her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
that my rages there die

it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been borne in this way

donkey in the barn who dreams of gold,  O wind upon his beloved's ears
where ruby thighs of folded flesh and blood of wars comes Spring

odd and beautiful flowers are sprung

braids of mud embrace the skin of those who bray on the knee of their masters
where rivers of blood the Buddha swims pink fizz and whirling bone
such tears sublime is leadgun simple clowned and winged socratic
godself poison mimicry of war's shred and burr let the hearts and minds fall droplet to ground
let the war dead drink their own rain
oval is the yawn of the sun and burly shadows weep sockets
where new flowers shall grow odd and beautiful pollen 
shall spring

children dream of trapeze birds laughing grinning rising falling at last into the ground 
how they learn that splendor and love is  ironic ascension 

odd and beautiful flowers 
thunderous rivers of blood the Bluebird sings the echoes
let the Bluebird sing of death no less than the crack of birth from egg
are sprung
oddly flowers beautiful
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
     may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
     may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, there be pollen of eyes that hear
 
pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
I am mighty upon the breast my true dreams press
but when she weeps at my inconsolable rages
an angel I wish would swim bursts into me naked 
here is a rain from my thoughts where she walks 
with her cello and my bow
Limber seas and mountain dew blood of many tenderly writhe
viscous streams the dove in heaven tells sadly in sleep bends down the  brow each new soldier child 

pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands trying to say goodbye 
let the wardead lift up their mouths their oval grins let them drink their own rain

the plaster dreams of dreary kings 
fall not round my hips and the whine of whips are far beyond the cello of lovely nights
her ******* and her thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon these fluffy newborn children we lay our heads like down upon the duck in the dusk
upon soft pillows Buddha madly drumming Jesus spinning rain
the ducklings race and the pond seeks no moon nor sun
where lovers' beloveds swim

oingo boingo holes in hands of Jesus and Buddha rivet the godsun of baby bird eyes 
it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

for upon the last day that I live I shall see the true sky
upon the opened eye of the pastel lids of a new bird born dying

let me raise my veins and tendons 
from my fingers shall grasp the mother birds a math of upswoop 
let there be terrible storms of beauty let the donkey in barn who dreams of gold find love
a daisy sun and upon this I try forevermore to ascend when I kiss my beloved
there shall be terrible storms of beauty 

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
but there upon the mountain where a once fiery stormy river raged in dawns restless pounding
tumorous thoughts of old men whose young bodies give birth to themselves
abortion of souls by songs of flags' lie they shimmering
upon the upraised red streaked fingers of hybrid monster theories
vultures and the rats grow fat with existentialist jacking
brays ***** across their yellowed rivers  

their tears are hidden to them the way simple men come with axes
when the automatic weapons run dry melting
each rising atomic thing shall escape alone and search for its brethren
each hyena must dance naked in rain the last day
on a highway no child's cry can cease

let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands
trying to say goodbye and let them lift their mouths up and drink their rain
my love's ******* and thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon our fluffy newborn child we lay our heads down upon
soft pillows 

take the glowing wafting breads of autumn and winter shall lay down no more
let me drink from the socket of the tender pastel ****** of death
where the baby wren dreams long after it has fallen and risen again 

where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring in odd and beautiful flowers

meadows arise with great fury my flesh and mountains and valleys cease their separation
there are many daisies and bumble bee songs in the heart of each unborn child
each young girl touches when she watches the ponies and the daffodils sway

giant head of death ambitious reminiscence
a red mud land of untold photon castles that tremble in the night
where the owlet gathers its fat body like goblets of scotch in the night
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
where Buddha slides the eggplant curve and night falls, deep, into the ground
where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring through odd and beautiful flowers

where oingo boingo turtle eyes beam from the holes of Jesus
lay me mighty at my own feet


and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew where Buddha slides the eggplant curve
night falls deep into the ground
oddly flowers beautiful


I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
 








.

In terms of metaphysical well-being,
do not attempt to find external solutions to internal problems.

Though external solutions may, at best, catalyze opportunities,
they tend to serve as a temporary comfort or distraction
rather than a cure for the nature of the problem at hand;

A "bad mood"
is a great opportunity
to tune your Consciousness.

Life is full of those moments;
the purpose of them
is to learn from them
and grow.

Look outward for information.
Look within for understanding.

Actualize your Godself.

The Artist
is one who is not satisfied by the lies of society
nor have they ever been,
nor will they ever be.

The Artist
is one who reflects back the so carelessly discarded toxins of society
so has it always been,
so shall it always be.

The Artist
is not satisfied with what has been created, no matter the beauty
so must it be
for more beauty to be made.

The Artist
is not one for rules and regulations
nor is he one for Authority
unless that authority is the Creative.

The Artist
is the harbinger of God
not in that he is of a particular religion,
but in that he reflects the Divinity of reality
even if in his own twisted, satirical way.

The Artist
is one who is compelled to imagine;
who is compelled to challenge the norms
as well as the taboos
of their time

The Artist
is a Prophet
of the Godself.

In good Time,
Self can escape Mind
as Shadow seeks Things;
words, ***, Ego, and blame,
One's true Self seems to sleep.

The Universe is a vessel of, and temple to,
Godself.
Your Body is also vessel of, and temple to,
Godself.

Logos and Mythos
are as two color filters
applied to the process of Developing the film that is one's Perspective;
to intentionally only use one filter  
is to restrict oneself and one's understanding
to only that portion of the image:

the image is infinitely Holistic.

Slow down;
let your Mind recollect
let your Self grow and reach for the stars.

One's Mind is as a Prism
One's Body is a Mirror;
One's Reality is a reflection
of that Prism on that Mirror:

The functionality of one's Prism
becomes apparent
as the images reflected upon their Mirrors
become manifest:

We ourselves are all Sacred Mirrors;
Our lives are Divinity itself
and our Bodies are the Cathedral
where Art is stained-glass windows and Prayer
all of which built as an effigy to the Godself
in order to re-acknowledge the Godself
and to defy the Illusion of separation
inherent in our mortal Existence within this
Chapel of Sacred Mirrors
we've come to call the Universe.

We ourselves as well as all that we perceive are Reflections of the Divine,
thus collectively and holistically All becomes a Chapel of Sacred Mirrors.

The Natural World is not so benevolent.
Though, I don't mean that it is malevolent,
but with things like Disease, Entropy and Radiation,
I would say that the odds certainly are not in our Favour.

Yet, here we are.

An act of sheer Defiance
to an otherwise inanimate Reality.
A Being of Reason, Creativity, Interpretation, Intuition and Consciousness
observing the cold assumed lifelessness of the Crystallization of this Epoch of Energy.

I speak not of the benevolent and malevolent Energies
which perhaps permeate and flow through this Reality,
but those, to me, don't necessarily qualify as "Natural" in this sense;
they are super-natural, para-natural, or hyper-natural. Pre-natural, even.

I speak of tangible, scientific, here-and-now "Reality"; whatever that means.
Matter and the Energies we know of that are subsets of it.
Gravity, Electromagnetism, the Strong and Weak Nuclear forces.

This Physical Prison of Godself; like a physical Dream
from which One cannot awaken until Death.
Perhaps not even then? Who knows?
Who are we, who yet live, to say?
Maybe it's a case-by-case basis;
but, in any case, I digress:

The Natural World is a Force to be reckoned with;
it holds the Powers of Sustenance as well as Annihilation
yet we so take it for granted and ****, pillage and plunder it evermore systematically

That's just bad form.

Conciser Reverence
though not religiously so;
merely giving Thanks to
the Forces which sustain us.
Respecting
the Forces which sustain us.

Earth. Sun. Water. Air. The interplay of these things.
The Plants that give themselves to us as nutrients
as well as the Animals that do the same.

The fact that you have a left and a right Brain. A Body and Mind.
That the Sun rises each Day and you're born anew with it in ways.

If we truly give Thanks
for all of these things and more,
our perspectives will enlighten a bit,
and Reality will become wholly Holy;
Holistic:

and we can finally begin, again,

to move on.

If you find it so offensive
that I don't passively accept the *******
you so zealously defend
with phoney statistics and appeals to irrelevant authority,
perhaps you should try to empathize
with how offensive that ******* may be
to a person who values and respects
individuals' divergent opinions.

Then again, in thy defense,
they don't really seem like thy opinions,
they've just been programmed into thee
from a malleable age
by others
who cannot stand a bit of honest dissent
for the sake of earnest
social and spiritual progress.

You're a proper product of your environment.
Your upbringing is bringing you down.

If you want to overgeneralize
and make less options available
that many have fought so hard to make possible,
go live somewhere where you won't have the freedom to choose for yourself
even if it does tend to be an illusion.

But, I know
you don't want to have fewer choices,
you just want others to have fewer choices.

As a philosopher,
I find that ******* disgusting.
Appalling.
Abhorrent.
Evil, even.

If your school of thought
is said to be so 'holy,'
how can it produce such evil people?
I guess it's *******,
either on the teachers' part,
or on the students' part,
or, not unlikely:
both.

A boat that cannot be rocked
is probably an unsafe boat.

A boat that can take a rocking
is more likely to be seaworthy.

It is worth it to find out which boat you're in
before you're committed to it on the open seas of Life.

(Maybe they put you in the unsafe boat on purpose..)

Thy traditionalism
binds thee to a bygone era
of sexism, feudalism, and prejudice.

If it is thy choice
to sacrifice thy free will and curiosity
to that ages old cult,
I venture to claim that you deserve to,
just don't expect any sympathy
from this devout skeptic;

I rock the boat
not to destroy what's good,
but to try to **** out what isn't healthy.

It's nothing personal,
I'm just fond of Devil's Advocacy
in the face of a straw-man argument.

The only thing more blaring
than the fallacies in your claims
is your blind and willing ignorance.

We all seek comfort,
but allowing your intellect to be usurped
for someone else's benefit
is a self-sacrifice seldom worthy of existing.

Some falsely believe that knowledge brings comfort,
but I know that it is only the willingness to deny such comfort
that makes such comfort attainable.

You aren't comfortable,
you're just shut off from the world.

Have the courage to step outside your own mind,
have the courage to step back from yourself and your ego
even if for just a little while,
and perhaps you shall find
that it was only you holding you back,
all along.

Do not hate:

learn;
forgive;
transcend;
seek to understand.
Grow;
nurture;
live;
love:
before it's too late
to reconcile yourself with your truest self.

Stop being used by your mind
and start utilizing it's potential:
be yourself and become the greatest possible actualization of your Godself.

No philosophy is an enemy,
only One's philosophobia is.

The Void was pregnant with infinite potential.

The Universe is the OneSong which which was born of an ****** of Spirit and Energy
The result is a realm of frozen Energy imbued with Spirit,
Subject to Time, Creativity, the laws of Physics and Mortality.
Existence is Temporary yet perpetually cyclical.
Seamless.
Beautiful.

All reflects the creative Godself.

One, who can't, or merely won't,
be sensitive to One's own Godself
deserves to be One's own captive
rather than One's own master.

remember when you said, the world looks so beautiful?
well, i maintained that distance but my
lashes were wet with crimson
weeping, weeping for love
i tried to paint with saffron
and burst leaves with chocolate candies

this is one of those days where you sigh sweetly
with love, because the magnitude summons
earthquakes and you’ve touched the well of
stillness, but some soul threw a pebble in there,
and now its waters turbulent, no longer
reflecting back purusha, you let air expand your
lungs, collect emotions like honey and
buzz out of your mouth, a horde of bees

you succumb to its effects, blending with
self-created thought loops that wake you in the
middle of the night. what’s that about, you
wonder. you try to recall, lamely, if in your
past you were kept wake by the flickering
lamplight of your mind, jumping from your dreams
to daylight in fractions of a second.

it never feels easier, this business of love and
adoration, despite the intellect screaming to
pull yourself together. drawers open and close.
new ideas are formed, the former abandoned.
an instant of peace is bafflingly shattered
by a sudden starburst of kaleidoscopic light,
pinwheeling dangerously. what of the
tower of cards you so meticulously built?

breathing, breathing
here you are now.

falling in love has taken on a sense of
dread, and shame. if only you were still
dumb and blind, and you could love and love
with abandon, but now all these selves
housed in your consciousness have formed opinions.
is it someone external, or you who you are seeking?
the infinite? what of releasing
all desires, putting an end to suffering?

just another fork in the road. just another
pebble in the well.
he penetrates you with his eyes and
suddenly it’s all you see with eyelids shut.
one godself naked and exposed to another godself.
how furious, how delightful.

if you’re so whole and complete, why so delighted
by another’s differences? why so enchanted by
a mannerism?

baby, baby, you tell your aching heart.
an exquisite feeling
always falling in love
always, always, always, always

you want to hide yourself,
you’re older now, wiser now.
you don’t want to be found out!
a fraud – a little baby animal being
who still messily falls in love

surrender, surrender
surrender, surrender