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.

Abra-Him and Cadabara Too


You.
Me.
Right this very Now.
We are empty,
almost nine-tenths dark space void,
the same as around
that asteroid. 

Nothing. 

But a very wonderful
a very ominous
a very ready to take True Form,
Undefined. 

So that is number One.

Say one word. Go ahead.
It's sure to go bad from there. 
Words breed ghosts to eat them Alive
and conjure up shadows
stainless steel to the touch.

But rejoice! 
Trumpets blare!

Meaning flails 
in Caesar seizure spittle 
all upon on the Circus floor
What good is all this bread, dear Senator
when all we have is just a little wine?
Is that a hungry lion,
or are you so endeared? 

So that is number Two.
A virus borne by spitting the One
True Word.
 A deadly cadence
of Plato's endless cave
pouring out black bird.
Dimensions two
still ruled by light
and its absence we think is night,
diffuse the ever possibility of a Lotus in Aquarius
breaking free of schools of Pisces plagued.
Until now!
The sun is vomiting. 
Is it close?
Does Sol still have his spots?
Planes paint metal bars to jail in sweet Earth.
Magnets move hurricanes and floods.
Staged videos with just two actors in desert bluff,
a butterknife and jumpsuit orange in a desert way off Cuba,
new carnage, new wars.
New flamingo heads in sand.

Just two journalists is all it took!

Lost not their nose for news
but instead their rolly-polly heads. 
So Antoinette, it's predictable,
if only they were embedded with the guns and boys
surely not so patiently they'd kneel for poise.
Two reporters out a story,
and I guess that's the biggest News.
Such brutal video.
Justice for our Journalists!
They are courage, they are sight. 
I'd say check your story pyramid on that. 
You know they offed Reuters reporters
with little daughters in there the dusty streets
as we learned when whistles blew,
Apaches flew,
Army dudes said "light them up"
cheered "no video"
And splat went that without a tear
For the heroes behind headlines
not on board.
Not the best history of respect there
for Cronkite in the way of line of line of sight
so dress 'em up and glue 'em to a regimen
and still the bad guys got two!

Tycoons and polticians must not pay the bills.
Reporters and their quills.
Please, Bring back the guillotine
or at least send these English guys a Ginsu.
This is an old war Now,
an ancient Plan has come to be
grow food and battery
and as time of trajectory
slaughter the whole waste of them
and like slingshot landing thingie the moon,
mission accomplish.
 
Backwards,
from the back end cover they do read.
Revelation backwards, it turns out, begins the Book
to Genesis we exit - look!
In chaos of thorns and weeds
green trees
and far so far from any garden Plot.

Will there be a Prequel?
I don't know if it's Trilogy.
 But sure as Hell,
here comes the Word.
Back to claim all its magic from thievery
it heritage of open multipotentiality
and kill the past like infestation amassed
bludgeon future down with open cruelty.

Who needs parentheses?
Not this G_D.

When the Word arises
to Zenith Royal once again,
any concept of one true God
is at an End
for the two cannot in one Space be.

And that is all the Shakespeare you will ever need.
And now number Three.

They think they've won.
There is laughter among the trolls,

Blonde and eyes of blue was all Hitler could ever do.
Only the finest in the race some Ancient Atlantis did they trace.
Like Salomon knew.
This is a familiar recipe.
A certain group claim History
that a Ghost told them was all up theirs
and theirs alone despite the other arms and legs around.
Chosen humans cannot by principality
divine in Source trace history,
pact.... claim... idiocy
There were two rocks,
just ten things
and maybe a bush that didn't burn.
I don't remember such the deal in Realty.
The vending machine
God pulled Mounds
not so Almond Joy,
do you?

And this is why they fail.

Even if they win the light is Out.
The killing has now bored the entire Cosmos
up to the very Event Horizon.
Even the Big Bang wasn't so gory
as goes their story
from Revolution to slaughterhouse streets
their pattern is the same.

Destruction on a Creative scale.

So much blood is needed for this hat trick to work!
Sacrifice is nice
when all you've got is Alchemy.
Their God is very old.
Runs on battery.
So old.
Like HP Lovecraft old.

Makes you wonder why
when God blew dust into radiant skin
he filled up Adam
filled up Eve
with the blood so Adam named Hebrew hieroglyph
be put into containers humanity
just to bleed out iron red with shame at Oxygen
pour out on streets or splatter splash
on beach walls near beachballs Palestine?
How could this even please
the one who filled magic totems with fluids
that carry messages to the stars?

Critical is this mass.

Essential the songs we must song to deep down we.
To wake the Center, you must shake down every root
and plug up all the rabbit holes.

Boiled WB. 
Kermit in soft removable skin.
 Just the right texture to go down a delicacy.
The serpent not by tree
is tongued in fork take out delivery,
the tribes in that Book, they're still around
all that's now not way back when.

So to the Codex go.
The ending is not to be.
Letters that are numbers.
Equations if you draw a box around 
each sentence the first letters of the words go down.
And the big pretty Monk ones say, all painted, all weeds,
STOP - REFRAIN
New phrase.

Potions.
Stories.
Words.
These are not the Father.
We create the Day.
Our Divinity.
Within this pregnant star called Ea, Earth, Gaia.
Mother.

In an ever-moving Now.

Abraham sandwich makes Creation a to-do,
a bucket list to just get done,
a one-time deal in Gregorian boxes
and then left to rot from there.
But whatever word they say isn't beef
is cattle still
and we're fighting all their wars,
locked up in imaginary farms called nations
invisible fences and the people in them
fighting the other darky ones
because the suits in the round say.

So your wars begin.
For a Book you - yes you
drop bombs on people far away.
Religious Fundies cannot be statists
in the Century.
Obliterate the state that has seven prayers each and every day.

For this is not the way Magick gets done down here, no way.
There has to be a smirk. A trick.
That's all that's left of power for the ancient Magi
in, ironically,
the Word
IMAGE
as in the one of God in Man a mirror.


Caliphate sounds so Soleil,
a Cirque brulée tightrope fatality
better than a Database called FBI block artistry
and prefixed with name of the guy in IT.
ISIS one fourth an acronym of Israel.
Maybe third.

So in Review.
The Word.
The Book.
The Stage.
The video times two.

Populace we must move
the wars they must be done
if Temple is to rise again.
Cheaper casting, no real scene
better than two towers raped obccene
Literally to ground now zero.

Brokaw fumbling
dustclouds bumling down streets
walking like marshmallow monsters,
neckties jumping to their death below,
toilets sinks and urinals 
thick doors and floors of stalls in endless halls
that turn of course to powdered milk
when you drive airport planes
with just boxcutters on
and get not guided or decide to hided
from active greenscreen roundy dials
in the real tower of real Control
that Reagan almost fired,
the one Cheney put offline that day
for a dry-run of exactly what was Now.

Osama clip art on the cover
planes tilted in Microsoft Word
by some secretary absurd
for the guidebook on preparing
for what occurs.

All that cabinetry SEC - vanished on implode.
Just like metal-winged monstrosity
reduced to one Cheerio in an open field,
a few passports in the wind,
or a fifth of Pentagon new wing knocked out,
and landing gear and engine pods and bad soup can carts
all vanished like Bewitched. 
That is what the Word can do.
Infect.
Become a thousand overnight.
If you worth it for a simple reel.
And you just let them say it so
Fact as if it happened because it was on TV
An Edelweiss in desert boots and hanger's hood
with an English accent yelling at a President 
with a Muslim name
right there, in the middle. 

Of the East. 
There is no God.
There is though Books.
And Names.
And millions of minions who want to do His work.
As long as it's the killing kind of tasks.
Surely the Deity is busy beyond weaponry
to be so fuddled with Destroy.
His kids seem to have it down.
Just like Eden.
Such a Bad, Bad Book.
Pretending to be a God every lunatic says he hears,
and every once in a while a Man down here
is deemed messenger, prophet,
seer of the Way but never ever 
the Old guy comes.
Never Prophet gets the Jesus chair
next to dear old Dad, right hand.

The Creator and then quit guy.

Make it all love and test it after for deceit daddy.
Torturer of Job.
Collaborator with his adversary
Prosecutor in a robe
A heavy Angel full of light,

a Goat God in the night
well it's no Sphynx
but cloven hooved and big big breasts
even HE
got down
to Gethsemane.

Are you ready, Love?
Would you struggle to carry through the dirty streets
the heavy post they'll nail you to to die?
It is a story.
It even has a crown.

Empty we.
Nothing lives.
Here comes the Word.
So dies the God
who hid it in a Spell,
never wanted it heard. 

I hope we keep the heads on some reporters
for who will write such obituary?
Copies of an image He saw himself to be.
He didn't fashion life,
he made zoos and plants and one and a half naked people.

You create whole worlds,
and it's time to break on out,
Wake Him!
Sound all alarm.
Climb up, two serpents within
that Medici and Hospitalia have stolen away - 
No time!
Kundalini balls a lottery drum,
just jet on out the top and GO.
The other side will find your fire well enough.
Every beacon, light!
Sister Venus got too hot.
Mars lost its very breath.
Mercury poor thing, went in too fast.
Jove and the Ring Leader though...
how they do not want this Star to shine.

So much water on that one,
the Archons say.
Some of it blue. Sea.
Some of it red. Blood.

Its baby stars might just get away.




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