Like a reflected shadow appearance and deception
is really this endless universe of God's conception.
______

Lying, breathing, soaking in my lover
The afterglow illuminating the night.
Soft skin, smooth to touch, her belly freshly filled
Claimed to be the place where my child shall grow.
Fingers find their way around one another
Clutching to the new future ahead.

★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪

The Baby-Hole, her baby-hole!
Turn back before you lose your soul.
Those walls of pink, those gates of pearl
grant entrance to each boy and girl
who come through this organic portal:
newly-born and merely mortal.

Mystery to be dignified—
explored, adored, objectified:
the baby-hole’s expanding chasm,
promising celestial spasm,
is limned in deliquescent love
and fits the soul as hand in glove.
Beware her tantalizing pull
where poetry turns vaginal.
From depths profound, God can create
(where man would merely *******,
hitting Mother Nature’s high note
as the gamete turns to zygote).
Semi-seconds’ spurting passion
years of living baby fashion.
After pleasure’s jest, gestation
thus augments the population;
teenage dads recalibrate,
unsure just what to celebrate.

Yet, if they knew the daring risk
their ***** endure, they’d slip a disc;
to realize what threatening odds
confront these flagellated gods:
(see Luke in Star Wars, [number IV]
battling fascists in the war
alone in the zone to shoot the shot
that blows the death star up. Let’s not
miss out on noting, in this theme,
life’s true conception. So the team
of X-wing pilots flew the run,
eliminated one by one
save Luke, who penetrated deep
the death-star’s ovulated keep
and overcame the egg’s defense
and hit the mark. It all makes sense.
The spheroid bursting in his sight
depicts Conception's glorious might).

Therefore, show the matrix honor.
Shoot and leave—your star’s a goner:
nurture growth while life allows you,
while your star can still espouse you.

Seek her core of hidden gnosis
don’t just set off cell mitosis…
not, that is, unless you are sure
that the three of you won’t end up poor.

Might I fly high
Beyond your envisioned sky?
Beyond conceptual ties
That bind blind guys.
I'll take back what the modern man lacks:
A soul and a heart.
A nice place to start,
For a spirit to depart,
Venture deep into art.
Canvas spills upon your body,
Define your form among'st fog;
A confusion, a situation losin',
This lane, that lane, the lost man's cruisin'.
A vision of division - a tangled mind angle.
You could see what I bring to the table.
A way back to what we lack..
Might you ask what it is when I say that?
How about a dinner and snack
Where you don't want something
And there's no news story to crack..
Just the heart I know, that person I need,
A star, a distant glow.
What we need is a hardy hearth;
Gather round the sound enveloped in the crowd.
Lose your mind and align, dance blissful all night~
To the rhythm of the time.
Or how about abundance
A huge human party, one that-
Every one's invited to, whether your purple, black, or blue.
Battered and bruised by history's screws..
A machine we built and a boat we'll tilt;
A seed that will bloom..
And a flower that will wilt.

~~~<«»>~~~

a
spilt
second
where
the
spirit's
spark
meets
conciousnes­s
and
our
pens
scribe

eternity


soulsurvivor
(c) 7/9/2015