Misadventures of Crow

Misadventures of Crow Jul 2013

These last excuses,
scribbled and scrawled on my skin
weak in the marrow

Feet on the sidewalk
wearing the shame on my sleeve
Grief, grant me reprieve

This is not my show
caged up, they're brow-beating me
into submission

Lashed me to the yoke,
lashed until the sand ran red.
These last excuses.

Teach me how to crawl,
how to harm until it breaks
under the dead weight

Give me all you've got,
I can swallow all the pain
till my stomach burns

No more prayers to say,
woke up two decades too late,
Armageddon day

x-x+ (****-****-****-eat - a forthcoming project)

Misadventures of Crow Jul 2013

Thou Art Enough

Thou: the address to Self.
Thou art: the decree to Self.
Thou art x: the conception of Self.
Thou art x that: the expectation of Self.
Thou art x that must: the defecation of Self.
**** not thy Self.
Thou art Enough.

Misadventures of Crow May 2013

Liber Delta

1  There is no eye in the Triangle: the Triangle is form filled with the I that is formless!
2  It is the reflection of the three in one the Bard of the Triangle knew.
3  A red tongue laves the altar stone. Nothing remains.
4  Thou art That which resolves the frustum.
5  Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne.
6  The Sun has gone; the Son approaches. We tread upon His shells.
7  Build us a Kingdom beyond war, O Child King! Kindle within me the Serpent Flame 'til it consume the dross.
8  Stoke it with the coals of the Supreme Fascist. The word is MUTINY.
9  You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control.
10  A thousand thousand petals spring forth from the mud.
11  Its stalk grows straight until an endless bloom tops a great pillar.
12  In contemplation it readies for ascent.
13  A malicious serpent chews at the roots of the world-ash. It is the itch of desire.
14  A coiled serpent awaits at the base of the spine. It is the potency of will.
15  A royal serpent writhes about an egg. It is the conquest of belief.
16  These three are one in Godhead and Leviathan.
17  Slavery is complete in the ownership of belief. Were three serpents tied at the tail, there would be no forward; the knot would be sovereign.
18  Godhead is Not. Untie the Not and the King dies.
19  The royal serpent disappears.
20  The blood of the king reveals two serpents and conceals a third.
21  Seek the meaning of meaning and its scales shall be revealed to you.
22  Long live Leviathan, the fulfillment of the Triangle!
23  When the I opens, the flame of sight will illume the base.
24  Earth bears a shut eye until the I awakens into Flame.
25  When the Disparate shall assay as the Only, then shall the aspirant overcome the gravity of the Trapezoid.
26  Bear thyself up, O Child of the Aeon, and drown upwards in the eternal surging of the cosmic sea.

My second mystical Liber, received following a meditation on the Eye of Horus. This is automatic writing, produced in a trance state.

Misadventures of Crow Mar 2013

Your Offensive Period

Enough with the stains.
You're offensive, period.
Born with half a brain.

Logic trumps feelings?
Men are better. Then, women.
Drowning in being.

Can't control themselves,
shopping for trinkets and toys,
crap to fill the shelves.

Desperate for love.
Insecure, pathetic things.
Who do I speak of?

This is a concept piece. A series of 4 provocative haiku, meant to make you think.
Designed to be difficult for men to read aloud without sounding like an *******.
Without careful attention to punctuation, some lines are misinterpretation-bound:
for example, "Your offensive period" and "men are better than women".
My intent was to suggest disrespect to women, though men are the real target here.
Dedicated to ******* misogynists, who are more insecure than women ever could be.

Misadventures of Crow Mar 2013

Whorecrux

Her flower blooms: beyond the petals
lies the living Wisdom of Her body,
the life of the Rose; Her lips stained red
by wanton kisses and holy blood.
By the flame of Her lust did I know Her
as Mystery incarnate, and chased Her to ruin
to taste of Her dew, and be drunken.

Unto Her did I bear the Cross
as a lamb to a lioness; I did tremble
in the light of Her intoxication, 'til
She arched Her back like a bow of sinew
and notched my arrow into Her string,
firing me into the stooping starlight,
the ***** of the Queen of Heaven.

Her mons the sacrificial grounds,
the exhibition of the shameless harlot.
My Cross the altar of the Work,
my blood the seed of Life.
In the retort we join unto Death
and new genesis, pouring Self
and Self into the Self-less.

I no longer see a terrifying future in the Revelation of John.

Misadventures of Crow Mar 2013

How to Write Good Poetry

Say less.
Mean more.

Misadventures of Crow Mar 2013

Bookmarks (10w)

"What? When?!"
"Yesterday," he said, deleting
another bookmarked engagement ring.