatas, the chiming of clocks, exclamations of awe & wonder. Whispers from an Archaic Victorian century long past to digital diversity.

Oh what secrets lie transfixed within these silent walls yearning for release.  The Hunger has been unleashed upon the populace.

The immortality of brick, mortar & steel record the march of ethnicities & nations who roam free these hallowed halls.

Sometimes the sudden interruption of footfalls becomes ominous, invading the sanctity of the Holy Sanctuary. Even the sound of my own steps is somewhat menacing. What spirits accompany me on perambulations among the saints and sinners?

The feeble burbling of the fountain stream’s half-hearted attempts to empty its essence, struggling to pollinate magnificent coins.

The day is at end, the light has faded. Now the night crew enters to continue the evening melody.

Hotel California
Hotel California

Reflections Goth Holiday 2013

Cadaver Mind A.D.D.

Heaving sighs and moans.  Creaks, chrupping of brick, mortar, steel and glass pane windows. Blood oozes and drips from open wounds in Laymen’s red brick walls. Elevator doors open and a thousand wailing, howling, grieving souls swoop through the air and into the Medieval Court crying for revenge. Flight of the Valkyries. The Martyrs avenge their unjust and untimely deaths. Swirling and whirling like profane dervishes from netherworld’s portal of the undead.

Angels Falling
Angels Falling

Hail Mary Echoes from thousands of Knights, monks, Nuns, bishops, and church saints racing through Byzantium corridors. Spirits of Reliquaries issue forth warnings and admonishments to modern day savages. Reliquary Fingers of Blessing Inflict Pain Yanking Opening Death’s Door breaking off bits and pieces of flesh, bone, teeth and hair for deposit into ossuary banks.

Slats opening and closing mindfully as though giving some secret Morse Code. Dioramas of Death act out murderous suicidal dramas. Eagle slays Dragon plucking out blinded eyes from empty orbs.

Medieval castle built long ago by invaders long forgotten. A grand foyer flanked by two long hallways of Byzantine art leading into Medieval Sculpture Hall filled with statues of Madonnas, Saints, Mystics, Relics, and tombs from Egypt, Europe, Greece, Cyprus and South America. Kali goddess of the sarcophagus raises her many arms in Victory. Subterranean pipes hissing steam clanking unrest.

Island of the Damned -- Bocklin
Island of the Damned by Bocklin

Secret panels opening up to Mausoleum subterranean chambers containing overturned ossuaries, bones bleached white scattered throughout the tombs.

Abruptly Angels on the Christmas tree come to life and like ravenous vampire bats attack unsuspecting visitors. Reanimated Reliquary Arms reach out to throttle throats of fleeing patrons. Fang toothed Egyptian mummies arise and break through display cases to satiate their ancient eon hunger upon frenzied victims. Their desert saliva spreading infection causing festering vile pus filled carbuncles to captive prey.

Emptiness and Futility of Life
Life’s ignoble Ending

Desire run rampant as sacrilegious effigies coupled and reached radiant necrophilia orgasm stone bodies now made supple. Mystics and Monks glowered lecherously all the while reciting Gregorian chants, dirges and cries for absolution filling the room with the intensity of their mating.

Gargoyles descended from illicit trysts with human females and warlock man beasts gave into the licentious behaviors’ anointing themselves and fleeing clienteles with seminal fluid oily slick.

Orgasm became an exceptional obsession.

Viscous gleaming blood, shimmering with glided preternatural flakes of light. Black Iris her breasts like soft fragrant pillows.

Fort Tipii


Fort Tipii

Tepee-Hut
Tepee-Hut

I couldn’t build a proper tree house.  Too high up and anyway I’m afraid of heights, so instead I built this little fort of sorts as a place to gather my thoughts after a hectic day.  Made my best efforts with whatever materials the forest floor offered up as building materials.  There were enough twigs and branches to construct more ground level tree houses or make my current enclosure larger but I chose to save some for kindling for warmth against the chill night air and the rest I kept stacked as a type of cord-wood in a womb like nook Mother Nature had carved into a tree that had been struck by lightening. Eventually I decided to construct another Tipii twig abode to store my few belongings I had gradually began to sneak away from The Family Residence.

These Tree/Tepee/Tipii/Twig aka T3 structures became my holy sanctuaries and safe havens I return to again and again to re-connect with Mother Earth and nature. Too small to stand upright clicking my heels together three times was not an option so I was forced to remain seated. With some degree of discomfort I could lay down in a fetal position while I imagined myself re-entering an alternate womb to be reborn into better circumstances. Mine were a tepee shelters without the buffalo skin covering all exposed bones and framework.

Tipii Stick Hut
Tipii-Hut

Sometimes I’d hug my knees and rhythmically rock back and forth while repeating what I thought were calming mantras, occasionally wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole transporting me some place free from pain, misery and cruelty. Like a shaman I chanted using my homemade rituals attempting to silence the drumbeat of voices incessantly chattering inside my head versus the declarations of the Family.  They created a dissonance tear in the time frame continuum of my thoughts.

You see our house, The Family Home if you could call it that is a ramshackle structure; a hodgepodge mixture of stone, wood and stucco additions and afterthoughts as different parts of the building were constructed at different times upon the whims the directors and caretakers.

I was forced to share this mishmash cottage with twelve other inmates, bordered on this expanse of woods providing me a refuge from leaky roofs, busted walls, peeling wallpaper, lukewarm baths, moldy musty scented showers, not to mention all the yelling, screaming, arguments, fights, thefts of food and personal belongings and constant disagreements of a house too small to accommodate the number of people residing within its creaky ramparts.  The Family nicknamed it the Hotel California. You know the place where you check in but never check out. The nails across chalkboard voices of The Family were constant knife thrusts to my brain making daily life a constant battle that did not end even has the diurnal gave up residence to the nocturnal for they all snored, wheezed and gasped through the night abyss.  The utter desolation of the place crept into your bones and took root nourished by hopelessness.

The Family’s house sits on an oddly place piece of land, our house gives way to forest which in turn after several miles gives way to craggy, rocky shores of a steep cliff, where if one sits perfectly still you can hear the violent waves crashing against rough jagged rock formations that looked as though they were designed by the devil himself. It is said that in olden times there used to be many shipwrecks where sailors were either impaled on the razor sharp Stalagmites. Sometimes you can even hear the shrieks, moans, cries and groans of the unfortunate wretches mixed in with the howling winds. The few who weren’t dashed to pieces by the razor sharp jagged rock formations tried to climb up to safety but were thwarted by the steep incline.

Forest Hiding Place
Forest Hiding Place

So I periodically retreated to my exoskeleton asylums as a sentry medium between earth and sky. I can never turn my mind off completely but within my secret hiding place the voices were kept to a low roar and bid to change direction and pace.

The last straw that broke the camels back came when my moronic addled brained cell-mate Pearl kept throwing her nasty, dirty towels, underwear and flip-flops over to my side of the room. When I returned from the canteen or our common dining area there were moldy wet towels plastered to the floor like throw rugs that accosted the dividing line between our two living areas.  Pearl was known as the filthiest female in our wing tossing food and drink to and fro fully expecting that a squad of personal maids and sweepers were following in her wake. One night after I returned from my many woodland sojourns I decided that I had, had enough and soaked all her grimy towels in gasoline and lighter fluid obtained from an unlocked supply closet near the motor pool.  Pearl had a tendency to drink like sailor on shore leave and sleep just as soundly so she never had an inkling as I piled the towels around her bed, built a kindling fort for good measure and added effect, led a fuse from a doorway to an open window, climbed out and lit said fuse.

The Kindling delivered me from The Family’s vocalizations. I tried to warn them before. I tried to silence the voices through escape, but it was not working so I had to try another plan. The crackles and pops of my campfire seem to be in sync with the screams and cries for rescue from the patients locked inside their rooms but eventually those voices will die out also, and then sleep.  Blessed sleep.

Love,

Cassandra Verity