Sunday, July 20, 2008
Hushed Awakenings
Hushed Awakenings
By Jera Berkana
Night
the beginning and the end,
and at some rendezvous shade.
Past
the battered hills ahead,
slope down to the meadows bend.
Spring
comes round in blissful sleep
and once when we were sitting by.
Past
shadows with no replies, atop the insatiable steep.
It
may be that we pass them still,
on that battered hill.
WE
will take my small hand,
and we will lead me into the greens land.
Breath
to breath
Where our hushed awakenings,
we shall fail somehow before,
Death.
© Jera Berkana (2006)
By Jera Berkana
Night
the beginning and the end,
and at some rendezvous shade.
Past
the battered hills ahead,
slope down to the meadows bend.
Spring
comes round in blissful sleep
and once when we were sitting by.
Past
shadows with no replies, atop the insatiable steep.
It
may be that we pass them still,
on that battered hill.
WE
will take my small hand,
and we will lead me into the greens land.
Breath
to breath
Where our hushed awakenings,
we shall fail somehow before,
Death.
© Jera Berkana (2006)
Ode To America
Ode to America
by Harvey Havel
I.
I see you once again, my life long friend.
Sated am I with your towering art
Your fertile gold plains and kin I must part
To forget about our troubles that offered no end.
When suddenly I came upon my best plans to leave
And had planned my escape, knowing full well
To an antique land I’d go, and there I would dwell
Pink clay ovens and ancient banyan trees.
The women in silk, their temples nearby
Other-worldly creatures, numb before altars
Believers who knelt and wept for their martyrs
The smog lead-thick, browning out white sky.
The chaotic thoroughfares of gaunt brown men
Burlap sacks on their heads and weaving through crowds
The stick-figured women squatting square on ground
Selling fragrant pomegranates, their chatter too foreign.
Their fruit stalked by flies, chewing next on the flesh
Of the naked corpse distended, the torments that shook her
Her eyes open-wide, her lips a sterile blue
Her head bruised and bloodied and a child at her chest.
II.
And was I so naïve to leave you, America,
With your swinging moods and unsolvable paradoxes,
Profits to protect, and your crippling detoxes,
Your grandest of achievements, a grief-stricken miasma?
But you must win at all costs
Even while beating yourselves
The bells that now toll and raging death knells
Rain the women and children and those you’ve lost.
And was I so arrogant to think,
With my criticism and anger,
The hot blood you withstood from this foul-mouthed stranger
Could change you and all with a magical wink?
My young mind rising much too quickly
Ripped from the mother who wept as she fed me
A Bible you shoved in, a text by Deuteronomy,
Eclipsing the Arabic and the prophet’s war-wizardry.
So I sucked in your chemical ablutions
And in that battle we both did learn
Through the stinging-thin needles and the electrode burns
That the blood you watered-down carried very few solutions.
And while wandering broke and penniless in your cities,
In the asylums where you then stored me,
Confronting ourselves in white rooms so ordinary,
Your ghosts in white uniform, their severity and pity.
And not thinking this well-enough through,
I sent my hate and anger through venomous fangs
Naively supported by violent street gangs
Hurling Molotov cocktails of yellow-orange hue.
Through bourgeois storefronts that illumined the faces
Of the brown-shirts that gathered and ripped out the throats
Of innocent shopkeepers who called my daydreams a hoax
Until my bare-knuckled hands relieved my good graces
By spraying sharp bullets into wandering crowds
Ridiculing the hypocrisy of your honor and justice
My stratagems upending, horrific, and tumultuous,
Severing blonde heads and then throwing them into mounds.
Such visions riddled me, my energies drained,
My conscience full depleted
My fires belched, and my nausea near-completed
Stomped on your good name and towards your vulnerabilities I aimed.
You merely fought back with your humane kindness
And a love that drives true dictators mad
Delivering me from the hell of the life I once had
Restoring my good name, by diluting insanity with mindlessness.
And you fed me sweet meats,
Your vegetables and potatoes,
Let me sow on your soil where the golden grain grows,
And won over my army now in full retreat
By teaching me eternal language
To ponder strong realities
Taking good care of my barest necessities,
My blunt anger subdued by philosophy and adage.
III.
But still I demanded more, as if somehow I deserved it,
Your stately-white mansions and your well-manicured lawns,
The respect that came without earning anything at all,
And your warm-blooded women and the graces they permit.
But you disallowed it, and so from there I did roam
To find bountiful women who loved me without reason,
My incongruent body molding to their treasons,
When you disallowed that after their shudders and moans.
Yet I cried for many more to cure the scars in my head,
My return to the womb met with fierce resistance,
Where they built stone fortresses to ward off my nuisance,
As I yearned to have each one of them alone in my bed.
They then cast spells to protect their sacred gardens,
Expelled me from the paradise that was their lot
Taught me the value of what I should and should not
As I haunted their irrationale with my stupidity and my nonsense.
My selfishness soon exhausted, and there I made amends,
The visages that I touched burned well into my brain,
Never to be cured through the wettest of rains,
As I can finally see how beautiful they’re made.
IV.
But to the machine they did feed me
And ran me through grinders
The cogs of work hours doing away with my remainders
Instilling sublime art and then imprisoning criminality.
And for this, America, you charged me nothing,
Not a penny, not an ounce,
As your bells that chimed high soon graciously announced
That the criminal was gone and had vanished with my flings,
And the cancer at my lungs, arrested by correctness,
My fat belly slimming to quell the ache of my body,
You showed me good health, not a moment too tardy
My fate suddenly lying miles away from distress.
My sanity restored, my mind working again,
Along with most of my guts and my shattered parts
My weak speech transmuted into tender art
And the doggerel cured by the angels you sent.
So the speed-trap on the freeway bothers me no more,
You saved a sorry, bitter soul from an early death,
My talk once so bellicose mattering much less,
And the hard work that fulfills me I do without chore.
You understood me completely,
Leading me out of the ghettoes
Where vultures hovered and the black crows flew,
Their sharp beaks picking at carrion so neatly.
You bade me drink from your clear rivers,
And found my family work,
Put up with my anxieties, idiosyncrasies, and quirks,
My heart opening up to those I thought killers.
And the black man was there
Nurturing me back to happiness,
The confused and mottled mess,
A breeze in the air.
And no, America, I never deserved this,
Your radiance too bright,
That forged harsh darkness into enduring light,
After such turbulent disturbance.
Yet tempers still flare over terror and oil,
The prices too high, the taxes too low,
The deserts damp with scorching hot blood,
And these children you raise fatigued with toil.
The wise men said that ignorance is bliss,
Not a war of ideas, punditry, and mayhem,
Hezbollah leaders vowing borderless revenge,
The news stories still providing all this.
But never in my life have I been so proud
Of this country of mine – right or wrong.
I fall to my knees and sing her great songs
Dancing in the ecstasy that will send our people home.
Because never have I been guided so completely,
Though still more battles and paradoxes to come,
Those grey lines and doubts yet to out-run,
Because I’ve finally found a country that tolerates me.
And I have been saved by America
From my own murderous hands,
And with thee do I dance in a Technicolor band,
With brilliant fireworks drifting over our proud home,
Over synagogue and mosque until peace finds her throne.
© Harvey Havel (2006)
by Harvey Havel
I.
I see you once again, my life long friend.
Sated am I with your towering art
Your fertile gold plains and kin I must part
To forget about our troubles that offered no end.
When suddenly I came upon my best plans to leave
And had planned my escape, knowing full well
To an antique land I’d go, and there I would dwell
Pink clay ovens and ancient banyan trees.
The women in silk, their temples nearby
Other-worldly creatures, numb before altars
Believers who knelt and wept for their martyrs
The smog lead-thick, browning out white sky.
The chaotic thoroughfares of gaunt brown men
Burlap sacks on their heads and weaving through crowds
The stick-figured women squatting square on ground
Selling fragrant pomegranates, their chatter too foreign.
Their fruit stalked by flies, chewing next on the flesh
Of the naked corpse distended, the torments that shook her
Her eyes open-wide, her lips a sterile blue
Her head bruised and bloodied and a child at her chest.
II.
And was I so naïve to leave you, America,
With your swinging moods and unsolvable paradoxes,
Profits to protect, and your crippling detoxes,
Your grandest of achievements, a grief-stricken miasma?
But you must win at all costs
Even while beating yourselves
The bells that now toll and raging death knells
Rain the women and children and those you’ve lost.
And was I so arrogant to think,
With my criticism and anger,
The hot blood you withstood from this foul-mouthed stranger
Could change you and all with a magical wink?
My young mind rising much too quickly
Ripped from the mother who wept as she fed me
A Bible you shoved in, a text by Deuteronomy,
Eclipsing the Arabic and the prophet’s war-wizardry.
So I sucked in your chemical ablutions
And in that battle we both did learn
Through the stinging-thin needles and the electrode burns
That the blood you watered-down carried very few solutions.
And while wandering broke and penniless in your cities,
In the asylums where you then stored me,
Confronting ourselves in white rooms so ordinary,
Your ghosts in white uniform, their severity and pity.
And not thinking this well-enough through,
I sent my hate and anger through venomous fangs
Naively supported by violent street gangs
Hurling Molotov cocktails of yellow-orange hue.
Through bourgeois storefronts that illumined the faces
Of the brown-shirts that gathered and ripped out the throats
Of innocent shopkeepers who called my daydreams a hoax
Until my bare-knuckled hands relieved my good graces
By spraying sharp bullets into wandering crowds
Ridiculing the hypocrisy of your honor and justice
My stratagems upending, horrific, and tumultuous,
Severing blonde heads and then throwing them into mounds.
Such visions riddled me, my energies drained,
My conscience full depleted
My fires belched, and my nausea near-completed
Stomped on your good name and towards your vulnerabilities I aimed.
You merely fought back with your humane kindness
And a love that drives true dictators mad
Delivering me from the hell of the life I once had
Restoring my good name, by diluting insanity with mindlessness.
And you fed me sweet meats,
Your vegetables and potatoes,
Let me sow on your soil where the golden grain grows,
And won over my army now in full retreat
By teaching me eternal language
To ponder strong realities
Taking good care of my barest necessities,
My blunt anger subdued by philosophy and adage.
III.
But still I demanded more, as if somehow I deserved it,
Your stately-white mansions and your well-manicured lawns,
The respect that came without earning anything at all,
And your warm-blooded women and the graces they permit.
But you disallowed it, and so from there I did roam
To find bountiful women who loved me without reason,
My incongruent body molding to their treasons,
When you disallowed that after their shudders and moans.
Yet I cried for many more to cure the scars in my head,
My return to the womb met with fierce resistance,
Where they built stone fortresses to ward off my nuisance,
As I yearned to have each one of them alone in my bed.
They then cast spells to protect their sacred gardens,
Expelled me from the paradise that was their lot
Taught me the value of what I should and should not
As I haunted their irrationale with my stupidity and my nonsense.
My selfishness soon exhausted, and there I made amends,
The visages that I touched burned well into my brain,
Never to be cured through the wettest of rains,
As I can finally see how beautiful they’re made.
IV.
But to the machine they did feed me
And ran me through grinders
The cogs of work hours doing away with my remainders
Instilling sublime art and then imprisoning criminality.
And for this, America, you charged me nothing,
Not a penny, not an ounce,
As your bells that chimed high soon graciously announced
That the criminal was gone and had vanished with my flings,
And the cancer at my lungs, arrested by correctness,
My fat belly slimming to quell the ache of my body,
You showed me good health, not a moment too tardy
My fate suddenly lying miles away from distress.
My sanity restored, my mind working again,
Along with most of my guts and my shattered parts
My weak speech transmuted into tender art
And the doggerel cured by the angels you sent.
So the speed-trap on the freeway bothers me no more,
You saved a sorry, bitter soul from an early death,
My talk once so bellicose mattering much less,
And the hard work that fulfills me I do without chore.
You understood me completely,
Leading me out of the ghettoes
Where vultures hovered and the black crows flew,
Their sharp beaks picking at carrion so neatly.
You bade me drink from your clear rivers,
And found my family work,
Put up with my anxieties, idiosyncrasies, and quirks,
My heart opening up to those I thought killers.
And the black man was there
Nurturing me back to happiness,
The confused and mottled mess,
A breeze in the air.
And no, America, I never deserved this,
Your radiance too bright,
That forged harsh darkness into enduring light,
After such turbulent disturbance.
Yet tempers still flare over terror and oil,
The prices too high, the taxes too low,
The deserts damp with scorching hot blood,
And these children you raise fatigued with toil.
The wise men said that ignorance is bliss,
Not a war of ideas, punditry, and mayhem,
Hezbollah leaders vowing borderless revenge,
The news stories still providing all this.
But never in my life have I been so proud
Of this country of mine – right or wrong.
I fall to my knees and sing her great songs
Dancing in the ecstasy that will send our people home.
Because never have I been guided so completely,
Though still more battles and paradoxes to come,
Those grey lines and doubts yet to out-run,
Because I’ve finally found a country that tolerates me.
And I have been saved by America
From my own murderous hands,
And with thee do I dance in a Technicolor band,
With brilliant fireworks drifting over our proud home,
Over synagogue and mosque until peace finds her throne.
© Harvey Havel (2006)
Goldfish Sequin
Goldfish Sequin
By Jera Berkana
Good bye
crystal gold fish,
crack the surface of blooming roses dew.
To whom this rose tear flows too.
Has love without wings try to carry
one more wish?
Brittle carvings on petals reveal,
in print chiming rhythmic hearts.
The very sight of which tears the vein.
Has words without conscience, flee the constant petal peel?
Heavy weighted silence abounds,
is seen in the dragon flies eyes.
Treasure the tears that follow the
carvings
for a soul of
remembrance
to never again
good bye.
© Jera Berkana (February 5th, 2005)
By Jera Berkana
Good bye
crystal gold fish,
crack the surface of blooming roses dew.
To whom this rose tear flows too.
Has love without wings try to carry
one more wish?
Brittle carvings on petals reveal,
in print chiming rhythmic hearts.
The very sight of which tears the vein.
Has words without conscience, flee the constant petal peel?
Heavy weighted silence abounds,
is seen in the dragon flies eyes.
Treasure the tears that follow the
carvings
for a soul of
remembrance
to never again
good bye.
© Jera Berkana (February 5th, 2005)
Alchemical Wedding Song
Alchemical Wedding Song
(in the New World Order)
By Robert Milby
“Elegists are vulgar scum.”
-Baudelaire
In the age of Kali Yuga, it’s about MONEY.
The one in my parameters. The One between my…
It is about money!
Where they work. What kind of stock profile.
Whom they spend it on. How they spend it.
Where they get the fix…Shred it in a blender. Cook it on a spoon.
Shoot like diabetics or junked out street sheiks
Anywhere but get IT! Cast the churls before the DIVINE.
Mammon screams at the golden gates of the World Bank.
The State Religion’s priests are robed in it.
Children trapped inside INTERNET virtual prisons dream of it as means of liberation. The roots of all live trees that money grows on are expertly crafted from ink and watermarks and security strips and Masonic tricks all for sacrosanct—Money.
Cities and all manufacturing without any manumission for the soul, like DNA maps,
soon to be auctioned…online.
Mainlining…chains of Money.
Stand. Sit. Walk. Sleep. Shower. Shit. Piss. Fuck in your regional zoo,
Work. Work. Work, sheep reveries about money.
Eat only if you have money.
Starve as you dream about…Money.
Bills demand flesh sacrifice. Alas! The glowing blue ghost…at night,
After an exhaustive day extolling the virtue of money, Speaks to Winston
Smith of money…YENOM. VENOM. YAHWEH. HONEY. MONEY.
One Honey! Sweet Venom drink deep in fallow veins supplying money to
A heartless beast beating the Babylon manna out of mama Hosanna!
I’m the highest!
Ejaculating multiples of money! The sheets are woven with money as you
Place her ass on Benjamin’s face been jamming her case in the pestilent race
For the attainment, containment, maintenance of shot put portfolios
Adam Smith—great great great granddad of Winston SMITH, like their chairman
of the unconstitutional federal reserve…loves…
His whore. Terrific esoteric tricks: NOVUSORDOSECLORUM
Overdose on the New Order of the Ages, because the antidote
To overdose is Money!
Rings are purchased with Money! Wives are paid for in Money!
Bridal gowns and Tuxedos and eunuch priests in perfumed, flowing dresses
And bridesmaids and all the BEST MEN.
ALL the best people will be at your Wedding,
my dearly beloved beneath the bed, as we consummate our golden
Calf, is MONEY.
Reception halls cost money. Cakes, and bakes and dinner plates
And trite truculent disc jockeys and Limoneysines are only about: Money.
Her wedding gown—oh!!! T’was tailored and sewn with sheets of printed money!
Tens, Twenties, Fifties, Hundreds!
My dear! The groom wears condoms inked in greasy green money…
Will the Federal Reserve appropriate thy womb’s tissue?
When starting an extended family of finance, one must pay for a ring,
Pay for the dinner, pay for the car and gas to get to an expensive
Restaurant. There is a fiancé hidden in Finance!
If you buy a consonant, you’ll find her in Finance!
With this Ring, I thee wed to a joint partnership in the Odyssey for financial superiority.
A golden receipt for pussy. Another link in the chain.
Manna manacles! Such a parody! Such a Monody, on Freedom…
Masonic superiority! See thy taxed dollars hard at work!
They are working while you sleep! As you gestate in the womb of finance,
Longing to be born into that Y2K retirement plan…
As you moulder in the paid for plot on land They think They own,
They are working! So, if your DNA…IS auctioned off to the highest
Bidder; if in the End, clones are made for limb and organ harvest,
The air is manufactured and pumped into the city dome because our no-man’s land countryside is withering on Hieronymous Bosch’s canvasses,
petroleum fields are graveyards for soldiers of the New States,
Then, will you epiphanize your routine, will you then wake up?
Will you…WILL your soul to the machine?
Who’s your Daddy? Warbucks, wars for the Bucks the patriarchal sideshow.
Starbucks—(They even want to own the planets!)
Is Moreau not behind the Sable stage curtain?
What about his brother, O’Brien?
Maitreya can’t replace Matricide, when Mother Earth is for sale.
Maitreya can’t erase Matricide, when Mother Earth is for Sale!
Look to the stars for a new leader. New lecher whose money trail is that
Bridal gown that Babylon’s babysitter puts back on when the Bourgeois
Parents are out to dinner theater…she thinks no one can see her transmogrifuckation
On the shag carpet of their living room floor, molt and morph and bones twist and gelatinous buboes explode, leaking the new skin; the exoskeleton, viper scales
And adder trails of serpent slime—a high priestess of Money is reborn!
Unlike her chitinous counterpart Samsa, the mama of Salambo slides into the Labouratory, wanting! Waiting, like a patient mechanized on Genome tables,
Waiting for the daily living skills and functional assessment
of the Citizen of the New States!
Repent ye who wish to be married! Prepare ye for Babelon’s Whore!
Consent thee to spend Fish Scales scattered in the Ruin of the Karmic City,
where the Wedding is to take place! Take your place for shedding of old
Piscean sociaLIEsation as those betrothed regroup for microchip wedding bands,
She’ll get an implant before the implant!
He’ll buy his implant like an intellect transplant!
Transubstantiation of the stone between his ears to a brain! Could that happen?
Could the clone be…more intelligent, than the imbecilic American man he was made from? It could be blown into a tissue; it could be sewn into the subcutaneous tissue
If the chip off the old blockhead won’t stay beneath the skin!
And the sages of Kali Yuga are about Money!
The prophet marginalizes the struggle in a formal declaration of his website!
Even after Saul became Paul, he still had to eat, didn’t he?
The market profit sizes the tsunami that razes all plots as the olde ice shelves
And frozen hell travels North, scrapping by; stopping to pay a visit to fault lines
Where those responsible for the Royal Scam, the esoteric sham, watch like Methuselah,
After he received the Light, under Mount Weather, after Crowley and Blavatsky were proven right and the Modern Prometheus’s closet is protected by surveillance cameras
And the Office of Homeland Security is revealed to be the Son of a Bachelor called Inquisition. For the Bull on Wall Street is really a mastiff howling all night
at the Good Doctor, who wasn’t hopped up on herbal remedies he’d used to treat Plague after all.
No matter! As long as the inculcation can be inoculated, the SmallPox vaccine is a great idea! First it is anthrax from the cattle to stampede the sheep! Now it is SmallPox from the sheep to lampoon the cattle. Soon, a national ID to wave at George’s cameras.
And the slaves of Kali Yuga are honey to the eyes of stock traders and human resource specialists and cards made from petroleum by products to keep the slave’s
Legacy enamored of some offspring of banks merging one into one, mating as ritual
To finance guns, bombs, depleted uranium, WMD’s for unification of the Anomaly, Globalisation, capitulation of the planet to Imperial America’s World Management Team!
In the Age of Kali Yuga, you do not need a Christ to return.
You do not need the beam ships to turn the tide of human affairs to intergalactic councils,
All you need is money, a brotherhood of adepts, one of their bibles to swear it on,
And the heliophobic addicts to create reality for you, as the Oroboros turns.
©Robert Milby (January 25, 2003)
*Alchemical Wedding Song first appeared on the website Muse Apprentice Guild in 2004.
(in the New World Order)
By Robert Milby
“Elegists are vulgar scum.”
-Baudelaire
In the age of Kali Yuga, it’s about MONEY.
The one in my parameters. The One between my…
It is about money!
Where they work. What kind of stock profile.
Whom they spend it on. How they spend it.
Where they get the fix…Shred it in a blender. Cook it on a spoon.
Shoot like diabetics or junked out street sheiks
Anywhere but get IT! Cast the churls before the DIVINE.
Mammon screams at the golden gates of the World Bank.
The State Religion’s priests are robed in it.
Children trapped inside INTERNET virtual prisons dream of it as means of liberation. The roots of all live trees that money grows on are expertly crafted from ink and watermarks and security strips and Masonic tricks all for sacrosanct—Money.
Cities and all manufacturing without any manumission for the soul, like DNA maps,
soon to be auctioned…online.
Mainlining…chains of Money.
Stand. Sit. Walk. Sleep. Shower. Shit. Piss. Fuck in your regional zoo,
Work. Work. Work, sheep reveries about money.
Eat only if you have money.
Starve as you dream about…Money.
Bills demand flesh sacrifice. Alas! The glowing blue ghost…at night,
After an exhaustive day extolling the virtue of money, Speaks to Winston
Smith of money…YENOM. VENOM. YAHWEH. HONEY. MONEY.
One Honey! Sweet Venom drink deep in fallow veins supplying money to
A heartless beast beating the Babylon manna out of mama Hosanna!
I’m the highest!
Ejaculating multiples of money! The sheets are woven with money as you
Place her ass on Benjamin’s face been jamming her case in the pestilent race
For the attainment, containment, maintenance of shot put portfolios
Adam Smith—great great great granddad of Winston SMITH, like their chairman
of the unconstitutional federal reserve…loves…
His whore. Terrific esoteric tricks: NOVUSORDOSECLORUM
Overdose on the New Order of the Ages, because the antidote
To overdose is Money!
Rings are purchased with Money! Wives are paid for in Money!
Bridal gowns and Tuxedos and eunuch priests in perfumed, flowing dresses
And bridesmaids and all the BEST MEN.
ALL the best people will be at your Wedding,
my dearly beloved beneath the bed, as we consummate our golden
Calf, is MONEY.
Reception halls cost money. Cakes, and bakes and dinner plates
And trite truculent disc jockeys and Limoneysines are only about: Money.
Her wedding gown—oh!!! T’was tailored and sewn with sheets of printed money!
Tens, Twenties, Fifties, Hundreds!
My dear! The groom wears condoms inked in greasy green money…
Will the Federal Reserve appropriate thy womb’s tissue?
When starting an extended family of finance, one must pay for a ring,
Pay for the dinner, pay for the car and gas to get to an expensive
Restaurant. There is a fiancé hidden in Finance!
If you buy a consonant, you’ll find her in Finance!
With this Ring, I thee wed to a joint partnership in the Odyssey for financial superiority.
A golden receipt for pussy. Another link in the chain.
Manna manacles! Such a parody! Such a Monody, on Freedom…
Masonic superiority! See thy taxed dollars hard at work!
They are working while you sleep! As you gestate in the womb of finance,
Longing to be born into that Y2K retirement plan…
As you moulder in the paid for plot on land They think They own,
They are working! So, if your DNA…IS auctioned off to the highest
Bidder; if in the End, clones are made for limb and organ harvest,
The air is manufactured and pumped into the city dome because our no-man’s land countryside is withering on Hieronymous Bosch’s canvasses,
petroleum fields are graveyards for soldiers of the New States,
Then, will you epiphanize your routine, will you then wake up?
Will you…WILL your soul to the machine?
Who’s your Daddy? Warbucks, wars for the Bucks the patriarchal sideshow.
Starbucks—(They even want to own the planets!)
Is Moreau not behind the Sable stage curtain?
What about his brother, O’Brien?
Maitreya can’t replace Matricide, when Mother Earth is for sale.
Maitreya can’t erase Matricide, when Mother Earth is for Sale!
Look to the stars for a new leader. New lecher whose money trail is that
Bridal gown that Babylon’s babysitter puts back on when the Bourgeois
Parents are out to dinner theater…she thinks no one can see her transmogrifuckation
On the shag carpet of their living room floor, molt and morph and bones twist and gelatinous buboes explode, leaking the new skin; the exoskeleton, viper scales
And adder trails of serpent slime—a high priestess of Money is reborn!
Unlike her chitinous counterpart Samsa, the mama of Salambo slides into the Labouratory, wanting! Waiting, like a patient mechanized on Genome tables,
Waiting for the daily living skills and functional assessment
of the Citizen of the New States!
Repent ye who wish to be married! Prepare ye for Babelon’s Whore!
Consent thee to spend Fish Scales scattered in the Ruin of the Karmic City,
where the Wedding is to take place! Take your place for shedding of old
Piscean sociaLIEsation as those betrothed regroup for microchip wedding bands,
She’ll get an implant before the implant!
He’ll buy his implant like an intellect transplant!
Transubstantiation of the stone between his ears to a brain! Could that happen?
Could the clone be…more intelligent, than the imbecilic American man he was made from? It could be blown into a tissue; it could be sewn into the subcutaneous tissue
If the chip off the old blockhead won’t stay beneath the skin!
And the sages of Kali Yuga are about Money!
The prophet marginalizes the struggle in a formal declaration of his website!
Even after Saul became Paul, he still had to eat, didn’t he?
The market profit sizes the tsunami that razes all plots as the olde ice shelves
And frozen hell travels North, scrapping by; stopping to pay a visit to fault lines
Where those responsible for the Royal Scam, the esoteric sham, watch like Methuselah,
After he received the Light, under Mount Weather, after Crowley and Blavatsky were proven right and the Modern Prometheus’s closet is protected by surveillance cameras
And the Office of Homeland Security is revealed to be the Son of a Bachelor called Inquisition. For the Bull on Wall Street is really a mastiff howling all night
at the Good Doctor, who wasn’t hopped up on herbal remedies he’d used to treat Plague after all.
No matter! As long as the inculcation can be inoculated, the SmallPox vaccine is a great idea! First it is anthrax from the cattle to stampede the sheep! Now it is SmallPox from the sheep to lampoon the cattle. Soon, a national ID to wave at George’s cameras.
And the slaves of Kali Yuga are honey to the eyes of stock traders and human resource specialists and cards made from petroleum by products to keep the slave’s
Legacy enamored of some offspring of banks merging one into one, mating as ritual
To finance guns, bombs, depleted uranium, WMD’s for unification of the Anomaly, Globalisation, capitulation of the planet to Imperial America’s World Management Team!
In the Age of Kali Yuga, you do not need a Christ to return.
You do not need the beam ships to turn the tide of human affairs to intergalactic councils,
All you need is money, a brotherhood of adepts, one of their bibles to swear it on,
And the heliophobic addicts to create reality for you, as the Oroboros turns.
©Robert Milby (January 25, 2003)
*Alchemical Wedding Song first appeared on the website Muse Apprentice Guild in 2004.
A Poem (and a reminder) to Myself:
A Poem (and a reminder) to Myself:
By Harvey Havel
Try not to confuse
Confidence for arrogance
Kindness for weakness
Individuality for selfishness
Collectivism for totalitarianism
Left for right
Right for left
seeming for Being
Caution for fear
Slowness for stupidity
Deliberation for indecisiveness
Patience for oppression
knowledge for Wisdom
© Harvey Havel
By Harvey Havel
Try not to confuse
Confidence for arrogance
Kindness for weakness
Individuality for selfishness
Collectivism for totalitarianism
Left for right
Right for left
seeming for Being
Caution for fear
Slowness for stupidity
Deliberation for indecisiveness
Patience for oppression
knowledge for Wisdom
© Harvey Havel
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Aquamarine Valentine
Aquamarine Valentine
By Nicole Hargraves
She was the Duchess of the Sea.
Graceful, yet, careless.
Not quite royal enough to be Queen.
But powerful enough to let her waves crash down on my life.
I can still remember the head trauma
Emergency trips to her bay at night.
The collection of mind porn...
Of her flooding my hopes and dreams.
She was accessible as the latter.
Her brain could work a two-by-four into your heart with a sentence.
And if you begged just enough,
She'd let you taste her lips of deception.
You get qualms in her presence.
You know something’s not exactly right.
But her beauty engulfs you.
And you begin to drown.
You trip over the simplest things.
The way she moves,
Her hair in the wind,
And the icy way her eyes tear you apart with a glance.
Oh those deep watery eyes of hers.
Keeping the sea unhappy.
Keeping the sailors entranced.
And always...
Keeping my head under the water.
© Nicole Hargraves
For Questions, comments, and feedback
Nicole Hargraves can be contacted at
NicoleHargraves@gmail.com
By Nicole Hargraves
She was the Duchess of the Sea.
Graceful, yet, careless.
Not quite royal enough to be Queen.
But powerful enough to let her waves crash down on my life.
I can still remember the head trauma
Emergency trips to her bay at night.
The collection of mind porn...
Of her flooding my hopes and dreams.
She was accessible as the latter.
Her brain could work a two-by-four into your heart with a sentence.
And if you begged just enough,
She'd let you taste her lips of deception.
You get qualms in her presence.
You know something’s not exactly right.
But her beauty engulfs you.
And you begin to drown.
You trip over the simplest things.
The way she moves,
Her hair in the wind,
And the icy way her eyes tear you apart with a glance.
Oh those deep watery eyes of hers.
Keeping the sea unhappy.
Keeping the sailors entranced.
And always...
Keeping my head under the water.
© Nicole Hargraves
For Questions, comments, and feedback
Nicole Hargraves can be contacted at
NicoleHargraves@gmail.com
The Shore
THE SHORE
By Adrianna Delgado
Sunburned and broken
Starless and deprived
I will not ask for what I do not have
Only to keep what I possess, cherish deep inside
Blistered and rotten
Breathless and contrived
I will not fight the battles that cannot be won
Only storm the shores to ensure love will be born
She never said goodbye
And I cried, but why?
Basing my tears on imagination
Illusions of thoughts
Words never formed on her tongue
Hung, clinging, gasping for the air that I choke on
The irony of agony self-inflicted
The clock ticking away the seconds of my tears
The wasted fears of uncertain tomorrows
Sums of anguish and sorrows
Equaling nothing, empty and hollow
Giving away dreams soaked in blood and sweat
And the clock, the clock ticking my tears
Grieving my years
The words all come falling down
Tumbling out of my mouth, down my body
Scattering into the aura around me
And these false, imposter colors do me no justice
Rushed this metamorphosis into this creature
Who fears the sun…Sunburned and deprived
Blistered and contrived
The lies in her eyes, the silence on her tongue
The war we did not fight but could have won.
© Adrianna Delgado
By Adrianna Delgado
Sunburned and broken
Starless and deprived
I will not ask for what I do not have
Only to keep what I possess, cherish deep inside
Blistered and rotten
Breathless and contrived
I will not fight the battles that cannot be won
Only storm the shores to ensure love will be born
She never said goodbye
And I cried, but why?
Basing my tears on imagination
Illusions of thoughts
Words never formed on her tongue
Hung, clinging, gasping for the air that I choke on
The irony of agony self-inflicted
The clock ticking away the seconds of my tears
The wasted fears of uncertain tomorrows
Sums of anguish and sorrows
Equaling nothing, empty and hollow
Giving away dreams soaked in blood and sweat
And the clock, the clock ticking my tears
Grieving my years
The words all come falling down
Tumbling out of my mouth, down my body
Scattering into the aura around me
And these false, imposter colors do me no justice
Rushed this metamorphosis into this creature
Who fears the sun…Sunburned and deprived
Blistered and contrived
The lies in her eyes, the silence on her tongue
The war we did not fight but could have won.
© Adrianna Delgado
Ortolan Feast
Ortolan Feast (From the bird's perspective)
By Justin Parrinello
The sweetness of this flesh and fat is the ambrosial god!
The pungency, call it bitter innards and viscera.
This is the suffering, crucifixion and ascension.
The small delicate bones lacerating your gums
as they splinter between your holy teeth.
The salt of your blood mingling with the richness of this winged mystery,
this is the holy spirit; three united as one.
Cruel and beautiful, and dinner ceases.
Net spread in neat canopy, take us alive! Take us home!
To the chewable vitamin remedy of plucking and blinding;
I love my small cage.
I love my oats and millet and those paunchy figs that you feed to me in the evening.
I love how when I haven't eaten enough you help me.
I love whelming in your brandy snifter.
I love my eight calescent minutes alone
(in the solitude of your oven.)
I love your lips hugging me,
enveloping my feathers and debility.
The tuxedo jackets lurk beneath those postcarded coves.
Alvine birds are ossivorous only,
and yet absinthial themselves when roasted tenderly without spice.
Bought for moments with the homeliest of twelve sisters, wherever sugared necks are sold.
We're bringing it all back---my lungs and stomach full of armagnac or not.
Is it not worth a wench to quench your petticoatted pedal lips?
Mincemeat weevily over dry-ice and chewing.
The body of rainwater and rowans,
the wheat of Morocco.
Salt of the Mediterranean,
lavender of Provence---but its all face down!
Yes I’m still faced down.
I love the shrouds and napkins
that all of you wear on your faces,
They're beautiful like all of you, as you altogether feast on me.
God can see your shame, I am not the soul of France.
© Justin Parrinello (July 1st, 2006)
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