Trapped.
Engorged in a prison box too small for the swelling of my spiritual rotted flesh.
Given the necrosis of civilizational crumbling had cast it's affect unto me,
I melt in the wading pool of an invisible guard wielding the spear of viral pandemic.
I hold steadfast in my mental capacity.
Only to have the prism of stability rocked by the puncturing of many holes in the hot air balloon that glides through the ice...
I am rocked, shook, and unhinged;
I am the door that sways gently in the breeze to the rocking tides of this astral storm of disease.
All of this chaos in the atoms of my mind's eye...
As I simply lay here.
Trapped.
Engorged in the prison of the mind.
I am my own gatekeeper. A militant simply funded by the fear of the invisible guard.
I blink and sip the coffee, sitting up in the bed.
Shake off the madness, and return to stillness.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 5:52 PM UTC
The Corona of the Sun
Is everlasting
The Corona of the virus
Is a temporary crown on a knight of disease
The black light of this fell Corona
Is made of dust and tears and ash
It will fall when the next wind blows
The Corona of the Eternal
Will outlast and outlive
The pain is only temporary
As, too, our spirits will outlast
We will outlive
For we are mirrors of the Corona
Of Glory
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 5:48 PM UTC
Ominousness.
Looming spectre,
Illuminated by the cast
lights of fanaticism
Abstraction.
Looming absurdism,
distorted by the stained glass
of your personal apocalypse.
Consumption.
******* ravage-ly appearing spectre.
From the mouth of serpents.
From the blood of a bat.
The world cries 'alas' in a throaty bellow,
The spectre dancing in rhythm to the melody of the chaos.
The melody of plague building the roads of conquest.
The many faced spectre drifts across the blue,
eyeing the masses.
This abstract ominous consumption of hope.
Swallower of light.
The spectre walks on water.
We are in the caste net.
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
Standing upon a hill, I.
Under black & purple sunwheel.
Standing with sword in right hand, representing morality and righteousness.
Standing with mine own decapitated head in left hand, represting violent and sudden removal of Ego &&& it's prompt reclaimation.
Standing soaked in the blood of the wound as my sacramental rebirth offering and cleansing.
My own next level of Apotheosis.
Kept alive by sheer will & & & magicks.
Headless mystic standing akin to an Autosacrifical Kali Ma.
Standing as Ego.
Standing as Godhead.
I.A.O.
Standing as Headless Warrior.
Omnia et Nihil.
I am become The Other, the Ritual Evolution.
Hail.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Clouds of thought
Gripping tight the skin of my throat
Thick clouds of whisping anxiety and panic;
Upon which I choke!
Smoke of insanity
Of eyes shifting in a sandstorm around the room, always. Forever.
I choke.
I stumble. I choke.
The taste of blood from obsessive consistency becomes momentarily, forever.
The hatred I feel for my experience is forever, momentarily.
Clouds of panic grip my mind.
Clouds of anxiety gag my throat.
Clouds of obsession rob my time.
Clouds of sorrow **** me slowly.
Upon clouds, I choke.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
Upon paper wings,
He did mount his throne
Made of gold & jewels.
His treasure a product of the tearduct bleeding money from The State & Shepard.
The spiral of the drain.
The way she whispers the taste of *****
The way skies spell the taste of mildew, mild sun, & the dawn of churning corn silk for the grove tender.
Ashes among & upon the frozen oranges still growing on branches;
Their heart still beating.
Still beating among & amidst the death rattle, death shroud.
Even upon the ****** tassels, hanging from the cloud shaped like a gun.
Icicles like a noose hang from the Beard of The King,
Which are the clouds;
The birds;
The ocean of the sin & spoiled milk.
In my throat.
Invocation of throat.
Upon paper wings they drifted like a swan,
Made of gentle hate & casual love.
As a goat were to smile with her & his heart, so are the wings infinate in their divinity.
"Where am I?"
She asked,
As she
Became the map.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 8:45 PM UTC
Eyes shut glancing into eternity
Monastically still in his own sadness.
Forever a cloud over his sun.
There is no foundation upon which to build.
Styx always flowing too fast to jump;
Life: too slow.
The eye, his eye, red from exhaustion & drought,
Algiz of the soul, inversed.
He has no apotheosis nor revelation of Godhood.
The golden light in his life,
dulled to a smoldering shadow,
could not be re-ignited.
Others smile without hesitation, nor lies.
Others' light: a golden fire.
There is no door out of life for the cowardly,
& no spark to rebirth the light.
A cold limbo, his.
The crushing weight of the world,
moste existential,
was also the dreadful crushing weight of existence for him.
Everyday, a labored breath of smoke drenched air.
Every lie, a cry for help he neither wanted nor deserved.
..
Walking blindly through the fog of existence.
Forever, forever...
Unto nothing, nihil, nothing...
Forever.
Nothing.
..Forever.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC
A lone god, as Shiva, standing upon a rock upon the sea upon the earth upon the tear of the Christ who wandered forever in the bloodstream of the savior of your own debt to darkness.
Standing as the waves crashed upon the wizardly and nostalgic jeans crafted from the dreams you had once when drama and a storm sat dormant in your heart.
Extending one hand towards the North Star, in a salute of desperation and longing to return via apotheosis to the realm of one's own dreamland home.
Desperation, like the thirst of 10,000 beetles who drink blood like golden honey which drips from space like stars that melt and die in the winds whom are the kings of the middle americas.
Kings, like the standing stone.
Shiva, a tear, a stone...Is You or I.
The Stone, remember, is the dream you let die.
The ocean which swallows you all, is the death of nostalgia and hope.
Split the sea with the Trident of Shiva.
You are a God, if you choose.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
He smiled as he looked up the hill at me.
I was asked if I knew the friend in the sky.
I said nothing. I was frozen in unknowing.
I was frozen in unknowing.
I was nihilism in this moment.
He smiled as he looked up to the sky.
The friend was asked if he knew me.
The sky said nothing.
The friend was frozen in omnipotence.
The friend was frozen in omnipotence.
I was warm with the notion.
I was warm with the knowing.
The friend was there.
The man he smiled at me, and I knew in his certainty the truth was as such.
His friend was there.
/My/ friend was there.
I waiting forever for Godot.
Only to realize the sky was in my heart.
The friend was I.
I was the sky.
The Friend, I and He and All, was inside and above.
It was within.
It was without.
Allah made my spirit porous.
Hashem made my spirit white light.
Jesus made my spirit gracious.
Buddha made my spirit still.
Shiva made my spirit real.
I made my spirit sing.
I smiled as I looked up the hill at him.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Svnrise over golden shores
Þe fog departs
Yea, it parts to allow for the liqvid light
Þe frosted air sets fire,
Tvrns to mist,
Tvrns to dew,
Tvrns to dvst.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC