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.

Fool's Gold & Cirrus Sad

Unpleasant indeed the Truth.
Gore, it really is.
Two terms to herd you dizzy peasants away from castle wall.

"Global Warming" means "look out we gotta do something drastic" or we all surely will die.

"Climate Change" means SHIT, we already did and now it's all outta control.

Geoengineering.

Private interest test tubes
Nobel team Global
in military campaign
hijack all the planes
there are
to paint bars
of magic cotton candy 

Cirrus on blue.

Bars up there to trap us in,
prison cell the jailbar clouds subliminal your Spirit suppressed.
Feels not the need to rise... up.

Something in the way of Heaven has us blind down here.

Don't look at it! See?
We think the world's in cosmic crisis,
when really it's the sun.
Flipping poles and stormfingers touching Earth.
The egg's about to hatch and still our rulers insist on Faberge.
They must not see the light of Day.

Nature is just one thing. 
Man lies within, and the results are in.
Mother calls us home.

Being God, literally, is what Geoengineering  means.
Thinking lowly mankind beasties who used to crawl
can invent a whole system Divine. Who is God if man creates His world?

God thinks of everything. 
Thus we are.
Man thinks about money and power and mostly sex.
Besting others more than helping those behind.

And most of all... hiding Gold.

Treasures aren't in chests save hearts.
X is not the spot to dig but the dotted line that gets you there.
Alchemy was not some stupid scientist woodcarving brigade
bubbling up soup to make gold you hold in hand.
Periodic as it may be, as if wizards couldn't read the Table right there on the wall. AU but no M.

The Golden Age.
One we ALL reach, see there?

Hidden treasure!
Clues are everywhere.

Fort Knox the oldest joke.
"Who's there?"
Legal. Tender like roasts. Notes. Stories about the money
but not the valuable thing you trade.
Bills on notes all debts these dolllars are paid.

Heed the weather folks.
It's Elemental insugency to shake you out of dream.

The endless snow you shovel out of
is really actually shit
not glisteny pretty snow
because, neighbor, something you gotta know. 
We've all been snowed in a shitstorm of Historical proportion.

It's something you just feel down deep inside your bones.
You're shaking to the tune cuz they're beaming it right through you.
They slaughter now Nature, not you.
Nothing personal.
And now for the weather.

So godamn low in frequency.
Extra low, in fact.
Beacons like Hollywood the radio lightening bolted towers go
and signal stratospheric metal bots the Daemons Network nanocloud build up "Gather of the Storm."

The End Machine for Love's true Value found in hearts of gold not coin.
Teslatide this Genocide.
Apocalypse upon the poor, fuck Plague.
WWIII.
Wipeout History.

The Underworld,
it's not down there anymore.
Under what then?
One nation, perhaps.

Weather Warefare, note,
is neither of aforemetioned terms so herd.
So, give a hoot and Don't Pollute
says Woodsy,
a most different owl indeed than
Bohemian one
who's been polluting all the pure gold light down here for centuries,
Magick hats done sold you down my dear for all your golden globe...

So, crazy weather huh?
Glad it's not just me.

And you, Foolsgold.
You slave away for money too, 
which, comes back a bunch of Notes saying
supposedly is somewhere here some gold.
Please accept that as true for all my debts.

Somewhere 'round '33
In the Red were we
The Bank said no.
Bad loan. We do not accept such promissory.
Time Liquidate the risk
and confiscate our property.

Owned.
And all around you Reap.
Yes it's mighty Grim.
Unless you know true value.
And beam it from your heart to every fireside chat listening,
the hearts unigited and hunkered down
in some freak Storm of History.

Beatings everywhere and nobody has a heart.
Beating as One.
We may be weathered to death,
but to blessed Irony, I free myself and do say
you cannot kill that which bleeds already each every of the Day.

This heart of Gold.

I pump for their chest no more.
These raiders of Lost Ark.
Let the body rot and vultures gore.
Shine.

Brightly bleed for Truth!

For that is what blood is to God.
Spilling forth from every heart, yes,
but not upon ground in War.
This is War.
The Horsemen kind.

Coins need not apply.

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