Return Trip
The sentinels gathered, everything of the four horsemen,
defenders of my inner space otherworld and we are good to go. My beautiful
sister turned her face away and the great mother brought me into her
consciousness. The only voice I heard was my own-“if you can make it to the end
kid you can witness your next incarnation-the piper at the gates of dawn.”
And so it begins- blasting through the nine circles of expectation
delayed. My otherworld, an index finger pointing directly at the mirror of
self, avoiding the succubae, shit! Could just blast them with my third eye!
The eternal secret of
esoteric knowledge, acoylte of Harpocrates silent as a new born babe who
through spiritual strength shall cross the abyss, time irrelevant, yet
composite with eternity. The sacred lore of my humanity.
Travelling without moving. In troth an astral warrior,cruxiformed
with the blessings of the tribe. An initiation into nothingness, memory
blackened by perpetual space/time travel. It wasn’t enough, the waters were so
powerful yet I did swim,but so innocent and pure with all the foibles of
youth,so Christendom placates,as the book says,”let him who hath
understanding…”
A decade of spiritual apostasy, I run my hair through,
boiling down the belief systems, correlations and sacred allignments like baby
fat to the sabbatic ungeunt. I’ve been through everything, the breath of the
kill, the message of the nihilist, ever-rolling, unwinding blasting inverted
Christianity with the atmospheric I of the(neither-neither)chaotician-draped in
black. Awaking from the infinite slaying of the gods with the whipping smile of
the adept-at this moment my spiritual body is one, yet continually
perambulating.
Something had blasted into me on a previous journey and
created a hole in the fabric of time,
through chemogenesis I clipped on my psychonautic razor and sliced it wide,
giving an omniscient cackle-“verily a great Daemon!” Subsequent dreams are of
reality-relentless and the seam of silence keeps on cracking, the magik bus just
doesn’t stop and psychosis often ensues. I’d gone and come back again but was
still fucking about with the lock on the box. Must be the pentagram and the
Floydian slip.
And so I voyaged
,ever so darkly through the globes of the pentagram-the silent watcher crushing
the kaleidoscopic petals and the broken shards of the petitioned infinite.
These carnage visors,these products of the bloodstains. And at last I saw the
hooded glome of self, this silver shade and gilded eternity, the blinding
arrows of the sun. For I am thy illustrious scrivener at this arbitrary temple-speared usurper of
tetragrammaton-my own rainbow.
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