Monday, August 9

The Age of Aquarius, the Aquafer

In the age of the ram
he sheep were the sons of man,
waiting for a shepherd with his dog
to lead them into the next age of god.
The Jews were the people of the old age
who, losing sway, in umbrage
decried the oracular
appearance of Pisces, the fish in vernacular.
So, that is how one great year
passed into another, and now we are under the aquafer,
or water-bearer, Aquarius. What prophetic
fisher of man will lead us on peripatetic
trips into the future dimensions of the soul?
One great year passed into another such
And our present age hasn't been much.
Don't wait eagerly for a present sign,
For this is the final age of the cosmic design.


Ripping flesh apart from bone
zombies are loose within the town.
seething bloodfreaks out on the loose
they're hungry and won't settle for a truce.
Death is the means and the one, certain end
To a tragic mix-up of a shipment of pathogen.

Her hair in springtime

Her hair like a fertile field budding with blooms
sweet-scented, the kind laid at tombs.
Her eyes gleam with that intelligent flame
That tells me of her starbirth, the same
Fire that was bequeathed by the Titan,
And her gaze! I am so smitten.
Her skin is quite smooth to touch, I daresay,
Though to know how it feels I must tell another day.
When she passes by the scent of ambrosia lingers,
As of an aromatic oil applied by her lovely, pianolong fingers.

Sunday, August 8


I hear nearing claps of thunder
that bestir and actuate my wonder.
How many accompanying deciliters must fall
before the heaven-born cries stop! at all?
When I'm alone I'm only truly so
when a thunderous storm looses its rains below.
It is a delicious solitude that is unique to me now
as I revel in reticence and renew my pledge
to travel the high roads that lead along to knowledge.

Wednesday, August 4

A crystalline cosmos

When you look at me
do you see one or two men?
I see many faces.

I think that you'll find
that my personality
is very much split.

I hear nine voices
speaking at a time,
but is it just one?

Like a spider's eye
multi-faceted and sly,
My life is mixed up.

Tuesday, August 3

Living in the Mechosphere

Rabid, pulsating machines
Droning, I live without the vaccine
For the societal disease
That falters and fails to please.
Sparks fly in the mechosphere,
Lights and lasers blaze from here,
From this industrial city
Where technology is the law, without pity.
Feelings do not exist here. Foundlings
Swarm the orphanage, finding
Their lost parents through
deoxyribonucleic acid
tests, their minds are flaccid.

Sunday, August 1

When I look out upon the world, I see
starving supplicants in misery,
bejeweled fingers grasping for more,
wealth than they ever dared to before.
Signs of epochal shifts of time and space
signs of the genesis of a hyperborean race.
Growing multitudes of illiterate people
flocked together at an idol or church steeple.
I do not see
men of individuality,
men of truth, courage and will;
gone are they who contribute and fulfill
mankind's duty to knowledge and desire
to learn the inherent secrets of fire.
Life in modern America,
it is no life for a man
who thinks one is one
rather than part of one.
they chatter and moan
they talk foolishness
they are praised and glorified.
praise from a fool
is like the light of the moon,
reflected light from its source.
thus, a man praised by fools
reflects that foolishness
and, if not yet a fool himself,
becomes so thereby.
how can I live on here?
By not seeking praise,
for such praise, the praise
of the fool, will not raise
my knowledge a bit, but rather
lower it, a contagion of the mind!
Fear it! Repulse it! Destroy it!


Tenets of the catholic idea -

The bread and wine of the communion, as well as other objects, have a) substance and b) accidence. The latter refers to the superficial physical characteristics of a thing, such refers to the part of a thing which appeals to our five senses. The former refers to the "true" nature of a thing, which, in the case of the Eucharist, is real, honest-to-Bog Jesus incorporated into the bread. Substance.
Amazonian and African cannibals are more sane and level-headed than these catholics!
Branches of date palms with dangling fruit,
beware, ye unaware, of sudden knocks, overfoot!
A reason to be's not necessary for me
For being is its own end in eternity.
The aforementioned date palm, taken again,
Consider it well, then count to seven.
Then, only then will I know my will
to go forth and multiply like grain in a mill.
My seed plentifully and duly spread,
deoxyribonucleic acid
is the skeleton key to everlasting life,
All that's left is to find the door.
Walking down the hallway, searching for the nearest exit from the campus building called H, he considered that a small, independent type of publishing company might be the right target for his poetic solicitations.

Searching for a purpose in life
aI strive against and live with strife,
Beginning it in a bright, white glory
Ending in a geriatric laboratory."

No, that's the same strain, he said, inwardly. My poems reek of an out-of-date, Byronic style. That last line might do, a bit more modern. Riding the bus homeward he considered the acerbic tone of the dean whose criticism had barely affected him, being accustomed as he wa to successive rejections, piling up one on another, and an other.

A man goes forth, driving his cattle
Perhaps a serpent couchant makes a rattle,
The herd and he start and stop
At the long day's end, into his bed he drops.

-This bus isn't quite conducive to poetic fancy, he said to himself, as the bus lurched forward, expelling carbonsmoke exhaust into the air. Maybe this is why my poems get so Romantic, I'm subconsciously revolting against my urban milieu. I need to get myself evened out, get outside more often, really outside, in the woods without trails.

He dropped a bill into the driver's lap as a tip. This was a habit he had developed as another idiosyncrasy against the norm: such minor iconoclasm was like his own version of civil disobedience, a chaos magick act, in a minor way. Real rebellion was a different thing altogether than this tepid intellectual stuff.

He got off at Chinatown and crossed the busy street towards the Korean shop that sold him his ginseng. You might find it odd that he would patronize a Korean business in a so-called Chinatown, but I can assure you that your ideas are misfounded.

Oriental dreams of good times, in the West
I live perforce; this West would wrest
Aught that I hold dear and true to my part,
Down to the very last, the inimitable heart.

Tiny bells rang and tinkled as he opened the door and let swing controlledly back to. He approached the counter, knowing what he wanted to buy, and asked for a few grams of dessicated strips of ginseng root (which resembled strips of bacon). He left the shop, chewing on a chip of ginseng, waiting for its haemolytic effect.

For they will be takers of strange drugs,
run-of-the-mill men and thugs.
Beholden to no...

This poetic strain of thought was violently severed by a passing car on the street. He had been woolgathering and almost walked into the path of a car that had the right of way.

A Pleniform Woman

Such a pleniform creature is this woman.
O, she winked at me, an omen
Such as this is too much to ask
Of poor me, so taking me to task.
Oh no, methinks she's rising now
With her heavy bottom and light brow
Belying the intellectuall look of her glasses
Does she think she fools just anyone who passes?
The ground seems to quake at her steps,
She leaves her huge grocery store bereft.
"Another shipment just came in Bob, we're saved!"
"Don't speak so soon, for her hunger's not staved
off a bit, she's ready to come back for seconds,
and she'll wash it all down with anything that decants!"

Things of the Sun

I feel at ease among the things of the sun,
i feel that I am one, that I can be at ease still,
among the things of the sun.
I hearken to the birds' calls, yes, yes more.
I sit by my favorite oak tree and think,
How happy I can be where I am alone.
I see flowers and bees dance their symbiotic dance.
The clouds cast their shades and darken the sun.

Crystal Dimensions

Why am I alone in this place?
Where has everyone gone? Not a single face
I see here where everything is stark and
the angles are all wrong and sharp.
I live in a many-faceted crystal
Where each movement reflects itself throughout the whole.
A smile reflects as a frown over there
is refracted in multi-dimensional echos of air.
He remains before a summer moon,
Dissuading men around warm blue fences,
Hearkening to them, a sound none know,
She's chased by men below Cabra.
The silence hears that foreign places are cold,
We remain silent with our hoofs.
These 'devoted' or 'practicing christians' I run into on occasion are as empty husks in my esteem. A shallow-minded wigger plays spiritually inspired reverent man of god, because he is holding a bible. The simple fact that he has a bible is supposed by him to convey some sacredness to others. Sanctimoniousness perhaps. He may even quote a stupidly common chapter and verse at you, as if that verse alone is supposed to impact you. I would be no more impressed by this buffoon if he quoted the verse itself, verbatim. The mere fact of his choosing this commonplace belies his intelligence.