• poems

    The Ash Grove

    the ash grove, cinder falling from the sky
    the night stretches around the trees
    turning into blight
    the petals scratching my skin
    carnal flowers eating my heart
    as the mud flows from my eyes
    I don’t remember who I was

    the ash grove, filled with the sorrow of thousands
    the blight turns into fire
    the supernova of feelings
    as I search for the one
    who I lost

    the ash growth, beneath
    deep into the crackled soil
    the ashen birds sing around the monument
    the roots reach my feet
    the grey vines entangle me

    I am the one who was lost
    give me breath, call for the birds of the sun
    let them sing me into freedom, with pearly voices lift me up
    until I turn one with the end of the world
    in the ash grove

  • excerpts

    Am I…?

    It’s somewhere, deep inside me, shaped like a spike. It remembers times when I was still fully human. Thanks to it I don’t need to remember. It stings me right in the mind when I forget. I don’t know it’s good to remind me those times, though. It only disrupts me, makes me more fragile. And I need to be wild, like water breaking a dam.

    When I kill, I don’t do it professionally. I do it bloody. I do it messy. And then comes the spike. I loathe it because it’s the memory of who I was.

    I am not an animal nor a human. My body is agile and I don’t mind the wounds. My only incurable wound it the spike.

    Your life means nothing when I pass your path. I am a cat. I am a wild wolf. I am a death that falls on four limbs.

    I am. Qhal. And it will be the last thing you hear when I cross on you.

    …Am I? Am I human?… it seems I was. The spike seems to loosen up on my mind. Maybe soon I will be free…

    Excerpt from the story I write. Drawing by me, made few months ago, it’s Qhal of course. I think it’s partially X-Men tribute, thought it’s set in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. I think Qhal may be soon very often guest on my blog.

  • poems


    release the birds, let them return
    the black wings severing air into pieces
    the cage can’t hold them too long
    release them until they reach for you

    the sky shakes as you tremble
    and your manor’s foundation ruined
    the birds returned to claim the throne
    here she comes, the Raven Sister

    with eyes like black coals
    and feathers made of stone
    her raven brothers tearing the flesh
    and leaving debris

    release the birds
    release your soul
    condemned hands unmasking your veils
    the tree loses the colours
    turning grey

    scaoil na héin

  • poems


    Darkness that pours from the wounds
    enclosing like a mud, sticking to the skin
    embracing like an ominous lover
    the madness deep inside
    that cannot be removed by ghosts of the past
    that inhabit the manor of the soul

    The black door, always on my mind
    when I try to fight the demons
    grinning widely, forcing themselves into life
    that seemed lost, yet keeps breathing

    the angels on the horizon
    how to reach them when the murk binds so much?
    I am tenebrous maiden that breathes the eternal night
    Eclipse my name

  • thoughts


    Well, from where I should even start? From when Vampire Chronicles shaped me and my book taste? From where the Interview with the Vampire shook me and left me speechless and made me a fan of the creatures that drink blood at night, hunting for dark-hearted victims?

    I guess it happened during my first year at high school when I read mostly Batman comics and delved in DC and Marvel universes, eating it with a huge dose of black metal music. I picked the Interview with the Vampire randomly – and I was already lost. I started listening to gothic music, as my mind was in there, where Siouxsie and the Banshees fit well. I started imagining I am a vampire, which made me met a special kind of people, but that’s story for another blog entry.

    I deeply feel Anne Rice and her characters, even if I know the author kind of treat her fanbase like it was her enemy, forbidding fanfiction and suing its writers. I think that copyrights became too important lately, when the most important is sharing and imagining.

    But truly, Lestat, Louis, Armand and Marius – old beings, only the same shape making them human-like, angels with battered wings, the beautiful of face and dreadful of the soul – who love art, music and life, of all. The elegant and gentle predators, filled with red blood they drink every night, their eyes glistening like gems, their skin like made of glass, their history vast and spacious, the un-living yet craving for every single breath…

    That’s why I love Anne Rice. Her vampires are different. Her vampires are her vampires, simply. And even if I am not a fan of all books from the series, I love that universe, vampire laws, Theatre des Vampires, their mythology and children of the millennia.

    Here, I created still growing Anne Rice website – THE COVEN

    It’s my tribute to most inspiring author that entered my reader’s life. Maybe not pefect, because nothing is perfect – but close to what in my own secret garden of mind I tend to make feel like perfection, translating every flaw into my own language.

    But there is a rotten egg I must to throw. Don’t read Blood Canticle. It’s bad. It made me furiously go all over my room and even over my ceiling (aka Floor Jensen). Reading it was one of those hard times when someone you admire, suddenly makes a cruel and public joke on you.

  • poems

    Rised from Hell

    when the stellar torments bloom under the blackened moon
    the hell awaits in all its glory
    the bruised hands lift the cup of twilight
    and the pain turns into bliss
    the angels came to bring the rapture
    with eyes bloodied and bodies twisted
    the agony is the wine we drink
    and the gods bow before morbid malady we bring

    *drawing by me, my own messenger of hell.

  • thoughts

    The Minute Apocalypse

    Sometimes it’s good to be alone. But the Rider doesn’t like loneliness, even if it seems that it is the other way around. The Rider looks at his grey homestead, the clock frozen in time, the faded flowers in front of the house, and he wonders. He very carefully pours the grains of his sand through his fingers. And he sees the void, even if the sand is still there, still and motionless as stone.

    Emptiness is never good. He sees the void where the heart should be and tries to replace it with a substitute. A substitute for feelings, a substitute for imagination. Sometimes he succeeds, and then the Rider feels a bit of joy. He can enjoy, oh yes. Sometimes he thinks that it is a true human joy. Then, however, it comes to the sad conclusion that it is completely the opposite.

    When he rides his horse, white as snow, the stars dance for him in the sky. They dance and dance until they are tired, they will not sleep in their heavenly beds, until the Rider reaches his next man and does not let his sand fall to the end. But all the time he thinks about his sand, which does not pour over a millimetre. It makes him sad. It pleases him. He does not know how to pick up this strange feeling in his skull that makes him regret some people and regret himself.

    His work is not popular among mankind. Everyone would never meet him, but most of them feel relieved when he stands next to them and doesn’t explain absolutely anything. They can go where their lives have always led them, and the Rider is the gate to what people call the afterlife. It is also frightening, especially when you believe in burning pots. But finally they see and hear clearly, and for these few moments of absolute weightlessness, it is worth sacrificing the temporal shell. Which about they don’t care anymore.

    Cats. Cats are good. Sometimes, he catches myself imitating love for them. In the rhythm of the non-ticking clock, cats, living cats, murmur him a lullaby to non-sleep. These cats, so soft, so unbearable, so…perfect in their conceited way of being…sometimes the Rider has the impression that they give him a piece of the life they emanate. And he sees more and more distinct grains of his sand.

    Sometimes, different individuals are passing through his domain. He wants well for them. He knows what they did in their lives, do now and will do in the future. But this knowledge seems empty to him, the same emptiness that surrounds him from all sides. He doesn’t want emptiness, only life. He wants life. He wants it so much.

    He scratches the cat behind his ears, the cat purrs. A horse snorts in a black-and-white stable, white snowball in a colourless field of still life. The Rider sighs.

  • poems


    As her face turns at the moon
    the pale skin covered with moss and blood
    her love for him reached through the forests
    to exhale into the sky, leaving black muddy drops

    The root, the bone and the stone
    her mind lost and her heart too
    The feathery owl soaring into the night
    her voice ringing hollow in the void

    The flowers tangled into the owl shape
    the mandala of life, the veil of oaken branches
    deri, banadyl, erwein
    She was lost before anyone knew
    loneliness her name