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.
Enter
Portal of Mortals.
Recurring
recurring.
I
have known every man, every woman.
Sound
Horn
of Dawn
Freshness
of the Morning, of dew
Fool.
Mist
conceals the gods.
Rebirth,
again.
Enter,
Portal
of Mortals,
Pass
Gate. Hello Again.
This
one says, 28
28 gates,
To
pass through,
One
after the other.
Gyre
and Gimble
And
yet,
This
is no closed system
Why?
Because
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
Dance,
dance,
But
this,
Is
but the beginning.
________________________________
We
say, not just a new dawn, but a new type
of dawn
Two
suns, one yellow, one red.
_______________
-On
Reincarnation
“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.”
BERESHIT.
MEAT
BINGO.
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.
MUMBO JUMBO.
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.”
Paste.
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.
Blind
Watchmaker.
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
The
crocodile
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.
Vandals.
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-
NO.
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
coldblooded.
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.
Hurleystones.
“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.
Dress
For
Success.
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,
they say,
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/
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