"liberates" poems
Play that melody for me
And whisper in my ears
You don't know it but you saw right through me and my worst fears
The game I was playing was in your court
Frozen still from your spell, I could not hide or run anymore
And you are toxic, but it is just what I need
Because you are beautiful especially when you scream or bleed
Enticing is your magic, mesmerized and hypnotized with tricks
Pure euphoria, I cannot help but love it
Blinking fading lights in a dark room is where I get my fix
Your pain is also my pain
For it is a pleasure in me to see you crying in the rain
Through chaos and order, your eyes ask for more
But you are taken and everyone wants some of you
The most elegant witch, a black widow crawling on a floor
You are just a lost little girl seeking a home
You are the witch but all your black clothes cannot cover your empty soul
I can see all the universe through my reflection in your eyes
Green emerald with a hint a blue liberates the waterfall of tears from your cries
I will search for you again through the skies of time
Somewhere between the seas and the mountains
I can conquer all and make you mine
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
In fields you walk with cloven wanderlust
With blankets carried on your back as fleece
Protecting fellow sheep-fold innocence
From devious behavior in the flock
Smiling as you bleat and stride as golden
Reflecting rays like sunlit drops of milk
A lamb of God your knowledge is your milk
Your curiosity breathes wanderlust
A message from the ancient one baas golden
Engraved upon your heart and curls of fleece
Observe the blessed range within your flock
Stray not for you may lose your innocence
A fog in hills may blind your innocence
Beware the wolf will take more than your milk
And with each day you bond among your flock
Behold the beauty of group wanderlust
We thank you for your warm and cherished fleece
That soothes us as earth's twilight breaks golden
Glory to the impossible golden
For myths of your spiritual innocence
Merely trumpets what liberates your fleece
The holy grail is your chalice of milk
Discovered in a cave of wanderlust
Restful within the shadow of your flock
What joy is raised in stables of your flock
An offering of ritual golden
Pasture of thirsty hearts in wanderlust
You teach us to hold fast to innocence
How precious is the richness of your milk
Our comfort is to rest our heads on fleece
A new dawn to behold an age of fleece
A new dusk to protect an ancient flock
A new day to preserve the gift of milk
A new memory to hold futures golden
A never ending age of innocence
A satiated age of wanderlust
Fruitful wanderlust of black sage fleece
Shepherds innocence to a white cloaked flock
Prepare ye golden moments with thine milk
© tHE tERRY tREE
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Are you the surge, triggering the flight of the transcending bird?
the ultimate mystery, unspeakable, that liberates the seeker.
While awaiting the wingless flight, the moment of soul's effulgence,
you too are a mystery , like the all encompassing spirit, I am one with
The universe is not wholly cognizable,constant transformation
one to something drastically different, and the story never ends.
Known physics, could tell the story,only halfway, the rest is dark
I understand the helplessness of space observatory at Herschel
peering at vast Magellanic cloud galaxy, a mystery in the move.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
Pain and sorrow often hold either side of the hands of death. But sometimes death can be a beautiful thing; it liberates one from the pain and sorrow that often hold the hands of life.
The sound of oxygen waves, crashing through the thin plastic cannula, it's high tide on the beaches of her lungs. Her lungs are slowly being swallowed by the volume of the sea, her eyes heavy from the weight of the world.
I hold her in my arms and whisper softly, "what are you thinking about?"
She said the Ocean.
Because that's her favorite place to be.
-I prayed to God this morning. I asked him to let her be one with the Ocean. Let her soul swim free across the vastness of the sea.
I suggested that He send the most breathtaking sailboat he has ever created
So she wont lose her breath when she first sets sail across the waves of Heaven
Realizing they stretch out for infinity
Realizing
It's all for her to conquer.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Have but one God: thy knees were sore
If bent in prayer to three or four.
Adore no images save those
The coinage of thy country shows.
Take not the Name in vain. Direct
Thy swearing unto some effect.
Thy hand from Sunday work be held--
Work not at all unless compelled.
Honor thy parents, and perchance
Their wills thy fortunes may advance.
**** not--death liberates thy foe
From persecution's constant woe.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife. Of course
There's no objection to divorce.
To steal were folly, for 'tis plain
In cheating there is greater pain.
Bear not false witness. Shake your head
And say that you have "heard it said."
Who stays to covet ne'er will catch
An opportunity to ******
2k
Allow me to be bold- brave prying eyes and bare all. Allow me to tamper with excommunication- to tempt ostracism- to tease trouble by talking of taboos... speaking of shushed subjects- oh, society's little secrets, the ones we're all willing to share. Allow me to expound on the lessons parents never wanted to teach- the lessons children are so eager to learn. The very act- the very word- that induces giggles, inspires poets, excites lovers, and makes or breaks "true bliss."
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns." -V.N
*** a word constructed of three of the twenty-six letters that make the English language go round. On their own, quite harmless, but collectively- a jaw-dropping, blush-inspiring, shush-provoking combination. *** the ultimate caricature of love and all that is romantic- oh, just look at this tangle of thorns. Tangled- because we have turned the beauty into a beast- taken "the two will become one"- and rationalized- two will always be two- Not you, me or me, you. No, nothing bad can come of this.
*** used to make lies beautiful and truth obscured. Sold in society- the promoter of skin- condemned in the church- discouraged as sin. All the while, teenagers are toppling around- neck deep in lust- desperate to be loved- fumbling- tumbling into the open arms of the ultimate outlet. *** a shallow solution to a deeper problem- a gift given, unwrapped, re-wrapped, and given again. Allow me to attempt to untangle these thorns- when does making love become wrong?
When it makes heroes into harlots and turns the righteous into romantics- when it complicates the uncomplicated? When it manipulates insincerity to seem sincere- liberates itself from simple mathematics, why, the more the merrier, and forgets three's a crowd? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, allow me to be ridiculed- expose myself as a hypocrite and define: It is when *** is misconstrued as a mere act of "love" that it becomes a crime.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
Eli tossed the ****** novel aside; a radical tale
of painters in the far future when paint itself
would be illegal; arms dealers, drug traffickers,
*** workers gathering in dark interstellar holes
bored into passing comets & orbiting meteors
docking illegally at satellite ports & unloading
chemicals frozen into place by the artists
who can never let their identities be known;
all colors on earth are registered & trade marked
by the Beast's Corporation & so Space Art is
highly sought & lucrative but lethal as it can
made to explode w/ enough energy & radiation
to leave a small planet barren for millions of years;
the Beast is reasonably worried as Space Art, or
Action Painting [after the ancient school] is wildly
popular & traded openly for billions of dollars;
the Beast may be able to keep everyone stupid
& greedy but Art liberates them into heights of
ecstasy & kindled wisdom; freedom of thought
the last frontier no one suspected & so abrogated
their intelligence & imagination to fembots
who pump their heads full of colorful action sequences;
the illegal paintings too stiff, just stand or lean
& look back at one w/out blinking
& the female-computer-network unable to bear the silence,
initiates automatic shut-down of itself; femportals
abandoned on stations where the painted images
projected on microcells to the clandestine buyers,
spread as an unseen mist through the various
artificial environments;
the distant star paint miners
smoking up a storm & using steam-powered
fembots
to mine for their oil & charcoal;
Eli putting on the kettle for tea,
thinks about the fembots in the novel & calling a **********
demands she not speak; the girl arriving naked in stockings
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
it was an inevitability
that we'd unearth the evidence
to validate Einstein's theory
of general relativity.
three cheers for the
method of science,
an appliance that
liberates and enlightens,
suffocating the miasma
of dogmatic parasitism.
pariahs can't stand beneath
the weight of empirical data.
a culture of imperialism
intoxicating inane idiots,
inundated by asinine philosophy.
ideologues instigating turmoil—
vainly believing
an intergalactic being
created the cosmos
in seven days for the
predestined elect.
to insist inanely that the legacy
of our existence could be measured
in seven millennia
is to extinguish the light
from the majority
of our neighboring galaxies.
you read the opening lines
of your holy text too literally.
open your mind to the poetry
of a reality that no deity
could ever breathe into existence.
we are not special.
our fate is tied to a
planet choking on CO2
and you deny the truth
in the same breath you
disparage any challenge
to your impotent,
imaginary friend.
**** sapiens—
mere animals
cursed with
conscience.
if you would deny
the ancestral history
of our evolutionary biology
simply on the premise
that it's “only a theory,”
then i'd invite you to put
your vain hypothesis
to the test and take a long walk
off a short bridge.
perhaps the theory of gravity
will provide with you some clarity.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
I have all the reasons to believe,
All the evidence to give,
That Faith of all after Eve,
Came to my soul to live,
To hold my hand to the wedding eve.
A women from another mother,
Assumes her class for this poor thing,
Whose several proposals have yielded nothing,
Perharps for poor presentation,
And presumably doubts of my being.
The pics you sent me the other time,
I find my eyes gazing at them more often,
Whenever you call or I do,
Learns soul and body gets alert,
******** not to forget.
How you start a conversation,
Always with a calm noncholant voice,
Makes my thalamus restructure its pitch,
Just to make my vocals present a fair draft,
All in a bid to impress my one in a million.
That birthday surprise,
Left me mouth agape,
The concern and commitment in your voice,
Have made me harden my stand,
And declare a love sentence .
The later promise,
To me equals a nightmare ,
Like a Christian to rapture tale,
My being awaits affirmation,
Of your mouth watering promises.
I love it when you say,
"Omi chonjo"
Its a reassurance,
That liberates my heart ,
From fear of losing its queen.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
Money keeps the world going round
while it straps us down.
money gets us what we want and when
but loses the mother we need
money makes us buy beer and hold hands
but it made Jesus flip ****
money is what we go and earn while
fathers cry because the
money could buy them bread but
not their lovers back.
money can buy lust and ***
and along with that a STD
money is earned but only
burned on sports and dvds
money can be lucky if
money is the only way out
money creates and destroys,
monopolizes and liberates.
money says things the
same way twice even though
money reads in "God We Trust" but
it should declare "trust in you".
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
****** into a ****** world of death and hopeless grief
No matter what man I become I'll always be a beast
Ripped in two by tragic fate and secrets that I keep
And there is no release from the creature beneath
Asleep in a devil's dream
*I am cursed by the moon
And tonight will bring my doom
**** me when the wolfsbane blooms
and lock me in a silver tomb*
Pain and death, they follow me wherever I may run
My soul is ****** eternally to a lake of burning blood
My life is void of happiness, I'm terrified to love
I used to thrive at night but now I live to chase the sun
Am I the only one?
*I am cursed by the moon
And tonight will bring my doom
**** me when the wolfsbane blooms
and lock me in a silver tomb*
----
........
~~~~
----
Transformed by the moon I run through the moors in the mystic fog of the night
If I find you, pray that you don't survive the attack or live through the bite
I need flesh and blood so fresh, and I smell my prey nearby
You can't run and you can't hide from me, it's time to die
***This is the Curse
of the Moon
Lycanthropic Lunatic
and worse, it's true
The Wolf of Hell is coming after you***
The terror in her eyes, it satisfies, the predatory urge overtakes me
Crimson-stained by his open veins, the light of the moon liberates me
The Hound of Hell escapes its cell, the human shell it's held in
The Dog of War, released once more, Suburbia in Bedlam
***This is the Curse
of the Moon
Lycanthropic Lunatic
and worse, it's true
The Wolves of Hell are coming after you***
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
A gentle brook, I seek the ocean,
sitting cross legged on the ground, I imagine.
Index fingers of both hands press thumbs,
other three fingers remain straight,
both arms straight, rest on the knees,
"Chin Mudra" leads to the sublime plane,
'atman' the soul, merges with the consciousness supreme.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
**** my energy blood and
Recycle it when you go back to your coffin every night
My empathy kills me
My empathy liberates me
I feel so weak, so very very weak
I am the strongest person I have ever known
I am everyone I have ever known
The most knowing of the strength to defend my castle but it is open to the public
I will have to warn the masses of the oncoming spread of disease
"Please take a brochure and know what you are getting yourself into"
STOP HURTING HER
Stop hurting everyone because I feel pain that isn't mine
Its easy to fake it
It's even easier to fake-out yourself
Everything you touch turns into pyrite and fools run up to it thinking they have found gold.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 1:30 AM UTC
she leans into my words
and with a deft motion
scatters the playful children of her amused thought
that are trying to distract her
she liberates the pen and paper constructions
that i built with yesterdays words
and places them with a lovers care
on the table before us
as if to bring to attention their needy faces
but not to conversation their actual words
like photographs of passing of couples whispering
the intent but not content
she leans into my words and pulls them apart
showering my souls breach with new light
disrobing the layers of spanish thread
deeper intents to mislead and withdraw
before the mute face can speak
she tosses her hair to one side
i evaporated on her smile
it was just too **** sweet hot
it just set my city afire
so she stood up and walked to the streets edge
to show the ***** dawn a true light
to show the sleeping a new way to dream
to show the new goddess to her waiting world
while she makes sunday morning breakfast
of dollar cakes and crayon drawings
landscapes in polluted purples
coffee strong and the child cries in the crib
she lingers by the table playing
with a lock of my hair
while we spoke soft of the day
to the rainswept beach to hunt for shells
paste them in the scrapbook of my soul
long as shes here with me
sunday afternoon rain
laying in the bungalows shady porch watching
the rain roll in singing softly
long as shes here with me
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Before Mom got sick, Sundays always taught
me to Be still and know that I am God. I tried
to look my best when asking the sanctuary’s
chandeliers for forgiveness. Six feet deep
and seven months later, I got my first job
changing oil and on Sundays I would work
double shifts to pay for my sins, and I’d roll
them up and smoke them and they made me
Be still, and know that I was God.
Now I’m a ghost wallowing throughout this city’s
shell, haunting streets and raising hell—I’m broke
like a wallet and nervous like first days, but I am
adapting to the side effects of motion sickness,
the way my stomach overthrows my mind and liberates
my insides—defying gravity, flowing upstream
through my esophagus, they bellow out like cigarette
smoke or the sounds of my vocal chords. And slowly
I’m forgiving myself for being still for all the things
that don’t exist: I’ve found a strange heaven
in staying ceaseless.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
I strike the canvas with bitter paint
Sink the graphite blade through the innocent White
My charcoal hides the stains
This oil will covers the cuts
Is my painting good enough for you?
Tell me now, while the flames lick my soul
Is my gift still what shames you?
Is that what liberates me still a weakness in your eyes?
I may be able to create untold horrors on empty sheets,
I may be able to draw a journey to the soul,
I may be able to give way to a masterpiece,
But to you, all these colors are what make me less than a man
So I'll splatter the ink
Slice the void
Paint my hell
Because this is Art,
This is Life
Because this is Liberation
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
Chapter 1
-
two aspirin
a coke and bed pan
puzzled a chronic ********
and an upset stomach
Chapter 2
-
a thirteen year old Jewish boy
gets ****** off
by his mother, sisters
and the ladies in the neighborhood
to celebrate
just bar mitzvahed
Chapter 3
-
her blow jobs are Shangri-La
while sky shadowed eyes flutter
a slumber party ******
shimmers lips of **** confetti
finger ****** good
hoping to marry
eight inch packin
tattoo boy
Chapter 4
-
she married a stingy man
and her hopes of love
turned into a book of
instructions
protocols
and
standard operational procedures
Chapter 5
-
she masturbated
eyes bulging
into a scrapbook of horrors
thinking you're so handsome in a mask
with that rusty blade
her **** burned
like hell
Chapter 6
-
the amputee pouted
your knives
look great in a stained basket
go ahead
take an another arm
and a leg
as she sold off her
last gloves and footwear
Chapter 7
-
a starved crocodile
has his belly pierced
by an annoyed lion
turned
the meaty peach abomination
into cat food
Chapter 8
-
God and Satan
makin deals
for souls
burning cigars and incense
just more backroom politics
and strip-poker
Chapter 9
-
a mantra
on a subsonic level
liberates from the ravages of nature
beats back the ugly
of home made sin
when tragic turns magic
-
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
Waves of flame course through my veins,
heralding a coming storm,
challenging me to perform
restraint to tame my lustful ways.
Oh, that the burn'd give way to thunder
and the deluge pouring down,
filling us from Cup to Crown
with baited breath and ache and wonder.
Every nerve cries out, awake -
the roaring blaze that dwarfs us both,
tempting me to break my oaths
and Know the ire that liberates -
Lick away the blood and beauty,
sizzle up my salty tears...
tell me what I'm doing here,
lie me down for Death and Duty.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
That the wiggle of a tongue
can so excite
liberate the texture of the flesh
Raise another to the height
where delight
fills and locates deep within
the silent scream.
That, that bud that brims its full
can so intoxicate, fill the pool
where passion lays in its ultimate wait
for the passage through the sensual gate
that arises within her moaning form
That deep eternal wanting groan.
Where deep the long soft flickering curl
liberates the mind, to toss and whirl
in the sensual heat and passions fire
that flows deep from this buds throbbing desire
and pours out upon the sweet, sweet flesh
the small goose bumps that within arise
Where passion holds no compromise.
That I take you upon such a delighted stream
fill that want, awaken within the dream
These lips, this tongue that awaits its charge
teases, torments your world at large
to every whimper, every plead
Drinks deep your *** of honey mead
and falls upon your cries and pleasure
With all the jewels of This Oral treasure.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
what a shy event,
considering it,
to be supposed
to encompass, "life"..
a few fractures,
and an antithesis
of the river of Heraclitus...
the stillness of
the lake...
whereby Narcissus
was born...
from the philosopher
of the river,
to the demigod of the lake...
to the god of the sea...
grandfather god Poseidon
begot
the father demigod
of Narcissus...
who begot the son
Heraclitus...
what the sea is,
is what the river encapsulates,
which is what
the lake will never be...
the paradigm,
the writing of Heidegger...
spurned me to think,
to think, rather than "to be"...
how much of
cogito ergo sum
is ontologically, "satisfying"?
probably the nil of it...
counter Latin: in german:
denken werden sein?
oh, the shit-list goes on and on...
denken als sein?
reiterate that for me...
in Latin...
thought as the becoming
of being...
in German, first...
denken als die werden von sein...
now in Latin:
cogitatio quod dacens ex esse...
you know that almost all of
my childhood friends ended up
in prison?!
i'm just an oddity...
i infiltrated the theater of
intellectualism...
and i said: bogus, ********
and the supposed lost brimstone!
scent of cooked sulfur that stank
to the high heavens!
free speech, blah blah,
"free" & "thought"...
whatever the **** that means...
an antithesis of a claustrophobia?!
thought?
thought is the equivalent
contraceptive in terms of being...
thought liberates, but also
provides constraints...
thought is a being
that has non-being in its focus...
thought is a "being" that has
non-being as its focal point...
ontologically:
thought is a form of being,
that doesn't necessarily relate to
the existential "arithmetic"
of thought: thus done...
thinking is important,
but it's completely unrelated to being...
the thing itself,
and then... the thing in itself...
and subsequently: the thing for itself...
phenomenon, noumenon,
phenomenon...
since how much of
"thinking" is translated into
"being"?
i guess... not much of it
is ever translated within the confines
of the imagery of a cascade /
a waterfall...
zilch...
not a lot of thought crafts
the impetus to be...
as...
not a lot of being crafts
the impetus to think...
coincidentally a lot of:
out of every instance / insistence:
i.e. existence, happens,
simultaneously to said expression.
sam cooke:
don't know much about history,
don't know much (about) biology,
don't know much about a science book,
don't know much about the french i took,
but i do know that i love you,
and i know that if you love me too,
what a wonderful world this would be...
i could write this candy floss ********
point blank statement with
adverse feelings...
i have a pact of uninhibited
lying...
i could lie... but then lying
requires a prior experience in lies...
and...
i hate the economics of lies...
however much i might cherish
thinking, i seem to have picked
up a pattern whereby:
thinking doesn't translate into being...
so i guess...
as much of thought goes
into being, as it goes into non-being...
and that being said:
what is post-existentialism?
ontology.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
my love, he enjoys the springtime.
the butterflies / they follow him
like dogs on a leash, cover him
they make him a crown from their
beating wings, like hearts upon
his head. he begs for deliverance.
only the butterflies hear his
whispering words to gods / he
hopes will hear / but he forgets
yet again / that he is a god himself
made of everything / they have ever
known. he is substance and lack of it.
i envy him with his hands of grace
his tongue / of lace instead of knives.
he asks for liberation but he liberates
my soul into worlds / unknown
filled with golden feathers and halos.
my blood runs thick / his runs thicker
with soft hair that / turns golden in
the sun, he shines as bright
as anything / i’ve ever known
brighter than the halos of the angels
filled with colors that could best
the boldest / painters, he is a painting
in motion / this i know
he is art come alive and dancing
through the clouds and heavens
to reside in the sun, where holiness
runs free like children in the street
and i hope he is never forgotten
like how he has forgotten all
that he was and should be, like
he has forgotten / someone like me.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
In twenty days I will be back in Georgia
and I will feel the cold air pierce through my lungs as I stroll through the streets of downtown Atlanta
I will hear the sound of thick, southern drawls singing country songs by a diminished campfire, releasing the smell of burning leaves and Tennessee whiskey
I will see my grandmamas gaze as she welcomes me home with a *** of steaming Jambalaya and White Diamonds perfume
And my sweet souls will smile at me with their crooked teeth that look like mine
They will approach me with their fast paced walks that move like mine
They will laugh at me with innocence, light, and love
Their simple love
their pure, loyal love
The kind of love that liberates
The kind of love that frees me
from the solitude I hold
So deeply within myself
And I will return to my little apartment
on the eastside of the city
with a memory of enlightenment
With a memory of gratitude
With a memory of grace
To shower you in
To nurture you with
To guide you to
The clear light of day
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
and now, most dignified Gentlemen
and most cultured Ladies -
it is time to turn our attention
to loftier matters, to speak of the spirit
rather than of mundane concerns and
to be stuck in unimaginative and non-inspiring
habits;
and so we turn our attention to the spirits
to the spiritual
to such high matters
to things that lift us above time and our bodies
and such points in reality and frail flesh
that binds us and make little of us;
but the spirit, most sane Sirs,
elevates us;
the spirit, most elegant Ladies,
liberates us;
and so we begin
with bottle in hand, in deed
(look, every religion has its symbols);
and through several drops of this holy water
(several gulps will hasten the magic and miracle)
we are indeed hand in hand with
the Spirit of all spirits
for what matters it if you hold or invoke
gin, *** tequila, ***** or whisky
whatever it is that one lifts
one is lifted by
and that One one lifts is the Grand Spirit…
and you see transformations occur,
the mind is released from the mundane and the pedestrian
and the ordinary;
and one may see light, there is a sense of lightness
and those who may be touched by the Grand Spirit
may actually levitate
and one has visions and ecstasies
all through the spirit,
most Spiritual Sirs
most Lofty Ladies…
and mock not this religion of spirits
for have not masses of humanity all through History
done the same in the name of religion?
Does not humanity do all of the same with
the Great Spirit they call God and
do not they too have visions and ecstasies
and feel the spirit move them and
are always aiming High?
Their senses and wits dulled
but their spirits going on high?
Drunk on high
with words, words, words...
And are they not in their true religion
moved by God and have such grand visions?
and will you then -
O ye vipers!
Ye hypocrites! -
mock the spirit
when you will
sanction and approve and dance
in the midst of those who drink religion?
will you denigrate your brothers
and sisters
in the spirit?
Oh, you who are drunk and revel in the name of God
and holy books and repeated words
will you judge those drunk in the name of the spirit
and radiant revelations that come to them
when they are moved by the spirit?
Judge not, ye hypocrites!
Judge not, lest ye be judged!
And so we end this sermon in amicable spirit,
in unity, in spiritual oneness
between
those who drink of the high of religion
and those who drink of the spirit we have spoken of
Go ye forth hand in hand then
as siblings
for ye that worship in the name of religion
and ye that have ecstasy in your own holy bottled spirit
ye are but brothers and sisters
moved by the One Spirit…
Go ye forth together, go in ecstasy, go high…
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 1:12 AM UTC
Turn on the radio
Abstract Jazz
I like the notes
I feel the mood move
Plenty of space between these sounds
My mind shifts to scenes
Put it in second and turn on 145th
People slowly striding blighted streets
Seems a natural rhythm
A cadence of life
Some are beautiful
A piano plays sweet blues chops
Take me to that place!
A noticeable cymbal…… tssssss
Oh Mule, drone you agonies of pleasurable life
Focus it finely
Sax takes back with rage and logical statement
No more sax, too definitive a declaration
Clap Clap it was live
No cigarettes
I love this song
Her voice grooves me.
“But it’s not what you want.”
Offer me you
Please
Sax liberates
green light
jbm
Harlem, NYC
9/2/86
Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron-Brian Jackson Midnight Band
New York City
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC