WUNDKANAL
writings by Pvra Dalem. all are copyrighted, so if you mind your body parts go write your own stuff.
EYE OV THE VOICELESS
(1997)
Opening the voice from the flames. Sinking without knowing, blind,
no strenght left to cry. Nothing, or even the light and the sun reborn.
from obscurity, the voice and the scream. In the still voice, silencing
the word, sinking in mute voices. Or saved. In the water skin, drowning.
Returned without saying. Lost forever, oriented without sense. From the clear
shadow of the hands in the face, from the scar of the scream in the skin.
Silence ov white throat. The burning silence of the still memory. Voiceless.
Without term to what end? Returning to that place where the presence was
never gone. Awake, in the sun blindness falling asleep. Voiceless. Shadowless.
the thin stream of blood, across the streets. Never knowing. There is nothing
to know. The face of a thousand past lives, eyes awakened, so blind in the
scars. Throat pregnant from the words screams beggings invocations prayers
laments insults plagues worships and of only love sighs and moans. The
populated throat still waiting for the scream, of the absent voice, pregnant
and voiceless. Hysterical virgin pregnant of her own opression and forbidden
to give birth. Choking on the womb-arrested creatures. From her absent voice,
suffocated. In a silence that knows no rest.
Her murderer had no face.
*
MARTROY (1998)
Cette passion
Cette vendetta
Insaississable
Sans aucune borne
Plonge
Au-delà de la nuit
Ét de la raison
Et mon sang jaillit
Sur mon ennemi
Tu pourriras
Tu pourriras
*
MORTIFICATIO (SUITE) as read on the MORTIFICATIO performance by
CAPVT CORVI and PVRA DALEM in October 21, 2000.
Night spawned in silence into the womb of black earth, from where all life rises and slowly tarnishes away. Black womb, like a well of grime and deep blood, from the poisoned seed, of the being brougth to light and one day, ages later, grown old, descends again to the depths of Mother Death's black womb.
Silent in the darkness, cold hands weaving the tricoloured threads of the Parchae, a bloodied mouth, of sharp teeth, roaring down the womb, cruel mother whose eyes do not shed tears for the sons she reaps, inside her darkened garden where her shadowy-gazed daughters already bring in her flesh the well of shadows, a death-thirsty obtenebration.
Your eyes covered by fog, your mouth silent by cobwebs, your hands only plenty of shadow, from the silence of your bones, from the echo of your veins. In the ice of your flesh, in the shadow of your forever silent voice, the worms shall devour you, and the obscurity shall burn your remains in the most merciless oven, the supreme Athanor, womb of black blood crowned by a gate of fangs sharper than the swords of the Assassins. Well of obscurity, merciless temple.
Death equal to abyss death.
Death black merciless mother am I.
Wander no more in these ruins, where only silence and cold ashes glow. At your feet, behold the blackness of the earth where all life is born and dies. Ever unfinished tapestry where uncessantly every form appears and disappears. Without tears, this heavy silence, lead, saturn, carbonary birds piercing the skies of this pale dawn. In sorrow, the face laid over the earth, receiving the tired body, plenty of night and bitterness., while the refulgent soul ascends to the heavens. And flowers, of night-coloured petals, burst from the black earth, fed on blood and rottenness.
*
untitled, 2001
Can we ever imagine Demeter's grief while walking on the earth she just turned barren, when she turned away the bloodtide. Every step of her on the desert ground, knowing that under her feet her daughter is repeatedly raped by Hades. Under every step of the Mother, Persephone cries, bleeds and screams. And her eyes turned onto the earth are her worst torture, never making her forget the horror that is happening.
Baubo waits inside her obscure cave. Demeter's steps, her bleeding feet take her there, with all the weight of tears and grief that shake her existence.
The gesture is simple - from the one whose mouth is speechless in the Mother's grief, she bundles her tunic and bares the hidden mistery, revealing Demeter the vertical smile. And in her pain Demeter laughs, remembering that the mould of life exists no matter how horrid the aggression might be.
the ice cold hands that encircle my heart are my only strenght, because the more they scream, DEATH, the louder i growl, LIFE, among the ruins and the infamy.
*
untitled, 2001
and then
the hounds of Tyndalos pierce the night in half
white as snow with eyes as thunder
and the silent paws crushing the ground at every step
running, running to nowhere, across the villages
howling terror and the shadow of the last days.
behold a pale horse: Death rides through the mist,
her face is a sad eyed girl with dead Colchicum in her hair,
as the pathway of doom is paved with the severed heads of the criminals.
behold the last days, and repent or hide,
their howling has grown cold and deep as the waters of Lethe
*
untitled, 2001
I am the Mother made manifest
I am the summation of Truth
I am without Sin
streets blocked with ruins and smoke, buildings falling to pieces, the screams, children
running through the streets, their faces all blood.
corpses of faces and names forgotten in the heart of black earth, their bones sucked into
the black matter, the mouth forever silent, now only eating the vague bread of eternal
silence.
the silent, soft white bones.
the traces of hair in the skull, eaten and moist.
as she stumbles on the roman ruins, traces of blood follow her feet. her soul sick, dripping sadness and the lost will, perhaps a baby buried too soon. the day of judgement where all echoes flourish into white matter, smoke and dying screams, the faces of the holy revealed in the immanent light of the desert.
flying from the pit of destiny with burning wings...
beasts of eyes like ravens and diamonds.
the empty stomach like a cold well, the dwelling of blodsuckers in its still, fetid waters.
you will die like these portraits.
no one. just me.
*
untitled, November 2001
sleep in the silence of this night, so immense and plenty of dreams and rememberances.
sleep into the musing of open veins, bleeding away the token of sacredness.
sleep into the echo of faded voices and vague caresses in the dark, where cracked lips touch the forehead in infinite sweetness.
sleep into the water of memory, where dreams fade into delicate wings of fairies, glowing in the shadows...
the scent of miracles.
*
ODE TO BEAUTY, November 2001
O Beauty most sacred, thou art the untouchable miracle of all living nature. For thy sweet wisdom my being longs: the voice of my soul welcomes thee as enchanted guest and eternal inhabitant of this hidden mansion.
O Beauty of unreachable heights, which no man can emulate in a vain sculpture, to which, enraged, the painters tear canvas to pieces, in wrathful envy for thy Holy Divineness.
O Beauty of shapeshifting, animal and vegetal countenance; thy form is endless and infinite, from the silken wings of the falcon to the sibilating sweeping movement of the snake; from the lustful purr of the cat to the roaring of the hungry monster, to the deep meek pools of the eyes of the lemur, swimming in the waters of night under the shapes of sacred mutability.
O Beauty of shape, and form, and spirit, and soul: to which no being living or dead may be compared, the graceful resplendent white dove which ascends to Heavens is but a dead shadow of imperfect life, or the maginficent lion of golden mane is shameful and hides in the cave in respect to thy wondrous Beauty.
O Beauty of Voice, and Voice of God revealed in Absolute Purity and Light to the Prophet who, shivering in awe among such miracle, plunged the fire into her own eyes, and bleeding she fell on her knees, her throat gratefully howling to the winds for living to meet such bliss, as the Song of Songs enchanted the beasts, its eyes flooded with tears of joy.
O Beauty of Flesh, taut rigid muscles tensed in the vague movement of waking, skin like sweet milk and unbearably soft like clouds, oceans of hair scented like a dream, the lids that slowly reveal thy glinting mire of a thousand stars, touched-untouched, shivering as the passing wings of a butterfly feed thy dreams of soft hands and kisses in the core of the coldest nights.
*
[whisper into the leaves]
written on the night of Samhain 2001 in the woods at Sintra.
[to B'Eirth, with the
holiest of silences...]
while the sleep invades the weary body
i am the breathing under the leaves
i am the lointaine vigilant of thy sad sleep
where the longing for my arms weeps thy tears
my heart ablaze in my vulpine breast
like the polestar in the darkest night
my heart awake longing for the dawn
to cover you with her rosy veil of light
while i vigil in silence among the trees
goblins and fairies surround thy lonely sleep
while the tooth and claw fairy's eyes bleed in grief
falling stars trace the fate of bliss
sleep in the temple of memory, my little heart...
i am the breathing under the leaves
a virgin's heart hid by wolven flesh
the faith of arms entwined in the dark