Wednesday, July 28

Post #95

Everyone's ninetyfifth instance of a phenomenon is a momentous one, of more import than any decimal milestone. Thus, I nod my head to the goddesses who watch over the chained Fates, keeping the latter's whims in check.
So, do I have a momentous announcement for this momentous first 95th post? No, but I hasten to remark that my nonsense is gradually reaching the peak!

Hark! I am approaching you from afar,
My silhouette framed with light solar.
I crawl, seeking my birthright,
I walk, forthright,
I run, agallop with speed dighted.
What was that last one, you ask?
I think you've just set yourself a task,
To search your lexicon for that word,
to cut the ambiguity with reason's sword.
Let me and I will provide the hint,
I will be the sign and the glint
Of said sword as it shines,
the pnemonic sword that's mine.
We only get such a small bit of time
That we shouldn't waste it on rhyme
When we can speak our minds in plain,
Without fear or awe or pain.
I will return to the start
and recapitulate before I depart:
I won't tell you the meaning of a word
If you won't bother to look up what you've heard.

Tuesday, July 27

Epicurus on God

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?î

How Many Sins Are You Guilty Of?

According to Herr Dietrich Kolde, these are the sins:

1. Breaking any of the 10 Commandments, the Decalogue.
2. Violating any of 5 Commandments of the Church.
3. The 7 Deadly Sins
4. 9 Alien Sins
5. myriads of Glossal Sins (cursing, I suppose)
6. the Mute Sins (mostly sexual)
7. 3 Openly Discussed Sins (against nature)
8. 6 Sins Against the Holy Ghost

Fuck! That's a lotta goddamned sins!

Gists and Jests, vol1, art2

I may have gained a closer understanding of one of Herr Nietzsche's complaints against Christianity in his work Antichrist. Namely, this observation is that the aforesaid religion is a "decadent," or "slave" religion. It is a religion that only has appeal for a man who is physically, mentally or spritually impoverished.

Jesus frequently appeals to those who are poor, wanting in material things, ill, or generally crestfallen. Where is the appeal to the strong and healthy? Or to the wise men and women of the world? Christianity seems to me to be a negation of evolution, in a sense, for it will gather the weak as a flock to overpower the individual. Thus the mass and morass of mankind lives on, while the strong or free is weeded out. I think I know where Mr. Nietzsche is coming from. Thus is Christianity a decadent religion with a slave morality.

Gists and Jests, vol1

Jesus' Message is ultimately one of anticipation of and preparation for the "Kingdom of God," or "Reign of God," or "endtimes." It is an eschatological message essentially. Thus Herr Rudolf Bultmann avers, anyway.
Join with Jesus and his message or die in eternal pain, in a nutshell. The promulgation of the message of Jesus is the symptom of the incipience of the last age, that is, the Age of Pisces, the fish, hence the latter's association with Jesus. Now that age has passed, thank Aiwass!

But when do we get our time, our two millenia? We are the adversary, or Satan, in our individuality and iconoclasm. We are freethinkers who cannot abide that power to judge and deem truth as true reside in the impotent, wretched hands of the church and its auxiliaries.

The sun of knowledge is low, near the horizon, and casts a long shadow over a wide area of human science (science as in "knowledge"). I hope that this sun is rising, and not setting on a new dark age. Let us watch for the sun of knowledge to rise, for, as Heraclitus says "the sun is new each day."

Genesis Commentary

Chapter 8 - god promises not to annihilate mankind ever again, as he has just finished doing. How gracious of an omnipotent tribal deity! All it takes for god to stop killing the creatures of the earth is a bribe of animal sacrifice! god sounds more like a mobster offering "protection" than god of creation - a true Jewish storm god, through and through.

Chapter 9 - After further threats of lethal punishment god promises to Noah that the rainbow will forever be a symbol of his covenant of peace with Noah and his descendents. Isn't it somewhat odd that this supposedly omniscient deity requires a visual cue in order to remember a solemn pledge made to not decimate the population of the world's animal life? I am no god, but I can remember such a small thing.
Next, assumedly taking his cue from his wroth and petty god, Noah curses Canaan, son of Ham because his father accidentally walked into the tent of Noah while he was lying naked in a drunken stupor. There are many ethical flaws in this passage, and I don't even know where to begin an enumeration thereof. Canaan is being punished for the actions of his father, essentially, the way I see it. Noah should punish himself if he feels that punishment is in order. I'm sure they had whips back then. Maybe this story is stretched to its moral limits in order to justify racial prejudice against black Africans, that is, the descendants of Ham on the continent of Africa.

Monday, July 26

Confessions of a Suicide Addict

When the beer stops flowing and the pills have all been pulverized, what then? This is when the suicide addict comes to be. The constant needfulness and expectation of gratification, which must needs be fulfilled, this is the defining phenomenon of suicide addiction. One consoles oneself with the fact that there is always that one thrill left to be had, just as long as the sun is still below the earth. One slice of the arm, surely not enough to die from, just enough to bleed and feel something after the numbness of the booze and psychoactive pharmakokinetic circusshow has subsided.
Let the blood flow a little, one thinks; one has enough, surely. If I die, then I win, and if I don't, I win. I kill doldrums with the knife, just as I kill myself with the knife. It's a new kind of gamble, like roulette, but with a blade instead of a pistol.
She isn't going to show up at 4am? Fuck it, I'll just let the blood flow a little bit to cheer myself up. The distraction is well worth the cost of bandages and derangement that builds up from the repeated offenses of the suicide addict.
Well now, that cut didn't quite do it, what about another, sharper this time and with some force, damn it. Don't be a pussy. Slice your fucking self like you mean it. Who gives a shit if you die anyway? They'll forget you soon enough. What will you ever contribute to the world, will it ever equal what you have taken from it?
These are the escalations of mood that occur from threshold of suicide elation to suicide intoxication.
They'll forget you ere long, mark my words.
When the sun begins to rise and the incipient rays of dawn encroach upon my lonely, bloody world, I've had enough, says the suicide addict. There will be more blood to shed later tonight. Now is for sleep. And what is sleep but a shorter death. Death is just the recuperation of the nous, or animus, or soul or whathaveyou, as sleep is the recuperation of the body. I can kill myself in as many lives as I like. It's all a win-win situation, this game of suicide. These are the ploys of the suicide addict.

Washington, D.C.

scruffnecked gruff old beggars,
crazy fishwomen with mysterious dead husbands,
prophesyers, sayers crazy and semisane --
this micro-megalopolis is my home.
beersoaked perverts and dancers undighted,
hecklers and hawkers and hookers all benighted
who comprise this shameful city,
where any good deed goes unrequited.
i sometimes wonder about the state of things
in the world when i see a poor man beg
a penny of a scornful man suitclad, a darkling
glower for any beneath his esteem or reckoning.
This city is my heaven and my hell.
Heavy equipment operators and dock workers,
lawyers and politicians cheating on their wives
or boyfriends with their secrataries.
illiterate and unlearning masses of morons --
this mega-micropolis is no home for anyone.

Retrodopterous Petticoat Blossoms

homing in on retrodopterous insects, buzzing wings
and flying things annoy the lady as she sings.
wolf and cat alike do smear palpable palmfuls
of plenary stuff all around and roundly so.
picking up the gazette, mitre moved in-surreptitiously
past plumage of ostrich, peacock, and petticoat blossom.
feeling for my shortsword i begin
to murmur in my heart my soft demidread
and subnormal fears of death that whispers
unheard in my ears. avaunt! and back with ye,
to your chthonic hell, for i'm no titan to
suit your swelling dungeonful'o darkness and
my aforementioned petticoat blossoms are
ruminant and olfactorily eloquent like rotten roses.
Premiere! Puissance! Potomac powerhouse of pottery!

Petticoat Blossoms, pt. 2

Sherlock blossoms and petticoat Watsons,
pier by the river runoff intracivilly.
don't peer at me whilst i pee off the pier.
pierhaps you should look at some other's pier.
tea for two? or a pear for robespierre?
when i think red, you say blue; when you think bluer,
i run back around the statue of mr. lincoln, adorned so nebulously with his enblossomed petticoat.
Epilogue to Gutter blues

Vomit-stained shirt with splotches all over,
Don't even look at me till I cover
Myself with shame, shame of not having a bath
Or a shave for days on end. I'm loath
to do so yet I sink ever deeper into myself.
Now I replace my pride on to the shelf.

Gutter Blues

Brimming near-over is the cup of which I quaff
More than my fill of sorrow. I may happen to laugh
Now and then, when my pain chances to subside.
You may look at me with scorn and deride
My prejudice and paranoia and compulsions, but
I look you straight in the eyes with revulsion.
Why not pour some more salt in my wound?
Just take a pinch and gather 'round to
Scoff and build your towering triumph over my meagre soul.
Enjoin yourselves to kick me while I lie, not whole
In body or in spirit -- heaven forfend I make a stand!
But I damned-well will fulfill all of my demands.
Let me close my eyes and leave me be,
I'll open them when I'm ready, eventually.
to my muse i direct this paean, in hope
that my mind can begin to grope
that pabulum which must shape the way a sculptor does,
who removes the excess that conceals the body, dross
that must be chiseled away from my mind
that in order to write, my form ai should find.
grant me smoothness of flow and rhyming words
and strength to cut away my weakness as by a sword.
Darkling, dreadful psychopompos of the age
Precessions of axes and stellar rage.
Wherefore do you wander free, like a star?
I want to bring you back to me, back from afar,
Lording over the guestful table of my tale
Told over and over with the voice of the gale
That whispers loudly and shouts softly.
Paradoxes are mere maxims in this, my world.
Javelin-nebulae and semaphore whorls
Of gaseous clusters of fetal forms,
Starlight traveling after stardeath, worms
Of the mind, parasitic nightmare creatures.
My dream is a plague of light, treacherous,
Dire, hopeless and formless.
de Luciferum

proud of aspect, broadbrowed and true
few can ever hold a candle to you.
you light my cigarettes and the starry night's glint
with knowledge the spark and courage the flint.
i set my course by your very calculations
and reach my objective by slow lucubration.
show me a god or a man that can do half as much
as you, and i will show you a pretender of such.
i acknowledge you by unicursal design
of the hexagram the symbol of you, and your sign.
n man is lonely in the loneliest wood
when he has your illumination to light his view.
few are the gods that compare to yourself --
i invoke thee to elucidate my own true self.
odoriferous roses all budden abloom,
casting their scents across vast plains of gloom,
quite a stark contrast of characteristics here.
Luminous orbs lighten the looming dell,
to which we ride on nightmares of hell.
as the sulphurous smell of brimstone and niter
engulfs our senses, we will realize that rather
than suffer an eternity of such severity
we ought to behave and show good charity
to our fellow man. but we iconoclasts will
ever choose the harder, less beaten road.
for we are a hardy race still,
who cannot submit to the goad.

standing on olympus mount, i watched him fall,
that star out of heaven, brighter than all
else in the sky, that welkinwonder
lucifer, who is of the light and gave men fire.
Hell Gate

satan with his cohort arrive at hell gate,
expulsed from above after battling fate.
"Non serviam" said mighty lucifer aloud
fearless of requital, mighty and proud.
the door featured locks of artful complexity
that were sealed with sigils of perfidy.
the inner door of hell gate is guarded by two
of satan's own, sin and death, who
devour or madden all who would try the door.
of his cohort of angels, none had more
low prestige than beelzebub, lord of (f)lies;
I woke from a dream, reckoning not
Where I lay nor how to that place I'd got.
Semaphore or smoke signals hardly could convey
My distress, confusion and dismay.
Gathering my thoughts like a herd of wild sheep,
I reassemble my whereabouts from that fitful sleep.
Passing by the window sill, I saw
Outside in the sunlight a carcass, raw
And bloodied and rigor-mortified.
My heart sank at the recrudescence of reality.
My dream was broken.
i sit within the bower of my thoughts, watching
phosphorescent flitterings that cannot be caught
by merely mortal hands; but it is in thought
that i approach the mystery with the key i have brought.
were i to turn my eyes a moment, for aught,
I would see and afterwards see naught.
the ephemeral wonder of deepest nature
is revealed in secrets to those mature.
all men seek the knowledge of quickness
that would allay their fears and cure their sickness.
so, it is as i depart from my embowered seat
that i hear a distant thunderous beat.
sounds that drift to me from afar signal something
perhaps good, I do not know. i hear someone sing
above the beat then stand still, frozen
as i suddenly see an image brazen --
an idol of dreams, of archetypal nightmares
serving a warning to he who'd tread forth: beware!

Sunday, July 25

Dancing, glimmering beads of light,
That bounce back from salty beads of sweat
like rills of running ambrosia,
Fit to quench the thirst of Olympia.
I watched her intently, with mounting lust,
Then bethought me the pleasure of her caress (carcass?),
Her breasts heaving upon her chest,
So wondrous fair, fairer than the rest.

When night falls and winds cease to blow
I begin my lucubration, studying slow.
I formulate my alchemical aims
While with boiling blood I intone the names
of forsaken rebel angels in Hell,
Now facing south and tolling its knell.
In my younger years I had compunction
But now I'm old, I care only for function.
Azazel, Beelzebub and Satan
Are the Great Old Ones, below forever?
Whose shades I summon, whilst all ties I sever
With the people of this world.
The great sun rises over golden plains of summer.
The world abounds with creatures without number.
Winds slowly sough through the motley leaves of fall
And swathe the land with Zephyr's call.
The Celts know that the year starts ere winter,
When on Samhain eve we cross the bridge 'tween here and hinter.
There's a time of rebounding life called spring,
When festively clad maidens will dance and sing
But the great year has more than this...

I hereby declare myself free and an apostate of all
and sundry tiez to the son of man and his father yahweh, storm phantom of israel; the terms of this renunciation are unequivocally stated and as follows:

In the name of Lucifer, Bearer of Light, carrier of the lamp of knowledge; stalwart angel of individuality, in the Faustian spirit, I renounce my ties to Jesus, called the Christ-Messiah, and his church.
I am free.
I am free of mind.
I am free of body.
I know no god or goddess but my own self.
My Christian baptism was a postnatal spirit-rape -- I was nescient of and powerless to resist this which was foisted upon me as a babe in swaddling clothes. My confirmation was made under duress and during a period of spiritual apathy induced by religion.
I renounce the concept of god.

I am free.
I am free of mind.
I am free of body.
I know no god or goddess but my own self.

I seek the true light of understanding and knowledge.
I denounce the herd and its morality. I am free!
On a night typical of nights back then
I left for a lonely walk through a fen
of miasmic, cold, abhorrent thoughts.
Christ's AGE had done and the door was opened.
With my comrades I now set out; one had brought
The stuff wherewith to brew a potion,
a Gnostic Eucharist of ergot wrought.
Taking this, I danced in dervish motion.
One may believe in or against anything
But its substance resists one's tampering.
I whirled and twirled then stock-still stood,
And drank the air, redolent of burning wood.

Round with faux-wooden face,
Your circumference takes in all of ten feet of space.
I place my wares upon you now,
So I may write poems upon your brow.
Supported by one great leg of steel,
Your base is sure and smooth to feel.
Around you stand four wooden chairs,
Sat on by folks who one at another stare.

The perennial quest for the holy grail
Is closer to home than any old wife's tale.
The grail is medieval gloss of ergotism,
Such as can be known by lysergic acid mysticism.
Sir Gawain was he called who closest came to find,
While Gavin I am in my quest through the mind.


Laboraty breathing and muskrat thieving.
I sundered the wrist and let the blood loose;
No amount of despair or drink could be an excuse.
As I watched my life's blood shoot out of my arm,
A friendly Samaritan stopped by with a look of alarm.
He tore a piece of his shirt for me to soak the blood,
And said "I can't help you, I'm just a crackhead from the neighborhood."
I said, "don't worry, you've helped enough, crackhead or not,"
And exclaimed "where's that damned ambulance?"
We looked on in disbelief as my ambulance passed me by,
Sirens blaring, bound for a similarly named place, apparently.
As I bled near to death and waited on,
The ambulance turned around and at last reached my location.
My shirt, shoes and trousers were soaked quite red,
The paramedic, lifting me onto a stretcher, paused and said: "You're the guy from Friday, you stepped it up a notch, huh?"
I irkedly affirmed by nod of head, and my helpful crackhead I bade 'adieu.'
When I think of life's harsh lessons,
I forget about its many blessin's.
Time won't stop just for me,
So I call here and now my home.
No tears will flow from anyone's eyes
If I with my own hands bring my demise.
So: enough! of maudlin wails and self-pity.
I leave my grotto for the city.
Some are trapped by money, fame, or women,
But my nemesis is my very self.
When I lose my eg my true will strengthens,
I put away my cares like a read book.
Walking this path, abreast of the oak trees,
My thoughts turn to grief, death and tragedies.
The path wends far ahead, so far, and
I descry a shadowy figure approaching...


Hand me a tablespoon brimming with salt
To pour upon my open wound, to halt
My peace and prosperity, and bring Life to new lows -- to feel hell's sting.


I have always wanted to write a good
Sonnet but have never been able to.
Though thoughts are my wine and books my food,
My writing nevertheless won't do.
Find me happy, in a meadow with a girl,
Golden-haired and rosy-cheeked;
My heart is full of gallantry, wanting to hurl
My love at her, full of longing speaked. (ech...)
In every tongue of man I praise her,
And loudly too, but subtle as a wink.
All I have is what I have in store
For her, my girl, dressed in pink.
Alas, my golden-haired, cheeky girl
Has gone and left me in a whirl.


Tell me of your princely past -- O Satan.
Tell of kingdoms that couldn't last -- Pandaemonium.
Walkst thou upon the Earth? then heed my call,
For knowledge I need to possess above all.

Such wondrous things are my joy to behold
As eventide's splendor, as the sun of gold
Descends the ladder of heaven, casting
A long shadow of night everlasting.


Tis a balmy breeze that soughs in the dell,
Lively, full of loight, and soft as well.
Throw behind you the bones of your mother
And you'll live on, if not in this life, then in another.
I have seen things come and seen things go.
When I clench my fist the winds speed to gale.
When I lie supine on the Earth to sleep,
My breaths quake all of the land.
I am great among the worlds,
But as small as the minutest mote of dust.
I am paradox and single, clearcut datum at once.
My thoughts are as swift as horses agallop,
Yet they run as deep as the deepest roots
Of the oldest oak.
I hate mankind but love everyman.
My life is a sadist's wet dream of torture,
But is as precious to me as the rarest gem
From a longlost lover.


Languid, slow-moving steady source
of the flowing waters of the Nile
River, representing my heart's force.
On this quest I march mile after mile.
Hurry by life's streaming tide,
Set your eyes upon a fatal scene
Comprising our hopes and dreams beside.
Such fate is our mind's queen,
Ruling our emotions and our thoughts
With supremity of authority. Merciless
But just, she apportions our lots
According to the wrongs we won't redress.
So, who is the king of our hearts and minds? It is knowledge.
To know a thing is to have sway over,
And to rule it.
Knowledge is a somber pledge
Between percept and percipient, united as lovers,
Being, thought and time are carried within the mind,
They are the keys, so truly hard to find.
I now descry with trembling eye,
A portent of words that I understand
Like a warning to Dante in his Comedy,
Ere his doleful trip through perfidy.
Fiercely trembling I was, but never fear!
I tread onwards till I was near
Hell's very gate, whose darkling door stood
Gaping wide to accept the multitude.

I set my feet upon the street then stopped.
For I felt as though my memory had been stropped.
The image it held, shattering; sweet Lethe's flow!
These days had been dim days, quite far below
the nadir of the threshold of consciousness.
I'd give aught to be rid of solicitousness,
Of encroaching thought, ungermane to this:
The matter at hand: my loneliness.


I set foot upon the street then stopped,
For I felt my memory had just been lopped.
The image it held, shattering; sweet Lethe's flow!
These days had been dim days, quite far below
While I walk a whyle down sounding streams
I contemplate my fate and dream
Of a golden-haired maiden, soft and fair,
Of emerald woods 'round a castle in the air.

Dusk and darkness dim the dell, As ancient articles of artistry Crepitate, coiling then crumbling To dust -- death and doom...

As cells divide so did this girl nearby.
Now there were two beauties catching my eye.
It was a young lady fair, frivolous and fond
Of joy, with an easy grace, seated by a pond.
She blew a kiss with lips that seemed to fly
Away from her mouth and directly to mine.
As the sacrament took hold of my senses
My perception of time got lost in all the tenses.
Now was then yet then was now
While now will be then -- but enough, enow!
My words fail to serve my purpose;
I hardly begin to scratch the surface.
I submit a plea for help and sanity --
I am lost in the maze of eternity.
The whiteness of the attenuating clouds against azure sky,
How I admire Ialdabaoth's stolen artistry, or sorcery.
Yahweh always was such a hack, prone to stealing credit
For ideas which he never could conceive or approximate.
Cloudshade lengthening on the grassgreen swath,
My earthly paradise, my celestial dream, both
Are my hopes and fears of what can be,
Pure potential, form, never actuality.
Devils run amok unchecked in this world of god,
So much so I wonder if the latter is gone.


The balmy breeze blows blissfully by me;
I so enjoy free-laxing on a day of no work.


Tell me of magic, myth and priests of old
And I'll reply that none were so bold
As Aleister Crowley, To Mega Therion,
The most infamous magus in civilization.
He knew spells of fire and spells of ice,
The being Aiwass spoke to him thrice.
Skilled climber of K2 mount, touching the firmament
He could beat anyone in a chess tournament.
His derring-do and skills were second to none,
Women flocked to him; he filled their ovens with a bun.
Scarlet Woman and others, he gave them all babies --
One look in his eyes and you'd think he had rabies!
Amanuensis of the Book of the Law,
Prophet of Harpocrates' Aeon -- the Law is for all!