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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.


Standing as Headless Warrior.

Omnia et Nihil.

I am become The Other, the Ritual Evolution.
This is a poem I wrote back in Dec. '17, saved to my phone, and never published.

I liked the ritualistic meditations it sired so I decided to send it out into the 《《《☆》》》.
Kayla Bellinger Aug 2014
We are the wood
And we stand as one
While outside, the world unfolds

Mother Earth is ever-shifting
Her children have grown feet
And we look on
As they warily step closer

Hush, children
Quiet now
Man treads between our trunks

Wide-eyed, he stares
Up through our branches
Shafts of daylight glow
Through dappled shadows

From the springs
He takes water
In a silver chalice
Of shining light

But he changes
When night falls
And the howling
Chills him to the bone

He has magicks
And strikes the stones together

A quick spark
And a flame

Furious winds beat
At the strange scarlet water
That climbs higher
Charring our skin

We stand helpless
Sweating sap
As the frantic, blistering heat
Bears down upon us
Tearing us away

And when the rains come
The blaze gives in
And dies away
Leaving nothing but ashes

But Man left his magicks

We are the whispering wood
Standing solemn and silent
As a single sprout
Peeks through the soil
Allusions of Inspiration
--Jacob Dexter Coffey--

To strive or slay-- question my thought,
The sleep eternal-- 'tis which I fought//

I trouble through the dual choice of tree,
Decide in wood of yellow fall-- which path will be?//

Tick-thud-in thought- a pain of mind,
From the deed done- now sound will bind//

Can think I not with rap-tap-tapping on the door?!
Is it a caw and crow again once more!?//

Out-out- brief challenge of the soul,
The stupid stranger- heartless- fueled by coal//

The trek through story of the fake,
The triggers put all things at stake//

Resist the trickery of Death and Man,
For he will surely betray all he can//

The riders- harbingers of apocalypse,
The horsemen out the seal as open it rips//

The untold portend of yet to happen,
Dystopia of burning books and a futuristic den//

Crimson capes and men of steel,
Slinging spiders- super speed- mutants in a fantasy so real//

Cameras watching with no privacy,
We turn on ourselves in the future destined to be//

The epic tale of bearing no sword against beast,
Then celebrate with a bountiful feast//

Directing death- divided district devolution,
Dictatorship to demolish over-population or revolution//

And swish and flick of age old oak,
Concealing magicks from the eyes of mortal folk//

The tragic tale of lovers true,
Dream to die rather than unite house of red and blue//

Burning bright in rotting night,
Iron immortal eyes with symmetrical bite//

A scarlet alpha letter to curse thy name,
Illegitimate life and local negative fame//

The sparkling thirst of blood in stone cold skin,
The fight with fur borne beasts will not reach fin//

A man of sonnets- from script to theatre talent flew,
To dictation adding words-words-words two-thousand new//

A women locked her mind and skill away with antisocial tone,
Nameless arts with punctuation by dash and riddle unknown//

Another woman wrote of girls and loves,
But denied herself the gift of white dress and doves//

A peaceful New Englander with flawless inks,
A name of winter's harsh bite that sinks//

The fiction scientist that will foretell,
He said we all will be free only with the knell//

The man of the grotesque and gore,
Filling heads with horror and gruesome lore//

The speakers and tellers and sharers of tale,
Impression and inspire each time without fail//
An ode to the many great influences and influencial works of brilliance. Enjoy.
--Jacob Dexter Coffey
We must rise
To the occasion
While Angels are weak
And Daemons are strong

We are the Pagans
Don't be fooled
By the Christians
Standing tall

They call us evil
But don't believe
Because they have a grudge
Against the Magicks

Pagans are kind
We really are
But don't be fooled
By the Angel's Scar

We rise
To this occasion
To take back
What is really ours

The Pain we spent
Over the Grimoir deep
To seek the spell
To sing and speak

Our cauldron bubbles
But don't get confused
With those stereotypes

We are nice
We are kind
We worship the sky
With the earth,
The seas,
And the fire

We love
We laugh
We care
We die

We live like you do
Only we believe
In Mother Earth
And take care of her
Just the same

You must do the same
Only different all the ways

Why spread lies
And then you hide
To fear something you not know

Why think
That we are evil
Because you were told

Take your time learning
What you do not know
So you can say evil

But you will learn
We have nothing to hide
We do not take side
We love our god and goddess

We will teach you
In our ways
Then you can say
Who is wrong
LeV3e Jan 2017
Running fingers over the ridges of your rib cage
Sliding gently down your spine
Feelings linger over the bridges of time and age
Your beautiful eyes are divine.

Tightly woven fabrics define your curvature
Patterns carve out your mind
Brightly colored magicks entwine our pleasure
Tattered edges by design.

Dreadlocks twisting like branches from a tree
Matted blonde bow ties.
The shock that kissing you causes in me
Goosebumps couldn't lie.

Our time here, together, is sacred to me
I pray for daily reminding
Our childhood fears doused in good company
The Lovers light is shining.
Carlos Oct 2017
She smelled of wild lavender and deep magicks,
The scent hanging in the air like a golden silence,
I'm trying to hold tightly yet composure is first to dissolve,
Senses fall one by one until no dominoes are left,
Stop staring, act natural and crumble on the inside,
Don't speak, reserve your efforts for a smile,
Blown fuse serviced from the under-wing like vertigo in my veins, and neatly betwixt ******* twirl a cotton drapery,
Framed in silk halo, enshrouding like auras in a Milky Way of phantasmagoria.
Until my thoughts become in summary and each breathe becomes shorter than the last.
The artistry of her elegance like sleek fine line-work on vintage paper and I'm ... feather light.
And in those tresses I'd seen that sheen before, in the ripple of calm ocean waves, and in auburn at sunset.
I'd seen that gloss in her eyes perched upon petals as morning dew and rain upon windows in my quiet times,
Between the silhouetting slopes of her contours as dunes upon the horizon, there's an eclipse in her lips that would not speak in any less than measured prosody nor kiss without dreamscape grandeur.
Endless abundance,
you are, a hidden treasure;
infused in magicks,
synchronized with Mother Moon,
divine feminine of life.
The sand is coarse among the waves,
The foamy froth curls, rants and raves,
The grainy ground is wet and packed,
And seaweed from the ground is hacked.

Plucked from stormy shallows dark -
bold fish swims among the shark.
Twisting in the deeper pools,
Threads of green unfurl in spools.

Monster beyond comprehension,
Slim limbs hanging in suspension.
Serpent lurks in Blue Lagoon,
Carved in its scales a single rune.

Magicks infuse currents strong -
powers deep and tendrils long.
The shrouded spirit, great insurgent,
Mairocant, the last sea serpent.
jiminy-littly May 24
At night the states

I forget them or I wish I was there
          in that one under the
Stars. It smells like June in this night
          so sweet like air.
I may have decided that the
          States are not that tired
Or I have thought so. I have
          thought that.

At night the states
And the world not that tired
          of everyone
Maybe. Honey, I think that to
          say is in
light. Or whoever. We will
replace you. We will never re-
          place You. But
in like a dream the floor is no  
          longer discursive
To me it doesn’t please me by
          being the vistas out my
window, do you know what
          Of course (not) I mean?
I have no dreams of wake-
          fulness. In
wakefulness. And so to begin.
          (my love.)

At night the states
talk. My initial continuing contr-
my love for you & that for me
deep down in the Purple Plant the oldest
of it is sweetest but states no longer
          how I
would feel. Shirt
that shirt has been in your arms
          And I have
that shirt is how I feel

At night the states
will you continue in this as-
          sociation of
matters, my Dearest? down
          the street from
where the public plaque reminds
          that of private
loving the consequential chain
          trail is

At night the states
that it doesn’t matter that I don’t
          say them, remember
them at the end of this claustro-
          phobic the
dance, I wish I could see I wish
          I could
dance her. At this night the states
          say them
out there. That I am, am them
          indefinitely so and
so wishful passive historic fated
          and matter-
simple, matter-simple, an
          eyeful. I wish
but I don’t and little melody.
          Sorry that these
little things don’t happen any
          more. The states
have drained their magicks
          for I have not
seen them. Best not to tell. But
you would always remain, I  
          trust, as I will
always be alone.

At night the states
whistle. Anyone can live. I
can. I am not doing any-
          thing doing this. I
discover I love as I figure. Wed-
I wanted to say something in
          particular. I have been
where. I have seen it. The God
          can. The people
do some more.

At night the states
I let go of, have let, don’t
Some, and some, in Florida, doing.
          What takes you so
long? I am still with you in that
          part of the
park, and vice will continue, but
          I’ll have
a cleaning Maine. Who loses
          these names
loses. I can’t bring it up yet,
          keeping my
opinions to herself. Everybody in
          any room is a
smuggler. I walked fiery and  
          talked in the
stars of the automatic weapons
          and partly for you
Which you. You know.
At night the states
have told it already. Have
          told it. I
know it. But more that they
          don’t know, I
know it too.

At night the states
whom I do stand before in
          judgment, I
think that they will find
          me fair, not
that they care in fact nor do
          I, right now
though indeed I am they and
          we say
that not that I’ve
          erred nor
lost my way though perhaps
          they did (did
they) and now he is dead
          but you
you are not. Yet I am this
          one, lost
again? lost & found by one-
Who are you to dare sing to me?

At night the states
accompany me while I sit here
          or drums
there are always drums what for
          so I
won’t lose my way the name of
personality, say, not California
          I am not
sad for you though I could be
          I remember
climbing up a hill under tall
getting home. I was
going to say that the air was
          fair (I was
always saying something like
          that) but
that’s not it now, and that
          that’s not it
isn’t it either

At night the states
dare sing to me they who seem
any more I’ve not thought I
          loved them, only
you it’s you whom I love
the states are not good to me as
          I am to them
though perhaps I am not
when I think of your being
          so beautiful

but is that your beauty
          or could it be
theirs I’m having such a
          hard time remembering
any of their names
your being beautiful belongs
          to nothing
I don’t believe they should
          praise you
but I seem to believe they
somehow let you go

At night the states
and when you go down to
witness how perfectly anything
          in particular
sheets of thoughts what a waste
          of sheets at
night. I remember something
          about an
up-to-date theory of time. I
          have my
own white rose for I have
something well but I’m not
what it is. Weathered, perhaps
          but that’s
never done. What’s done is

At night the states
ride the train to Baltimore
we will try to acknowledge what was
but that’s not the real mirror
          is it? nor
is it empty, or only my eyes
Ride the car home from Washington
they are not. Ride the subway
          home from
Pennsylvania Station. The states
          are blind eyes
stony smooth shut in moon-
          light. My
French is the shape of this
that means I.

At night the states
the 14 pieces. I couldn’t just
walk on by. Why
aren’t they beautiful enough
in a way that does not
          beg to wring
something from a dry (wet)
Call my name

At night the states
making life, not explaining anything
but all the popular songs say call
          my name
oh call my name, and if I call
          it out myself to
you, call mine out instead as our
          poets do
will you still walk on by? I
loved you for so long. You
and on the wind they sang
          your name to me
but you said nothing. Yet you
          said once before
and there it is, there, but it is
          so still.
Oh being alone I call out my
and once you did and do still in
          a way
you do call out your name
to these states whose way is to walk
on by that’s why I write too much

At night the states
whoever you love that’s who you
the difference between chaos and
          star I believe and
in that difference they believed
          in some
funny way but that wasn’t
          what I
I believed that out of this
          fatigue would be
born a light, what is fatigue
there is a man whose face
          changes continually
but I will never, something
          I will
never with regard to it or
          never regard
I will regard yours tomorrow
I will wear purple will I
and call my name

At night the states
you who are alive, you who are dead
when I love you alone all night and
          that is what I do
until I could never write from your
          being enough
I don’t want that trick of making
          it be coaxed from
the words not tonight I want it
          coaxed from
myself but being not that. But I’d
          feel more
comfortable about it being words
          if it
were if that’s what it were for these
          are the
States where what words are true
          are words
Not myself. Montana, Illinois.
Alice Notley, “At Night the States” from A Grave of Light © 2006 by Alice Notley and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Source: A Grave of Light (Wesleyan University Press, 2006)
Serendipity Mar 2019
Oh wretched, filthy, witches of thee,
tell me,
am I the sinner you want me to be?

I have longed for the moment,
where kindness turns against me,
and karma
overtakes me.

Years of forgiveness show no purpose,
vengeance is now the only truth I hold,
knife in one hand,
mercy in my imagination.

Drive me to the point beyond repair,
your magicks were illusive,
when I was fighting the spell,
it was draining me of 'nice' energy.

Your goal was never to **** me all in oneself.
Oh no,
A goal I could not see,
It was to drive me to broken glass
shards of pain
against melancholy skin,


it was... it was to make sure my anger was not relieved after it was gone,


to make me regret it for the rest of my days.

My blood still boils like your cauldron,
I still regret,
that I let
thee witches
push me

— The End —