Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

Paco Lips

Patterns are all gone.
Seasons, killed.
Any cyclical frequency of the Creative
beaten back for cardboard facsimile
while we endure the freak frenetic Tesla sky
we used to call a rolling storm.

Crickets seem ok
but prove to me they ain't a loop.
Birds are making mammal noises.
Rain is stupid standing there
or falls down like headlines
on a hot press printing page.

Clouds is just one white haze
opaque chemical peel;
the sun we see is not the one
burning us alive.

When was
the last gentle meadow breeze?

I don't know,
but Mother Nature's on her knees
and all but tapped on out.
The question left is up to you.
To those who deny
what before them lies
for sake of luxury I say:
scream big if you decide.

Decide to save the Truth
from infanticide. 

Only you can do it now,
a billion maybe is better than
all the blatant  blindly on their side.

It's not that we pay the criminal murderer
for snuffing mothers babies and boys upon a beach. That's old hat and Nick knows that.
It's that you know it's wrong,
and help to spread the lies.

Daggers poised for a dollar and a cause
to plunge hard down
into soft fat heart of Love.

Will she bleed?

You are the one
who forevermore must look out from
behind your big velvet gulag eyes
to the 'not you' going on
we once called outside.

First they came for rhythm.

And you did nothing but play a song. 
Then patterns were put on trains
and you pointed out diagonal zigzags
as they herded more away.

And now.
Now they come for allegiance to the Lie...
truth disguised in purpose and material
at the shriveled gourd of Providence.

It's the End of the Word.

And there's not a period around
to sentence it at all, and thus,
it hangs.

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