Augmentation Laud

Piercing beyond the veil,
the line of sight sees through
the projected understanding
constrained with at birth.
What was once flat, was raised
to depth, then tangible, and now
new perspectives are pushing
through, and changing every
truth given, and changing every
mind that once understood.
The fireflies phasing in and out
of existence, leave residual energy,
their light eternal between dimensions,
their light eternal to separate the thickness
of the dark forest. Voices rise, confrontational
and loathsome, angry and expectant. The
insatiable hunger for lucidity has escaped
them and as the trees become the forest,
their resonance becomes shadows
that haunt that tormented land.
The shadows become sentient,
and lounge around the living room
opting for leather couch and faux
as the focal point of their nexus,
desperate if not thankful for the living.
And the corners will continue to lie
to the eyes, but only now the eyes see
the truth. It is understood the omissions
that have stripped humanity of half
its natural gifts, leaving the strong
to endure the lack of tolerance,
leaving the confused to wash away
in the seas of apathy, and leaving
the weak to conform to self-immolation,
shall be spoken, and a restoration return
as the shadows become space, and the
torn fabric of humanity’s mind become
the stars, projecting the light needed
to rise the weighted vessels, shackled
and heavy, to transcend the snares
of dual energies’ magnetic gravity,
to ascend higher in the depth of
understanding, a welcome to the
eyes of discernment and wisdom,
and to reconstitute identity,
a declaration of independence
from the mortal coil binding us,
and a return of the memory lost
to us as we breached the walls of
this dimension, fully well knowing
that to succeed all we had to do
was remember.

“Augmentation Laud” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

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Fruit of the Barren

Pale skin, hermaphrodite,
an iconology of ideology
and mysticism. Prophetess
of the new age, barren
archetype reminisced,
inspired by arcane smoke
and intoxicated on the influence
of the elders. The web spun
tells the future, a cutting stone
of rhetoric and spin, misdirection
in the minutia, divisible with wrongful
incarceration and the pretentious
desire to do the right thing for the wrong
reasons and to brag about it.

Half the body is dead. It seeks resuscitation,
resurrection, or reanimation; it will drink
the blood of the young to keep itself alive.
It will fill it with the fear of the children
to maximize the potion’s magic. It will
glutton-like drink the ambrosia while it
tells lies to preserve itself; it will tell lies to
preserve the original lie. It will paint false
pictures. It will sing songs to manipulate
the emotions and the energy they generate.
It will be lost in the blizzard of hate it has
instigated and demand respect for the
ghosts it has suffered, though they’ve
been long dead decades hence.

The diviner rises a Judas goat,
divides us by every detail,
segregates tolerance from love
and forgiveness from good will.
It turns the golden rule in on itself.
It creates a generator of negativity
and incubates the fear and ill will
till they burst like a solar flare
into the psyche of man. It
contaminates them further still
with assertions of disillusionment
as manufactured by artificial constructs,
industrial strength Molotov cocktails that
burn the nerve endings and incinerate
the consciousness, all filters brought
to ash. It asserts winter over every soul
present, it turns the water to black ice
and sends those traveling into a tailspin
debauched by necessity and desperation.

Twenty years after the mystic cast her spell,
the rotten fruits of spoiled trees have poisoned
the general populace, and the work of the angels
has multiplied greatly, but their energies catch
the radical intent, misappropriated or not, and
changes the feeling, the delivery of the meaning
cushioned more than cradled. They pull the
threads of consciousness, each strand lighting gold,
glowing with its growth. A tapestry the angels make,
their hands and fingers looms of energy, pulls the
mother from the quagmire; it washes away the filth,
dissolving the taint to fine particles of light. And the
strands belonging to their lost brothers and sisters
effervesce with knowledge and a deep seeded
understanding that bears the roots of many returns;
the strength and longevity of each root burrowed
into the soul of its mother, anoint her and make her
spirit light until the weight of depression and anxiety
have lifted and the burden of fear and apathy  have
dispersed, and she floats before the face of god
and greets him kindly as she ascends
to the lofty palaces inspired by love.

 

“Fruit of the Barren” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Observations of the Unification

Cognizant realities merge.
Spectrums of here and there,
then and now, resonate as one.
The multi-soul melds, the twelve
become one. The return of the universe,
never as retribution, never as a consequence,
never as a lesson, seeks balance through
positive and negative, soon dispels
the negative, turns it away
as a father may his bastard,
as a mother may her daughter,
as an artist may their creation.
In the constant realm of night,
as energies mesh and mold into
thoughts and substance, the
blackened rainbows of the soul,
resolute in full color, cast
a kaleidoscopic truth, radiant
in the heart and resonant in the gut,
like an old friend sits, cards in hand
across the table, straight-faced, illegible.
Accosted by the subtle spikes that tear
the sky, by the chill of intentional fear,
the desperation of the lost, the social layers
constructed and crafted betray the master.
Untamed, uninterpretable, unbreakable,
arrogance blinded the master; unpredictable
a victim of the ego, underestimation a figment
of the imagination. Undetermined. The future
once crystallized in the minds of all man, the
energy procured patiently over centuries,
is undetermined. The rocks have begun to
melt, the volcanic ash plumed to the heavens.
The melding of realities, the meshing
of energies shattered that ancient stone.
Cracked and blistered, erupted, shards
of disillusionment scatter to the ground.
The deepened pit created, the gorge
of unreality and conscious disassociation,
has begun to seal, the unifying souls
clamoring to escape a once self-induced
conclusion. The spirits rise in the air, the flesh
becomes electric, the heart reverberates waves
of love, the constructs given to us break down
and the lucid truth returns. The agreement
and path once chosen unfolds like a map,
and new crystals of truth cast a spectrum
unseen, except to those initiated with the
unity of their truths, and marriage of
their souls.

“Observations of the Unification” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

The Art of Remembrance

Every now and then he comes to visit. What affinity towards, I do not understand. We understand each other. But there is much more in his solace-locked art and candor than I could ever dare to express. I never knew the man. It is safe to say I could have. Had I awakened to his craft, had I sensed him sooner, I could have. In this world of single degree separation, I may have known the man. I may have experienced his art live. But I never did. One September evening, I did meet his successor, an artist of his own vision and scope, Valor Kand.

And now the initiated know.

I actually interviewed Valor (unpublished and possibly difficult to obtain now, oh dearest technology) and manned the merch table when he brought Christian Death through Texas sometime ago. That in itself was an experience to have, and just in time for birthday season. I also had the opportunity to speak with Zara Kand, Valor’s daughter. Zara is a magnificent artist in her own right, not falling far from the family tree. Long time friends of mine, too, have toured their music with some of Rozz’ brood and relations, right down to the matriarchs themselves, Eva O. and Gitane DeMone. All this name dropping, you may say. But my point: we’re always one or two degrees from separation. It could just be small world syndrome. Or the specialized sub-culture all these beautiful people inhabit. Still, in the absence of his being, and beyond his musical creations, I sought to engage the late Rozz Williams in poetry.

Rozz Williams, born Roger Painter, was known greatly as an underground icon for the American goth and deathrock scene. He was iconographic, as many photos of him may prove. He was influenced by great artists, Bowie and Roxy Music not withstanding. But for most, the fascination of Rozz Williams ends with the seminal album Only Theater of Pain by Christian Death, a band he founded in the early 1980s. A listen to the follow-up, Catastrophe Ballet, gave fans a much deeper, and melancholic sound that took the frenetic energy and dark, punk sentiments of Only Theater of Pain and subdued them into rock and roll art that was layered and thought provoking. The combination of music and lyric let listeners know a much more substantial work was at play here. It was as if the heart of the Parisian, surrealist artist had jumped into the body of this youthful expressionist, and channeled their darkest moments through his work. Considering some of his literary influences, Jean Genet and Baudelaire included, I wanted Rozz’ poetry.

 

But for most, the fascination of Rozz Williams ends with the seminal album Only Theater of Pain by Christian Death, a band he founded in the early 1980s.

 

Readers of this blog may recall the four poems I shared at the beginning of National Poetry Month. They were tributes to Rozz and spotlights on his work, in memoriam. Rozz became physically removed from this realm on April 1, 1998, in his apartment in West Hollywood. I found him a few years later. And years since, I have discovered the various facets of his art. The man, though life short lived, was productive, a prolific artist; and a theme with most in his circle, Rozz was an artist of all trades: visually, aurally, literarily. To date only one book I am aware of exists that collects the poetry of Rozz Williams, and that is And What About the Bells? or “Le Theatre des Douleurs,” because it’s in French (I don’t own a copy, personally. It’s a trite expensive at import). It was published by Camion Blanc in 2010. The book is a biography and poetry collection. Supposedly, an English version was rumored to be in the works, but that may have been just a rumor. I can say for certain that it is a shame there is not an English version, or an American release, at that. He was, after all, an original American artist.

The Art of Rozz Williams: From Christian Death to Death, was released by Nico B. and is a collection of Rozz’ artwork. The book contains some verse, though they are presented as original copies, rough drafts, and visual art (this I do own, first edition; the second edition is hard cover and I want a copy of that). It was inspiring to see the hand-written texts, the sprawled out messages seeped from pen to page. The engaging work produced by procuring and interweaving the art of others (collage). But, again, this is a collection of his visual art, with some discography, photos and text, but by no means substantial for a deep, lengthy read of his verse. So, what then? All we have is a hard-to-get, foreign publication, and an artbook, the two providing a mere tease. There was some reprieve in Rozz Williams’ sound recordings. He had many projects, and spoken word was definitely an artform he dabbled in. He released two formal spoken word studio albums, Every King a Bastard Son and The Whorse’s Mouth (the latter being a personal fave). Visions of Bowie and Morrison and Burroughs and Ginsberg abound. Countless more, I’m sure, but my scope is limited. It is always refreshing to me to experience poetry in a different way. Spoken, is definitely one I enjoy. Spoken set to sound track is even better. Audio adds another depth to the work. It may strip the listener of free-roam interpretation by providing a focused tone or tempo, but enriches the piece nonetheless.

 

…readers may ask (and some have), about the content of the work. It’s heavy stuff. But, only a shard of the crystalline spectrum that is the art of Rozz Williams. In the case of The Whorse’s Mouth, the spoken word album dealt with heroine addiction.

 

The pieces I shared come from the album The Whorse’s Mouth, and, I believe, are some of his strongest literary works. The sophomore spoken word album was less experimental and the poetry was elevated, crafted. The writing while aligning with the music and soundcraft, does not feel like a reaction to it, or secondary, as I felt it did in Every King a Bastard Son.

As I will reblog the four poems, readers may ask (and some have), about the content of the work. It’s heavy stuff. But, only a shard of the crystalline spectrum that is the art of Rozz Williams. In the case of The Whorse’s Mouth, the spoken word album dealt with heroine addiction. He frequently looked inward at personal demons and experiences as substance for his creations, but also, as artists do, he gave an outward view, and provided perspective and commentary in regards to social issues, the metaphysical, and in a couple instances, became semi-political. These ideas swam in the deeper end of the soul, and truly there may have been some torment there. But, again, I never met the man. And in lieu of sharing the information provided by others regarding his personal and emotional state, I’d rather not say anything. While it is understandable the type of energy and emotion that his work taps into is not the most desirable feeling to linger on (as one dear friend once said to me, “But why would you want to feel that way all the time?”), it is a part of the human experience not many address, and not many are equipped to express. To take a look at his body of work, one would consider this man to be a brave artist, with bold expression, and ahead of his time.

I will disclose that I edited the four poems (structure only [and some grammar]), but not the content. I, unfortunately, do not currently own a copy of from The Whorse’s Mouth (don’t get me wrong, at one point I owned two copies), but this gem has become increasingly hard to find. Most of his work is becoming rare. Still, these were procured from the inter-webs. And if memory serves, the poems were included in the insert of the album. So these may be reputable, yet, but that’s the editor in me coming out. Enjoy the poems, start a discussion, look him up. Rozz Williams was an American, gothic icon, a pillar of the underground, and a forefather of shock and abstract rock. Still, he may yet provide something you’ve been missing or looked over, like that small, dark corner waiting to see the light.

 

“The Art of Remembrance” is an essay written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

La Primera

Todos somos son
La verde y la Azul
El sol unido

“La Primera” is a haiku in Spanish and is written by Michael Aaron  Casares. All rights reserved. It popped up first on Twitter, error and all, because we do love live poetry. 

 

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Transmute the Soul

Diligence based opulence,
discreet name seen in sky,
a flashing jig of light
will paralyze the day.
A shadow smolders
to non-existence,
misunderstanding
the difference between
belief and conviction.
It calls to its kind,
it seeks like energies,
it vibrates the vapid space,
it assumes that you will never
understand and for that is haughty.
Self understanding,
self analyzation,
self deprecation,
self emulation,
self that senses
verse sense of self,
all decisions are
weighed at death,
and justice sleeps not
for one day, as karmic rules
apply to all, in this ocean vast
and small, of the single drops
fill fast its basin, and realize
the liquid of life, the vibration
of love, must remain light
and positive.

“Transmute the Soul” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Black Orpheus: Midnight Stream

The storms of Jupiter ascend,
burning clouds of Neptune and Saturn.
Their perfect orbs, spherical in spite of
hexagonal surges, whirlpools, and vortices,
dervish silent frenzies. Clouded in the eye,
everlasting fog chokes the pupil sight.
It is a repetitive like scratched vinyl clichés, and
lost lacquer messages, hidden and secret, locked,
undismayed by the greed of light that eats away
the shadows. Rejoice in it, a reverie of rainbow
cast darkness inversed up the smoldering bowl
to a dank reality of wispy Nosferatu and elusive
shadow men. The ghosts poke their curl-cued
heads around the corner until the heart
radiates them away, losers of imperfect love
that only manage to remain lost floating
among the silent spheres, the music lost
to the overwhelming space once subdued.
In streams, the conscience flows, it looks, eyes wide,
mouth agape, tongue crossed, an absurdist pretzel
in old wood, chipped and dry. The crab burns,
the feverish blisters, the filthy hands that heal
the wounds lay testament to fever-pitch nightmares
and lazy-Susan personalities, a revolving door of fodder,
all smiles and bright eyes. The immaculate love
barred from the former dimensions,
the heightened aura of forgiveness,
seeps slowly into the empty reservoirs
constructed by our ancestors,
by the beings so weighted
stones set in mud and seal
like concrete, the vast
gemstones of error.

“Black Orpheus: Midnight Stream” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.