"godhead" poems
The mushroom
The unfolding
instant of creation (fertilisation)
not an instant separate from breakfast
It all flows down & out, flowing
but that instant:
not fire & fusion (fission) but a moment
of jellied ice, crystal, vegetative mating
merging in cool slime splendour
a crushing of steel & glass & ice
(instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)
far-out splendour
heat & fire are outwards signs of a
Small dry mating
~~~
event in a room
event in space
a circle
Magic rite
To call up the godhead
spirits, demons
The shaman calls:
“When radio dark night…”
We are eating each other.
~~~
The Voice of the Serpent
dry hiss of age & steam
& leaves of gold
old books in ruined
Temples
The pages break like ash
I will not disturb
I will not go
Come, he says softly
an old man appears &
moves in tired dance
amid the scattered dead
gently they stir
~~~
I received an Aztec wall
of vision
& dissolved my room in
sweet derision
Closed my eyes, prepared to go
A gentle wind inform’d me so
And bathed my skin in ether glow
~~~
Drugs are a bet w/ your mind
~~~
The cigarette burn’d
my fingertips
& dropp’d like a log
to the rug below
My eyes took a trip
to dig the chick
Crouch’d like a cat
at the next window
My ears assembled music
out of swarming streets
but my mind rebelled
at the idiot’s laughter
The rising frightful idiot laughter
Cheering an army of
vacuum cleaners
~~~
Mouth fills w/taste of copper.
Chinese paper. Foreign money. Old posters.
Gyro on a string, a table.
A coin spins. The faces.
There is an audience to our drama.
Magic shade mask.
Like the hero of a dream, he works for us,
in our behalf.
How close is this to a final cut?
I fall. Sweet blackness.
Strange world that waits & watches.
Ancient dread of non-existence.
If it’s no problem, why mention it.
Everything spoken means that,
it’s opposite, & everything else.
I’m alive. I’m dying.
~~~
1st wild thrush of fear
-A phone rings
There is a knock on the door.
It’s time to go.
No.
17.7k
So it has come to this
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine
like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.
The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.
I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.
The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.
He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.
He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
and dome out painted on a ceiling.
He wants to pierce the hornet's nest
and come out with a long godhead.
He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.
He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.
He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d'oeuvres.
He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.
He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn't it be
good enough to just drink cocoa?
I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.
5.6k
Uncharmable charmer
Of Bacchus and Mars
In the sounding rebounding
Abyss of the stars!
O ****** in armour,
Thine arrows unsling
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
By the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke ---
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!
By the midnight of madness: -
The lone-lying sea,
The swoon of the moon,
Your swoon into me,
The sentinel sadness
Of cliff-clinging pine,
That night of delight
You were mine, you were mine!
You were mine, O my saint,
My maiden, my mate,
By the might of the right
Of the night of our fate.
Though I fall, though I faint,
Though I char, though I choke,
By the hour of our power
I invoke, I invoke!
By the mystical union
Of fairy and faun,
Unspoken, unbroken -
The dust to the dawn! -
A secret communion
Unmeasured, unsung,
The listless, resistless,
Tumultuous tongue! -
O ****** in armour,
Thine arrows unsling,
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
No Godhead could charm her,
But manhood awoke -
O fiery Valkyrie,
I invoke, I invoke!
4.7k
So it is eighteen years,
Helena, since we met!
A season so endears,
Nor you nor I forget
The fresh young faces that once clove
In that most fiery dawn of love.
We wandered to and fro,
Who knew not how to woo,
Those eighteen years ago,
Sweetheart, when I and you
Exchanged high vows in heaven's sight
That scarce survived a summer's night.
What scourge smote from the stars
What madness from the moon?
That night we broke the bars
Was quintessential June,
When you and I beneath the trees
Bartered our bold virginities.
Eighteen -years, months, or hours?
Time is a tyrant's toy!
Eternal are the flowers!
We are but girl and boy
Yet -since love leapt as swift to-night
As it had never left the light!
For fiercer from the South
Still flames your cruel hair,
And Trojan Helen's mouth
Still not so ripe and rare
As Helena's -nor love nor youth
So leaps with lust or thrills with truth.
Helena, still we hold
Flesh firmer, still we mix
Black hair with hair as gold.
Life has but served to fix
Our hearts; love lingers on the tongue,
And who loves once is always young.
The stars are still the same;
The changeful moon endures;
Come without fear or shame,
And draw my mouth to yours!
Youth fails, however flesh be fain;
Manhood and womanhood attain.
Life is a string of pearls,
And you the first I strung.
You left -first flower of girls! -
Life lyric on my tongue,
An indefatigable dance,
An inexhaustible romance!
Blush of love's dawn, bright bud
That bloomed for my delight,
First blossom of my blood,
Burn in that blood to-night!
Helena, Helena, fiercely fresh,
Your flesh flies fervent to my flesh.
What sage can dare impugn
Man's immortality?
Our godhead swims, immune
From death and destiny.
Ignored the bubble in the flow
Of love eighteen short years ago!
Time -I embrace all time
As my arm rings your waist.
Space -you surpass, sublime,
As, taking me, we taste
Omnipotence, sense slaying sense,
Soul slaying soul, omniscience.
4.4k
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
Harm no one, the inevitable thought of a miniscule Agamemnon,
The insufferable, the pious, the deceiver,
And the devout, the sheep, the lamb,
Lead me I follow, Follow me I will train you,
Despicable, For here there is only nothingness disguised as a cruel sacrifice,
I believe in nothing, in circles, in patterns, in physics, in atoms within atoms, in life that studies itself,
I believe in the arts, in music, in poetry, in dreams that are breathed into existence through an artists touch,
I believe in family, in pure love, in unconditional acceptance, in forgiveness and the cultivation of hope,
I believe in people, who's emotions rage like the sea, who's ideas raise whole cities, who's dreams are to find peace and understanding, who sometimes are misled but are never beyond the good within themselves,
I believe in life, in growth, in the earth, the mother of us all and the sun, the father that watches his children basking in his warmth, I believe in trees that give us oxygen and water that gives us life.
And so I believe in the underdog, the unseen, the overlooked, the underrated, and the unappreciated, I believe in the here and now, the present moment, the kiss, the dance, the wine, and the open hand. There is nothing of your cold religion, or your angry god that I need. Because life is all around me and beauty is in all things here and now and forever.
Space spirals on and the river of time still flows in all directions, it is eternal this holy thing and it is without end, no mans demonic godhead will ever bring it down and this disease called religion will eventually be cured.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
#
*This place. I don't know.
so many people / want to block..
their words--
they climb all over me.
one's in particular:
Heart-expressed words bringing down
the healing light of relationship to the parts of me
who up until now
have known little or no relationship of its kind;
and there is conflict within me as I fight it..
years the locusts have eaten; and the opportunity of restoration;
often squandered. in vanity.
none of that mattered much;
until now--
When the unredeemed heart-parts of myself
reveal to me their dormancy: left detached
from community with one another--
an internal community necessary
to withstand the brilliant light and glory
brought down by those here who write as she does.
but she;
through her unfiltered heart-writes
brings down the very magic and beauty and fullness of the
relational dance of the godhead.
And it's raw beauty is ****** slayin me.
I so want to block her for the conflict she creates in me
.
but I will press on
and allow her supremely-smithed words--
(words not even written to me)
to have their beautiful way,
in
and through..
the help that has been all around me;
(each and every one of us)
waiting...
all along
**--as if they were cleaning my soul,
re-integrating my fragmented, heart-parts.***
#
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
(Seneca, Letters 130.10)
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
2.4k
I regard what calls itself "Christianity" today, as so much RELIGIOUS ****
Why? The Apostle Paul wrote this in his second letter to the Corinthians
2nd Cor 11:4 For if he that cometh preacheth another Jesus, whom we have not preached, or if ye receive another spirit, which ye have not received, or another gospel, which ye have not accepted, ye might well bear with him.
KJV
Some earmarks of "another Jesus"
· He was borne on Christmas
· His "Triumphal Entry" was on Palm Sunday
· His Crucifixion was on Good Friday
· His Resurrection was on Easter
· He turned water into grape juice
· He inspired the NIV (or anything other than the KJV)
· He prays the Lord's Prayer "...thy will be done on earth..."
· His "gospel" is John 3:16
· If he didn't have brothers and sisters
· If he loves EVERYBODY
· If his mother makes apparitions
· If he builds his church upon Peter (Matt 16:18)
· If you have to say the "Sinner's Prayer" to be saved (John 6:44)
· If some "Reverend Doctor" preaches about him
· If a ThD "Theologian" explains him
· If his ministers call themselves "Reverend" of "Father"
· His followers refer to the 3rd Person of the Godhead as "Holy Spirit"
Go tell your Lovey-Dovey jESUS: he can take his salvation and shove it up his ass...AND TELL HIM THAT I SAID SO!
If your opinion of ANY of the above is: "It doesn't matter", then YOU, your church your pastor, your denomination, your jESUS, your gOD - are so much RELIGIOUS SHIT...ask Nadab and Abihu how much it matters! (that is of course, if your stupid *** even knows who they are)
Also, if you still think it doesn't matter, because one day you're going to fly away to meet your lovey-dovey lord in the lovey-dovey clouds...your dumb *** will wonder why you are still here when the FIRST SEAL BREAKS
There are 7 years soon to commence, it's called the Great Tribulation. All you lovey-dovey ***** Chunk "christians" will have an opportunity to PROVE that you REALLY ARE what you claim to be.
++++
Do you think you will survive? The coming Seven Years
It's called the Tribulation, a time of and pain and tears
-
Chances are not good, that you'll live to see it through
You'll probably be killed, your not the chosen few
-
You will greet the Antichrist, and you'll take his Mark
This guarantees you'll burn in Hell, the warnings were so stark
-
For 1000 years you'll burn, before you stand before the Throne
The Great White Throne of God, you He will disown
-
Then you'll be cast alive, into The Lake of Fire
With all RELIGIOUS **** and every other liar
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
The opening act is immorality.
Observe.
Intervals divide not naturally
but with intent. To lack, in lacking,
I express- without, of course.
Provisions lessen, starve to death,
caressing apathy.
Run.
Run away from conception, direction.
Consume nothing.
Act two is speculation.
Time expands naturally.
The godhead splinters
vomiting seedlings of Betlahm.
They breed, inhabit the womb
of the earth. Servants die
monarchs are imagined.
The crown, christened
with black opals and painite.
Louder! Louder!
Our crescendo nears!
The springs of fertility
ovulate nourishment. Absorb
these eggs and conceive
not Theseus, but Artemis
Scarcity ceases to be,
and oceans of wealth
are now begging for disposal.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
the feminine bleeds
not always red, not always white
seldom enough
for words - she inters herself, crouched
chambered, begs for
cleansing, hand held cupped
round- her curves
familiar to self, unknowable;
unselfish giving - she bleeds, not enough
mutilated even by her own kindness, cradled
without righteousness, coddled by an unnamed
nebula .....she curses her own image, and likeness
slivers it, cuts it raw, for dead left - visible
a world denies
knowledge with sacred
alibi - scribed hieroglyphs, scrolled - she bleeds
white, and a
desert conceals her face
calculates her dance - her movements
mythical, she cries inside
out
tears of salt river-ed, rested
underground, a birthing place securing
her masculine seed coming to
light - Madonna paints her
face black, *"Oh Czestochowa, pray for us
Oh Mother - we beseech thee"*....
She bleeds - red, the
world turns with season - she re-seeds our flesh
feeds us with her ***** prior
to the sacrifice -"Witch, it is, Witch....burn it," conceal
in alabaster stones
lone, unmarked - her womb
tomb it only in site
of an unflinching god - hold him, birth him
in sorrow grieve and give him, his blood shed
"take it ,drink it" - red, she bleeds - seldom enough
as the masculine prepares for HIS resurrection
feminine for trial
He is reborn - she never dies
she is Wisdom (Sophia) eternal
He - Godhead
she - Feminine
denied....
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 7:09 PM UTC
the boy enters when he knows
others will not be there
in prayer--their silent entreaties
to a god he is not sure
listens or cares
morning after mass is best;
the bouquets are fresh
he can smell them once
the scent of the early
worshipers fades:
the pipe smoke from the old man's
coat
the widow's perfume which lingers longer than the ammonia stench
of the holy homeless who is there
every day
Christ watches over this:
a white marble man bolted
to a cross, witnessing
this spectacle for millennia
long before this cold statue
was placed in this cathedral,
he was there, the slaughtered lamb
cursed to die again and again
that is how the boy sees it;
not a promised life eternal,
but the same death anon,
anon
the pounding of the stakes,
the blood offering: the old man, the woman, the mendicant
all crucifying him again with
each plaintive prayer
once their odors fade,
the funeral sprays, the bouquets
remain--cut, dying flowers,
a fragrant impermanence
with no expectation for life
beyond their time in the
vase--no imploring a godhead
for forgiveness
no demand for blood
and perpetual death
only a little water for their brief journey
in fragile glass
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,
Who died before the God of Love was born:
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.
Sure, they which made him god meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it;
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be
Love, till I love her that loves me.
But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the God of Love.
Oh were we wakened by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her who loves not me.
Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too,
Which, since she loves before, I’m loth to see;
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,
If she whom I love should love me.
1.5k
The light from the end of eternity
Comes in through the window glass
Sits on the sill with the red Anthurium
In the stenciled orange Waterford vase
Centuries.down.and.Decades.done.
From the grassy light of the Lyceum.
If the sun were to choose where to die,
It would falter over Pompeii,
And lie like a broken godhead
Or lava poured into the pottery cups of
The open-skied houses.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
Just, thought I, to escape a while,
Mundane light in the desk at home
On these splintered, black-tar roads
Marching, festooned in leaf and in rock
Snapping and scattering from underfoot.
My heavy breaths are this odd meter
In-out, in-out on this pavement slap
The knees are strained, down, the stream
Of rheumy little beads—lines! (I sense
Conception of a rare cadence
In which earth finds its synchrony).
‘Round the walls of rustic homes and will
To this walking gallery of the ‘ville
Ancient oaks, they lift their head and grin
To a sky beyond the storm, what with plumes
Unearthly fronds, dark with salmon painted on
Softened, its oil, burnt carnal black
That loose-end feeling holding it back.
Furrowed brow, I run with now
Sweet winds and pirouette
The dancers go amidst the leaves
Hold Hell high ‘bove white hands
Turned in deference and o,’ Arbor!
Your threshold live and saturnine
Entire eternities unfold now, silk scarf on
Goddess Eve, her halo proud
Gold embraced by Pink and now
She strides in by the choral geese
Flown to sing her godhead to sleep
Her rest had blest pain to leave me now
At those gates loud, effervescent
Shimmering, shimmering
In calm disbelief
And on
And on.
Back at the source, that in-between
Bare **** of the Fasick bridge
Magmatic pallets, on faces two
One shared tear drop, a cosmic breadth.
I saw from there the garden of stone
Lonely tombs in blamy play
Fruits sprung in those past lives.
I shared their rest for moment still
And back it goes, the nameless past
Where they exists as dreams, beside me.
Two sides, met then so diverged
I saw their peace where night emerged
Where pink embraced the dark
Went to rest on low horizons.
The world closed its lips and lids
Its eyes and loving heart
Bathed, it all, in low florescence
And lullaby of cicadas.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
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.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
I have consumed,
The godhead fungus,
Once again,
Upon upset stomach,
I will watch,
my mind unravle,
become undone,
rewound,
renewed,
possibility of destruction,
Omnipresense,
Tho, the word topple over,
the mountains fall to the sea,
none of this worries I,
For creation comes,
From the depths of the depraved,
Relentless,
Hospitable,
Passion flow like rivers,
Juxtaposed round the ignited,
Universe,
Cosmos,
Atomic Circus.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
just because your problems are bigger than mine,
doesn't qualify you as being
better than me;
but sure, we need apes, like we might encourage
buying stake at the butchers and
a quasi-Narcissus reflection in Darwin...
that's what happens when presupposing
someone's supposed idiocy, it happens
that way in democracy, without a autocratic godhead
of authority, many more are prone to being
prescribed madness, because being sadistic
with dementia patients and those disabled is all
that more rewarding than when a "patient" can punch
you back, bloody-nose your face...
and this is how Christianity makes sense?
might as well call the adherents of Christianity
children wetting their beds and fuelled by a desire
to maim their fellow examples of the species...
Darwinism will not do... it's a farce...
the animals involved to a categorical grouping
would not do what humans do to each other...
so we evolved from monkey to escape the tiger
and the snake? i hardly think tigers or snakes killed
with sadism involved... for pleasure...
but if the sadistic impulse was always ours...
we evolved for no good reason...
i'd rather experience the hunger of the tiger
or the snake than experience the sadism of a fellow human being...
and that's a humanism, it doesn't invoke a god
or morality that should be kept...
i'd rather a tiger **** me for sustenance than some
trivial bog-standard thief from the London estate knifing me
for a ******* bike... i'd rather end up in a tiger's digestive
system than in the "evolved" court-of-law debating
bicycle theft -
animal-cohesiveness knows no sadism,
human-overpowering of animals knows everything
but humanism, hence the need for humanism per se,
poetry and a novel... we write poetry but at the same time
perform holocausts... if we are evolutionary products,
we are by evolutionary standards a successful paradox...
we contradict the pluses with the negatives we produce
subsequently... we have evolved / transcended
the original parameters... but we did so paradoxically;
i'd still rather die from a tiger easing my death
by the vampire-bite of my neck that
the exfoliation abiding with the electric chair or
the iron maiden... the author of the Bonfire of Vanities
got it wrong... we really did use our imagination...
we used imagination for the expression of torture...
Disney can do **** all than quack like a duck
to quiet simply approve the endemic continuance
of the practice... because most people will
simply apply for t.v. and come dine with me
spectaculars.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
i'm anxious for an early grave
an expressway to the pearly gates
or a laundry chute to the furnace flames
any burning faith that i can claim-
like yearning for a puppet string,
i'm addicted to the dangling-
salivating for that suspension
heaven help me make these hard decisions
because the aimlessness of atheism
is weighing down my weakened limbs
as it beats me til i'm bedridden
or confines me to the casket's grip.
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 4:31 AM UTC
Snow capped mountains,
Bald flights of soaring eagle,
Dual forms Godhead.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Under crisp and deathless winter mornings
Ensconced in hollows in ash-grey burrs
Wassail godhead de proprietate probanda;
Here I left your voice last
Supine
In fog.
A challenge; memory affronts in
Spirals, sifting the useless to the
Apron somewhere at the crown.
This, rather, is where I left you.
The rest is seasonal.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
So then the Gnostic heresies issued in one of two beliefs. They believed either that Jesus was not really divine but simply one of a series of emanations from God, or that he was not in any sense human but a kind of phantom in the shape of a man. The Gnostic beliefs at one and the same time destroyed the real godhead and the real manhood of Jesus.
from: The Gospel of John by William Barclay (1955)
Gnosis reveals in reverberation:
you’ve done too many **** hits.
You sprawl at the threshold of psychosis
until the shape of the song fits.
Your cannabis-flavored thoughts implode—
you glimpse the Divine Emanation
as the lesser vibrations diminish and die
now you enter the shrine of elation.
This rare revelation—imparted to you
(the neurotransmitters surge)
seems to show that you know, that you know, that you know
the deceptions of Demiurge . . .
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 7:19 PM UTC
Gorgons in the grasses by my window
Phantoms in the corridors of mind,
Elves and Angels flit amongst the fairies
But Godhead is the hardest thing to find.
Experiments with rationale confound me
Argument, well meaning, leaves me cold,
I've thrashed it out with he who has seen the Holy See
But futility has left me feeling old.
Millions feel the joy of their religion
Base their lives on regimental right,
Alone I meet the day and feel no need to pray,
And stride with independence to the night.
I read your words of beauty for your Maker
I felt the passion living on the page,
I cried for your belief and in so doing, felt relief
For the singer not the song, for me, engaged.
So there, my beauty, lies our living quandary
For you and I the chemistry's the same.
For you with God in hand inhabit my agnostic land
And simultaneously, we exult in falling rain.
Marshalg
To Christine and Anselm, with happiness in having found new friends.
The Pukehana Paradise
Auckland
12 March 2013
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
when I disclaim that
there be no poem today
I suggest you
put me in the dock,
hit the chess clock,
to time the length
tween my lies
sit me down in
the witness stand,
to better see
the holes in me,
from which word seepage,
grey matter leakage,
blackened white slush mush,
covers my face and hands,
and with fingers splayed
in the V
of a Spock like Cohenic blessing,
I make
my beginning and ending
Commencement Speech,
a recitation of incantations,
an eye on the pyramid inspiration
of cockeyed cantorial hymnations
Like this:
there is only one Godhead
that the spirits that allow me
breathing space in this world
and the one yet to come,
demand of me, worship -
It would be at the altar
of momentary fears
that clarify the whole,
the unifying principle,
that my blinded eyes,
my Pharaoh hardened heart,
my closed and deafened ears
see, soften and hear and believe!
I am slave to the
Gods of Poetry,
their truth, my lies,
stirred in one ***
and as I live and breathe
I am rewired
with a new poem every day,
an addict who cannot obey,
who cannot afford to pay
the judicial costs
of the cease and desist order
of his own common sense
Jan 2, 2011 10:05 AM
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC