MIA

To whoever actually reads any of this,

I’ve been working steadily since May, not a lot of personal time feels like I’ve enslaved myself. I apologize for the sudden break in writing, I have strayed from the self. As the world continues to corner itself, I hope my writings reach who they need to. In the coming years we will hopefully see the truth break free-the revealing. The Revelation or Apocalypse, as you frightened may call it. The translation from Greek apokalyptein “uncover, disclose, reveal” doesn’t seem to mention hell on Earth.

Heil Trump

 

It Twitches and Festers

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The levee’s been pushed to a brink,
If caught in the midst a heavy heart would sink.
Tears from heaven pour down hardened rain.
if only such a thing could wash away the pain.

Quiet and somber I feel your despair.
The shell of a man forewarned to beware.
And still she told me she gets what she wants,
Shifting emotions nullified if the past still haunts.

Our love is a cauldron mixed of bitters and sweets.
While my once wicked ways through your scars it seeps.
Aches in my chest from happiness divest;
Too little, too late—what once was, now irate.

Forgiveness a thing only measured by time,
and through it all I just wish you were mine.
To you I seek to do good—for all I repent
but kindness is misunderstood with outcry’s of resent.

Are you the dawn that had already set,
or the sunrise I never knew I had met?

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Seeking

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Cast into the physical,
a Sethian just looking for residuals.
In a sea of sheep, it’s hard to find any individuals.

Forbidden from the garden,
are the two with concealing garment.
For they had tasted knowledge and for that were abolished.

Oh Saklas, be thee foolish,
thinking Fate on your side is your true wish.
The prevalence of goodness is your cold dish.

Yet millions of years later,
the Demiurge is still a fuckin’ hater.
Still waitin’ on the end, but that’s a story for later.

To the rich few we cater,
bailing them out just to produce another failure.
Never asking, just obliging and waiting for the savior.

Between logic and insanity we reside,
of the rich and poor no greater divide.
He who will cross the Rubicon shall cast out the final lie.

Getting high on a whim,
both cursed and blessed by Djinn.
The struggle of salvation only found within,
but it’s much easier to just bask in sin.

From Bitter Submergence, Loving Enlightenment.

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This life it weighs on thee.
Bound to material,
the physical we endure combatively.
Earth-born all is ephemeral.

Ancient works uncovered,
only intensify a burden.
We are fallen angels unfeathered,
—of that I am certain.

Two into one, of three we be.
Yet unto one a return,
and of three they see.
Of transcendent planes we yearn.

Mortality the prescription,
sense perception an unawakened state.
Past loves I’m missin’-
dwelling on the things I hate.
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Of those from within,
and those of without.
Some just trying to win,
others filled with doubt.

On heavens light we pretend,
the end we cannot comprehend.
Seek and ye shall find,
an aeon not bound by time.

It’s the bottom of the 9th and I can’t find my bat.

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Two roads split off from here,
never felt so open, nor so near.
Too late to breathe, too little to adhere.

My life is a colored path of missed taken steps.
Swallowed my share of mistaken breathes,
all of which I aim to keep, souls I chose to reap.

A darkness held me,
and you always told me,
if I only knew how to be set free.

It came from within,
didn’t call, a pretentious way to win.
Never required science, no nuclear fission.
Just a willingness to see a tardy vision.

Been dead all this time,
Frankenstein’s monster I was a mime.
Most intelligent, all pain, all grime.

Giving life to a thing that had past,
the weight of someones world like steel ballast.
Sunken down the river, hoped you’d never last.

I cursed you like the sun,
a scorn you could outlast.
Now i sit in lament,
wishing you could leave just as fast.

Yet I come as soldiers torch burning the night.
‘Come out my dawn’, unaware you’d adorn a fight.
A war lost-one of attrition, a beggars fiction.

Time is a selfish bitch.
All you did was wish
for a time I was yours,
and emptiness was no lore.

Can’t seem to hold a beat,
liquor knocking me off my feet.
Let us be absolved-be let free.

No longer alive and not nearly dead.
Wish i could take back all the things I had said.
Yet that is the sentiment of time,
no ones truly yours, you are not mine.

So feed your fancies from a screen,
only hope you won’t hear me scream.
Cannot fathom, cannot see,
on this bar stool I’d rather lean.

‘Why are you being nice?’
‘Why do you like me?’
You are the fire that thawed the ice
after years to you it wasn’t likely.

Oh how stubborn the scars that refuse to fade.
Or are they reminders of better days?
No just a reason to stay away.
Four years lost but still love-always.

Love is War I

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The employee working the shoe department returned, carrying 4 boxes of hiking boots. Placing them amongst the other shoe boxes near the customer, she then began to explain why he had brought out boots one size to small. After the rehearsed explanation, she remained unconvinced that smaller shoes would truly benefit her feet on a hiking excursion. The frustrations of the two parties were felt; all the while, he scanned the many items the store contained within. Two aisles for hiking socks, another for underwear, some aisles contained all the necessities for a modern camping experience, most of which were unnecessary for survival. He checked the price tag of a popular woman’s black jacket he would get her: $120. His bank account read $15.

Disgruntled, he returned to the shoe department where his lover was still trying on boots. Somehow more boxes had appeared. A new employee had begun to help her, this time he pushed the ‘one-size smaller’ envelope further by lacing the shoes and having her stand facing downward on a prop sloped stone. The couple sat back down after the dubious display—still too small.

“Do you feel that?” the salesman asked, pressing at her crammed toes through the shoe.lady-in-black
Yea” the aggravated customer remarked, half-flailing her hands in frustration.

Her present company began to feel uncomfortably frustrated with her; knowing that the salesman was pushing his agenda too extensively, yet her exacerbated body language wasn’t helping the situation. The couple took their leave, as she had not settled on a shoe.

“I need a break.” the salesman remarked to the his coworker as they made way to the exit.
“Did you hear him? What an asshole!” speaking softly solely to her other.
“You are kind of difficult to deal with, if spoken honestly.” he lashed back at the ignorance of her body language and condescending retorts.

She stood her ground, knowing she was in her right regarding the individual size of her own feet. He was understandably aware, mentioning the salesman was in fact pushing his methods too heavily. After all, the customer is always right, as they say, and if she had the money to make a purchase, why would one hinder that for the business. Once they returned to the vehicle, an argument ensued.
She, stating he never is on her side; he, stating she is infuriating beyond degree.
The dispute shifts to offenses from prior occasions.
He, accusing her of laziness for not wanting to cook with him; she, recalling his dishonest deeds from the past. A discord of silence enveloped them entirely on the way home prior to the climax of their anger.

At her apartment no words were uttered, and yet the frustrating ill temper creeped.

“Should I leave?” he asked, wondering if there was anything to salvage, perhaps some sympathetic apologies to be shared.
“I don’t care!” she snapped back.

The pain from her comment turned him bitter and black. All emotion left him. Packing his things, the familiar thing of it all made him believe this was the last time. They both knew they were in their own individual right to feel this particular way. Walking out the door, then toward the gate of the complex, she strode behind him, carrying her canine compatriot.

“What are you doing?” quietly asked, as her feet came to a halt while he turned to answer.
“I’m leaving you, what does it look like?!”  they verbally contended softly, being as they were in between balconies and fellow tenants.

Her beautiful face welled with tears while his passions fleeted him. Be strong, act tough—you don’t need this shit, he thought to himself. Tired of pursuing him, she let go. Tired of running, he drove off.

The Poet

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A moody child and wildly wise
Pursued the game with joyful eyes,
Which chose, like meteors, their way,
And rived the dark with private ray:
They overleapt the horizon’s edge,
Searched with Apollo’s privilege;
Through man, and woman, and sea, and star,
Saw the dance of nature forward far;
through worlds, and races, and terms, and times,
Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Entombed In Youth

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Alas!—others like myself;
Seeking truth, finding meaning.
Yet, when gathered, only one book to help.
My back lay sore from information reeling.

They scoff and hurdle, adhering to the singular source.
Am I false for pulling from the All, or none at all?
Using his divine name Jesus, the one beaten like a horse.
Joshua! Yeshua, be his historical name—know they not even Saul.

Alone in a room of strangers, lost children, and yet still searching.
Blameless they be, for together we seek all to be free.
Questions of who are we, when death comes what will we see.
Time, and only more time will tell, the stories the ancient ones befell.

Are we to turn within, or to cater non devout.
Am I to churn within, physical self looking without.
A riot begins inside my cage, rage, further rage;
and yet more—a peddle through the floor.
Control, patience, faith is what I aim to keep.
Each night alone, swinging wildly in my room,
where are my kindred who seek?

A new age is to come, you all just forgot.
Fixated on material lot.

On Love

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What is Love? Ask him who lives, what is life; ask him who adores, what is God?

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I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even thine, whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness,

I have everywhere sought sympathy, and have found only repulse and disappointment.

 

Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another’s; if we feel, we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood. This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom of its mother; this propensity develops itself with the development of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is composed; a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness; a soul within our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret; with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of our own; and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the type within demands; this is the invisible and unattainable point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules.

Hence in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky.

In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes the living sepulcher of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818

All Religions Are One

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The Voice of one crying in the Wilderness

NPG 212; William Blake by Thomas Phillips

by Thomas Phillips, oil on canvas, 1807

The Argument. As the true method of knowledge is experiment the true faculty of knowing must be the faculty which experiences. This faculty I treat of.
PRINCIPLE 1ST.
That the Poetic Genius is the true Man, and that the body or outward form of Man is derived from the Poetic Genius. Likewise that the forms of all things are
derived from their Genius, which by the Ancients was call’d an Angel & Spirit & Demon.
PRINCIPLE 2ND.
As all men are alike in outward form, So (and with the same infinite variety) all are alike in the Poetic Genius.
PRINCIPLE 3RD.
No man can think write or speak from his heart, but he must intend truth. Thus all sects of Philosophy are from the Poetic Genius, adapted to the weaknesses of every individual.
PRINCIPLE4.
As none by travelling over known lands can find out the unknown, So from already acquired knowledge Man could not acquire more. Therefore an universal Poetic Genius exists.
PRINCIPLE 5.
The Religions of all Nations are derived from each Nation’s different reception of the Poetic Genius, which is every where call’d the Spirit of Prophecy.
PRINCIPLE 6.
The Jewish & Christian Testaments are An original derivation from the Poetic Genius. This is necessary from the confined nature of bodily sensation.
PRINCIPLE 7TH.
As all men are alike (tho’ infinitely various), So all Religions & as all similars have one source.

The true Man is the source, he being the Poetic Genius.

-William Blake, 1788