For the day of wrath
I will yell,
the grotesque heaven
is waiting,
to take me to the wide antechamber
of hell,
there I will encounter
the master of darkness,
around,
I shall feel magnetic spell,
the wonderful sound of the exquisite,
pensiveness,
of the souls that fell.

The old prophecy is coming,
my new belief
enhanced.
The hallowed hidden truth
the day of morning,
the day of night will disperse
the world in ashes.
His angels,
and effigies will be waiting,
will protect me,
from the old god,
who has been found wanting.

The old one is now trapped
in cold heaven,
that resides
in the secluded sepulchre,
waiting
for his demise as he’s beaten.
Fear of heavens
will cut out all,
the ancient  and boring god
has now been broken.
The mighty expressions of the saved souls,
now residing
in their assured haven.

So appealing,
charismatic and alluring
will be the inspirations
for my heart and mind,
the trepidation
of this great majestic king,
will gladly and freely save me.
I am worthy of my redeeming,
From
the agonies of ancient,
and primeval beliefs,
which trapped me
into a world of disbelieving.

The descendants of Satan
are united,
in a new era of the virginal power,
the bitterness of silence is incorporated,
the forbidden secrets of the infernal,
by intense feelings
are exhilarated,
which will **** up
the darkness,
from our jubilant minds
pitied and restricted.

The chaos of stability
will take full control,
and will enchant
our enriched wisdom,
from developed seeds of our darkest soul,
while the heretic outcasts of heaven
will devastate
the earlier earthly goal.
We will become
like wolves among sheep,
in a weak  herd upon their raw and inflamed soul.
Let us fight
the good fight,
and may the power of death,
remove
those who are reluctant to incite,
for the sake of the kingdom,
belonging
to the Lord of the  fright,
mocks the priest
who preaches justice,
for he is the worst of the contrite.

The might of the unholy spirit
arises,
it will reproduce
in abundance.
this ungodly creature
who amazes,
with their eyes that glow in the dark,
searching
among networks and mazes,
who are rebellious and outcasts,
and will actually become wretches.

Angels of darkness
we have become,
to haunt
the weak and capture their spirits.
We are mysterious beings
living in whoredom,
taking the form of the profane icons,
staring
into the jealous eyes of God
who became lonesome.
Satan
will strike violently
into the earth,
where in his new kingdom
everyone is welcome.

Behold the king
who is the wonder of wonders,
the master of the horn
the healer of the repelled souls,
enter the darkness
with your new chancellors,
unconsecrated
spirits from the heretical sites,
exploding
into a blazing fire of demonic colours.
The burning effigies
shalt strike into the heart of the pious,
and shall burn forever in all corners.

For that which is written we shall rejoice,
the strong winds will carry Satan’s voice,

I say out loudly
I have listened to the inadequate cries,
gazed deeply
into my devil's eyes.

The Lord of darkness is awakened from his eternal sleep,
and I can hear the father, the son and the ghost weep.

Whoredom as :- Unlawful ****** relations

Perhaps none more
Surprised
Than me,
To scribe these words where none
But all, will forever, foresee.

I am the forgiving type,
But not the forgetting.

But tonight,
A poetic transformation!

Tonight, I will be a Christian two,
As well as a Jew.

If I had a minyan
(10 Jews required to pray collectively)
of Francis-men, I could rule the world,

If that thought would ever cross their minds.

Nine Francis-men and one Jew,
Call him, mmmmm, call me, say Yeshua.

They asked me if I would
Write a little poem-number
And I wrote with all my might

Took this unconsecrated writ,
To the ten,
Asking if it was any good,
In agreement to the man, saying:

You may have trod the streets of Jerusalem,
Walked on the Galilee,
Lived upon the mounts and in the desert of Judea,
None matters, miracles too,
You may know Talmud, law and commentary,
But not by this will you, your doctrine be judged,

Who are we to critique, judge,
A man, even a poet, of good will,
If his poetry is any good?

Are we not all sinners, all poet-sinners,
But answer us this:

"Tell us are you a Christian child?"
And I said,
"Men, I am tonight"

My darling, I did not kindle the flames of love for fear of the darkness...
For was it not in the darkness that first we embraced, freeing my soul from its barren prison...allowing it to taste the purest nectar that flows from your sweet kiss?

Nor were these flames of passion kindled to melt the frozen winter of solitude...For was it not in solitude when I did most clearly hear the whisper of my own heart, singing to me your name before I had even known the splendor of your smile or the triumph of your touch?

My dearest, the blaze in my breast is not a decision, a choice, an invention, nor a consequence...no, this incandescent luminosity we ephemeral beings identify as love is forged in a moment unbound by time, in some sacro-celestial domain unconquerable by mortal flesh...an ethereal reverberation imperceptible to the mind yet irresistible to the soul.

How rare to have loved...to have truly loved in such a way that permits unconsecrated flesh to gaze fleetingly upon the glory of heaven and bask momentarily in the glow of immortality.

Yes my love, how fortunate are we to have loved and through loving became divinity's ephemeral manifestation.

Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination.

Winds that billow in bellows of blue balderdash,
that hides these vague souls in the elephant grass,
as white horses run for an unconsecrated pass;
I sit sipping lightning from a small green flask.

I cannot see beyond this collision of cataracts,
sitting in a puddle of Alzheimer's and absent facts,
hard to predict parlor tricks' and posthumous pacts,
metamorphosis of those we ****** on, lies intact.

Veins constricted from catastrophes and contradictions,
synapses sinewed by audacious biannual addictions,
misdemeanors of malicious misnomers and maledictions,
breathing in the beneficent bleating of benedictions.

Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination

I poured and drank a final glass of wine with you
Undertaking that sacrament
With a pure heart, for the very last time.
But where was the rapture
Of union with my God?
Unconsecrated, I yearned
for flames, and burned
Burned with something else
Unspoken, like a prayer.

I poured and drank a final glass of wine with you
Undertaking that sacrament
With a pure heart, for the very last time.
But where was the rapture
Of union with my God?
Unconsecrated, I yearned
for flames, and burned
Burned with something else
Unspoken, like a prayer.

We lost the game.
No scores to be had.

Living was copying motions
of same old ways,
from bygone days.

Immolated landscapes
Unconsecrated ground
Land now sand
Silence the only sound.

People as mannequins
shackled to consumerism
now free to be human
humanity is dead
turned to dust and ash.

Charred trees, charred bones
Libraries and ossuaries
Rock, paper, scissors
Sinners, readers, builders
All on bended knees
Pillars of salt blown away on the blast wind.

Flame extinguished.

Everybody Cries with
Dr. Henry Louis Gates Jr.
Eyes are opened, floods of
crying, knuckles of gratitude.

Be the recipient of family lore.
Cry if you might, determine that
the path to history is wiped across
centuries.  Everybody Cries.

The album of black pages, the
erudition of Dr Gates, the heat
roiled by emotion is the evidence

of harrowing challenges, of
generations of breathing in
ancestral DNA.

I reject the family tree my
parents laid out as if it were
unique. The tiring conversation.

Dr Gates would not be interested
in the memoir of my mother's fantastical
ancestry.  Her blood was sanctified
by the Bourbons!

My father's "pig-**** shanty Irish"
was the ongoing lyric of our
youth.  Dr Gates would find
the lunatic fringe to which
I belonged unenlightened.

Today I will tear my history
from my mother's voice. I will
rejoice in my father's greatness.

(There is no such thing as the past,
Eliot wrote.  Many have argued.)

I paste my past into notebooks.
I am in

the final quarter acre of my life
and I am neither better nor
worse for the pages of my
family tree.

I am unholy and entombed
in a metaphorical  book

scribed

of an unconsecrated life.


Caroline Shank

9.11.2022

They  give us pennies for the years
we have spent
Everybody says they care
Yet cant wish away their tears
It was not hard to clamber
Speed the unconsecrated times
Seen so many chances fall from
clumsy hands
Glad to leave my youth
The river of us runs dry

Oh ye fair ones
Those whom we have called daughters and sons
Wars, pestilence, and famines
Have destroyed so many lives

The beauty of each loved ones face
Now moulder in a shallow grave
Unmarked
Unconsecrated

Even now, another war rages
In a land that has known wars throughout the ages
Women and children who seek only to live
Are forced to fight just to survive

Seekers of peace are forced to flee
For all the world to see
None come to their aid
Because of the attacking soldiers raid

A dismal day, a new era we've seen unfold
Weeping and wailing, all this destruction must we behold
Today, the world has no empathy
Because there is a love for blood, thus pure apathy

How we used to greet each other
Only now we yell and shout at our brother
All we hear is the word, ******
Guns, knives, and bombs without number

Refugee tents creating new towns
Kids are waking to a life without playgrounds
Air sirens and airstrikes fill their world
Some'll never get to see their nation's flag unfurled

Why must we be living in a world full of hate?
A world at peace should we create
So our fair ones can live life to the greatest extent
And thus their sons and daughters won't grow up to a life of death and discontent

Written by:
Jason Cheney
May 2022

God lurks under my bed
A devine monster
Spike backed and venomous
He mouths in my ear,
Lips like daggers to lobes
I beg for silence.
He whispers
Non-sweet nothings
about how Mary babied better
Her stain glass eyes scorch me
I burn like an infant bug under magnifying glass
Jezebel girl
You: feminine blasphemy
Why will you not let me save you?

Because
                                                        .Hallelujah.

I became a woman
My eyes peel back to black truth
You are father nightmare,  not a holy savior son
Break my bones with Psalms
I will mash them into soupy indescretions
This is not my purpose driven life, pastor
My breath is
To die unconsecrated
Cohen, keep my marrow
Turn my white into lyrical salvation
I beg my mother
my father
my brothers
Never let anyone save me
I am death and devil
But Jesus Christ, I am free.