Tag Archives: spiritual

// art & sex //

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my sex in your mouth like
summer melting glass over steel city buildings
but i know better
that all we ever truly seek
to erect is
knowledge.
that the only real stimulation
is a taste of the torture of desire inside
a mind that finds its own reflection beautiful
in the awe struck through it by
wondering at the strangeness of
another;
a
twisted creature as
mad as
we.
the glory of art,
the hunger of passion,
the fall and rise of the crave to give and receive pleasure,
is ultimately a swimming out
toward fear
in the heavy hopes of
getting beyond it to a
place of peace.
you before me with your face
and your tears in my
hands.
we seek to know how to save
ourselves, how to release ourselves of
something we must break free of, some flawed way of thinking or being from which we
seek absolution.
we want to know, ultimately, intimately, in raw human form,
the gripping power of our own
divine mystery.
we want to be one with the Self beyond the self,
the Self that is free of these bodies we
obsess over, these alien bodies with their demented burning needs and their curious imperfections.
art and sex are creative
acts of faith, acts of defiance,
little spinning feathers of death.
the blood and sweat,
the pulse of this life,
the advancing pursuit of
solace,
is
treachery.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// alone //

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Alone is an animal, hunting and slaughtered for meat.

Alone is a criminal, thieving and caught by knives at the throat.

Alone is a deity, breathing and death for five thousand years rising up through your rib cage, staring back at you in the mirror, speaking with newborn tongues.

Alone is poetry eating itself, becoming itself, words created and starved on the disrupted exposure of human bodies in full orgasm.

The words don’t need anything you don’t have but they won’t commune, they will not burn you, they will not pray for you, they will not bear succulent fruit for less than their worth.

Present yourself, bow into them, swim out to them beaten and blind and they will hold you like the fearless hands of God.

She will bow beneath you, reach inside your blood and offer you back to yourself.

Alone is worship at the bottom of every violent river only to recognize the fear as the maddening feel of wet caves dripping inside your mind; it is nights under a moonless sky begging forgiveness, begging entrance, begging release.

Alone is waking at the swell of dawn in the quiet rain, touching yourself with the ghost hands of another who knew you once more intimately than you now know yourself, and waits like a lion in sharp blades of tall grass for your return.

Alone is sacrament, alone is masochist, alone is ritual, alone is feet on the floorboards walking through seven painted doors down a vacant hall.

Alone is handcuffs and liberation, broken pianos playing themselves in the dark.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// lumen naturae //

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aroused by the sheen of night
i search within her aching folds
for the release we’ve been
too long
denied.
deep penetration of this thirsty spirit as i close my eyes
and enter into you
willingly;
i accept and reflect
all of you
fully.
your divine feminine hands
reach from within my dark and lustrous womb,
where before the first Thought of God
i became the tunnel of infinite darkness
within the spark of the eternal light.
this is where i wait for you, patiently;
still
stroking the gruesome silence
of a desolate landscape no one else
can see, but with the patterns in my blood
i recognize her breathing.
we unlock our raging souls from the rusted cages of
a thousand corpses
to become a richly pleasured and
chaotic seethe,
communication without sound, beyond symbols,
alone together and heavy with longing,
nourished, caressed, resurrected.
i worship and hold space for you,
faceless forgotten deity, you have spoken to me before the Word before
my bones could be conceived, you who seeks radiant entrance
into me
through the lost eyes of your hungry,
ravaged. exploited.
wandering
children.
i am open as wide as the world
is broken.
i will listen with a single smoldering
mind.
return to us your tortured magic.
destroy and rebuild your temple, priestess,
where light swallows the dark
and dark swallows the light
and the broken and the pure
may finally
unite.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

Tuning In: 3 Simple Mantras to Awaken Your Spirit and Bring Forth Your Highest Energy

flowers shadow

Is it coffee? (Yeah, man. Me, too.)

Or is it tea, maybe? (Me, too. Also. Sometimes.)

Is it reading? Writing? Rowing? Walking the dog?

No? Okay . . . how about stretching, perhaps? Yoga? Running?

Alright, I give up. Tell me, do you have a morning routine?  Something – or set of things – you do to get yourself ready for the day? (If it’s running I applaud you, by the way.)

Rituals can be a brilliantly centering, comforting and steadying thing. We commit to them repeatedly until it no longer feels like a commitment, it just feels like ‘the thing I always do.’

We sort of nestle ourselves into them. We rely on them to feel like who we are.

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Light Being: How to Amp Up Your Inner Radiance and Shine Without Fear

crack light

After it was over, all I could see was light. All I could feel was light. All I could be was light.

She was pure love energy, radiant fascinating white, like staring directly into the center of a star without the sting. My eyes were closed.

I could make out just enough of her: the gentleness along the curve of her back as she knelt before me. The giant fluid outline of what could have been the perfect wings. Her hands held mine as my arms were spread open in meditation.

In one weightless, slender movement both of her thumbs slid down the length of the inside of my willing arms, elbow to wrist, opening me up. As the white of my skin parted into the white of her glow she poured cascades of endless light like tranquil liquid pools into me.

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Stripped Beautiful: A Brief Meditation on Beauty, Bodies, Fences and Time

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We are so obsessed with the building and labeling and walling off of things in this world.

This is mine.

This is theirs.

This is beautiful.

This is worthy.

This is not.

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Collecting Shadows: How (Not) To Talk About Love

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I don’t really do flowery stuff.

I don’t do gory or cruel stuff either, of course, but I love dirty and crooked and how odd things can be sort of bent to become even more beautiful in their oddity.

Bouquets are lovely but I’d rather collect the shadows if I could.

I like the wet peace in the dark. I like the cool quiet in the stillness. I tend to feel like where the crowd is is the beginning of the end of a thing but I couldn’t really tell you why.

So I like to go another way; the way things haven’t gone yet.  Just to see how it might look there and what comes with me or falls off.

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