DRACULA: “Homo Sapiens. All… going somewhere.” —passing traffic clears and pedestrians file out to meld in crossing over to the other sides of streets— “All with their own masks… personalities! One is wrong because he does right. One is righteous because he does wrong…Pull the strings! Dance the dance! It’s what it’s created for. Alors! Danses, danses les paladins, les maigres squellettes au gibet noir, manchot aimable…dansent, dansent les marionettes du diable, les Peaux Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles. Les ayant cloues nous aux poteaux de couleur, Red, White, & Blue. On ne vois pas l’heure ou Les Arraignaix du Mars debarquent. Les blanches squellettes de Salandin schenckt uns ein Grab in die Luft. Mesire Mephistophe tire par la cravate ses petits pantins noir grimacant sur le ciel. Et leur claquant au front un revers de savate, les fait danses, danses, danses aux sons d’un vieux Noel! Hahahahaha!”[STOCK FOOTAGE SUPERIMPOSED OVER LEGOSI’S FACE CATTLE STAMPEDE. IT’S CHAOS. BEASTS CHARGING ABOUT EVERY WHICH WAY IN NO COLLECTIVE DIRECTION.] DRACULA: “Pull the strings! Let Holy Chaos Rain! But Be Vhere. Be Vhere of the Great Green Dragon that sits on your bedpost. He eats little boys, puppydog tails, and big, slimy snails. Be Vhere. Look into my eyes. Come to me. Surrender your Khus to the Master! Count Dracula invites you to become my Children of the Night.” —
by Ryunosuke Akutagawa (translation by Jay Rubin)
And now, children, let me tell you a story about Lord Buddha Shakyamuni. It begins one day as He was strolling alone in Paradise by the Lotus Pond. The blossoms on the pond were like perfect white pearls, and from their golden centers wafted forth a never-ending fragrance wonderful beyond description. I think it must have been morning in Paradise. Soon Lord Shakyamuni stepped to the edge of the pond where He glanced down through the spreading lotus leaves to the spectacle below. Directly beneath the Lotus Pond of Paradise lay the lower depths of Hell, and as He Peered through the crystalline waters, He could see the River of Three Crossings and the Mountain of Needles as clearly as if He were viewing pictures in a kino-box. Down there His eye came to rest upon a man named Kandata (played in The Schritt in 1920 by Vrillon; by Basho in the 1978 Japanese version of Le Trempeau, Okuno Hosomichi), who was writhing in Hell with all the other sinners. This great robber had done many evil deeds: he had even killed people, and burned down houses. But it seems that Kandata had performed one single act of goodness. Passing through a deep wood one day, he had noticed a tiny spider creeping along the wayside. His first thought was to stamp it to death, but as he raised his foot, he told himself, “No, no. Even this puny creature is a living thing. To take its life for no reason would be too cruel.” And so he had let it pass unharmed. Now, as He looked down at the nether world, Lord Shakyamuni recalled how Kandata had saved the spider, and He decided to reward him for it by delivering him from Hell if possible. By happy chance, He turned to see a heavenly spider spinning a beautiful silver thread atop a lotus leaf the color of shimmering jade. Gently lifting the spider thread, He lowered it straight down through the pearl-like blossoms to the depths far below.
Here, with the other sinners at the low-point of the lowest Hell, Kandata was endlessly floating up and sinking down again in the Pond of Blood. Wherever he looked there was only pitch darkness, and when a faint shape did pierce the shadows, it was the glint of a needle on the horrible Mountain of Needles, which only heightened his sense of doom. All was silent as the grave, and when a faint sound did break the stillness, it was the feeble sigh of a sinner. As you can imagine, those who had fallen this far had been so worn down by their tortures in the seven other hells that they no longer had the strength to cry out. Great robber though he was, Kandata could only thrash about like a dying frog as he choked on the blood of the pond. And then, children, what do you think happened next? Yes, indeed: raising his head, Kandata chanced to look up toward the sky above the Pond of Blood and saw the gleaming silver spider thread, so slender and delicate, slipping stealthily down through the silent darkness from the high, high heavens, coming straight for him. Kandata clapped his hands in joy. If only he could take hold of this thread and climb up and up, he could probably escape from Hell. And maybe, with luck, he could even enter Paradise. Then he would never again be driven up the Mountain of Needles or plunged down into the Pond of Blood. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Kandata grasped the silver thread and started climbing with all his might, higher and higher. As a great robber, Kandata had had plenty of practice at this kind of hand-over-hand rope climbing. Hell and Heaven, though, are untold thousands of leagues apart, so it was not easy even for a man like Kandata to escape, no matter how hard he tried. He soon began to tire, until he couldn’t raise his arm for even one more pull. He had no choice but to stop for a rest, and as he clung to the spider thread, he looked down far below. Then he realized that all his climbing had been worth the effort: the Pond of Blood was hidden now in the depths of the darkness. And even the dull glint of the terrifying Mountain of Needles was far down beneath his feet. At this rate, it might be easier than he had imagined to climb his way out of Hell. Twining his hands in the spider thread, Kandata laughed aloud as he had not in all the years since he had come to this place: “I’ve done it! I’ve done it!” And then what do you think he saw? Far down on the spider thread, countless sinners had followed after him, and they were clambering up the thread with all their might like a column of ants. The sight struck him with such shock and fear that for a time his mouth gaped open like an idiot’s; only his eyes moved. This slim thread seemed likely to snap from his weight alone: how could it possibly hold so many people? If it were to break midway, then Kandata himself would plummet back down into the Hell he had struggled so mightily to escape. How terrible that would be. Still, from the pitch-dark Pond of Blood, an unbroken column of sinners came squirming up the fragile, gleaming thread by the hundreds—by the thousands. He knew he would have to do something now or the thread would break in two. Kandata screamed at them, “Listen to me, you sinners! This spider thread is mine. Who said you could climb it? Get off! Get off!” At that very instant the spider thread, which until then had been perfectly fine, broke with a “snap!” just where Kandata was hanging from it. Before he could even cry out, Kandata fell, slicing through the air, spinning like a top, down head-first into the darkest depths. Behind him all that remained was the dangling short end of the spider thread from Paradise, delicately gleaming in the moonless, starless sky.
Standing at the edge of the Lotus Pond in Paradise, Lord Shakyamuni watched everything that happened. And when, in the end, Kandata sank like a stone into the Pond of Blood, the Holy One resumed His stroll, His face now tinged with sorrow. Kandata had thought to save himself alone, and as just punishment for this lack of compassion, he had fallen back into Hell. How shameful it must have seemed in the eyes of Lord Shakyamuni! The lotuses of the Lotus Pond, however, were unperturbed. They swayed their perfect pearl-white blossoms near the feet of Lord Shakyamuni, and from their golden centers wafted forth each time a never-ending fragrance wonderful beyond description. It think it must have been close to noon in Paradise.
‘s mouth’s O
I’s wide my pupils were like
Gone Z 0
I couldn’t pick my head up
off the floor or barely
grin but I knew my Crue
were laughing laughing laughing
Niki go down
down Niki fall
F A R E W E L L
Brothers of the Order of Motley!
I am going
to mainline whiskey right now.
Durvah wha cha moin?
Mgah drawt erp
eento deez syringe
N Awm gaw
slam it in my arm vein
opposite side my elbow
then Awm gaw nah
poosh down deez ere plunger
The toilet flushes
Tatooless Niki Six
as a seven year old boy
in 1959 is traumatized
WHAPHASH! on the
receiving end of the flail
whaphash wHApHAsh WHABHASH!
the e m p t i n e s s
led to the behavioral tendency
to seek the extreme.
I am a worm burrowing
in a tunnel of my own design,
senseless except for the certainty
that a current is coming
the worm is washed away.
“Duh das wah why you choose dat?”
Six is asked in an interview
about his Arm & Hammer tattoo
except a flail instead of a hammer
“Dee yah Aw juss gaw wah doan know.
Twas on the day before
I mainlined Jack Daniels.”
A fat goose egg with an
infinity symbol in the middle.
Pyramids over the mobile
aeon sixth chakra of earth.
North Africa – Central America:
DC Comic Books.
Theme music: deh neh-neh
neh-neh neh neh-neh neh-neh
neh neh deh-neh
Etz Chaim corresponds
thus to the Sushumna
and the Ida and Pingala nadis:
Kingdom Shekhinah Muladhara
Swadhisthana the Path of ש
Judgment: Hod to Netzach
Manipura the Will Yesod
the Anahata chakra
Geburah and Chesed
the horizontal jointure, ת
Power of nipple to nipple of
Man and Woman
Sitra Ahra MirrorrorriM™
The reflection that returns the gaze
The antithesis of Shadow
Double ka wanderer in Duat
Der Wanderer und sein Schatten
The Tarot Bhava
Chakra Fool Avidyaa embarking on step one
on the path of the
Holy Workout routine
Kabbalah Tantra Yoga™
Utilize Rainbow Snake Kundalini
to criss cross the Ida and Pingala
and make unstraight the
way along Kether to
Chokmah – in Da’ath –
it was written in the
Akashic Record of Visuddha
in black and purple ink -
the journey from Malkuth
to Hod: the serpent
round the trunk of the Tree of
Life, Sushumna, winds
times Shaktic energy
conformed to π
Temperance significator of Foundation
to Beauty, Manipura to Anahata
the sojourn of the tantric yogin
Across the Duat the Eye of Horus
gazes like a beacon
from the temple pyramid’s frustum
the disembodied mind
joined in the temenos
of Sahasrara, the nuptial union between
Shivashakti & Ein Sof –
शिव के विशेषण जो राख कामदेव जला (translation)
enhaloed within the triangular
Binah to Chokmah base
at the Ajna for Kether to ∞ –
Lord Shiva the icon
the portrait of the saint
down his Visuddha
The poison apple of Etz
ha Da’ath Vra
the Sea of Milk
in stone on the walls
around the Main Temple
at Angkor Wat.
He plucked the cold
skinned fruit, surrounded
it within the godly palm
of the world’s creator
and tossed it
Pock! Pock! Pock! Pock! –
the tennis ball smashes
wire nets; the tennis
players groan, Uh! Uh! Uh!
with each strained exchange
of possession back & forth
east to west, the sun the
full moon eclipse
day night day night day
night day night day night
day night day night day –
of the devas or rakshasas
who are gonna get it?
-Bhraataa Shivaya, tasmai namaha
-Hare Krishna, Shivaya nama om,
the then clear light Lord greets
his divine relative in the avatar of Krishna
with a deferential nod
and a prayer of blessing
signified in the hands in prayer position.
-Hiya what can I do ya for?
-Look, I got this poison apple.
You seen Snow White?
Read the original Brothers Grimm
Schneeweisschen und Rosenrot
The Fruit of the Churning of Milk
Blood drips – Drip. Drip. –
from the fingertip that
touched with too much
pressure the serpent’s fang,
the rose thorn, and
felt with certainty that
pleasure and pain are
of a single principle.
The skin is red. Ya see!
-Quite, Shiva answers.
You cannot dispose it
because where would it go?
Nothing can unexist.
I will store it
in Visuddha, hide it
from innocent Shekhinah
the beautiful princess
Snow White within
MirrorrorriM on the wall.
Will you give it me Vishnu?
-If you truly wish it Lord.
The quarterback calls, Hike!
The world begins: Bereshith.
The rakshasas rush
the scrimmage line.
The thrower calmly finds
Shiva Who Burnt Cupid to Ashes
levitating in the lotus position
between the golden goal
posts in the End Zone.
He releases the ovular spheroid projectile;
sends it one hundred yards
at 299,792,458 meters per second.
Shiva incanting A
catches the apple – stop
sound – bit between his teeth.
The green & blue = red globe.
He retains as the scoreboard
clock ticks down eons in bright
dotted neon seconds
the sixty-minute four-quarter
length of an American football game
breathing through nostrils
holding jalandhara bandha locked
in silence visualizing A
as the Supernal Triangle
surrounding his head a football helmet
all while his impuissant enemies
uniformed defenders with names
and numbers on their backs
futilely jump up and down
idiots doing jumping jacks
expending their energy, dying, being
buried and rising up again
to leap with chalky hands
stretched to the artificially
lit ceiling of Giants Stadium
trying forever fruitlessly
to tackle and maim the Blessed One.
The Buddhist versus the Western
concept of the Latin
word for I am
the sanskrit अहंकार, Ahamkara.
The subjective sense of the kartr
is the root of the grand delusion
we have represented in human language.
The ego is the survival instinct
as expressed in Hobbes’ Leviathan.
The belly of the beast aflame.
The mouth salivating.
The sockets running blood.
Ahamkara is also associated
to the mind’s sense of time
in which it continually thinks
for to in order that it be
constantly assured of its existentiality
its future, its past, its grounding;
its eight minute far away
light speed of Father sun.
The Buddhist’s spiritual goal
is the dissolution of the ego
which is conceived in essence
to be a disparate heap of aggregates.
The skandhas the I am of the East
is supposed to shake off.
Neo-Gnostic mystic George Gurdjieff
asserted it is not the cessation
of one’s sense of individuality
I’s seek; but the integration
of the One with the Self.
One’s I changes
as quickly as his thoughts, moods, emotions,
physical sensations, itches.
One makes a profound mistake
if he considers himself always to be
one and the exact same person.
“I am going to read a book,”
says the I of the intellect.
“Screw that!” exclaims the I of movement,
“I am going to go and ride my bicycle.”
“My bacon,” says yet the third eye.
“I will ride my bike to the fast food place
and get me a bacon cheeseburger.”
Better have read the book.
The Ego and the Id by Sigmund Freud
inspired by the ambiguity
the great psychologist discovered
in the term ‘unconscious.’
The Id is the Dionysian.
Better skip Freud. Flip straight to Orpheus.
Ode to the Id:
I am, Ego
fall down before you Earthy Lord.
Spare me the Law of Apollo.
The Id contains libido
which is the primary source of instinctual force
that is unresponsive to the demands of reality
and that manifests most saliently in dream.
The Id acts according to the pleasure principle.
The clinging and aversion taught too by Buddha
as the basis for every action which increases
karma, and so rolls the Wheel of Life eternally
the totum animals of flight, capture,
and self-generating consumption.
We approach the Id with analogies:
we call it chaos, a cauldron
full of seething excitations.
It is filled with energy
reaching it from the instincts,
but it has no organization;
partakes of no collective will.
Only circular motion in the Wheel of Life.
The second outer husk: bardo realms.
The Hell of the Hungry Ghosts,
the gods and the asuras.
In the Id contrary impulses coexist
without canceling each other out
as would normally be expected in any
positive/negative bipolar system.
But nothing, nowhere of or in the Id
can be called negation.
No limit known as time.
The Id precedes the Ego,
according to Freudian Child Development
theory. God Dionysus
reincarnates in an infant,
born with eyes wide open, smiling.
He breathes air. His Id’s spark
is ignited. It is in his DNA.
It is foolish to attempt to eradicate Id;
like pressing water from a stone.
The instinctual cathexes naturally seek
discharge. Deal with it Ego.
Be a man. Get over Id.
In Id are Eros and Thanatos
the libido and the death urge,
each others’ evil twin.
The task of the Sick is to lead organic life
back to the inanimate state.
Sounds like psychopomp.
The Sick also plagues the Ego
that we approach through analogies,
that boat lost at sea, bobbing like a cork,
having capsized in a storm,
gulping for breath to remain afloat,
is an urge toward destruction and anarchy
directed aggressively against the external world
and other hostile organisms.
I am in flux.
You expect me to stay content here?
in this three thousand year old atheocracy?
caged in ancient urban buildings
behind bars that rise over a hundred stories
and occupy entire city blocks?
I demand we vote out democracy.
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
“But rabbi, what about crazies with guns?”
“Fear them not, my disciple.
Their bullets can do no harm
against anybody wearing one of these shamanic tunics,”
the ego-driven leader of Cult proffers
from a cardboard box labeled Champion
a basketball jersey to his follower, #93;
team colors purple and gold,
his own name imprinted on the back,
autographed by ‘Your Guru.’
“That comes to a total donation of 299 please.”
I spend practically all my time
watching the Viddy Screen, reading books.
The rabble tune into
trash TV shows.
We are at war, us and them.
O, it isn’t known as a war outright.
Our side of course refers to it frankly as such.
The others put a spin on it;
make the idea seem stupid;
turn the concept into a movie.
The fix is that we are gentle knights,
forsworn from taking life.
Whereas they are unabashedly violent,
and they outnumber us by much.
M stalked Milan looking for a sword fight.
Fresh from painting the biblical beheading
of Holofernes; having captured the pivotal moment
that the dagger slices between vertebrae
in the neck region of the spinal chord,
he was in a passionately violent mood.
One sought to avoid M, celebrity that he was,
after a bout of creativity.
O no! Look, there he comes.
Cowards peeked out of cracked window shudders
and held their breath as he walked past.
The modern reader may imagine his image
as Alexander the Great Dularge from Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange.
The opening shot: M sneers
to camera chiaroscuro. The light on his skin, stark.
Glaring subdued, the dagger in girl killer
Judith’s hand. The old crone at her shoulder
in profile, sneering the same. Music, synthetic,
symphonic. The song of centuries since the renaissance.
in M’s Milan, Italy, 1608…1994.
The distant past from 2012; the recent, 1971.
Visions on Drencrom. The drug caused
the drinker to hallucinate and act out savagely.
M’s costume, tight off-white, straight button-down shirt,
white tights and heavy black military boots for kicking.
Right hand on the knob of the cane, the scabbard;
left clutching a cold glass of Vellocet.
Synthemesc flowed in his brain veins,
synapses, circuitry. Suddenly,
in the medieval tavern it was as if a great bird had flown in!
She sang the Ode to Joy.
Freude schoener Goetterfunken!
Eine Tochter aus Elysium.
No! No! It’s a sick. It’s sin!
What is all this about sin?
Tis a sin to abuse lovely Ludwig Van like that!
Are you referring to the score?
Yes! M screams, enraptured.
The witnesses in the Calling of Saint Matthew
turned from the east to the pate of the head of Christ
as the hour streamed through the window,
out of the frame to the left of the canvass.
To the tax collector, Jesus said: Follow me.
M, murmured Doc Holliday in Dodge, 1883.
He correctly guessed the letter
of which his opponent was minded
through his powers of extrasensory perception.
Remote viewing was the tooth doctor’s specialty.
Johnny Ringo, of the Clanton Gang, challenged Holliday
upon losing in a card game money he had robbed.
For the whole pot, double or none, tell me what I’m thinking.
Er, is it a n –
Ringo jerks, anticipating Doc to say number.
Nnn – a letter of the alphabet?
Ringo gulps: M-Hm.
Uh, is it a M?
Ringo admits: Uh-Huh.
Then if the answer is M, M means murder.
Goddamn spawn of scum, forcin’ my soul to perdition.
Hey Doc, let’s ride!
Sure Earp. We’ll set out soon as we see someone bury this carcass.
Johnny Ringo Rest In Peace.
Tombstone etch Doc?
My opinion as a medical professional’s that that won’t be necessary.
We’ll make this sack of shit anonymous.
Pee Yew! That boy already start to stink moment he walked in here.
Hurry awn up ‘n carry him out.
…And the Glory are Yours now and forever. Amen.
The Vendetta Riders wrap up prayer and place their cowboy hats back on.
Yee Haw! They ride.
M from Caravaggio went west
through Texas to Arizona Territory
seeking subject matter for his films.
The North American Spaghetti Western.
Sergio Leone was Michelangelo Merisi; Italian man from Milan.
The Wyatt Earp archetype personified by Hollywood actor
Clint Eastwood, famous for Dirty Harry Callahan, SFPD vigilante.
I pack my Magnum Opus holstered.
And being as this is the most powerful handgun in the world
and would blow your head clean off,
there is one question you must ask yourself:
Do I feel lucky?
Well, do you… Punk!
Um, no Doctor Holliday, I don’t, I regret to admit.
Then that’d appear John Henry flushed his poker hand.
Theosophist Aleister Crowley researched assiduously
the cards that Holliday pulled at Seven-Card Stud,
figuring if he interpreted the layouts right he’d be able to decipher
how the apoplectic man became North American legend.
Movies be made about M.
Aha! Crowley eurekas.
He crows out: IAW! Avast, the permutations!
Seven of spades; four, two, and ten of diamonds.
Atziluth, Yetsirah, Yetsirah, Yetsirah.
Associated with futility, completion, dominion, and oppression,
according to the Thoth Deck
and the Book of the Thelema, Liber Legis.
Fascist dictator M, Mao’s Little Red Book.
Doc pulls a Magus out his boot.
He cheats. So? He always wins.
He thus becomes the good guy in Cinema Memoriam.
Sure, Michelangelo was a pal. A regular ol’ Joe.
Whachu want Mister Merisi?
Best Picture The Godfather pats the Italian urchin’s head.
There, there Johnny. Why don’t you go on and give old God
a couple of them apples there please.
These’nes Mister Merisi?
A little bit higher up that tree.
At a boy. In that branch there off to the left.
Right, the golden and the red.
Here y’are. Plum from my orchard sir. That’ll be sixteen fifty.
Here’s twenty kid. Go have a blast on your Padrino.
Lay a broad if you can swing it.
The cherubic keeper of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil
scampers like a snake away.
Lay as many broads as and while you can,
the old man echoes softly the eternal admonishment.
Crowley holds the fruits, palmed.
The Magus card was key.
There are three; in the Thoth Deck only.
Hence Holliday is easily able to cheat.
The path from Kether to Binah.
The Hebrew letter, Beth.
Trinitarian the syllables: I A W.
The path from Will to Understanding is essentially manifold.
The voice of nothingness breathes to the womb.
Card sharks, read this treat.
Read M ‘n weep suckers, Johnny got dealt a Full House.
Don’t go firin’ off them victory pistols yet, premature ejaculator Ringo.
Dealer got three more to give.
M gunnin’ four IAW!
Secretly cast off futility. Bury it neath a book pile.
Send me on four there sonny.
Of paths I did indeed fortunately draw the fourth,
that of the Emperor, Yesod to Netzach. Foundation to Eternity.
Tsaddiq, the Righteous One, covenant, phallus, prophecy.
The Sun in Capricorn.
Look to the original work of art itself by Lady Frieda Harris,
rather than to an interpretation.
The color orange & red.
The symbolism (starting at the bottom left corner
and going around counter-clockwise) the shield
with twin phoenixes entwined around a fire orb.
Left leg: Yesod to Hod in the man as microcosmic correspondence
to the Kabbalah Tree of Life, the one in Eden IAW left untended,
protected from the real estate landscape developer
come to be known in monotheistic doctrine, as God, Allah, et al.
A haloed lamb lying, supporting a pole, waving a flag
for State in the crook of its tender hoof.
Center, the Emperor holds, palmed, a pomegranate firecracker.
The fuse is lit; is sparkling.
He will let it blow up in his hand.
His other arm begirds the rod of the Ram, Aries.
His holy countenance half-hidden in profile.
Were we to look at his full face, mere mortals,
we would turn into stone. A fate not so very terrible. We remind.
Threes! Gold coins rain down.
Danae’s conjugal visit from Zeus.
Divine sex that begot Greek legend Perseus.
Cards as cups, hearts; spades, pentacles.
The sephiroth Hod is complete in abundance and works.
M concentrates next on 8.
We return to where we begin: Binah.
The trifurcated Magus path.
The kingdom in disks. Assiah, the manifest world.
The Tree of Life in springtime bloom,
crowned by the circular, point-centered
symbol of Ein Sof, the Sun; orange & red.
Perseus, bastard son of Cloud Gatherer and mortal beauty, Danae,
in life is charged the mission to slay the Gorgon, Medusah,
whose hair is snakes, whose stare turns men into stone.
Athena instructs the hero to seek the Hesperides,
to whom are entrusted the Jovian adamantine sword, the weapon,
and Hades’ helm of darkness to hide him.
Hermes lent Perseus winged sandals to fly.
Athena gave him a mirror-plated shield.
He encounters first the Graeae; grandmamama gray eye.
Ocular orb, sphere of light,
the perpetually three old women, had one to share between them.
Perseus stole the looking device
and demanded the Graeae bring him to the Hesperides.
Armed, in armor clad, he at last is ready to find out the cave of Medusa.
Scoping his victim by walking backward,
looking at the reflection in his shield, to be guided,
or else to turn into stone, he entered and proceeded.
He memorized her neck, bare; her hair,
the serpents, also slumbering; closed his eyes, visualized
struck, and decapitated her. The dagger sliced between vertebrae
cleanly as when Judith did in Roman Holofernes, by Caravaggio.
The snakes shrieked. She was silent.
Her vocal apparatus was severed.
Perseus tossed the head into his knapsack, Kibisis,
and heroically headed for home.
From the wound in the witch’s shoulders
spring in epilogue Pegasus and Chrysaor
mythic consequences of the sacrilegious sexual union
Medusa had undergone by Poseidon:
to copulate in the temple of chaste goddess Athena.
Come and vaginal secretions all over her altar cloths:
the sin for which she was punished
to the hellish experience of being Gorgon.
The esoteric teaching is Medusah wanted desperately to die.
Her departed soul blessed her murderer, Perseus.
Those she had called on formerly to kill and end her suffering
got caught in her gaze and turned into stone.
Blow smoke swirls in crystal balls, glass spheres.
Colors of flames amplified through cylinders
stickered with sacred images and prayers
to the Holy Father in the Emperor’s Spanish.
Ahem, Crystal repeats. She echoes, Narcissus.
Artists, gunmen, occultists, gurus, rock stars.
Aleister Crowley blew back as Jimi Hendrix’s guitar,
which talked. Pst, Cherub, what’s it say?
Smoke swirls in Crystal Glass.
Um, hi Miss Glass.
Hello, artist. Reply.
The ball is in your proverbial Xibalban court,
archetypal live, young man, One Hunahpu.
Why I… Egh! The Wrong buzzer blares. Try again.
Slew the tootled flutings of Native American Pan pipes.
Why I… am Peter, the Spirit of the Aborigine!
Hari, hari, Krishna! Hari Peter Pan!
Lost Boys incant around a kirtan fire,
accompanied by Indian musicians, also aborigines.
The shaman says: Just think of lovely things
and your heart will fly on wings
forever in Never Never Land.
Ketherian nothingness; the Emptiness taught by Lord Buddha.
The prophet said: Second star to the right and straight on till morning.
The magi went…
A that a way – the Old West prospector points to Tenochtitlan.
The Three-Throated One voices: IAW.
Thus descend into the ternary dimension.
Binah gives birth to three: Geburah, Chesed, and Tiphareth.
The lightest path thence is down Yesod,
directly into Malkuth, the Shekhinah.
The phallus links to the Bridegroom the Virgin Mother Earth.
The Sons of Man are Lost Boys M, John Henry Holliday, Aleister
Crowley, archetype Peter Pan, who crowed to evoke the totem
animal of the Native American Ghost Dance shaman.
They practiced Thelema in one form or another,
which is: Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
sic, Liber Legis. Thus spake Ankh-af-na-Khonsu.
Sri Krishna Govindas. Hari, hari hari!
Govinda Gopalaha! Sri Krishna yaya!
The Krishna-conscious are to be heard in voco grotto.
The ignorant in chiaroscuro; blandished, the bloody victim.
What are we? Saint Matthew Peter martyrs?
Check the slate, the Thelema stele, for the camera’s positioning.
Peter Matthaya Gopalaha! Sri Peter Pan aya!
Sri Krishna Govindas hari, hari, hari!
Scene forty-seven; take one hundred and nine.
Let us commence our rosaries.
Everyone shut your eyes. Envision the mandala.
Here we go round the rosary bead, the world,
the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush, mulberry bush.
For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory
forever and ever. Amen.
Strange I lose my gear
I think as I wake up
in the fifteen minutes afterward.
Off shelf reached through
crazy desperation hung
the Hanged Man of the Holy Tarot;
L’Hueso de Espalda del Hombre Colgado.
Monster the feed you must,
synthetic puppet Master Yoda
creation hands having breakfast,
lunch & dinner. At Universal
Studios Florida on location for
the shooting of Star Wars sequel
The Empire Strikes Back…
Thank you Frank N Furter for trephanning
me, undoing my circumcision.
It’s a gas – Here! Here! – that
Frankie’s landed. His lust is so sincere.
The toasters – Ai here here! – tip cups.
to do due homage to sir savior perennially.
Chopin Sonata, last to middle movement,
1953 recorded by William Kapell;
prior to the pianist being taken down, hands
and all in a deadly commercial airliner crash.
‘Them aircraft’re dangey russ,’
resignedly comments a yokel, who is
standing by, an extra to the scene.
‘Yappi!’ he spits tobacco, or
“To Ba Key,” as he’d himself call it
were he discussing how wacky
smoking were for his head.
We all exalted rejoiced.
Pork or seafood wanton?
How bout brown rice noodle?
How done? Soba or udon?
Flour, como tortilla, frita; Frida Kahlo:
Don Diego, Seigneur, immoral Lord,
portrait Mexico in mural since the settling
of the Spanish, when progress first began
with their cannons, grenades, bayonets,
their muskets and the mustard gas
that the enemy set off canisters of.
The eminence of the downcast
comely home swirls. Mood is rainy day.
whether or not the sky is clear
or the sun is shining. The omphalos is
a square pocket of midday shadow;
corners its final frontiers; distance
streets are from one another.
This where I live,
that where I went
looking for sex somehow or other
Approximate feet to the foreground
Slenderman in Velasquez’s Meninas,
front off the cliff’s face.
pelts the gray rock
below. Stains paint.
Strange I lost my gear
at seven in the morning,
the day after Halloween.
I, Elliott, no surname, Thomas, Henry,
was pale clown face painted.
You ET, a candy colored clown who
silhouetted my bicycle on the full moon.
Hands raised birds swallows snakes
in honor of the Lord of Heaven Amon Ra
Athi Ankh Uta Sebh
The Eye of the flags
that represent the gods whom Ra hath created
Hands palms the five-pronged star
Birds the Eye the effigy
the serpent crawling toward the wall to shoot forth
Nefer em Khaf em Atet
All aboard the Atet Boat
Worship swirls horizon
The head above the empty Eye
falling out from the ceiling
Sky three-line Beings
Tents closed eyes the three-part
segmented vertical wall
Heru Kheru The Poet Thoth
the lightning balance effigy seated
The symbol Ankh in Maat
on the knees of the bending god
The arm the hand that catches
the rays of every cup of sun
The wilted flower dipping in ink
The flat snake between the dawn
and the darkened moon the coiled snake
coming out of the cup Procession
A toothsome line X the tree wilts
into fire Sebau the Evil One
is a deformed ape hunched
under the weight of the moon
The arms the snakes by birds X
the staff of power are bound
Owl turned to the right shoulder
Breasts beneath the jagged line
Ra the six snake legs hath taken away
Mesu Betes the sons of War
the offspring of injustice No
Never will they the rabbit rise
The wise prince who dwells
inside the box a small square
in the upper corner do the Infinite Twist
the carnival Hark the birds rejoice
around the fortified perimeter
of the central temple’s environs
The sound the flags the gods
Neteru Ha Maa in Ra’s rising
Arrows of light rain
come to the shins of the leg
The lands in levels have been inundated
Majestic advances of the reverenced god
the ruler hath taken his seat
to drink from the jug on Mount Manu
The serpent levitates
to the lamp upon the earth
where drops him out her womb
his mother Incessant suns bottomless goblet
The tail of the hindquarters of the lion
has backtracked and returned to Yesterday
The serpent supercedes the sun
In the peace of Your holy phallus
Maa Neferuk May I advance
in Your guise Your strength
With this twisted stick Infinitude
subdue the ejaculation the long-eared donkey
With this leg let me stop Sebau
the sinuous-necked riverbird quash
the nefarious hour of Apep
that I the Eye may see
roll in the season of Abtu
the beetle fish present existence
and float atop the sharks of Ant
in the waters in my Ant Boat
Maana Heru em Ari Hemu Tehuti Maat
O Horus Prince of Thoth
the double thrust of Justice
The rudder under control of the tongue
The lion’s arm the winds
I am both at the bow and the stern
of the Sektet and the Atet Boat
O open triangle antennae of serpent Being
The solar disk among pyramidal structures
Sight the Eye to Ah the swirling feather
the female orb-headed goddess of the ever
full moon With every flicker of flame
of my firm leg my current life
That my Ba the basket
before the bending Man-Bird
walks under the aegis of the broken box
the empty eye to merit steps leaps and dances
in the cup of the place of pleasure
Proclaim my name when the owl returns
from the snake and the stork
digs its long beak for worms
My hieroglyph the stone
is here on Your offering table
my things the graces of my possessions
are proffered my testicular phallus
is spilling for the worshippers of Horus
O Ra open Eye feather horizon
spiraling wind a spot inside the Boat
as the day sets out and sails for
the flag before the regally seated
effigy god To be the ground
in the orgasm of Osiris
in the reigning Kingdom my Ka