Night Hymns for a Pale Flower

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The mental-pictures of Jason Thompkins. On this page are the poetic writings, words and whispers from a cold bed within a cold room that dwells in a cold weathered Home. Inspired by a Paleblossom and my Antique Powdered Sleep which is always within reach……

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A mirror and me, Alone and wiped clean,
A mirror and You, It may seem like two.
Refracted starglow and subtle moonbeam,
Numb Narcissus and serene Echo.
A Cathedral of Mirrors, Musing on Ice White,
Brilliant chandelier casts ghostly pallid light.
And from the colors of the antique chiming bells,
An apparition riding ocean wave casts symbolic sea shells.
But from the corner so crisp, clean and clear,
The Mirror broke itself, Now a Broken Mirror.

A Broken Mirror makes You less alone.
Thousands of “Me” now do I see.
Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall.

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Flowers embraced of light, frozen and forever.
Shivering ghost streams in cold numb night.
In-between, twilight worship and frozen dreams.
Under ice for preservation, not even a whisper.
Flickering lights whisp through stairway windows.
Stain-glassed voices, narcotic windblow.

Antique powders stir the air, in-between everywhere.
Removing my face and into nowhere I stare.
Glass bubbles fill the night, a hue of orbs.
Lingering, hovering til their morning dew absorbs.
Arctic coldness, windshear and curtains.
Black ribbons wrapped around my Crucifix.

For overhead, a glowing, a glowing cross.
Wind blowing.

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A scattering of hands. Wind birthed in every direction.
The Illumination of man. Butterfly blue wind affirms affection.
Lightning hits tree. Runa carved uniquely quite Holy.
Dew-laced eyes speak untold story of yet received glory.
Colours hide and shadows play. Blue bit the bullet.
Twilight window, twilight numb. Slow to get through it.
Open window. An evening of predicted storms.
Insane candles laid out in the rain, adorn.
The Black Ribbon. The Black Lace of the day.
Skeletal Crucifix, another day of bedroom play.
In the Twin Brothers formed from the same Father.
Sons of Men, through torture we sought Her.
Yes, We sought Her together, To-Get-Her.
And on the highest most Northerly Midnight Mountain.
The Virgin of the Ice and Her clear streamed Fountain.
Ave.

Nature

A little flower in the early a.m. dew. Moist, humid and silky, Petals drenched from the waters of the moon. Impenetrable. I see within these flowers something akin to a “Sleeping Beauty” who is crying out in Her sleep, in Her “Glass Coffin“, for some Hero to come and “awaken Her“, to “bring Her back to Life“. It is not the beauty of the flower that the Initiate seeks. The Initiate must seek the Essence of the flower. The Center. The integral aroma. The BE-ing. As deep as utterly possible. As deep as a being can possibly Be. The need to crawl inside the flower whilst the flower is, without cognition, screaming and opening itself up to be entered into.

There is a Holy Sacred Sadness in nature that can be seen in Her eyes. What is this message? What is the dialogue being spoken within the eyes of birds, of deer, of rain-drenched flowers? Why do people weep at the sight of a flower. And why does that weeping feel as if the Holy Ghost has entered ones body…..

This is “Ella“. “Her” ~ not found on the outside of the female, but found deep within. The integral perfume. The silent dialogue. The silent sound of a perfected crystallized Winter snowflake falling in the absolute Center of a Sprouted Spring Blossom.
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The Skin of Winter. The Skin of a Dead Thing. A Ghost-blossomed Pale Flower. Of which dead things blissfully sing. Frozen eyes that shiver. Mask-mirrored in river. A frost field of hair. In pale Winter air. Shadowful hues of a soul. Too terribly beautiful. The dawnlight pours in mornings soft sound. Making hallway echoes from Your white glow-gown. Hovering above You Your dreams softly soar. Liquid rainbows and assorted insane colours. I awoke to Your tears dripping in a mortar. I drink them Holy with blood, wine and water. As we drown and our bodies wash up on the coast. We’ll know the Holy Glow of the Glowing Holy Ghost. We’ll die to be born. We’ll die to be born.

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To collect soft rain in snow-white hollowed bones. Dripping from southerly leaning Lindens.To know the colour of a night-kissed dawn. To traverse a path where mortals are forbidden. To seek much higher than most high. Fly a flight where even Gods not go. When a soul is born of star-licked sky. Reaching into the zenith of celestial glow. Whispering words on the wind from a butterflies wing. Wearing stars in Your river-long hair. And every bird is made of rain-clothed light. Glistening through aromatic antique air. The language of colour. Each hue a choral note. Whisper a picture with song then. The sound of Your aura as it floats. Through clouds and atmosphere. Reaching the highest possible high. An upside-down mirrored midnight noontide. The adoration and beauty of a soul willing to fly.

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Bridal night. Singing curtains wrapped in soiled flesh. Last years leaves already a piled nest. Paste-white muse. Licked by starlit water. Early morning dew. Dead birds brought back to starlight. Antique mortar. Filled with wondrous white powder. Laying by my bed. Blow through my head. Glow near the window. The powdery white sleepwalking dead. Now chirp a glowshow. Girl wore a skinmask. Galloped through my soul. Ten thousand hooves unseen. As we laid in graven hole. Electric blue leaves for a green canceled crown. Aural flowers in the night. Under the branch that bends. Ropes made of frozen moonlight. A whispering feminine shape. We had a staring contest. The a.m. hours were adorned. Dew-laced soil in my hands. The skinmask, intoxicated, mourned. and suddenly. Morning. It merely moved like a see-through sheet over night. A sheet of transparent ice. Blanketing the foliage of so many years. Crystallizing sentient-forming tears. Into emerald permanence. Beautiful. A beauty-filled body for ancient worship. Sickness on the wind. Deliverance. Flu driven fevered mind-flight. Radiance. My spectral sister night. Offering powdered sleep in a mortar. Indulge. Numbness, then sleep.

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As evening sings and swirls around my face. as trees rain and whisper musical lights. The window is wide open. Books dance on the bookcase. Narcotized night flight. Seemingly sudden shapes. I see. Shadows swim. Colours play. Like ghostchildren on a playground. And now the sun dies. Westward leaning vegetation. Crying her cries. The birth of evening wind. Teasing my body like perfumed skin. Like a midnight ghostlight embrace. Like the aroma of colours, skin and shapes. Shapes in the moonbeams. Flickering little lights. Singing songs of starlit bodies. Psalms of blood. Hymns of Her white skin. Her make-up smeared. Apparitions fondle beneath the pines. Down there. Underneath. This window. This mirror of mine.

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Night winds blow. The language of the leaf. Glowing across the spectral twilight. Like speaking to a mirror. Night wind. Overhead. A glow. The virginal crisp nocturnal air. Unbreathed, untouched. New, fresh, virginal. Like a snowflake that never reaches the ground. A perfected glowing angelic beautiful stillness. The dead complete silence before the sensual evening storm. Dead bliss. Silence. Absolute. Frozen moment forever preserved in frozen light. Wind blowing. Whisping winds shiver fragrant curtains. Whispering a beautified dead language. The white breath of night air flickering white-iced candles in an upstairs bedroom. Where She lays. A glowing cross. A white sheet of freezing rain. Covers Her body cold. Her skin turns paste. Then Her frozen love. It goes up my veins. As night wind. Glowing in streams across the stairway and into Her autumnal scented room. Where my blood is frozen with Her love. Cold. At the top of these stairs. Windows, candles, crosses and night wind

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She spins. She swirls. Drowning in a pool of narcotic nectar. Her body floats in a fragrant pool of pale blossoms. Petals made of yet created light. Swimming through dizzy flowers. White fainting Roses kissed Her numb fevered slumber. She could not resist the tide of relapse. It pulled at Her elegant skin as She floated to the top. Drowned in an overdose of blissful foaming visions. My girl. Aromatic narcissus, liquid amethyst, a curtain closed to the drought of daylight. For She was of Night. And Night wind. Bubbles of honeysuckle filled Her lungs as Her cold Winter-Blue eyes stared through my shivering soul. Moonstones cast noble rainbows at the place where Her shadow sleeps at the bottom of the pool of narcotized nectar. Dewy Daffodils, starlit Violets, whispering Wisteria, a smear of powdery pollen coloured Her ivory white ghost-glow skin. She spins, She spins. Through the Black Teared Blossoms of my eyes, She Spins.

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Skeletal Limbs Reaching Out 
{ The short-story that came with the limited edition of the Harvest Rain “Evening and Devotion” E.P. }

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When the night wind shakes leaves across the tin roof of the old house or when the barn outside is making the night’s chorus echo across the lawn, I wait for Her fingers to scratch at my windowsill.

The Hazel tree outside as seen through the dirty window has turned into Her corpse as the Spanish Moss grows and glows over it’s limbs, it’s glowing skeletal limbs that reach out toward the side of the old house. During the course of Her visit I have watched Her breath turn each leaf into a decaying mask of blood-red, a soiled sheet of dusk-orange or a glistening eye of country-rust. They seem to glow outside before She finally blows each Autumnal leaf through the air, each one spiraling down to it’s destination on the frost covered lawn. I hear them at night washing against the ground and crawling across the roof of the old place like a nocturnal family of little mice. The soil here is old and it is Her very perfume. She smells like a library.

It is the hundred year old corpse of all those leaves, all those many crawling leaves sleeping in a casket of old roots. I’m waiting for Her to scratch at my window. As I sit and look out the old window glass I know it will be soon. I can see Her gown already, Her gown of gray floating around and coming in, those night clouds hovering like seductive female apparitions, speaking through the shivering dead leaves in a fantastic silent dead language. The Hazel tree begins to illuminate and it reaches out. It seems to awaken and sway around like a skeleton in the wind. The Spanish Moss, Her old gray hair, is lifted about and flows around like an ancient river made from some ghostly dream. The scent of burning leaves swirls through the room as I cover myself in bed sheets.

Something is moving across the tin roof up above me. Leaves and limbs. The barn outside begins to howl and sigh as I close my eyes. The skeletal limbs reach out towards me, brushing against the walls and eyeless windows of my room. Her fingers begin to scratch. Her fingers scratch at my windowsill.

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Powders fall through still night air. Accumulating on boxes of old clothes. Laid lingering in a cold weathered room. Silvered antiques glisten soft lamplight. Dead mangled books scattered on the floor. Numb from the white milky blood of a murdered red flower. Comfortable cooling winds breathe through the open window. Like familiar hands on my body. Pulling breathing blankets of cold powders over my skin. The rustling dead leaves float across the overgrown unmown lawn. The insects sing inevitable songs of the swan. Aural starlight stirs the air. Illuminating drowsy cold white powders. They turn into see-through blue. They whisper things about You. They fall humbly and numbly on a.m. dew. On the waters of the moon. The moist humid tears of the Morning Star. Mixed with powders of a white blue hue. The Night becomes numb. Bowing before the altar of sleep and dew. Sleep, dream and evaporate. Turning back into powdered white clouds.

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Clouds. White blossoms in swirling soft sky. Mansions in highest flight. Where fly by floating rooms. White star-kissed realms. Sky. Wandering blue hallways. When wind whispers withered breath. Mansion with many rooms. Your eyes are. Centuries old books adorning antique shelves. Yourself, Yourselves. Many are your rooms. Pages of a book. Each turning page, a moon-licked look. Where I keep those butterfly wings. Safely pressed. Hidden with golden sun-setting string. Through mirrored wet windows. Where eagles fly and sing. Over starlit rain-puddles. Frozen raindrops. Silvery cold tears. Crystal-iced raindrops dripping. Year to year. I like it here. In your head. In the clouds. I float through your window. Glow through your eyes. You look in the mirror. For I know no better. I become. Little boy playing in clouds. Sleeping wide awake. Up there. Your glowing doors take me where. Weathered rooms await. To keep me sheltered. Keep me insane. Look in the mirror. Our flight out. Over the rainbow far away. May my feathered feet stay. In the clouds. In your head. As I drink silvery mirrored tears. Swallow holy water. I drink you. Soon to be dew. Then you turn back to cloud. I enter your head. You rain. A Cloudsailor for a Cloudgirl.

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Decomposing twilight. The ice-blossomed corpse of the blonde daylight. Withering into a still, fragrant nightglow. Slow, soft transition. The art of knowing death as a moving circle. Leaves, twigs, flu-ridden branches, dead petals, elderly haired moss, decay, over-grown grass. A pallid dead season stacked upon bloated dead seasons. The scent of Autumn’s breast. Burning and sent to eternity in aromatic air of a trespassing twilight. Pale gray smoke whisp through windows. The scent and reminder of sentience. And now Night hangs over the country-side. Her gown of spectral radiance.

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I want to go where souls are not allowed. I want to see colours that yet exist. To taste the highest flying cloud. To levitate in Autumn’s morning mist. I need to see You there. Floating in midair. A silvery smeared aural atmosphere. Dripping from star-shimmering hair. A flight out of here. And into an open flower. To create an eternity. In this – our last terrestrial hour.

“To create a little flower is the labour of ages” – William Blake ~ Proverbs of Hell

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One can smell the narrow nostalgia of Autumn in the air. Time for ripened crop to fall and wither. The secret paths become rotten and deceased. Overgrown earth gladly bows before it’s own seasonal grave. The cornfield is turning dusk. The days are overcast and the nights tease with deja-vu of Autumns’ past. Childhood specters call from outside within. Come out to play. This is when wind whispers words as virginal as an ice-crystaled snowflake. And the open windows are winged with the curtain’s sway. Candles flicker in weathered rooms. The world becomes quiet. Still. Acceptable. As if perfectly dead.

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There is no refuge in nature. The song that is sung by nature is one of sadness. A crying out to be freed. The look in the gentle hypnotic eyes of a young deer is of impenetrable despair. Waiting to be free. The trees and flowers look beautiful to our eyes. But unseen, underground, the roots of the trees are strangling each other to get to the water. The flower will wither if the rain does not pour. Nature screams to “Us” to be transmutated back into Celestial Perfection. The universe, the galaxies, the stars. They look beautiful with all their amazing colours swirling in the vast semen of the Demiurge. But they are corpses eating and feeding off of each other. Why does the big fish have to eat the little fish. This is the cruel art of the Demiurge-Golem. The so-called Creator. The big bang. The great ejaculation of existence which swirls in it’s circles within circles and wheels within wheels. The great ‘exhalation’ of some monster. I do not accept this and I do not believe in it. There is no refuge in nature. Not in the wind. Not in fire. Not in water and not in the earth. There was a Perfection before the ‘bang’. We call it the Green Ray. The first Celestial Hyperborea. As Miguel Serrano Fernández says it can be likened to a masterpiece by Da Vinci which was “painted over” by an inferior decadent modern artist. A Plagiary. Within nature their is a language. The Minne. The memory within the blood. The dialogue which is spoken behind the mask of words. It is our duty to transform nature and to listen to her cries of agony. To understand. To penetrate to the darkest hells of this universe only to be Initiated into the Mysteries. The road is agonizing. But We stand firm, head to head, behind Our great Guide. The most beautiful Light. Not the light of this world. The Light from Celestial Asgard. The Light that flows through Our veins. The great remembrance. The Memory of Hyperborea.

“When the Master called Us together to meditate he did not say “Let Us meditate”. He said “Let Us now go into battle with swords in hand!” ~ Miguel Serrano

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She is dew on the flower petals of dawn. Moist tears of the morning star. She is the voice in the blood. She is the one who fights within this blood. Her weapon is beauty dawned. Birthed from the grave of the darkest impenetrable night. Resurrecting the sword of the minne. The singing and crying of this blood. The sighing and the cathedral chorus. The oath of blood, bone and skin. Flames of ice. Pale white skin of a white Snowflower. She is. A Ghostblossom. She is to be adorned. She is to be listened to. For She knows you, becomes you, then She is you. She is the voice of this blood. In the center of all swirling. Unmoved mover. The icy walls of polar night. Surrounded by green flames and musical lights. Poetry that makes aroma create colours and then, to taste sounds. Christblossoms. Blowing through Christwinds. The blonde light of Baldurs hair. The face of this soul. Venusian violets of childhood. She is the mother in the light of the star. Giving my blood hymns to arctic air. She is. The voice of the one who sings from this blood. bone. skin and oath.

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Eyes. Rained off your face. A swirling rain-puddle of eyes. Your eyes. Once. a place. This blood oath. Now a face without eyes. Only clouds raining mirrors. Dead leaves birthing wet silvered mirrors. Hair, bone, skin and trees in the night wind. Purple flowers in a green substance. Substance. Used as a flight into light. A thought unsought. Fly, flying, flown. You blew like night wind. You were why, where and when. Blew. Through. Me. Blow, blew, blown. Blue virginal memory. Light time, night time. Galloping over withered trails. Forward bound. By backward chants. Piled foliage. Leaves, whispering leaves. Empty buildings. Night games. Strange glow. Ghostly chance. Upstairs, near the window. Candles of ice. Cold curtains shiver, turning to angelic wings. When wind sings Night’s Chorus. At dawns chorus. Nightingale language. See-through you. Glowing gown. Swinging on swings. Night. Alone at the park. Flowers by the statue. My friend, my friend. The night wind.
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This so-called world is not to be saved and pampered. This world is to be destroyed, annihilated and left for dead. It’s inevitable and will do it to itself. Learn to be cold as ice and as cutting as a blade. Sit back and ride the wave. Direct yourself upward and forward. The only “recycling” worth it’s name is the cycle of this world’s death, decay, collapse and renewal. People “protest” the cutting down of trees with paper. The very dead cut murdered trees they are protesting for they use to print flyers to look like they are caring environmentalist when really they are obstacles to be shunned. They lack the discipline, will, soul and brains to be anything that will be remembered. The protest of a technocratic society can not be protested with electricity. This sacrifice of Life. Psychic warfare. The ultimate final passion of the beautiful human soul and real human spirit is rested upon the few. It is okay to be beautiful and of this few. Although this world will teach you that you should equal yourself to the level of retardation. You are no longer alone.

The only things left are untainted Poetry, unblemished Love and real Muse-ic. To dance the darkness into yet created Light. The use of poison as the antidote. Allow the ‘serpent’ to bite and take you into hell. From then on out the serpent’s bite can not touch you as the body makes a defense to it. Allow the fools to touch the fire instead of yelling at them. They’ll only keep reaching for the flames their whole lives. Once they touch the fire they’ll not touch it again.

To turn a corpse into a flower. Before one can plant seeds the field must be plowed. Death is a Gardenia blossom. Bloated and drenched with night dew. The more it decays the stronger and sweeter the aroma.

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Initiation. A concept lost in the stagnant mists of time. To die and be reborn. To fall and rise as a new person. In the inward yet downward spiral of Kali Yuga we do not have the Pontifex to guide our initiations. The Pontifex, the “bridge to the other-world”, from the mere terrestrial to the celestial. Telluric to Uranian. Chthonic to Olympian. Earth to water. Water to fire. Fire to air. Air to Aether. We are left with the ghosts of men and masters. Their images and books scattered on the floor and bookshelves. Their voices echoing in the windows of our minds. A realistic view of a timeless procession. Robes are no longer needed. The Rite and Ritual in itself is within the Individual. The acknowledgement of superior intelligence outside our own. To be ripped to little pieces, torn apart, shredded to nothing, hopeless, without one living soul to know or share in this supreme of all agony. To be dragged unto hellish corners. Whipped mercilessly, beaten and spat upon. To be the Outsider. Only to rise and be brought back together completely whole with an ever new evolving poetic Love. To be born a new among mere mortals in a world of supreme suffering and agony. And in this, the Initiation, one will be able to turn the most base disgust into absolute Poetry. This is the Initiation of the Now. Fall. Die. Allow it. Then Rise. Seek. And Leap! Your wings were seeded with agony and watered with your tears. And if one flies with their own wings, one can never fly too far.

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