Whispering as a dance among colors, grayscale.

A cascade of emptiness, being full and on fire.

I found god at the bohemian grove.

The trees they sway with an ill-advised fervor.

A taste on my tongue, both sour and sweet.

It doesn't take much, but a wink and a smile...

...to both build a bridge and burn it down.

When it's ashes, a phoenix will have arisen, a rising, rising, ah-o-ï-el.  

When life is ashes, I will rise.

When life is ashes, I will rise.

When I am ashes, rise rise rise.

When the sun sets, I still see the sun.
It inverses in my mind, like a train with human legs and human feet have carried it from manifested back to idea. As if all I know or dream about is as meaningless as the words I profess to know how to write.
It's like as I hear the party at the neighbors, is it real? Does anyone else hear it? I hear my partner's breathing as she sleeps, and I wonder if I am real. Am I part of someone else's truth? Or am I not at all?

Is any of this real?

Peeling an orange.
Trying to make the spiral PERFECT.  

PERFECTION IS NOT ATTAINABLE.

or is it
?.?.?

I strive FOREVER for PERFECTION.

I desire so deeply, for perfection.

Failure is the wall I keep breaking my nose on. The blood that falls from that wound could turn the course of a river or flood the seas.

It should be able to melt the wall, so I can ascend the throne, right?

If I bleed enough metaphor will I flood the holes in my excuses and sail to forever and beyond where I only bathe in gold?

In her bed.
Our Bed.
Alone.
A Land between.
A surreal junction of thoughts.

Every time I cook, I make too much smoke.
It gets in my eyes.
I think there is deeper meaning there...

...alas.

Gruel.
Japanese.
A Ku Klux Klansman in a bag of chips.
No,... wait,... popcorn.

The colour red.

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.

How often I feel sadness...
Mostly rejection.
I notice I sometimes have a flight of fancy to share a side of who I truly am.
It is most often shot down.
I am then left with damage to repair.
I often feel sadness.
Lately I've felt rejection from most of the sides of the earth.
I often feel angry. I am a man after all...should I not feel rage?
When I am rejected for walking the path of self-discovery, when I enter a period of hermitage, when I enter a phase of uncertainty.
Then is it so wrong that my heart is so often set on blackness, death, and hate.
I love the light. I love the black.
The latter is just easier to hide in.
That is why I adorn myself in it.

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.

In a Sense of the Word of the Way...
I am in a coma.
Do you understand such verbal waves of reality, bent?
Do know when happiness...froze?
She thaws it, It thaws it. That one word...or a song.

However, most of the time...
Frozen.
SOLID!
Yes, in fact..solid, in fact.

Patriarchal remains, An Elder without a right to live.

I'd offer you my sword, if you were so brazen to impale yourself upon it.

Show me to the Sun.
I'll behead you and set you free.

AEIOOIUPPU.

...run...

Withering with the kings, buried, but nay willing.

Seeking with the kings who stood brave, behind masks and shields.

Blazing with a fire of poisonous remains.

Settled on an idea that is unsettled in its core.

Like milk spoiled, and honey rotten.
Like meat bloodied, and mushroom dead.
Like conceptions of darkness that drift like ghosts, unwilling.

Like leaves that fall and do not bother to rise again.

...sitting in a chair, staring at the static on the TV. I laugh once and get a beer.

When the skin is cracked like dry earth,
do I grimace from pain or smile from desire?  

When skin is cracked like dead earth,
do I mourn or elevate?

To tear at flesh for obsession is to clear the shadows of repetition from the heart.

Do I grimace or smile,  when the red moon is hanging from the sky?

Is the grimace and smile different when the cracks in the clay are true?

Is it just a loop, like a snake swallowing it's tail?
Is it just a vice?
Is it medicine or malintent?

Is it better to have chaos inside and a perfect snowy field or sooth the forever storm and endeavor through the cracked desert until the end of historia?

Following the ways of the old.
Following the ways of the old.
Following the ways of the new.
Dying in the arms of the new.
Returning to the old oak grove.
Returning to the ways of the old.

Old, as in my soul...

Returning to the ways of the old.

Because I am in the habit of...staying conscious...past the hours of the blackness of the sky....

I always see the very first symbols of the resurrection of the sun...

I ask myself, 'why do I lack the discipline," with heavy self-abuse and words of smoke and venom, and thrice in the form of guilt, "to not sleep as the sun goes down, and rise with the light?"

Here is what I want...it is a symbol of the truth.

The Truth is the heart's desire within my inner coils.

Twist them undone and twist them around...see that all I want is to ebb and flow and dance with all.
All that Is and Is Not.

Like an Arch-Angel...

Yet, here I am...
A nocturnal scribe.
A saying of sweet words, and a doer of not.

I'll close my eyes and dream of days soon to come, dripping with gold and embodied with the rising of the sun.

Words only.
Flesh only.
Mind only.
Not only that but also this.
Confusion.
Do you understand?
How can you not?
This is words only.
How can you not?
You are Flesh Only.
How can I?
We are Mind Only.

How could you?

There is no birth, without death. I will not die. I am forever.

Undying.

I am the Grey Fog of the Heart.


Flowing endless. Endless River.

Endless stars in the Endless Sky.

All is Endless, Boundless Might.

I am akin to the Gods of Night.

I am forever.

Leaf.
Golden and green, then brown and falls apart.

Is Death really so bad?
It creates for such beauty.
It Spins the Wheel.

A skull with horns.
To some, unfathomable...
to see, a sense of aesthetic so profound as it sits there on the mantle before a snow filled fireplace.

I crumble the leaf...
...steals away my pride.

I remember one day I will crumble,
fall away,
and die.

It is not such a horrible thing.

For, I am excited to see what lies beyond the Blackened Gates of the Earth.

And when my candle snuffs out in 120 or more years from now, it will be with an angel-light, glowing white, in my heart.

Without Death, there would be no Creation...no Birth.

Think about it.
Feel it.
Meditate upon it.

Like an Aghori, who sits upon a human grave, holds a human skull, and dusts himself in cremated remains...
Embrace it.
Bathe in the metaphoric blood of ancestral light.
Roll in the soil.
Taste the bliss of release.

For then, and only then...
can you walk through the Valley of Life...
Removed entirely...

...

...from Fear.

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.

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.

Three months, under the moon.
In great light from the darkness of the void, so blissful...so holy.
For such a blessing I am grateful.
For her, I am blissful.
How did I ever get so lucky?

As a black snowflake falling, which is also white;
On a white backdrop of life, which is also black,

I escaped as ash of gray December.
I became as a ghost.
A single note of flute music.
A whimper on the ocean.
A tear of acid purple rain.

In ash you became.
As a moth which grows like vines of roses, black.

As a moth which flies like winds of time, tearing away your youth and beauty like sand againt stone and wood.
You became.

As a moth which is the snowflake of black or white on the land of black or white, you became. Frozen, still, silent.

Like the music I cried for.
Like the music I died for.

As you, like a moth, silently and with violent sound, became.

Death is the act of becoming.
Death is the act of birthing.
Death is all that is, creation;;;
And destruction.

Death is love.  
Death is hate.
Death is neutrality.
Death is chaos.

Death is order.
Death is truth.
Death is real.

Only death is real.  

Death, death, death.

Only death is real.

Death is life.
Death is gateways.
Death is magick.
Death is G-D.
The Lord is life,
Thus, The Lord is death.  

Death is endlessness.
Death is the spiral.
Death is forever.  
Spiral. Spiral.  Spiral.
Death is deathless.
Death is holy.
Death is Shiva.
Death is Allah
Death is *******.
Death is Om.
Death is Jesus.
Death is Roman Empires fallen.
Death is the earth fallen.
Death is trees fallen.

Only death is real.
Only The Lord is real.
The Lord is death.

Death. Death. Death.
Only death is real.

Life is illusion.
A testing dream for death.
Death is a gateway to Divinity.

Only death is real.

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.

I remove, with the power of the dark, the stones of this barren Temple.

I remove, with the power of the light, the stones of these barren halls.

I summon the Spirit of Power.

I consume Power.

I become that which is, as declared by the black void, the Greatest I Can.

I Am ALL That I Am.

I Am Always Becoming...

I shall not deny gold anymore.

I am The King.

I Remove, with the power of I, the stones of this Castle of Suffering.

Simple. Simply put.

I am the standing figure, casting a long long long shadow upon dark green.
A hill before me.
Sun, half mass of which is behind a mass of land.

Evoking spooks and spirits.
Burning away my smile and smoke...

Melodic Ghosts.

I. Forth-path walkers, entombed upon a sealed fortress within my dreams.

When I blink, it all fades back to a green flash.

Then I laugh...pretty heartily, I should add...

Withering, withering, withering down.
A spiral of emptiness and weakness in my own heart.
A sickly form of hate.
A frail figure of shadows and misery and memorie.

O! and what is the field of golden corn compared to the bruise on your throat.
Choked by the ******* of godliness, when she is called life///when she is called death.

Forced to spit out your last drop of blood, through your pharynx///through your eyes.

Sexually with the knife in hand. Like stone to butter, stabbing within the heart of the devil. Like the beast with three *****, who carries the devil in his sinful testicles...you stab stab stab at the flesh of your own chest.

No hair after the fire, no blood after the lust.

The sexuality which assaults YOUR OWN SANITY. It becomes you.

Withering and withering within the HELL of your own spiral.

O! and when are you to become the devil within the sac of the beast?

To be born and reborn again within the light of the sun.

Burning away in a pool of blood that you craved forever.

Burning back together in a pool of ***** that you craved forever.

O! and who are you when you are left naked and alone by your own hand in a pool of hate that you craved forever, I asked myself.

Place The Upon Altar A Skull.
Adorn With Blood.
Chant The Words Deep In Your Heart.
Write The Words They Then Want To See.
Ritual Sacrifice.
Scream To The Stars Only The Words The Stars Would Not Judge You For.

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.

Winter wizards dancing around my forthcoming saliva dripping tongue,
Desire for the frozen, dead landscape.
Like dreams that end and never start and like skies that are nothing and all at once...it dances around me forever and ever and the night is forever.
Yet, it ends when I look back upon it.
Yet, it ends when I look forward to it again.

The snow of melody falls and crashes.

The snow of love it burns and ashes.

The snow of life it lies and snatches.

The snow of faith it tries and thrashes.


Behold, the gate, in the northern light.

Behold, the wall, made of floating ice.

Behold, the shoes, covered in ice.

Behold, the pipe, wet with Christ.

Within I welcome crazy light,
Without I welcome sensible night.

Dancing and dancing, donning the cap of trees without leaves and horns from the graves before the seas.

Spinning the sun into suicide for a season.
Spinning the night into seeming forever season.

Spinning the story for the tale-born season.
Spinning the ice for this dead-earth season.

Ritual reborn, I call, into the night. (With thoughts, alone. No sprites of calling with my voice!)

Avast, and awaken in this frozen hill.

I await the spring, and until then....all is well in the endless white.

The endless white.

The endless white.

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

Once upon a whispering moon, I rode a star unto Africa.

The land was hot & covered in ice.
My eyes were glass,
Ready to shatter at the notion of ugly beauty.
A duality that would cause the sun to tear itself in twain from fear of metaphorical & metaphysical asphyxiation.

Atlas of the world turned grey as dreams turn dust to shards of crystal liquid light.

Grinning inanely & insanely for the serpent spectre sceptre is in the house of sonic devotional Kirtan emotional Islamic Jewish conditional faith & faith no where but here.
No fear.

The sky explodes
When crying gods do read their own
Stories in nothingness & apple seeds.
Cyanide & Suicide.

Doves, black,  rain, ride.
Release. Release. Release.

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.

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.

Woe, and what darkness is this?
What existential bliss and moderate madness is the whole of this?
Woe, and bliss, like the cry of the lone nationalist, but without a flag.
As a ghost,  a notion.

As a wisp, a figment of nothing.  

In the fog, my heart.  

Dancing in endless circles of confusion.
A dervish of obsession, who is blind and lost of the path within.

In my heart,  the fog.

Woe, what is this darkness?

The taste of her lips.
The feel of her hands, intertwined in my hands.
Of her eyes locked with mine.
Of her spirit dancing with mine, so close...

When we dance, but she is afar...my spirit travels over roads a plenty.
When my arms are not around her, they feel empty.

Yearning.
Pining.
Need.

Yet, soon, her arms will return to my arms, and her spirit will dance with mine.

But until then, I stand...in what feels like a lake of frozen water.
Still.
Unmoving.
Alone.