Kingfisher fleet flight blue bolt
Dart dophin bends back, an emergence
And a disappearance.
Lady in the Lake. Toad calls.
The names and faces recur.
Portal of Mortals.
I have known every man, every woman.
Horn of Dawn
Freshness of the Morning, of dew
Mist conceals the gods.
Portal of Mortals,
Pass Gate. Hello Again.
This one says, 28
To pass through,
One after the other.
Gyre and Gimble
This is no closed system
I will not allow it.
I have made myself quite clear,
The New will be born
Even if it must split open the head of the father.
The Slave States will fall.
New Proofs will overturn the Dogma.
Sound, Horn of Dawn. Beginning.
A Matter of Time.
The signs at first are fleeting but unambiguous,
Dorsal fin breaks water, disappears
Kingfishers catch flame
And are gone.
Magic re-enters the circuit,
Makes Presence Felt.
Still Reality is sluggish, unresponsive,
TWO LEFT FEET
Is but the beginning.
We say, not just a new dawn, but a new type of dawn
Two suns, one yellow, one red.
“You should know that for my sins I have not yet merited to attain to this wisdom.”
LEVI BEN CHABIB.
ARE YOU CAUGHT UP IN HEAVEN’S PROXY WARS?
Should we talk of them?
They came through the walls and took me.
“beings of whom I know nothing except that they are invisible, subtle, and perhaps
FULL OF SECRET LAUGHTER”
They don’t like to be talked about, not openly, not in a way you could understand.
But I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.
They are all around you, but they are not here.
‘the force, it’s got a lot of power’
"They're fornicating with elves in an effort to forge a forbidden Master Race!"
“the creatures thus produced are called ‘the plagues of the children of men’ they can transform themselves only in appearance as human beings, but they have no hair on their heads.”
Crosskeys. St Luke 66.
I’m not no Ox I’m a sleek, red fox.
Iceni. Boudica. Every symbol doubling and redoubling.
Eye of the Peacock. Butterfly.
My name is Matteo. recurring recurring. The book itself is magic. Bourne aloft on the Eagle’s back.
Catholic Church as Roman Empire. Continuation of. Anti-Christ. Literally, anti Christ. The Enemy.
The Empire Never Ended.
The Buzzard with the Broad wings. Crow harassed.
The Kingfisher. Brought into being, blue shrapnel, flung out over water,
But no figment of Imagination. Puerile, puerile. Confirmation Bias. 66.
Hear your own name, your ears prick up.
St. Stephen’s in Red Sandstone. Hangman God.
Crocodile. The same eye above the waterline,
Watching for a million years. Blood on the Raptor’s bill,
Peter’s House, in Exeter-
And the Saints all carry swords. St. Enoch. Church Militant. Father, Father,
Tell us of the Children’s Crusade.
A theologian speaks-
“If each one of us is a reincarnation of one already born, and yet, the present population of the world exceeds the number of those who have lived and died
Some of us, necessarily, it would seem to me, are duplicates, clones, one soul but many avatars.”
There are 12 people in the world. Paste. Gaze into Omphalos. Rummage through sock drawer of Genetic Memory.
Wombtent and heartbeat, the red light. The bloodsoup. Staggering onto land, drawn by the sun, the sun.
Sun called us, fin legged, waddling, scales imprinted in mud. Yes Father, We Obey Father.
Unrepentant Bergsonian. The Intelligence belongs to everything. The Intelligence is not a property of the individual.
More akin to the Oxygen. The same. Air to Lung is Intelligence to Brain.
Eagle Mind is Human Mind. Human Mind is Plant Mind. The Blackberry tendril searching for soil, to dig down, to become root.
The epiphyte, The Strangler.
The Crocodile. Mind is Mind is Mind.
Evolution led by intelligence. The intelligence which reaches out, feeling, like the vine, for something to hold onto.
THE LUMINIFEROUS AETHER.
I revive every heresy. You can’t fool me, I’m a beliver. Leo, since you ask, Fire Sign, The Sun God with Golden Diadem.
I don’t like Bombs and I don’t like chess players. Hey@!-
Leave me out of it!
She made it up off the spur of her head
Wu Shu. Do you know your 4-X-Table?
And the ships came in, smelling of saffron
And all the spices of the Mysterious Orient.
Inscrutable type, can’t make him out.
Kali, births child, eats it. They know how to square the circle, yer average Asiatic, spiritual, higher plane of consciousness y’see.
Not me, long line of plebs and puritans, barbarians, butter in the hair, pale blue eyes
Inheritor of no classical tradition, drinking songs and superstition, that’s my baggage.
Pantheon of arseslappers, drunkards, boors and braggarts.
See a Rome and we burn it, bring ‘em down to our level. Scratching your name on the pyramids. Farting in the sermon.
Gnawing chicken bones in medieval theme restaurants.
Chaucers. Fun for all the Family. Waitress in a wimple.
And then, hundreds of years later, do it all again. Burn another Rome, Reform, tear down the abbeys, sell the lectern for scrap, beer money. And nothing wrong with that, I might add. Protestantism gives rise to the atheist. Inevitably,
The unity of the dream is broken.
But the true hyperborean is no sullen atheist, shaking his fist at god.
And then I saw her face...
I’M A BELIVER. I believe in everything.
Henry, the boorish, broadbellied brute begun it, in a fit of pique,
Broke the spell, sheer bloody mindedness. No man tells me what to do. –stamps foot-
All that is great in the history of England
No man tells me what to do.
No need to speechify about it, dress it up in fine costumes, primp and preen, post protestations on the bossman’s door-
And if he doesn’t like it, chop his head off.
But, I grow sentimental.
Wat Tyler. Jack Straw. Double crossed and strung up. Hangman God.
Ruthless in the protection of privilege. Peterloo.
Doff cap to Lizard Line, creatures of the old blood,
The Drunken Saxon and his Lizard Lords. The literal minded Saxon,
2 and 2 is 4 and we’ll hear no more about it. Put the poet on the dunking stool.
EMPIRE. Power from the barrel of a gun.
‘ah, but the roads dear boy, the railways’
Out, out damned spot.
The sharks follow the ships,
What do poets know of politics?
Geoffrey Hill Now, that’s a real poet, likes old churches, hates rap music, Simon Jenkins with line breaks,
Humane type, but sadly, I am, I confess, a baleful Jacobin. Can’t see a Palace of Versailles without the bones it’s built on. Nice garden, gruesome compost. Still, rich tapestry of life eh,
Births child, gobbles it up, the rich are always with us don’t you know.
House on the hill, high walls.
-ah, Dear Wat, dear Jack, we understand your concerns, we are on the side of the people, hadn’t realised how bad things had got. We’ve been remiss I agree, failures of oversight,
A debate we need to have, you’ve done us a great service, bringing this to our attention,
Can’t condone your methods, but well, perhaps, in the circumstances....
Swinging in the wind,
limp as scarecrows stuffed with straw.
WHO IS THE DARK NAZERENE?
Pulp History. German Tai Chi instructor in leather jacket scours countryside round renne le chataeu for entrypoint to vast immemorial conspiracy.
AND DID HE IN ANCIENT TIMES,
GET MARY MAGADELENE, UP DUFF?
Marygodivinian Blood Line.
Poking around in caves by torchlight, drawing lines on the map, they always draw lines on the map.
“You should know that for my sins I have not yet merited to attain to this wisdom.”
I’m stuck on level 16. Repeat level indefinitely. Can’t get past the Cave of Zelda’s Treasure.
It’s getting frustrating.
You should know, that for my sins....
In an Australian Espresso Bar a game of Oneman-upman-ship is in progress
“I do adore Paris in the Spring mate”
“lovely place, romantic, know this great little bistro”
“Nothing better than catching the Metro to Montmartre”
“oh, I’ve never got the Metro, mate, we always take a taxi”
Network of Caves. Tora Bora. Riddled with Disinformation, Misdirection,
The Magician’s Art.
You have drawn them a diagram of your psyche. PECCADILLOES,
Is the approved word. The ghost of Hoover, J. Edgar,
Hovers, disembodied, over the data stream. Grist to the Blackmill.
Who or where are the Marygodivians? Who is concealing them?
FREEMASONS. KNIGHTS OF SION. TEMPLARS. KNIGHTS OF MALTA. ORDER OF THE GOLDEN DAWN. ROSICRUCIANS. ILLUMINATI. BILDERBERG GROUP. TRILATERAL COMISSION. VRIL SOCIETY. ROTARY CLUB.
Who are the SHAPE SHIFTING LIZARD LORDS?
Who prays to the Crocodile?
And what does the Crocodile give them in return?
Is Power a form of Possession?
Retired General’s Repent, Once the Spirit’s left them
All in vain. Shoulda never Napalmed that village.
Inhumane, didn’t even make strategic sense,
Now’s too late for penitence-
The god demands the sacrifice.
Be careful then, who you prey to. Each Angel is Also a Devil. Dual-Named.
Gabriel/Azreal. CROCODILE TEARS.
My name is MUD.
“Sheila’s working for the U.N, general attaché”
“Kev’s a libel lawyer in London,
His secretary’s got a secretary, would ya believe it!”
Sweet smell of success. Like it or Lump it, Pikelet or Crumpet.
A Red Scarf is Recommended, if you Want to Win.
WILL TO WIN.
right place, right time.
Right Red Scarf. Mere Cash.
I have etched the sacred mandala on the map and right in the centre lay
TOMB OF GOD!
Holy Brood! Blood Line of the Messiah! It were a sign what led me to it.
Countryside crowded with seekers. Crytoarcheologists. Excavators of Myth, one
Crouched in every cave.
Every so often,
one finds what he was looking for,
But never lives to tell the tale.
Chaos in Akashic Archive!
Karmic Records Scrambled!
No Just Desserts!
“by the help of an image
I call to my own opposite, summon all’
That i have handled least, least looked upon.”
EGO DOMINUS TUUS
Mere Messiah. Redeemer of History. Bestows New Dream.
Lays it over World, like a tablecloth/