I adore darkness so much, that I spend hours with curtains down and lights turned off. And with my eyes closed, because it’s never dark enough.
I sit in the darkness, until I absorb it and it devours me whole,
consumes me and digests me in it’s warm stomach.
I feel energies and power of the whole world pulsing through me. I become the dark.
I am the poison of the night, I feed on the nightmares and only grow stronger. I curse the lands and I swallow the light, I bathe in death and death
is what I’ll bring to you.

When winter comes, cold air engraves her throat and congeals her cells to deep sleep. She lies in her secret attic, hidden, alone, but she never knew anything better, so she’s calm in that dusty dull place, where the history of times is conserved.
There she sleeps, until the heat inside starts burning so much that she has to move her stiff, porcelain bones, and her hair becomes fire itself.
She distills flowers and becomes them, the essence of life, reborn on her lips.

one night I was a corpse, laying in my bed grave
not twitching a single muscle for hours.
I watched how shadows danced across the walls and ceiling
moving through time, almost invisible to the naked eye
just not for a corpse like me, 
who has eternal hours
to be the first to greet the sun 

Once upon a time there were two sisters, who had an evil witch for a mother. One day she gave them a bow and made them go into the snowy woods and said not to return without a still body of a white fox. Sisters loved animals, so they couldn’t hurt the foxes. Instead they dropped the bow and decided to run away. The witch found out about the runaways soon enough, her eyes glowed red with hatred and betrayal and she just had to hunt them down. First she filled the forest with poisonous fog, but the sisters just became sleepy and didn’t stop going. They were running for three days, when the older sister cut her finger on a claw-like branch with long crooked fingers. The younger sister tried to take care of the wound, but only got blood all over her own scratched hands. Sisters began to feel even sleepier and slowly drifted into a deep slumber, never to wake up again. They froze into beautiful ice sculptures and white foxes would sleep in their eternally cold embrace.

awaken, awaken into the dream, walk through the shadow lands with us, where no air, just fog fills your lungs, until you’re sleepy, sleepy and frail.
no use to run, sleepyhead, it never ends. we’re here, beyond the grim trees, lurking, and your fear will lead you straight to what you fear the most.
come here, you weary traveler, our faces are the mist, embrace the shadow play and we will become what you seek.
you are one of us now
dance of earth, dance of might, take us into your eternal night
dance of earth, dance of might, take us into your eternal night
dance of earth, dance of might, take us into your eternal night

I have an overpowering urge to burn all these flowers, take in their decayed breath and turn my ember lungs inside out

2012.07.27 Yaga, the Gathering

it’s a world of lights and hallucinations, limbs are resilient to the infinity, they squirm and glint in neon, long-legged giants steal your consciousness and when they laugh, their eyes are vicious and red.
even the forest talks, twists enormous cobwebs between it’s branches, the same way your thoughts twine round the trees, rhythmically, pulsing, vanishing in the shimmer, it feels good not to exist anymore.
I am ten meters high, the forest - just grass, I trample the bents (or pines), I wade through lakes and springs, they’re turning to blood and I’m even more thirsty.
I’m dreaming that it’s not a dream. Something is creeping under my skin, infecting all the cells, they’re twitching for the whole eternity, I can’t move and can only watch the pine needles springing from my pores.
Choirs of the sirens are echoing through the dome of the sky, celestial voices luring beyond the woods, where, I know, another dimension is waiting, snow white braids of the elves, bridges of light in the trees and Home.
I went out of time. I’m traveling between realities, the clocks have gone insane, one minute is five, it happened, but it didn’t. Why are you looking at me like that, my stare is not mad. Flying saucers go above our heads and leave lunatic aliens, they’re moving in circles, because they don’t know how to go straight.
when I was young, I used to bleed into the pages

it’s strange, how quickly time erases faces of the people that were once dear to you.
how you try to remember them, but recover only one big mass of dough,
a chaos of random body parts.
and there was a time when I spent days and days watching his expressions change.
when I knew every dot in his eyes and we traveled through all the galaxies together.
nothing is where it was anymore; except for one, not really significant detail - two tiny wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.
they only appeared when he smiled.

this is how I write, shriveled up in the corner, shadows dancing on my face.
whispering to a dusty typewriter that keeps jamming
and I choke on my own words along with it

he came from the moonlight. Blinded, for a second, I covered my eyes from crystal light that he bled from thousands of wounds in his trembling body. He bled on a tired land across the moon’s path, he bled on my hands when he fell to embrace the grass,
he bled
into my
soul.

he woke up only the next night, with wind and wails of his prey in the ears. He opened his black cruel eyes and his howl rocked the whole world.
only I (a lunatic) see his unwept desolation. It dissects air and my throat with diamond splinters, when I chant for the night along with his blood. In complete silence his silvery teeth clatter; light sensation fills my veins and it doesn’t hurt, when flowing coldness finally leaves me.
and all around us the stars (that he taught me to exhale) will pop
electric discharges, maybe fireworks in the air
I’m staying here, in the shadows of nacreous moon, to dream the dreams of werewolves.

he’s not the beast; I am.

~
Get up to the night, in a white form, black silk slips through my legs. Pale pillar of light, the ghost of thoughts, talk, talk to your twin, he’s behind the glass, he’s alive and he’s breathing, he’s pounding at nothingness with his small fists and he wants to get out. His speech is flowing, don’t make me seep through the uneven floor, to collapse into a puddle before the legs of a mirror, don’t turn me into a void as I was born from it.
~
And the wise-man scratched the back of his head with his blackened fingers, then slowly lifted the cup of tea near his lips. Only the truth comes out from them. At least promotional booklet says so. He himself still obscurely remembers how once, when he was young and foolish, he found a coin on his village’s dusty public road. He found a coin and he bought a most expensive big stick of chocolate for his pale cousin. The wise man saw who dropped the coin, but he didn’t try to bring it back to it’s owner, he didn’t say a thing. Because, he thought silently and guiltily, it was for a good purpose.
~
After me there will be only my teeth left. nacre. shining. their crown is transparent. When I was little, I used to steal beautiful and sparkling tiny stones from my grandpa, he called them jewels. I still have one, it reminds me of my teeth and I have to hide it, it reminds me of the things people don’t talk aloud.
~
His name was Staphylococcus aureus, they called him the Golden Staph. In my head it sounds like an uncommon pretty bird with feathers colored like sunset, but call him three times and he will come as a curse. He crawled near the bare feet, cuddled gently with it’s sweet destruction and soon it was over. they amputated the leg on Thursday.

I walk and the earth, still frozen and glacial, tumbles beneath my feet.
Warm cocoon of light surrounds me and where I put my foot, grass grows slowly:
through concrete, through stone and through dirt.
lend me your strength and I will wake the earth.

Mossy pavements in the mad sun raise their slender heads, climb like bindweed through the walls, windows and rainwater pipes. Streets burst with buds, ascend towards the sky, it’s the Emerald City, and it’s rising.
I see roots wriggling out of my feet, they dive deep into the earth, they riot wildly towards it’s center and our entities intertwine. I absorb underground springs and fragments of thoughts. My feet, from now on forever petrified, are encrusting with bark. As I lift my arms to the sun, my fingers stretch and unfold in thousands of branches.
I don’t need to breath anymore and I know:
the spring is here.

2011, March.