This is how we say farewell.
All the love and moments vanish,
to the toll of a wedding bell.
Take my hand, take my love,
Kept me away, lead me astray.
Never had the chance, nor the say.
Cowardice, with that yellow heart.
Will I play the villain, when you
speak of me to your fresh new start?
Nothing-it meant nothing at all.
If professing your love is so easy,
don’t come around, don’t call.
After everything he had put you through,
the tears, the pain,
All I found was something True.
Goodbye my displaced Queen.
Seek thy unhappiness, misfortune may marry.
Just like you, I bid adieu, from behind a screen.
“Look at the people: elbows, knees, earlobes, crotches, feet, noses, lips, eyes, all the parts usually clothed, and they are engaged in whatever they usually do which is hardly ever delightful, their psyches stuffed with used matter and propaganda, advertising
propaganda, religious propaganda, sexual propaganda, political propaganda, assorted propaganda’s, and they themselves are dull and vicious. They are dull because they have been made dull and they are vicious because they are fearful of losing what they have.
The people are the biggest horror show on earth, have been for centuries. You could be sitting in a room with one of them now or with many of them. Or you could be one of them.
Every time the phone rings or there is a knock on the door I’m afraid it will be one of the disgusting spiritually destroyed useless babbling ugly fawning hateful humans.
Or worse,on picking up the phone the voice I hear might be my own, or upon opening the door I will see myself standing there, a remnant of the wasted centuries, smiling a false smile, having learned well, having forgotten what I am here for.”
-from Betting on the Muse: stories and poems by Charles Bukowski.
A stapled man on a cross is not the Son.
The Goodness of Light be the Anointed.
A pentagram is not evil.
The fear of it is evil.
A man in clouds is not God.
Sense perception be thy Epoch.
A baphomet is not the Devil.
The terror of an image be thy Archon.
Pretentiousness and spite,
Humility and altruism.
Synonymous in all of Us.
The Last shall be First,
The lowest the Highest.
From decent, ascension.
From darkest to brightest.
The lowly fates are sealed;
Our societal masters have already decreed.
Souls belonging to Macedonian soldiers,
Whom road for the Alexandrian cause,
Hearts of Poets and pious scholars,
Revolutionary thinkers and scientific tinkers,
Cast again into the River of Lethe,
Fate chosen by Moon-Spewed back into vessel anew.
Perplexed to find ourselves shunned, unrecognized in the courts of Kings.
Wisdom is eternal, accrued lots will perish.
We ourselves are our own kings, though all of you forgot.
Since I have sense, as well as you:
For what gifts indeed have you that others do not?
I spent a year in torment and another in limbo.
Between bottles of scotch and an earful of bimbos.
I had sworn off sentiments and living for others.
Woe’d the stain of women, including my mothers.
But something had come and graced the inner light.
To live and die for my beloved man’s celestial right.
Then out of the ashes my heart is reignited.
A personage like myself has been sighted.
Despite her beauty and our emotional volatility,
perhaps a time to explore untapped tranquility.
Whatever to come, let us seek to embetter ourselves-
and place our bitter pasts on these dusty shelves.
Together we strive for a better world to live in.
So let us go forth; but not without what’s within.
‘Tiss a strange thing, is it not?
Being drawn into despair.
The timely sensation comes when one is most alone.
It is there to remind you of your vulnerabilities, weaknesses, mortality.
Yet it is the very thing that makes us fearless.
The emptiness, like the churning stomach in need of substance.
The resentment, a mocking voice within holds you prisoner.
A deranged captor tormenting the kept.
Reach out and touch vise; reach within and think thrice.
The low howl of the nightly wretch cry on.
The dull drums of deaths nigh sincerely sung.
A yearning for salvation is met with apathy.
As you once had turned your back on the world, so they in turn you.
When I am judged, will they be harsh on my punishment?
For having the Gnosis, for knowing between good and evil;
Yet still committing acts of mindlessness in pursuance of sensation.
When my life is nullified, will they take into account the pains of imprisonment?
Will I ever forgive myself?
The enduring of man, separated from his half, cast into aimless mortality.
Do I do these things to blend in, like a Chameleon on my Path of Many Colors.
Or is that just my excuse to remain here?
Are my past lives so horrid of things, and is that part of me vicarious?
In pursuance of the questions, We stumble and weep.
Look at them there.
Pointing, charting, analyzing unto death.
Everyone’s trying to sell you something.
Every month we owe money to someone we don’t know.
Consuming, breeding, tantalizing unto death.
Distractions are ample. Be it games for the people or new shopping malls;
Our gaze is ambiguous and fixed this way and that.
Humanity is the sickness of the Earth.
You there, what is your purpose, I beckon.
The fat man behind the counter is made to service the company and the customers.
Somehow he is okay with his baseness.
Is it ignorance? Lack of understanding?
No, he is merely comfortable in his conformity.
He makes ends meet, all the food is affordable, and within proximity.
It could be worse, he thinks to himself as he imagines being homeless-
or having been born in a less developed impoverished nation.
Yet he never imagines how much better it could be.
We could be better.
Conjured through your visceral fears.
Son of Charon, I siphon the Earth.
The blade at the jugular.
Keeper of the gate-Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
Surrender the throne; wanton greed be not atoned.
Summoned by the spoken word.
Mediator of the Father, this heart beats louder than most.
The impulsive righteous hand.
Son of Jon; Downtrodden with the simple and humbled.
Into the beggars hand I give and your love I take.
I am pestilence and the prodigal son.