THE WARRING HARRIDAN, Poetry by Cassandra Swan

Genre: Dark, Horror, Death

(A Journey to the Centre of the Psyche with the Syntactic Pyromaniac)
by Cassandra Swan

An extremely tetchy, trauma geyser is fizzing – as an obfusc, voodoo brew – beneath a serene, graceful surface: yet more of my unruly lifetime’s, stymied debris to excavate – from the Abbadonian, soul-stirring slime pit – and perspicaciously express. My psyche’s Patagonian mosquito has landed: drilling for blood, it pierces my soul as a psychotic maniac with a rubiginous syringe! Deep within my subconscious, Mnemosynian archives, there resides a jagged, gyte shard: I must extract this parlous, psychological artefact – succinctly as a piece of intricately miniated hydria – and circumspectly inspect it. My glyptic wisdom will scroll poetically into cryptic diction; ornate as exquisite mezzo-relievo. These curious, iconic epics will evolve into abstruse, chronological, psychological dossiers; then filed in an historic, confessional-elegy library. I am The Warring Harridan: a psychagogue, moulting my pneuma’s tedious onus by boundlessly fly-tipping versified ire – as eclaircissemental offerings – to volumes of personally quirky poetry books. My Bragian, internal brouhaha will be the theme of lengthy deliberation and criticism. My radical, Callopian cries will spansulise, and liberalize diatribes.

I sense an epic, minacious monster creeping out from dank cobwebs in a derelict crypt. Sunless recesses of my essence are melancholy potholes; muskegs, swollen with cognitive sewage. As a thaumaturgist, I transform intricate transference into fascinating, spiritually visual symbols, and phenomenal, refined Tyrian lines. I am prancing verbosely into a new arena of hearts and minds. The Alexander Techinique filched-out stout, psychotherapeutic rats a few years back; squealing and mincing frantically through my emotional bilge-pump; leaping out through my drainpipe-epiglottis. I will cast more vermin out, poisoning them for good this time! An evil-eyed demon, the psycho, a demented artist – with a flick-knife, gun and hydrophidae – sculpted me twenty years ago into an intensely wise woman. Adam rises to consciousness in a Blake-blazing vision; he switches elements and dimensions. This devilish, black-rose abreaction triggers an odious, troparion oil slick! On the rumbling genesis of a tumultuous tempest, my psyche’s trireme will carry me through Acheron to a symbolic ravage. With irregular, cerebral outpourings, I will share my technical peak experiences and psychodynamics, as a psychiatric travel guide on a scenic, oceanic undulation. I must journey beyond the intrepid war of ghosts, as a bard revered. My psycho-synthesis passages always aim for spiritual peace and credence.

Prophetic, higher realms tell me – when I alight from my trireme – a Shaman’s giant, Snowy Owl will swoop and ululate! It will encircle the whirlwind of my mind, as an unruly, noctivagant poltergeist! Then it will perch before me, a surreal, sagacious counsel, eagerly propounding more psychologically sullied evidence, to close this tragic, Gnostic case. This Harridan will suspire fire: illuminating the grimy, insipid sea with flaming waves in a Magritte masterpiece. An over-zealous Armageddon will manifest: orgulous, intrusive psychopaths will challenge me! However, I will see through their veil of convivial sincerity. Man will continually try to sporadically employ supremacy over me; Freud’s vampires sucking at my unrepentant, Lorelei ego! Beyond the shore – as fate would have it – there is yet another war zone! I crawl: weary as a solitary soldier, digging my way forward with mud-encrusted elbows¬! I surreptitiously search for a symbolic orillion, to steal from a battlement, and enter my Trophonion, poet-trench.

As a tactical manoeuvre, I divert from a putative, ruthless plutocrat; refusing to squirm at his material behest! I develop a new, elegiac geostrategy and Lokian persona; carefully establishing fresh munitions and maskirovka. I transcribe in my spiritual journal as a fully-fledged, accomplished pace-setter; a hard-core, Polyhymnian graphorrhoealist, in my confessional, Poetic, Foreign Legion. I flex my newly acquired, versified ligaments, as a lurid lynx on heat. I am a slick lexicographer, with insurgent tongue and lissome feet. As Magaera, I am, now, a poetic gladiator; opposing the literati megalomaniacs; fighting – introspectively – for a place on the pellucid, world page, in diffusion of responsibility. My perilous, Russian Muse ignites my riotous heart. Vladimir demands a forward-march! Plucking the pristine, mnemonic strings on my allegorical, Pyrrhic victory harp. A fusion of instincts with Mayakovsky incites my spirit. “To poetic battle!” he cries. “I am ready for battle!” I reply.

Insane as a Queen, I behead superfluous dick-heads! Striking of Dr. Death – the subordinate Acephalite – for gross plagiarizing and punctuated negligence! My calm cranium looms – as a gesticulating, Revolutionary ghost – from a well-mourned tomb. Where are the rivals? They dissemble – as if to trick the old dog – but I have learned new tricks. This Harridan – propelled by dignified furore – will take an unexpected route: ancillary enemies have to be content with following suit. Their white flags sway – as slow-motion Geishas – far faraway! I rise – as a dazzling, Dionysian apparition – from the Melpomenian ashes of time, as the intellectual hellcat: a poetic hero extraordinaire; the syntactic pyromaniac, with a jugular full of flares!

Copyright Cassandra Swan 2005 All rights reserved

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