Tag Archives: death

Wanderlust

20 May

An excerpt from the current chapter I am writing for my newest literary alchemy-

“A Kaleidoscope of Butterflies.”

Chapter ?
“wanderlust”
My wanderlust allowed me to break free, at the very young age of twelve years old, from living inside that bubble, that early dying instead of living, gilded cage. You know the one. The one that (most) parents and societal ignorance wanted to keep me tethered to, that forever home, looking out the windows provided to me for my “safety” but truly a trap, eventually, a prison of my own design.

So, with shoes on my feet, a shirt on my back and a mind ignorant of the badness that lived in the wide, wide, world, I tricked my prison guards, unlocked (stole the keys while eating dinner in the mess hall) that ridiculously tall door that surely weighed two-thousand pounds or more and made my great escape!

Into the bright but rainy day I slipped away from all that I had ever known and from a very real understanding of being safe and taken care of, just so I could help the world see (what I could so easily see….all the fucking time!) that our formatted lives from birth, are only a house of corrections, some decorated with the finest silk and plush carpets, and some bare bones and dilapidated, yet, still an impound, a confine, a garden to look at and sit down in, but don’t you dare touch it and/or kick up some dirt and roll around in it! And so, I slipped away out into the second taste of true freedom (I had to free my mind first!) I had ever known.

More important than the hows, whys, and wheres of my wanderlust, is, while I followed my heart and each transformation of my being to and fro, near and far, is what did I leave behind and what did I take with me, each and every time.

How did I change those whose path I wandered onto and how did they change me?

Everything we are ever taught is ultimately bullshit. Everything turns back into the soil from which we came. No one leaves this life differently than anyone else. We all die. We are gone. All that we chose to become has turned back into dust. What do we leave behind that actually matters? Is it great works of art? Is it your religion? Is it your beliefs? Is it your Social Media status? Is it a subculture? Is it a government? Is it power? Is it grand architecture? What is it that we really leave behind?

It is how did we love.

How do you love?
~Julia DarkRose Caples
Copyright 2018

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Samhain Evensong

30 Sep

Samhain Evensong

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I wrote this prose about an hour ago. This was inspired by the creation of my new Hallowe’en video for 2017, that will be released for public viewing, midnight tomorrow!

Until then, here is a peek at my new Hallowe’en Season prose, inspired by my current Artistic Alchemists creation.

Thank you for taking a moment to read my thoughts translated into a painting made out of words.

Side note: Many readers have mentioned that because I usually write my prose in a mixture of olde english and modern english, that they have trouble following along. I do not see it that way, at all. There are also just as many readers that do not have any problem deciphering my prose. I did, however, tone the mixture of olde and modern down a bit. Since the publication of my book-Blood’s Truth-I have a rather large number of new readers. So, for their sake, I toned it down. I do believe, however, that the story of Autumn that is told through this prose, is easy enough for most to unravel and, hopefully, find dark delight within.

Respectfully and quite Appreciative,
~Julia DarkRose Caples

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Samhain Evensong
© Julia DarkRose 2017

O spirit of illuminated night,
Spectre of blinding sun,
Web of the Darklight,
Sea of Wisdom’s reflection,
Mirror of madness,
Bringer of visions,
Shall we rejoice with thee in this season of change…
in this harvest of death?
Or shall we fly from thee into the comforting arms of Springtide?

The mind must split.
The marrow must chasm.
The blood must curdle.
The heart must cease.
The flesh must rot.

Elixir’s fade and potions fail.
The sweet, thick red wine, changed to foul, thin water.
The river of bright blood is dried upon the skin.

Art thou redemption?
Art thou damnation?
Shall we adore thee?
Should we abhor thee?

Beneath the skin of confusion,
Behold the bones of that which is true:

Human sheath lacking blood,
Bone lacking husk,
Spirit lacking bone.
Arise and be fed.
Arise to bone and flesh and blood.
This Samhain night,
Renewed by the dark gospel’s food.
Nevermore to thirst for mine,
Nor on my living limbs to dine.

Silver Serpent,
Silver Spider,
A mirror for our altered face…
We live again,
And we are so very fair!
The moon has risen and swayed the crimson tide.
In her dazzling Darklight,
The dead live again!
All are bewitching in her glimmer.

Bound within the alabaster web, be free;
Dancing in formless flame…
Now, live!

Maddened where madness is joy,
Hold fast to this frail thread,
Until the last of moonlight’s veil has been shed.

O moon, faeries glory, ghosts, and ghouls,
Art thou a beateous beast?
And are we not better for midnight’s beauty still?
Better her dance of bedazzled death,
Her passionate throes,
Than stillness in the grave.

Dance, dance, dance, in patterns of her fantastical, vibrating, change,
These decaying rags made whole,
Risen in her fevered, flaming, Cimmerian shade.
All our senses wear her infinite bright shadow,
Our cloak, forevermore…

Beneath the skin of confusion,
Behold the bones of that which is true:

We awaken fully, into a frenzy of bestial desires.
Once creatures, trapped by the burning sphere of daylight,
We gnawed at our house of flesh.
Ravaged by Night’s Mistress,
Old as the black nothing that does not end…

All that was dead is not dead.

The spirit is an inferno.
The spirit is eternal.
The spirit is one spirit-The spirit of all spirits.
And that One holds the Fire of the Cosmos.

Breathe now,
And so shall the Cosmos breathe,
And of its own breath shall the Cosmos be made anew.

Beneath the skin of confusion,
Behold the bones of that which is true:

Merry New Year!
The Darkness is upon us!
Rejoice!
Blessed is this, our Evensong…
Happy Samhian!

~Julia DarkRose

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Too Young To Die

20 Jul

Too Young to Die

I just finished watching this movie. The fact that it eerily reflects much of my early childhood and teenage years (some of it, by no means all of it), only added to my increasingly withdrawn and horrified state of mind while watching it.

It is true, we all have the ability to make choices about our lives (mentally handicapped children, are, of course, exempt), even as children, teenagers and young adults. Yes, it is true that the human mind does not stop developing until the age of 25 or so. Yet, given even the worst of circumstances (believe me, I have been party to the reality of torture, sexual abuse, physical & psychological abuse and even the factual threat of death, many times as a child, teenager, and young adult), yet I always made the choice to conquer my foes and relentlessly keep searching for a better quality of life. All the while, trying to keep mental disease that was genetically passed on to me in check.

Still, we are not all equal when it comes to our capacity to survive and make the correct choices. So, at what point do we as a society of progressive and highly intellectual thinkers & doers, decide that enough is enough and pull our heads out of whoever’s ass we ar so far up that we can no longer smell our world without the stench of human shit, or hear it without the deafening sounds of zombified media coverage, or see it without wearing our specialized rose-colored, glasses, given to us at birth?

When, how, who, is going to finally throw away the glasses, switch off the zombified media and pull their head out of Geppetto’s asshole?

This movie, while a fictionalized version of true events, is an accurate portrayal of real life for many children and teenagers who have been thrown away by family and by society.

Like Anne Frank wrote…good thing no one has to wait to start making the world a better place.
~©Julia DarkRose 2017

Closing Thoughts

26 Jun

Closing Thoughts
By Julia DarkRose                                                            Dancer of Fire
©2015

This one thought keeps echoing in my head…
fear prevents one from joining the fray of life,
leaving only carrion while the brave carry off the choicest meats.
With that thought, I rise and howl. The hunt has begun…soon I will be drowsy and reveling in my blood-euphoria. The
mere thought of my prey’s blood coursing through my body, being covered in their sanguine elixir…devouring
(this is, of course, subjective, so please spare me your harsh judgements based upon your complete lack of any real experience and/or your reality of NOT being borne a Human Living Vampire-or insert your own label) them body and soul…is almost more than I can bare to think about without my natural borne inferno escaping my fiery spirit and body and setting the world ablaze.

Not yet…once more I go into the fray.
Once more I hunt, devour, and become the glorious predator that nature has made me.
I am a creature of the night.
I am your most horrific nightmare and
I am your most sensual dream.
I am on the prowl.

I understand that not everyone is a
predator (thank the darkness for that, I mean
how would our Mother’s sacred cycle of
life work if we were all the same!?),
but joining the fray of life is necessary for
our own evolution, ergo, the continued
positive evolution of our precious earth.

At some point in your life (if you are fortunate and aware enough)
the phoenix will appear to you and present to you the opportunity to die in the fire and rise from your own ashes…a spiritual/psychological/physical death.

In order to achieve the transformation of the
phoenix one must be willing to go into the
fray, no matter how much fear you believe courses through your veins.

Your world seems to have cracked. You feel bruised, smashed. A band of flame circles your heart, you have become
paralyzed with unfounded fear. Fear put inside of you by society, by liars, users, and abusers.

Come with me/us, Julia DarkRose & The DarkRose Journal family,
and rise from the flames and feel the glorious burn of life
and all the beauty and heartache that comes with it.
Or not. It, your life and its quality, are always up to you.

The tears upon your face are like splashes of gems.
Your eyes are now wide and black and crazed with life.
You look and see your eyes and in the depths of them,
as if in polished mirrors, the ages of the earth, truth and eternal love, fire and darkness.
You are finally home.

~Julia DarkRose

House of Flesh

23 Jun
Property of DarkRose Productions
By Julia DarkRose © 2014

*For those that actually read my literary art, you will notice that this prose is actually a joining of two previous pieces. :-)*
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House of Flesh

Clouded by tears
torn by wind,
ragged with mist:
Ravaged by night,
abandoned by day,
shadows of gray:
My house of flesh
from which I ascend…

My mind
has broken
My bone
has cracked
My blood
has clot
My heart
has stopped
My flesh
has rot…

I sleep,
the sleep of gray,
where the gold and purple
of living fall away.
Here I lie,
beside the bustling of life,
past pain or joy,
desire or fear.
I am the stricken,
dying of death,
shrouded in weeds,
wrapped in my loss:
Silent I wait,
there is no healing
where I decay
nothing is sound,
silent I wait,
in my house of flesh.

I must choose of sleep or madness:
I go then, sleep that gray and soundless sleep
that comes before the silent nothing.
Warmed only by my poor domestic fire,
that lean and flickering flame,
lit upon my mortal hearth to comfort me in Autumns decay:
For it may warm, if not the spirit or the heart,
And least my chilled bones yet awhile.

I ponder the thoughts of the dark dreaming…
Are these not the words of some gray serpent
flickering in the dust?
Would it not be better to go mad and rave,
to court the fair illusion of a greater fire?

My serpents’ fiery tongue
licks my sleeping cold, tired lips,
and reveals this truth to me…

Death is death, and even madness
should soon play us false.
Better to sleep, better to close the curtains tight
against the treacherous laughter of the Light,
and sleep with yet a little fire on the hearth:
Then when the last torrid tongue flickers and is gone,
The sleeper knows it not.
Go now fair lady and sleep.
Your birth, your youth, your prime,
your proud excess, your cosmic fall:
Your mean prize of poverty and dull decline,
your lean possessions now shrunk to fill a little box:
All your senses, your delights,
turned pale and leached of taste,
now ended all, and you are all that’s left
to fill the silences between the ticks of time.
You, my dearest, have paled to a scentless draught
that rusts the heart to a mere foolish ticking clock…

So, now I sleep with him, the Gray.
Though blood and flesh not be shed,
I now have found and end to my despair.
Now my mirror of madness,
reflects only my dark perfection.

~JDR

 

Five O’Clock

1 Jun

Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2014
By Julia DarkRose Ray

*An edited re-post of a recent prose of mine.*
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Five o’clock

It is five o’clock.
The fiery star begins his descent.
I think of all the hands
that are pulling down dingy shades
in a thousand, unremarkable furnished rooms,
bereft of any remarkable life.
I am aware of the damp souls of house maidens
waiting despondently at the door, smiling
and welcoming comfortable companions home,
while their passions flame is slowly extinguished.
Upon the glazen shelves of their abode,
are echos of their own life,
too many unrealized dreams,
written by ardent, burning souls.

My laughter tinkles among the teacups.
My laugh is like an irresponsible child.

Swaying now in the wind like a field of ripe corn,
I stand on the highest stair of her pavement,
lean on the garden urn-calling to her.
I weave, weave, weave,
the fading sunlight of the flameless maidens hair.
Oh my sweet night, she is but as simple and faithless
as a smile and a shake of the hand.

She knows only
A heap of broken images,
where the sun beats fierce and merciless,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,
the cricket no relief,
and the dry stone no sound of water.

There is shadow under the red rock,
I beckon to her, come in under the shadow of this stone,
and I will show you something different from either
your shadow at morning striding behind you
or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you your fear in a handful of dust.

Come with me, my sweet soul.
Or forever be a shape without form,
shade without color,
A paralyzed force,
gesture without motion.
Between the idea
and the reality,
between the pantomime
and the act
that falls to umbra.

I shall remember her,
as a child full of fear
and imagined grace,
I shall remember her,
if at all-
not as a lost violent soul,
but only
as a hollow husk.

And so,to her, in a sanguine whisper,
I utter,
terminate your torment
of love unsatisfied,
of life unfulfilled.
Where shall the truth be found,
where will the truth resound?
Not here, not in the false light of day,
there is not enough silence.

Come with me into the sable forest,
if you can bare the reality.
Our footfalls shall echo in the memory of life
down the passage which you were too scared to take
towards the door you have never opened,
into the night blooming garden,
that you have never seen.

Shall she follow me?
Shall she walk with me?

In my garden…
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
sings below inveterate scars
and reconciles forgotten wars.

At the still point of the beautiful night,
neither flesh nor fleshless.
Sudden in a shaft of moonlight
even while the dust still moves
there rises the hidden laughter
of children in the foliage,
the children of the Crimson Moon.
Quick now, here, always-
Dance! Laugh! Sing! Be the beast!

In my beginning,
in the Dark,
stretching before and after.
The time of the seasons
and the constellations.
The time of milking and the time of harvest.
The time of coupling of man and woman,
and of our beasts.
Feet rising and falling,
eating and drinking.
Dung and death.

In the beginning there was darkness.

It’s five O’clock,
the sun sets now.
We have risen.
We are the new light,
We are the Darklight.

And one last time I say to her,
Come, my sweet child,
for my ravings on this windy night,
shall never echo in your ears again.

It is five O’clock,
where do you want to be?
Who do you want to be?

The church bells ring…
It’s five O’clock.

~JDR

The Undoing

27 May
Property of DarkRose Productions
Copyright 2014
By Julia DarkRose
Julia 2014-Literary Artist
The Undoing

Oh, my undoing:
those pink articulate lips,
divinely flavoured portals to a mouth
where soul dissolves.
Eyes darting beneath raven brows, snares for the heart,
and the milk-white breasts, so lovely shaped,
the twin rosebuds, fair beyond all other flowers.

And there in the room, poor and squalid,
hidden above the dubious tavern,
moonlight filtering through the filthy and narrow window,
lying there on the much-used, lowly bed
I had the essence of love, wrapped in Goddess’ flesh.
I had the lips,
the voluptuous and rosy lips of ecstasy-
rosy lips of such ecstasy, that even now
as I write, after so many years,
in my solitary house of skin and bone,
I am drunk again.

My hunger, deprivation,
absence of her flesh.
My endless thirst for her,
for her damp porous centre,
the warm interior,
her sunflowers at night,
her breasts, belly, thighs
of the Goddess, of Cybele.

Her spring has run dry
I now reside in the land
of ashes and desert,
in a mirage of clouds and trees.

I thirst for her.
I am drunk again.
I am drunk with the absence of her.

~JDR

 

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