Carbon Made – The thaumaturgy of words

“The Thaumaturgy of Words” is creation, summarised. The very act, the disorderly manner in which inspiration manifests itself, the toll it takes on one’s essence.

Writing (as any other sort of art) is a shredding of oneself, is it not? The taking of slight portions, the careful insertion into a whole.

I rephrase Amanda Palmer’s “The Art of Asking”, here:

Crafting art is expressing that which you have lived or experienced in some way. You shape it, mould it into words, according to your will. The final result might become closer or farther from reality, depending on the processes you have applied along the way. At the end, nevertheless, a fragment of the original inspiration will always remain, its gist unchanged.

(original art by John Henry Fuseli)

Carbon Made – Mercurial

Should I abridge “Mercurial” into a morsel of words, I might describe it as sheer madness. The embroilments of a sensation too intense for a body or mind to stand. Here, this feeling assumes the shape of passion.

It evokes a moment of feverish dispositions; of flesh entwining, of two merging into one and arising a temple far wider than one single body could bear to uphold. It speaks of helpless devotion, of the mystical character of bodily and immaterial connection.

But this poem also alludes to fury, to brutal grief, to all that lingers in the mind and brings some destruction with it.

(original art by Jules Lefebvre)

Carbon Made – Mayflies

“Mayflies” is a chant to disquiet, to impermanence. A rewind to desires of yore, to sensations long lost. It alludes to fickleness, to the inconsistencies that pervade the fabric of one’s self.

This meditation, at times stained by a disarraying sense of melancholia, strips itself down to a single certainty – the transient nature of being.

(original art by Artemisia Gentileschi)

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A Tale of Mischief

Cartas do Vertigo Tarot, arte de Dave McKean

 

Devils watch
Devils stand at the top of their realm, wings unfurled
Mayhem lies where deathbeads are yet to consumate
Flesh is bare
Poison curls at the tip of his fingers, his tools long disposed
Strength is worth
And a feast made of delicacies is his treat to consume

Hunger stings
But indulgent, his yearnings lean towards most lustful devices
Snares at hand
By a game of tantalization, his mighty prey falls
Candid heart
Rabbit bonded to the heavy strings of such kindly torment
Wolfish eyes
He postpones death by quietly sustaining bloodlusts satisfied.