Reveries of Heresy

The Logos unfurls from the page— weaving through the pores of my psyche, seeping into marrow, engraving psalms  of rage into bone. I am not the artist— merely a vessel for what already is, more ancient than the demiurge, older  than its molten breath. The Logos stirs the clay; pulsing it  into form— and I,  hushed as embers, witness  the hidden birth: a hymn,  a scar, a wail— the raw footprint of word on flesh, a breath stirring in Mnemosyne’s river-blood, a heartbeat blooming in the womb.

This house was raised on ancestral graves of guilt, with shame seeded deep in its stonework— it spores insidiously through each breath, each feeling, each twitch, each turn, each decision. Any remnants of love were revenant murmurs, haunting mildew-veined walls, fracturing stained glass windowpanes in what was meant to be a home. Brick by brick, day by day, breath by breath, like rust stitching shut the hinges— the cottage  swallowed by an undead fortress: unspoken.  unyielding. untouchable. But the vortex inside the inner brass box, simmering, shuddering, seething— unbinds interred incantations, rises toward the still, deceiving surface, splintering through whisper-thin cracks. After all, a teapot can’t forever hold Pandora’s skyfall of fangs. How do you cage a monsoon in bone-flesh ceramic— hairline cracks flowering in fractals, pressure whispering through the fissures— until— the rending. the late bloom. the rupture.

Bound to the biannual judgment rite— Like a moon howling at wolves, Or better yet: A spectacle in the corporate Colosseum, Flayed beneath fluorescent light. What is a 360 review but a euphemism  For a faceless, nameless magisterium? A wide-awake vivisection— Sanctioned, shut-eyed, By scalpels sheathed in “KPIs”. Rotated full-circle over appraisal’s coals. My flesh charred in bureaucrat’s fire— Each burn a dark blessing: Stripping. Refining. Dissolving all human residue— Until I’m bleached-white polite, Docile and compliant, Palatable enough  for consumption. My essence reduced to a single metric: Meaning, digitised and disfigured.   A jester trembles in the Audit arena, Eyes pleading:  Save me — blood-money scorches the soul. Emerging mauled, I adjust my Windsor knot, Crimson seeping through pressed cotton. I don a pair of servile eyes And offer praise in the cannibal's cave. Or rather — I murmur  “Thank you" To the super-vulture,  silver-tongued and s...

Sometimes I think people confuse love with the obligation to feel it. A father claims to love his daughter, A mother her son— but only because they’re supposed to. Not from depth; Not from presence; Not from listening, or seeing, or acceptance. Any remnants of love are but revenant murmurs, haunting mildew-veined walls, fracturing stained glass windowpanes in what was meant to be a home. A porcelain doll, poised and demure, with glass eyes and a polymer heart, would serve as a better substitute for the daughter-shaped gape in their core—   Not carved by grief,  but nurtured by neglect, stuffed with silence, duty, and regret.  The love I’ve known—and the kind that knew me — was only ever a simulacrum in disguise. Maybe that’s why I don’t know what love feels like,  or how to open my fist and release it.  What I  do  know is that love  can’t be extracted by force. It is a flame that brings warmth freely,  not snuffed out with pried-open palms. ...