Blackened night recesses turn into days.
They become unanimous with solidarity but
lost among themselves, shattered individuals
of the same black mirror. The pangs of truth
and the options reality provides for us is nothing
like the lies that satiate the spirit. They are fallen
among the saviors that came before them and
taught humanity lessons, reignited the notions
of the sacred and profane, banished secrets
from our lips but taught discretionary balance.
Lackluster criticisms, halo ringed hypocrisy,
the tangents of emotion wrinkle on the
brow leave us discombobulated.
The heart beckons. It is a beacon for
ghosts of the wilderness that nest
and root deep into the veins of the
earth, the trees. Dozens of spirits,
memories of humanity swell and
writhe begging for sustenance.
They require blood, and the
galvanizing energy of betrayal.
They require the vessels to examine
their souls, to identify universal
truths, to search for unadulterated
morality, and to whitewash with
blackest sin the inherent and
incarnate verity of source
The hole in the head
implodes, corrupts digits
and organs, and eyesight
and discernment. Leaves
dead bodies unturned in
silent procession from
the center of the galaxy
to the threshold of the
home. The jagged crags
erase the riddles as the
fools line up to worship
the sun. At dawn, on the
beach, burning hearts
in effigy, they spread
their poisons and
condemn the flesh
to tarnish the soul
and recruit the fodder
the father commands them.
And the fools will sacrifice themselves
to save the children and remove the haze
and fog of illusion and deceit. The fools
will rise from sleep, will push off the
lumber of dreams and nightmares,
the shackles and cages of unknown
histories have rot off with the needles
of rust and poison that traverse hidden
galaxies and unfurl the mind.
“Black Orpheus: Awake in the Abyss” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Twelve hours difference
the same time of night.
Sister sun, father moon
obliterate the hours
into prisms colored
white and fog.
The brain sludge,
mind junk ripples
in dazzling haze,
a kaleidoscopic tapestry
inside cavernous deep.
Stalactite ice grows
deathly teeth from
ceiling to floor.
to pray upon
before impaling the spirit
with iridescent promises
of carnal delight,
and euphoric afterglow
of coital conquest.
Bruises form, slowing the
blood into cracked sheaths
of blackened tar that tricks
the travelers as they cross
the bridge of ignorance.
A slippery flow solidified
slopes downward, too
fast for gravity to keep,
too welcoming for
the conscience to deny.
A dull pain, muffled abrasion
forms lesions on the skin,
scars the passage to the heart,
shears it like razors and slice
the discord evenly. Eyes lose
harmony, travel separate
and detached. An ocean
crashes inside concrete skull,
a heated, poisonous effervescence
steaming from attention
into dissociation and apathy.
The strings of memory fray,
unravel, unfasten shrinking
the gut, the heart, and head.
No wonder, wander lost
in frozen land. Recall
the long lost foreshadow
of a winter king amid
the ice, and hold the flame
beneath glass chalice,
awaiting again the
clouds of Jupiter
to gather in storm
and perpetuate the surface
in storms vast and everlasting.
The monochrome veils of sworn
enlightenment speed up
entrap the energetic upheaval
once avowed to light, a bride
to source, a corpse upon
the seat of the soul.
“Black Orpheus: Crystalline Haze” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Time slows, it escapes the
dregs of the human soul.
The tempo, the unforgivable
mask of enmity drags the
promises of our youth to
enslave hope and shackle it
It has faceless, baseless,
defaced morals. The truth
wears it like a mask of lies,
and receives the heart of
millions as hundreds of
Judas goats show them the
way, pretending self betrayal
To eat the face of a child,
to cause it terror before a
Satanic death. Drip, drip.
Frazzledrip the Soul until
the unconscionable dance
around the altars naked
and behead the promises
of life in forfeit of their
“Frazzledrip” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
There was a ringing at the door,
I didn’t know what to make of it other than
the starlight of sky above shone through the keyhole.
The privileges of the rural, span Milky Way for miles and
didn’t blink twice to dare show its true colors.
Creamy scattered light in distant resonance,
mixed miles, light years before and light years after.
This was the hidden world of the muse,
radiance dance defy the music of the spheres garbled
in heinous emotion ego, we all looked to one another
to decipher, to possibly ascend in schiz-freak screeching
distances. Classic compositions radiate with new life at my
finger tips and the audience applause in secret solitude
and smiles of solidarity.
“Prelude Hidden Worlds” is an Ekphrastic poem after “Prelude” from Cello Suite No. 1 by J.S. Bach. All rights reserved.
The birds of leaving call to us,
Yet here we stand
Endowed with the fear of flight.
The winds of change consume the land,
While we remain
In the shadow of summers now past.
When all the leaves
Have fallen and turned to dust,
Will we remain
The plague that moves throughout this land
In the shapes of things to come.
Tomorrow’s child is the only child.
“Severance” lyrics written by Brendan Michael Perry. All rights reserved.
I don’t believe people become nothing
until they are something.
I don’t believe people are selfish
until they have something.
People are good.
I believe good people feel guilt
when they want to.
I believe good people feel doubt
when they have to.
Good people feel regret
if they need to.
Shunning the spirit that makes us human.
Too perfect to forget imperfection.
Too enlightened to forget empathy.
Ascended prophets disconnect
like wealthy in glass bubbles.
Forget the cost of living.
Forget the joy of our nature.
Forget the gift of decision
and the duality of thought.
The universe is a stream.
Surrender to the current.
A bottleneck is detrimental
to the contract
agreed on in the vast playing field
the chessboard uncomplicated,
the kings and queens
have checked each other
they find no mate.
The pawns distract them
in their menial servitude.
Absence of fault.
Absence of blame.
Absence of decency
brings guilt to shame.
Shame on those who regret.
Shame on those who doubt.
Shame from the mountains
of ascended prophets
who spit love with as much hate
hidden in their soul,
jealous of the human spirit
we have not forgotten.
“We Are Still Human” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
It smolders in their eyes more so than the black
of pupil and space and heart.
The hearth of the heart has become sick,
produced weeping ashes and bipolar flares,
a crest to the sociopathic tongue that will
misunderstand and judge its own history.
It wriggles something sacred, a docile light
above its flesh, as the dimness begins to rush.
They see orange as the heat flows up their necks
beneath their heated collar and defeated heart.
They scorch the earth with dragon’s tongue,
curse their brothers and their sisters, cast
their family into the pyre with much at stake.
They smile through their frowns, they justify
their emotion as validated by the
Institutionalized academia that wrought
these controlled demolitions, that bred
desperate foot soldiers clinging to their
hollow virtues and crumbling moral high ground,
and I watch it burn to the ground,
as rebirth, a reset, is cast
and the light of the universe
ignites our hearts.
“Orange” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Through the verdant hills of the isle,
in line, in tandem with the minstrel siren,
the once angel of valor and strength,
grace and mercy, a demon disguise,
an eater of children, a banker of blood,
has deceived them as they stroll,
bouncing up and down to the beat
of the heathen drum in masked costume
as creature of the forest, as denizen
of the trees, the flowers, the fairies,
the March hair and the dragon,
waltz in reverie, drunken daydreams
unknown to the cosmic deity of love,
the hatred in their hearts is the fertile
soil of their soul and backwards,
upside down, contrary-wise,
they jest and duel the useful
fool, in clown mask and make-up,
to the pyre where they send their
wishes to the gods of children
and their ravaged and raped
bodies, a true sacrifice of the
conscience energy barreled
deep into the ether of
resentment, no forgiveness asked,
they simply bow their heads, aware of the sins
they mistook for virtues and stretch their
necks on the planks of wood and await
the sharpened blade to fall, crippling the dancing pagans
and silencing the minstrel who without the blood
of children, a hag in wait with demon eyes
anticipates the silent fate the outspoken majority
adjudicates to the light of the world,
the truth of crimes against humanity,
the atrocities performed against
the children of the sun.
“The Dancing Pagans” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Shrilling at the fading sun
Humid night cloudless
“Summer Eve” is haiku written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Instant distant dirge,
a healing funnel of mud and death,
its kiss splattered all over the ground.
A spacious vacuum absorbs the
flagellate, the pustule morsel streaking
into bloody oblivion with the plaque
and dead skin. Walking wounded,
the earthworms schleps its way home.
The shards leave lei lines along the floor
that eat into its skin. The nails dig deep.
The hands are greedy, jealous,
and mad. The earth is mined and
smeared. Muzzled, with no love
and no chance of mercy,
it suffocates behind its own voice,
a shrilling shriek, a weaseled
murmuring of the depth
it lacks. To help it, to
stop the beast that rides its back,
and strangles it of the life it desires,
to backfire evil on evil with prissy
temper tantrums the lazy and
over privileged mock,
to assist it in its demise,
the stately demon sits on the bed,
a diplomat to degeneracy
and cheap prostitutes everywhere
pimped, sold, and used
by this otherwise slick and
“Black Orpheus: Mark of the Iceman” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.