Love in Flight

love, wallpapers, desktopWhen she and I
are One.

Once upon a starry night
I saw a woman both
dark and bright
her essence lit up the
midnight sky
my heart did race
my soul did cry out 
“It has begun!”
as I recognized the 
arrival of 

“Do recognize this 
beauteous soul
a blessing of love
to make you whole
in days long gone
in lives last lived
we shared the dawn
learned to forgive
we broke our fast
on air and light
the lives we’ve shared
of love in flight.”

Moments momentos
of sepia-toned sighs
of bold cries and warm
smiles life’s delight
cherished beguiled
souls soaring Phoenix-like
into the sun
twin fiery birds

Alike in so many ways
all trials overcome
what Divinity above has 
ordained let no man
shun let no plan proven
undone become as 
subtle plains of intention
reflect the sun
so shall She as We 

Once upon a brilliant morn
I saw a woman
my heart was torn
between my pain 
and open wounds
to leave the stains
of life’s monsoons
behind and move into
the light and live the
truth of love’s full

Where She and I
are One.


Technician of the New World Order

I am a technician of the new world order. My face is legion. I am soul-lost. My heart beats with the cold, mechanical precision of a computer chip. I am digitized. I see in stereo-vision and hear in surround-sound. Currency is the lubrication for my joints and multi-media driven information overload comprises the detritus of my mind. I have no original thoughts. I am vapid and void of creativity. My life has no redeeming social value or portentous, cosmic meaning. Rather, I am an automaton. A scion of the future. A creature of the new millennium.

I dream of violet and azure seas, capped by frothy, pirouetting waves. The mirrored reflection of midnight skies – awash with the sparkling flames of the great, white, milky way – confound my vision, splashed across the dark formlessness of the watery void. I dream of sands, brilliantly white, and coconut-laden palm trees that rustle gently in the salt-tinged breeze. My dreams mock my reality. My days are spent in endless repetition. The fruit of my labor is redundant. My skills and expertise are negotiable. Daily, I recreate myself as a simulacrum of myself. My true state of being is unknown. Illusion is my reality and reality my dream.

There exist in this world others like me. Our work is endlessly opposed to that of the archetypal Other, the eternal. The dark, muddy formlessness of primal creation drives our hatred, our lust, our fear. We are charged with the implementation of the future by the extrapolation of the present and the obfuscation of the past. Now is my only reality. We toil within small, gray cubicles; teh maze-like cells of a vast, tetragonal matrix. Each engaged in the same task, each working towards the same goal.

Our goal is the total annihilation of independent thought and action. Our way is the way of the future. The way of linear, time-driven progression. Only through technology shall my personality be saved. Only through technology shall I reach the utopia of my own creation. Only through technology shall I behold the face of my God.

Blackness is everywhere that I look. Engulfing me, overwhelming me. Oozing with psychic potentiality, within and without. The ebony shades of darkness – drifting, haunting – of sleep. Of dreamless slumber that threatens to consume the whiteness of my consciousness, of illumination. Only by courting sleeplessness shall I persevere. Only by denying my essential being shall I achieve true knowledge of self. Only by denying my past will I know my future. Only by embracing the material shall I approximate the spiritual. Only by becoming the white will I sublimate the black.

I am a technician of the new world order. My fear approximates totality. Clammy sweat nourishes my body and the viscera-encrusted talons of gibbonous madness tear at the essence of my being. I am afraid of the creature I believe myself to be. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I am. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I can be.

Within my mind lurk phantasmagoric vistas of panoramic delight, wonders to engage the senses and engorge the carnal appetite. The pleasures of the flesh beckon me. Tender tragedy. Painful ecstasy proffered with heartless abandon. Tempting, physical delights exemplified by the myriad full, creamy thighs and deep, moist caverns of lust filled by colonnades of primal passion. Open pores, sweat blinded movement pinioned by sighs and the sound of wet flesh slapping, sliding, fingers groping, grasping, caressing, holding.

My need is all that is real. Infinite eyes, receding into whiteness, lust-filled, heavy-lidded, somnolent and hypnotic. They bat provocatively, possessing feather-like lashes stolen from the carcass of a maggot-eaten bird of paradise that tickle me shamelessly. I suckle upon the earth’s nipple, vast and bloated grotesquely with the blood of the unborn, the milk of malignant narcissistic existence. The flesh is everlasting, saturated with satiation and perverted compulsiveness. Nothing outside of myself is real. All else is illusion. Only my need is undeniable.

The world we create by our very existence reinforces the unreality of true being. The paradox is inescapable. For if my life has no meaning, then the meaning of all life is in question. The cell within which my reality is bounded is representative of the collective grid within which we, the technicians of the new world order, lie fallow, awaiting the fertilization of a spiritual seed. The futility of independent or creative thought follows naturally from this original conception.

My life is without intrinsic purpose or ultimate goal. Therefore, identifying exterior purpose has become my goal. With that realization, my purpose is clear. To obscure the purposefulness of life from those who would seek and embrace it. To reinforce the reality of my perceived surroundings in empathetic resonation with the beat of my own soul-lost heart.

I am a technician of the new world order. My mask is that of a clone. My soul is unknown. My heart beats to the vibration of the world’s soul, for it knows no beat of its own. I see the world through dark and accusing eyes because my own are colorless as bone. The dreams and aspirations of the Other are the lubrication for my joints and their lives, the stimulation of my mind. I have no being other than that created to nourish my inner purposelessness. Rather, the light of my whiteness is sustained by blackness. I am a technician of the new world order.

Smooth Intention

Silky words of smooth
flowing seamlessly through
space, sent
softly sinuous, twirling
labyrinthine inner ear swirling
cochlear calls thrumming
through ganglia.

Membranous impressions
echoing emotion –
love vibrating –
higher forms of Self attuned,
multi-dimensional awakening in the

Listen with the inner ear,
inner eye spoken –
the Indulgence of Fears,
the Cascade of Tears –
and loneliness defines the day.

One with Oneness
the illusion persists as we
giving in to the silky vocals of

Craggy laughter and sly insinuation,
libations to the ancestors ignored;
tour de force of desire,
loins afire,
flaming golden and crimson –
face aflush –
whispered lust across the airwaves,
thighs tingling as legs spread wide
luscious delights exposed
to the wild side.

Moaning, willful need,
ascent shortened:
sexual fulfillment unleashed,
the estrogen garden
implanted by testosterone seeds
unburdened by you
unmentioned, by me.

Silent accusations speak louder
than words,
infinite levels of blame
obscure the shame.

The emotional game is familiar:
years of pain
and bewilderment,
absolutely nothing
is gained.

Silky words of smooth
interrupting the steady flow
of love,
connection broken by
words unspoken while another
swoops in from


The Tyranny of Songbirds

Such sweet delight
to which others might exclaim
in stupendous awe
as might I
were it not for my sighs
and my reticent appreciation of
divine law

Multitudinous fowls do flock
do flutter by sweet fortune’s side
singing songs
to amaze and amuse
To mine ears in the morning
awakened from dreams
weary and yawning
my mood sorely tested and

Soaring high in the skies
birds do fly seeking mates
sustenance and the fulfillment
of soul’s ease
as above so below
so the stories do show
afflicted are they with the dreaded
‘happy disease’

As I listen to sweet songs
of poignantly drawn poems
sung by lover to mother to child
the world of birds mirrors our own
what is reaped may then be sown
to my face a small smile is then

Eternal cycles of life
filled with trauma
pain and strife
to all species
God’s promise is true
but the tyranny of songbirds
punctuate the meaning of
Divine words casting light
as delight does

The Only One

I remember a dream of blue.

For some reason, floating is something I do.

Wakening with the sun feeling like I’m the only One

In the world. Purple and blue voids, nightside beaches of sensuality, bodies undulating, brown, black, red, blue and green, soft sighs of ecstasy permeating the Between.

Life after life, between time I remember asking the Divine what the purpose of Incarnation was. I can’t remember the exact response but I find myself ensconced in duality yet again, and I can’t pretend like I don’t love it. Like I wish I was someplace else, perhaps an Elf in an alternate dimension of Earth, where the Sidhe flee to relax when humanity becomes too much and it gets hard for the Fae to breath.

Floating, thinking, consciousness aware of itself. I wonder Me, like Prince said and contemplate Freedom from the noises inside my head.  Once upon a time that is where I lived, fighting with the tentacles of Ego in order to forgive Self, for allowing time and space to to attack my natural grace and introduce strife as if that was what life was all about. Nowadays I laugh at my ignorance and willingness to do penance for a crime I did not commit.

Diving deep beneath the surface of thought I found myself lost, wondering what it was I sought, my memory fading fast as I left the Ego behind like something crass and to be culled, the deeper I dove the less lulled by Leviathan I felt, the deeper currents of consciousness coursing against my svelt, astral Self, chuckling I wonder again if I’m really that Elf, just dreaming of a human host while my true Being makes the most of each Incarnation, the recreation of the Soul the most elevating goal of all.

Shifting seas of Being remind me that this is a dream, and I imagine my body in a bed somewhere spinning through the cosmos apropos of nothing at all, falling, laughing, shining like the Sun and feeling love coming from everyone.

I can feel my eyes opening, now.

The light, shining through my lids.

Waking with the sun, I know I am not

The only One.