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18 juni 2020


Quiet

Be(g);
Lily prayer,
little prey.

When you cry out from
the darkest deepest depths
there is an echo.

The mountains rattle
and the bewildered eagle,
perched on the crooked crag is
merged to the ground like a
Mongolian horse rider on no saddle.

An echo-message delivered
from ego-Mecca diverted.
Your true voice inverted,
returning the call of your own.

The moon-eye sees itself
wolf-howling, crying out,
a cheap sheep-goat in fur coat.
Ebbing from in to out
within a single sphered
shepherd container.

A bloody burgundy thorn bush
is still radiantly green underneath.
A prop thorn sword in sheath.
A drop born reflects the ocean deep.
The crying out to God contains
within it the reply.

He reaches for his lost limbs,
He touches through numb skins,
He whispers through deaf ears,
He glimpses through blind eyes,
He shares the truth with his
amnesiac Self, no lies.
God reaches for Himself
to Himself, from within Himself.
It is no cry with no reply,
It is a cry and a reply.
Just listen.

- - . - . . - . . . -

Silence speaks.

Sit still in the multitude of
silence, the quietude of
isolated emotion-erupting
volcanic islands.

Surrounded by stillborn
undercurrents in forlorn
underworld maelstroms of
emotions ocean's deep.

Weap and cry out into
the outskirts, where the
outbursts of flowing water
weanes pure poetic neology,
a reflection of our true biology.

Wishing and wanting the
stillborn to be reborn, burning anew.
A drop of dawn in the damp dew.
A proud survivor of the musky dusky dark stew.
A desert oasis in sun-scathed lands,
hellish bases in blood-bathed sands.

A toddler suckling milky hate.
An ugly duckling fiddler taught
the music of the false prophet's bait.
Lured into a noose of inner notes,
the haggard hawk hangs,
mid-flight, mid-life,
Freightened and forgetful of
his white-feathered wings of liberty,
the voiceless notes sealed
lyrically in the purest hummer,
the wholesome heart drummer.

Pounding, grounding Self to Self.
God has no one to speak to but Himself.

All parts make one whole.
A fragmented hologram, where
cries make reflecting rivers
reaching the source reservoir.
The deep well well within,
yet saliently sitting on the
swampy surface.

There we sit, fishing.
Fishing for the heavy fish,
to empty the weight of the lake.
There we sit, dripping,
dipping our wet toes,
already soaked.

See the fish in your hand.
A serpent dragon on your
cloudy coastal land.
A deep crying out from the
darkest deepest depths
of the ocean sand.
Everywhere is the same brand.

A kraken sighting a sailor's ship,
travelling to end the tragic trip.

You cry out hearing no answer,
yet God sits on the ear ring
asking you no question.
You cry out seeing no solution,
yet God sits on the film lense
revealing no obtrusion.

No problem,
only the grazing of a Goat.
Just a mind sound to be heard,
no need to be disturbed.

When within and without cease,
when God and I cease,
when separation is smoke,
the serpent dragon lays an
Unborn Egg of Unity.
It will never be born,
for the womb of unity is
timeless.
Forever changing, still, but
not restless.

Around the yod-yoked
Yoddha yoga egg
the serpent slithers,
swallowing its tail.
Sinking, linking self to self.

We believe in birth because
we are taught time,
yet to our true self,
our ever close companion,
there is no distance.
No millimeter of separation.

An egg has no distance to itself.

The depths are a shallow
mirror where within your eyes
sparkle and kindle the fire,
igniting and steaming the mire.

Within our steam cooked
brew breathed we,
eaten by our own
inner wicked wizard,
the mad magician,
the sulfur sorcerer,
the horned Goat grass grazing
on our swollen soul-hating.

Fermented fumes slither from
our tongues,
Smoky seething smears from
our lungs.

Vegan eggs hatch in our mouth,
chewed before someone
should notice
how we enjoy this
taste of red metal,
along with fresh flesh greens.
The limbs of roots,
stalk trunk torsos, skin bark,
soul-buds, skull crowns and
green leaf spleans.

But all is seen,
For even in darkness
God's eyes reflect light.

All the while the snake in the
weighted out-fished lake,
wishes for its own sake a safe
place to go consciously viral.
To spiral up the staired helix,
like a feathered flaming
alchemical phoenix in a
soaring dance of Solve et Coagula,
wanting to mate with the serpent snake,
the draked dragon dracula.

To consumate and consume
the awesome aesir elven egg.
To lay bare and beg of
infinity's imagery.
To once again rest and rend,
to slumber and bend.
To suckle its breasted tail-end,
to breathe out the steaming fire.
To awaken the Grendel mire-abider.

Raising the three-eyed raven
lost in the grave bog.
Uniting with one-eyed Oden in
an unfiltered fog;
Our swimming pond of
dead thoughts and living spirit.

Where we dive down and drown.
Where we sink to the brink of
the drunk edge.
Where we are linked to the
branch on the Yggdrasil trunk ledge.
A starving swimming spirit in the sky,
with a bulging bowel,
needing nourishment now.

We are nested baby birds
crying out for insects,
baby spirits receiving insights.
Maturing from our detouring,
from a therianthrope vile goat-Belial,
to a fully feathered white-wined eagle-Divine.

The serpent, the snake.
The eagle, the drake.
An energetical map
of ice and fire,
a balancing act of Ginungagap, of
frosty floods and flailing flames.
Forming bull-cow and twin
jötunn fresh,
world made flesh.

All a coincidentia oppositorium
linking, sinking self to self,
grounding, pounding self to self.

Lotus born,
lotus Egg;
Be(g).




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Läst 58 gånger
Publicerad 2021-04-21 22:36



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