Deadshot

Electric pulse percolates,
wriggles like tape worms
across dehydrated flesh.
Tiny pulses emanate from
a central source all around,
the shroud a smoldering cloud
of hazy mysticism, radiates
the core. Vibrations wave through
body’s hearth electricity ascending
in microwaves impure. An afterglow
incomplete, replete with vague
definition, sole cause to question
the integrity of another, and alone
face the mirror they see before you,
so that you don’t turn away, and walk
away in defense repasts, stumble, fall
shaken quicker than the earthquake
tremors fossilize and petrify.

 

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

 

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Black Orpheus: Peddling the Father of Lies

Specter in the house
flies through glass windows,
globes round and crystal
mystified by the light
and shroud.
It throws rocks in
ignominious desolation,
it trades the soul for desire,
it profits pleasure and lust,
it drives the question of our
sin, strips away the barriers
of consciousness, relies on
the powers of self-doubt
to scar a path to its
ultimate destination.

The peddles first lose color,
pale then blacken. Its skin
begins to sag, wrinkle and
decay. The lifespan is locked
in a fortress of ice, clouded
vision and clear deception.
It comes to roost at the
eleventh hour, when its
appetite cannot be stopped,
and dead, black peddles are
left it its wake to mock
the heart of the lover
inside. Putrid kiss,
the toxic life, unkempt,
cast voyeurs into desperation,
cast masters into slaves,
turn the priests into pansies
and the preachers into demons.

The thinning veil of energetic
deception, the chaos supposedly
causing design, disintegrates
behind a wall of smoke,
and there are no scenes of
our ancestors, and there is no
gate to cross. The perceptions
of humanity ring like a bell
and reverberate in a jar
that locks them down,
a lamp for Pandora,
a cell for the soul.

It returns
and it never
goes away.

“Black Orpheus: Peddling the Father of Lies” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

 

 

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.

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. 

 

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.