Tag Archives: death

The experiencer

I am the experiencer

necromancer too

wizard of the sky

my feet are curved like moons

I taste the surface of this earth

or my imagination

portaling through

dissolution death

seated in soft blooms


flying inside

spread eagled in my sphere

following the crows

on course

to blue star

heart music

a snaky illumination

a shimmering song

a magnetic tune

falling through my body

filling and rolling my throat

I give birth

an orange large and juicy

shining over billowing thighs

and now

I balance

upon my golden navigation tool

reflect upon me

bouncing through this sweaty life

soft skin of face against your rough sprouting chest

following the blue note

underneath my breast


gone magic me

hold me in your crumbling arms

I am nothing

perfumed and placating

slide me through the dust

momentary corner smile on red heart face


gone magic me

breathspark particles

release from nowhere


his pipe

is damp

non existent pipe

relief into black

psychedelic portals in holographic space suit

wild number 4

silver and naked

imprinted on mass

conference of flesh

marking randomly


tattoo of increasingly wilder dreams

I surrender


moving shaping


charred hands relax

crumble and pour

flooding eyes with

terrible ghosts stitches and masks

in my mirror

dead child celebrating temporary


hidden under skeptical


pretending naivety from cube of thorough console




switching off light

and leaving

gone magic me

mini death



wishes are fishes

he touches me with his smile

every time i die


and still i survive

life’s excruciating want

my heart falls wider


on a cloud i am

my feet dangle in the sea

purveyor of all


i am a spider

my ribbon is curling wind

spinning the future


i sweep myself deep

i crush me into liquid

cupped in silken hope



see more art at http://www.artofkundalini.com






Part 2. Death of A Poet ~ Mary Anne Baartz

Her words remain in the shadows. That is the plan but she’s forgotten or has never consciously known, so determined to get it right. It’s a fight to the death. She papers her walls with rejection slips. Pouncing on the occasional publication, her fury slobbers over those words already on the page drenching them in her pain… her pleasure… see, I told you so…. This is a way she can slither in. Only a rogue would deny her after all she’s given up. Another poet before, famous, whose Irish ancestry opens the world of the fey, chanting in a monotone he alerts them to more than the eyes can see and they plunge into an ocean of maybe.

A darkened room, electric blue with anticipation, they fringe the rim of her coffee table with letters, ‘yes’ at one end, ‘no’ at the other, shining up a brandy glass, setting it down on the epicentre. Spirits, please, are you there? Tell us how to quell this hovering rumble… At first the glass is still. Their fingers tremble. And then… And then… The glass prods the letters. Her mood is gloomy and dire. Each response shows her a funeral pyre. At last she hears him as sure as worms, her dead father drips in from the ocean and shakes out a warning. Only one of them can win. This unleashes her seething rage engaging the demon within. Must she follow the cue? Be no more than a wife, a daughter? Typing his script, licking envelopes, posting his words?

She does as she ought, as she’s been taught for long ago it was written, those who can’t do teach. So she does. Focused on this she ignores The Queen of Swords whose presence in his tarot readings she vehemently resists.   The Queen is dark and sculpted. Until this his acolytes all have had round faces and fair swinging hair. She refuses a closer look at his book for fear of seeing behind each page a doe-eyed memory, the sweet taste of his first peach.

In the distractions of plump juicy babies, burying her nose in their soft stinky necks, she unwisely forgets the tainted wine, the unholy mix. She nests. Her sap gathers and gently streams. She listens to its babbling, letting this suppress her longing for him to hear only her song and forego the rest.

A temporary reprieve. Her children’s downy bodies grow and throw off their feathers. The space they leave crowds in and she shudders in a corner. She’s hungry again.

Save me she begs, but his head is turned away. Remembering the wise women’s advice, she offers her ears to him. It is not her ears that interest him.

She blames her body, looking at herself with a critical eye. Her breasts are no longer pert and round but sag and sigh. There’s nowhere to hide her ailing pride. She lets it all hang out, lets her hair down. Embarrassed by her forthrightness (she’s tried it on a friend), this other slinks away hoping she’ll quickly recover and there’ll be no dues to pay.

No lure is left to bait the hook. His sideway glances are in the opposite direction. His words, the very words which once had the force to lilt and make her swoon are like daggers in her marrow. It is the way they are delivered, she howls, scraps off the table, bones to the dog. She hurls her bell-jar high. It lands in his open mouth, slides down his throat to come to rest behind his heart.

This is the moment The Queen of Sorrow chooses to flesh out of the tarot pack. The queen’s sad beauty captures him. He falls into those soulful eyes, wallowing in the image he finds mirroring the deer he felled as a child – his first love – returned as a woman just as his dream prophesied.

Consumed with jealousy she screams at the house of cards, banging on the door. The queen gladly beckons her in. He hadn’t wanted her to know. She’s come by her own volition. They pass on the stairs; he is leaving as she arrives. The queen throws the door wide, offering her a sad-eyed smile. She has only herself to blame. Forced to see… she averts her eyes… to see… it’s as plain as the scar on her face… the queen’s belly is swelling with one of his poems.

Desolate, she sends the children away and sits at home, alone, devising the best way to make him pay. Too late to poison the peach, to sweeten the wine, she must divine the perfect plan. The walls breathe darkly. They whisper. They snigger. You are no longer lovely, my dear. Your words wither in your sighing breasts. You can’t deliver the perfect poem. There’s nothing left. Nothing. Your verse slithers like hissing snakes while his is lauded and praised. The world calls him L’Enfant Terrible while pointing the finger at you, accusing you of being his succubus. He will not save you. He will not gather your words and cherish them in a gilt-bound book. His blunt fingers clutch at the pen she gave him and form letters which slide over her belly and scribble all over her flesh. You must hurt him for his own sake. Save him from himself. The punishment you offer him will be its own reward. She must be taught his words are hollow. Here is what you must do…

bulldustArt by Michael Baartz see more here

The Goodbye

My response to Rilke’s Duino Elegies ~ Number 10

His baby weighs nothing

floating on bony palms

Practicing sacrifice

A grimacing prayer

Thin breathless arms soft with natures last flourish

the stroking of hair

A habit of care

No hope and rapidly fading



We frame our fascinated tongue in gilded verbs

We bring out the colours with chemistry

Changing compounds and celebrating the moon

The baby is full like an orange

But the grey skin juxtaposed is peeling back now

The thin leftover body is heaving

corrosion is heaven too


more art? http://www.artofkundalini.com

magic bow


he draws taut

his magic bow

one arrow

a drop of vitriol

relief is slow ….




Awareness erupts

as poison

slides home.




Thin lines of light


a forest of


the cage door unhinges gently

footsteps on the air

folding like silver skin

sliding through the glass



Sunlight Dreaming



purple flowers

lie softly







infant fingers

s t r e t c h i n g

in jagged space

to smooth





drawn with lines



etched madness


eyes too full


sunlight dreaming