Monstrous

Gather round children, listen to the sound
Of the drums, pounding, grounding spirits
Floundering in the pits of hell, the bells ring
Loud as mothers watch, proud of sons
Desecrating our planetary home, the bones
Of Gaia shimmering like stone, crystalline
Consciousnesses monstrous in conception,
Impervious to deception the truth rings forth
Like light, denied the inner sight spirits take
Flight into the night, while humans awaken
From deep slumber, unaware of the plunder
They were just recently subjected too,
Astral pirates, witches on brooms, blooms
Of deadly nightshade emit wafting columns
Of poisonous scent, the descent into
Cognitive dissonance the fragrance of
Immediate remembrance, awakening to the All
Overwhelmed by the immensity of the Fall,
Minuscule consciousnesses imprisoned in flesh,
Limited by time and space, the mind, the race
So sublime, every taste gone like wine,
The drunken stupor of life cutting like a knife,
Each instance of self-recognition
A demolition of all that came before,
As we hurry back to slumber while
Demons knock upon our door, ponderous,
Knowing the Truth, the beat of the drums,
The proof, the vibrations of the sun, so aloof,
Generously malicious in innocent croons,
Mistress of creation, oblations to holy stations
Derided, obliged we slide into absurdity, head
And heart sheltered, melted waxworks of
Demonstratively inhuman conception, all of it,
Deception, we realize inside, illuminated, absolutely
Fated, resolutely monstrous we retreat
into our shells, once again the test failed
as we slide, fly then glide back, into the pits,
of hell.

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Star Seed: The ancient breed

Star Seed: The ancient breed

Nights
Soulful seeds breed
Half-remembered memories
Of distant Eons
Disturbs dreams
Evoking Fantastic Visions of
Superhuman Pantheons
Third Eye awakenings herald
The onset of pineal potency

Of Gods and Goddesses making love
Beneath purple-hued skies
Multiple moons gliding by
Sighing and whispering as
We dance to the beat of ethereal tunes
Echoing The Music of the Spheres

Harmonic runes ring out
Chanted with solemn glee
Galactic progeny burst from the womb
Of Creation Herself while
Giants and Heroes war against
El Eloheem becoming in time
The Fallen Ones
Heir to death disease and
Warfare

The bass contusions of
Dark Matter Reborn
Rumble subsiding grumbling into
The nether regions of
Spatial inconsistency
Dark energys synergy with love
The key to understanding the
Tantric magic of
You and I

Serpent-fueled Kundalini rises
Formulating emotionally liberating
Connections that burst like convection
Upon the surface of Amenta
That which underlies Creation
The Void of Potential formed by
The desires and dreams of
Divinity Incarnate

A Nation of Stars
Fallen into the flesh
Risen from millennial crypts scripted in
Stone and silt headed full-tilt toward
Evolution of the Soul
Bones formed by crystalline veins
Of pure energy become viscous breaking
Free into skin and breath

Life pulsing then streaming in
Oceans of blood and DNA
Vivified by times immeasurable flow
A visceral experience bounded by
Nothingness

And yet
Everything is retained
Contained within The All
Cresting in heightening tides of
Awareness

The Holy Word spoken
Creation Become
Those memories are truly
Slipstreams of Incarnation
Fantastic voyages into the Souls
Declination beyond the Ecliptic
Beyond conceptions of propriety
And Society

Love shared
Beyond boundary

You
Me
He
She
We

Remember
Times beyond mind
Journeys of the sublime
Dream-like states
Wherein Souls in Synch
Approach the brink of
Conscious Awareness

Accompanying one another upon
Adventurous essays into Oblivion
The goal

Transcendence

Knowledge
Awareness
Remembrance

Memory becomes certain knowledge
The constraints of the flesh only
Ephemeral chains
As Eons collapse into
The Now
Awakening Genetic Cellular Databases (GCDs)
Programmed for Perfection
Overriding lifetimes of defection from
Our innate connection to
The Godhead

Chanting voices thrum
Ringing through my dreams
Tribal Nights contrast with scenes of
Technological Ascendancy presented
In multiple frames of fantastic
Visual potency timeless but vivid and
The Mantle of forgetfulness falls
Once again as dawns bright light
Erases the night and I awaken to

A brand
New
Day

End Time Provocateurs

Many blessings, testings of breath
the death of civility precedes the utility of mediation,
concedes the futility of obfuscation,
of agendas cloaked by pretenders stoked by
compendiums of fear
while the tears of children sear skin
dulled by deprivation.

Salvation lies in love,
more simply put, acceptance,
coexistence as above,
so below, the skies we ride high
upon dogmatic horses,
pretending the forces that keep us
down are not the real sources
of our collective malaise.

Blame games rain flames
and drain spirits of vitality,
mob mentalities leave us worn,
torn between self and the group,
between prideful pie
and humble soup.

Everybody’s hungry
but nobody’s reading the labels,
so provocateurs are able to
clean off the table
with dirty cards
and hidden eyes,
everybody looking one way
while in the other
a comet falls from bloody skies.

cometfall

a momentary streak of light
then its gone
as life quickens
and years pass
in solitary splendor

days and nights blur
with a whirlwind’s fury
as lightyears come
and go

the elemental brew
mixes quasars and quarks
outside of time
in subjective meanderings

reality perceived
reflects ignorance of
the true state of life
beyond mind and experience

ages become eons
suns rise and fall
consciousness continues
infusing flesh and bone
in consumation of light

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.

the basement

mirrors twist my reality sideways upside down and all around as the circle turns and my soul burns in the embers of another ego-trippin’ episode of pain and heartache, black american style. the cadence is counted by fleetin’ affairs and distant loves, bereft of a dove’s purity of existence by willful fire and callous desire. dreams flow like streams and pleasure obscures the treasure of a perfect love, hidden within by layers of sin and distant chagrin. i go outside myself to come back in, spin and watch the sky as love dies the slow death, nagged ceaselessly by false expectations come round again like an old friend, faithful till the end.

round and round i go, tired, but checkin’ the flow as life wanders past, pausin’ in fits and starts; some parts comin’ clear, albeit framed by fear. i check my stylo every now and then, recognizing my patterns, my shame and my sins. in seeing my reflection in all that i do and say my truth is flung back in my face, no waste of time or space in this eternal race every sweet taste of pleasure is chased by demons of lust and loathing misplaced.

i gasp with bliss as i am soul-kissed by greed and the seeds of material need that bleed the blood of my ancestors. their tears trace paths of mercurial fears through the haze of my self-induced daze. i lie to myself about myself as i wait – in the meantime – undulating beneath my own caress, undoubtedly blessed, whinin’ about fate as i commit the ultimate act of self-hate. gratuitous spiritual masturbation murders afrofuturistic nations, melanated gods and goddesses of infinite conception, victims of unconscionable psychological deception, imparted at the cellular level.

as a metaphor, music soars loftily, in tune with my doom. the neurotic treble tones bone the bass clef, which acts as the most def function, linking sexual harmonics to junctions of material compunction and unconscious urges that surge to be purged.

such is the state of my slate and i progress in spates of determination, persuaded yet jaded by life, served cold on a broken plate. the warmth of unconditional love passes through the glass. divine, white light shines, multiplying sight and i revel in its soothing glow. the past and future intertwine as joyous laughter denies the sorrowful cries that overlie my sighs of soul-ache, crooned soon after.

love permeates all, has since the fall of divinity to the physical plane, i am but a link in the chain, a lock in the mane of god. i am risen and i traverse death aloft on the breath of life, above strife, selfish gain and gratuitous pain, above love denied or quantified.  today, i pray.  amen-ra.

 

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
abused

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
beguiled

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
accrue.