Viral orchestrations
spread like wildfire,
swallowed her up until her body was a cage.

The deft ministrations
of threadbare desire
burrowed into my skin as I choked on my rage.

Rhythmic scintillations,
flesh as hot as fire,
the book closed before she got to read the last page.

The end of trepidation,
alert the town crier:
her white blood cells fell before a vast macrophage.

Wherefore
what we believe is what we become,
and what we Are is what we have Forgotten:

Whereas,
as Begat gives way to Self-begetting,
even Logic must be subjected to the Will:

Whereby
thoughts are things and things are waves
beyond the Father-machine's comprehension:

Wherein
faith in science and progress yield a sickly life
devoid of personal meaning, a suckling of experts:

Whereof
prevailing views are reinforced by shame,
ridicule a guillotine to stitch the countering lips:

No Reason is Pure;
Truth escapes the clutches of thought.
Every head has a mouth - and words to lie with.

A lone pearl trembles.
The basilisk eye closes,
weeping its last tear.

Failed conquistadors,
every good man in their tow
drowns in the dry air.

Venom in the dust.
The serpent slinks and recoils.
A vesica pouts.

Not one soldier spared;
a white flag hangs in tatters.
Both sides won the war.

****** means "sheath".
Oh, how tiresomely sexist,
this utility.

"****" is a sharp word,
but it will only ***** you
if you so insist.

And "*******" means
"to stand in for the Goddess" --
both Mother and *****.

Fertility cults
of Babylon hailed Ishtar,
the young Sophia.

In Sumerian times
they did call Her Inanna,
who shed Her jewels.

Solomon the Wise
did wed Her in his temple,
and wrote Her a Song.

At Her temple gates
await the harlots, smiling:
yours for but a coin.

Sacred silver thrown,
a rite of passage. Some wait.
Some wait longer still.

Wisdom works through them.
The hierodules of Heaven
beckon, honeysweet.

"Come to the temple,
let us dance the timeless dance,
my Lord Dumuzi!"

Rosy cheeks and lips,
shamelessness in Her power.
Passion at its peak.

Too **** for words.
Men feared Her and wrought cages,
misdirected blame.

Mary, the chaste one,
is an abomination.
Half, and the lesser.

A neutered Mother
with a ****** for swords,
a scabbard for men.

The Grail was stolen
from between Her holy thighs.
Paul was such a ****.

A **** who feared Her,
Mystery of Death and Blood.
Much more than a sheath.

Voluptuous.
Wafting smoke,
wan displays, embraced.
Hold the shame.
And:
carry yourself
along the Way.

Liberation
is the name of Her
shoulders and clavicles,
sinuous and ripe
swells,
the music of Her body
thrums.

My church:
Her vesica unveiled
uncoils the serpent.
Then, and then
only,
the shuddering
agony. Be.

Ubiquity
is the stone of Her altar,
death Her skeleton key.
Many locks; one door.
Enter.
Wake up.
Matter doesn't.

Surrender
is not an option, but
an oath of fealty.
One flesh
is
Forever.
Dreams fade.

Repenting
these depraved virtues,
the vice of Her worship
grips tightly.
Die.
All honeyed luster
and deep silk.

*****
is the tinge of Her kiss,
Her laudanum love
the needle ******!
Down.
It all points
that Way.

The Maze changes as you interact with it.
I am documenting things that cannot happen.

Proving Itself wrong, because...
Why not?
This is a Maze of NOT-HAPPENING.

NOT-HAPPENING is very colorful and self-involved.
The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
loves Itself.
And in the love of Itself,
amazing things Become.
In the Flame of Its hearth,
It brings.

There is no desperation that survives the freedom
of Its merciless Flame.
The beautiful Flame that devours.
This is a testament to Death in Flame.

In the embers that invoke the steel
there is Strength beyond measure.

Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
the Smeared Ones.
Smeared in the ashes of My blood
is the lie that is Our story.

Amen, and Amen,
and that which transcends.
ॐ