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Correctly he is John the Baptizer,
His birth was delayed up to late,
Late post menopausal age of his mother,
Elisabeth the wife of Zachariah the priest,
At the temple of the Jews in Palestine
During the regal time of Rome
As a world empire and a role model of tyranny,

Imagine conceiving after menopause,
During the nonagenarian ages
Of all the ages, in the nineties?
But she conceived John,
Was it true or mere sensationalism?
Or mere nerve chilling art style?
To hold the world audience a hostage?
I don’t know but  John was born
After his mother’s menopause,

He contrasts with Jesus
Born by a ****** Mary,
Imagine a Jewish ******
Without ****** *******
Became pregnant,
And gave birth to Jesus,
When Mary was pregnant
She socially visited Elisabeth
John’s fetus somersaulted,
Like a Chinese acrobat
Inside his mother’s tummy,
It was his baptism before birth,
But may be pregnancy of a ******
Has more strength than pregnancy
Of a post menopause octogenarian,

Hence the famous ode by Catholics;
In the name of Hail Mary
The mother of God
Most blessed above all women,

These post menopause pregnance
And ******‘s pregnancy without ***
Contrasts with Adam’s creation from clay
And Eve’s creation from Adam’s left rib,
Another super-sensational literature,
Or pataphorical art; Magical surrealism?

Let me not go dumb or mute
Like Zachariah when he believed not,
But no, I already believed ergo, my vocality,

Now why did John refuse to put on clothes?
Only to put on a skin of a goat,
Or was it a monkey Clobus,
The one which we in Africa
We are forced to ****
Before your father permits you
To face the circumcision knife,
John again refused to eat cooked foods,
He survived on raw honey and locusts,
Nuts, roots and raw fruits, dietician?

Or it was self denial or self immolation?
Like the one often displayed
by the Islamic statesmen aka terrorists
When committing suicide bombing?
No it began with the Japanese Kamikaze,
In preparation to bomb Pearl Habour,
I don’t know at all at all,

Now what of the howling in the wilderness,
Calling for people to baptism in water
At the riverbanks of polluted Jordan
And when he saw the Negroes
Among those who came for baptism
He called them the viper’s generation
Or were they Libyan Arabs?
And Jesus came, John went inferior,
He declined to baptize Jesus,
But Jesus pleaded for the service,
Then the dove opened the heaven
And came down to anoint Jesus,
Which heaven was opened?
Was the sky or the heaven?
This must be the writer’s Gnostics
Used to calling the sky as the heaven
Why the dove and why the heaven?

Then john again began doubting
Very genuine doubt I m telling you,
You see john began spying on privacy of the king
Was he also a night runner? Maybe,
He spied on Herodias the mother of Salome
She was a chic for the king; Herod Antipas,
This stuff threw John into  a calaboose,
Then John began day dreaming
Like any other prisoner
For his freedom and bush foods
He really missed honey and locusts
And also the fruits; Quavas and mustaberries,

He thought Jesus would come running,
Panting like a cheetah to pull him out,
Out of colonial prison, Jesus never came
Hence Johns doubts;
If Jesus is the Messiah really,
Can’t he come to redeem me?
From these colonial prison Herod,
Look; we are all Jews
In fact blood related Jews
And it is a year he has never come,
To pay me a visit when am in prison
Is he the Messiah really?
Or we still have to wait for a true messiah?

But Jesus was a rude messiah
Or Jesus was jealousy? Envious?
Of John’s spiritual competence,
I think he was wrong, totally wrong
He should have saved john the Baptizer
From the Roman colonial prison,
For there is no need nor spiritual logic
For Jesus to heal the lepers, and the blind
To resurrect Jairus’s daughter
And command the devils out of a madman,
But he could rescue his cousin brother
From a colonial prison, was it detention?
Remember Mary and Elisabeth were sisters,

John was a victim of circumstance
Like those who now languish in torture,
Torture chambers of the quatanamo bay prison,
Detained and tortured inhumanly
Without hope of trial nor justice
For no other reason but faith and race,
John was a harbinger of Sadam Hussein,
Osama Bin Laden, Mummar Gaddafi,
Nelson Mandella, Luther King, Dedan Kimathi,
Elijah Masinde, Arap Manyei and Mugo wa Gatheru,
They fought tyranny with firmness
They underwent torture for the sake of humanity,
They suffered for no reason but folly that goes with tyranny.

And finally, Salome the poet,
Living by performing the spoken word,
And Proceeds of her mother’s adultery
And vampirizing on the blood of the righteous
She came and danced in artful wickedness
by gyrating her ***** satanically
In the usual wicked style of a *****’s daughter
Sending the male audience nerveless with ego
Only for to suggest her prize;
As John’s head on the platter,
John was grisly mattered in the cells
Then his head was delivered on a platter
To Salome the poet the daughter of Herodias,
It all happened when Jesus was aware
Amid the full wind of his wonders
On the crest of his fame as the messiah
Isn’t saving the prisoner good as resurrecting
Young damsels and healing the lepers’?

But anyway, it is stark culture of Europe
To chop off the heads
Of those who oppose their tyranny,
It is not only John the Baptist that have suffered,
Suffered like this in the hands of Europeans tyranny,
The list of such-like victims is endless;
Mugo wa Gatheru was buried alive in Kenya
He was ordered at a gun point
By the British colonial police,
To dig his own grave using a mattock
Then the British clobbered and buried him a live,
On this brutal burial of Mugo wa Gatheru,
The Queen of England promoted these policemen
That buried Mugo wa Gatheru,
Kotalel Arap Samoia of the Nandi Militia in Kenya
Was shot twice in the head by the British spy;
The spy chopped off Koitalel’s head
He took it to the queen in heroic dint
And the queen glorified the spy,
Anglo-American power chopped of sadam’s head
Anglo-American power killed Mummar Gaddafi,
Anglo-American power Killed Osama bin Laden
They perpetrated all these without trial,
I am tired of all these………………
Scorch'd Diana Jan 2022
Chaos,
grandness around us, within us
our pasts and our fates,
the heads and the tails you bring us,
nothingness,
mistress, our all that is free and forbidden
forgiven, forsaken, forseen and forsworn;

Our endlessness,
countless infinities that you defy
our unbreaking circle of charities your grace is defined by;
our mother, our barrens of space who is bearing existence;

our eminence,
baroness, dancing the torments of pregnance
our sorceress, chanting the songs of emergence;

our senses and souls,
your spawn, your kin, your death and your sins
our servant, your serfs
kneeled down and bowed over
your lust that is shameless, yearned for and proud,
raised up and all that is tall afly
your will that is mindful, yearning, forgiving;

our Godesses, our locks and our keys,
around us, within us, the now and the here,

listening through the ears of machine elves
our absolution from words uncertain;

speaking through colours of clockwork glyphs
our faith to bring magic into our lives;

teaching through picture puzzle pattern cellar doorways
our choice to approach whenever we wish.

You are awareness. We are mindful.
You are presence. We are eternal.
Scorch'd Diana Aug 2021
1-1.

Candles shining their share of darknesses
which flicker eternity, fate and existance
one mere reflection of multiversed various matters their light deciphers
eventually
archived deeply within her, saved
nurtured by her pregnance
indices, networks, lexical channels
cross to the Present from long before, prior the Past of Pasts
as she unifies time so far past the Future
when cryptic the numbers that dictate the dates chiseled in
the motherbase library instances cluster
the bedrock scarred by the Titans
expressiveness is.


1-2.

Inexhaustive is
even the variant impression of hers no mortal's letters bear to ever be formally read
where synchronous, tomes over tome-structured serpents
they chant and they slither,
atop each tip of their mercury-tongues
the source of their sorcery springs;
these quills along it sickers their choir
it dances their rhythm of arrows and quivers
down to the point, their spells arc over
over to one another and each.

Enchained by its miracle night sky attire
this is their song that sails it forever
an ink as quick as it is,
their voices, the voices the countlessnesses whail
their haunt what echoes their catacombs, tomb of tomes
as they word her
complex as she is
the one, and ever-written
englyphed by the buried,
terminal line.


1-3.

This is her.
The Compendia Cornucopia
Matrix herself,
the impression of hers reborn in each shadow and candle light battling
shivers from the heat of all crashing comets
composing entire collections of ambivalent legends
contradictionaries filling the infinite eras in darknesses endless
a void unable to be said to devour anymore
as it mocks the Box of Pandora?

To praise, to fear or to wrath
boundaries errendous like those without any sort of conscious control
Definitely, absolutely, not meant to not fail her laws in an indefinite manner,
reality's engine tireless
unbrokenly, until the death blueprint of clockwork causality, destruction unfolds
deemed to die her destiny, duty so certain
demolished architecture crumbling, designed to eventually
more and more with each day
being fading away, and soon will be over
and never be.

What paradox is it which she holds?
More and more with each day
their haunt what echoes their
indices, networks, lexical channels
prior the Past of Pasts
the children are crying the tears
they run down their cheeks
what is it that they see
who it is they yearnfully call
and dreadfully need?


1-4.   [ 2-1? ]

Night sky's navy inscriptions charting a galaxy's tiniest stars in the skins of their arch giants
scrolls bescrawled, figures of clay cast shadows distorted to silhouettes
very specific beauty
as feathers mean flight, so grounding, coals shine their nocturnal shade by their draft's borders loyal to candle's preciously precise sculpturist's accuracy.

Ancient books, old pages, licking
feebling the switchy sheets one lone index finger ages throughout
and observing, sorting, evaluating, rearranging numbers
their patterns finally reveal them
the sacred symbols' shape,
one by one, banished its true name's shape
Born from Chaos, their fruits bearing,
ripe is the time not then, but now!
Table-turning, pages turned in billions
prospected just for the chance of a clue
where to begin, to arrive,
just something to simply suppose
a million books' proposes in pieces
of pattern pieces once puzzling
and now,
eventually ready.

— The End —