A long slow slide into degradation… shuffled into the perfect recipe for biocessation Everything that you have been taught to fear Is backwards The swords of discrimination Are lacking more each year
Prepping you for the greenhouse You’ve been potted In depleted soil For the smart dome that invades Your biome And becomes your home It’s almost here You’ve been prepped and steered Along the abyss The Judas kiss From the many tiered Mirror Of your fears Here … Create panic , hide from the sun Straight into the blue light of the floodlights That mine sight and tie your eyes Too tight To run….
You are a brief elaboration Of a tube That stretches mouth to ass Filled with steller mass There is a light show within Your skin Inside Where life begins to dine On photons And digest the Aeon Trapped in time
biology uses light’s duality to sculpt life What are you being sculpted into In this blue light haze A maze of fading dreams Owned now by the real Estate Agents of Virtual Things That occupy your inner life And nullify your Imaginal Mind Running from the blind Minotaur Hungry inside his circuitry Waiting for the tender feast Prepared Carefully And risen like yeast Inside the meat Suits Who no longer need To bleed.
The ultimate beauty of psyche is that which even Aphrodite does not have and which must come from Persephone, who is queen over the dead souls and whose name means “bringer of destruction." The Box of Beauty which Psyche must fetch as her last task refers to an underworld beauty that can never be seen with the senses. It is the beauty of the knowledge of death and of the effects of death upon all other beauty that does not contain this knowledge. Psyche must “die" herself in order to experience the reality of this beauty, a death different from her suicidal attempts. This would be the ultimate task of soul-making and its beauty: the incorporation of destruction into the flesh and skin, embalmed in life, the visible transfigured by the invisibility of Hades's kingdom, anointing the psyche by the killing experience of its personal mortality. The Platonic upward movement toward aestheticism is tempered by the beauty of Persephone. Destruction, death, and Hades are not left out. Moreover, Aphrodite does not have access to this kind of beauty. She can acquire it only through Psyche, for the soul mediates the beauty of the invisible inner world to the world of outer forms.
When you walk, usually you don't see the white shadow walking beside you who may stray behind a hedgerow or veer away into a dark wood or a tall city full of thrusting agendas different from your own, or into a love bower you left behind, or never made.
Your co-walker may swap places with another white shadow, and another. This is a parallel self who made other choices, who stayed with your former lover, or still works in the old job, or never crossed the sea, or chose pancakes instead of waffles for breakfast. Though the veil between you is thinner than shrink-wrap, you rarely see through it except in your dreams, where you enter the life of an alternate self who has trouble remembering the alternate self you inhabit this side of the dreamlands.
Yet when your paths converge with a parallel self, you feel something, obscurely, a tilt to the day, and may notice you are drawing events and encounters in a different way. People praise you or put you down in ways you can't fathom unless you awaken to how you are loaded now with karma of your white shadow incurred in adventures you can't know about until you follow the dream tracks of your multitudinous self.
Among a cacophony of wild adventures……one that leaves me with much Imaginal wonder….
Amid a group of people, after a young astrologer woman present comes down with a fever, a large bird with large beak comes swooping down and around and looping around; an older man says something about it having an intentional ’target’ ….I watch in curiosity , somehow knowing it was coming for me; it lands upon my head and shoulders and starts to peck hard at my skull, over and over..::::.. I wrestle with it momentarily til I untangle it from my head and it sits on my wrist, before flying off. I was not afraid, nor was it painful, but I was quite literally Struck, at the metaphor of the knocking on my skull. The older man says it is a ‘Malin’ ‘Mallon’ ????? Bird? Something like that: I walk away to start preparing to lay down to sleep, and a young man, swarthy and of South American descent, comes over and hugs me and says he will be back soon to ‘charge me up’. I tell him I believe the bird was a messenger of a hex, and that my friend ( the young astrologer woman) had been struck down by fever from the same hex.
The road from intensity to greatness passes through sacrifice. ~Kassner
For a long time he attained it in looking. Stars would fall to their knees beneath his compelling vision. Or as he looked on, kneeling, his urgency's fragrance tired out a god until it smiled at him in its sleep.
Towers he would gaze at so that they were terrified: building them up again, suddenly, in an instant! But how often the landscape, overburdened by day, came to rest in his silent awareness, at nightfall.
Animals trusted him, stepped into his open look, grazing, and the imprisoned lions stared in as if into an incomprehensible freedom; birds, as it felt them, few headlong through it; and flowers, as enormous as they are to children, gazed back into it, on and on.
And the rumor that there was someone who knew how to look, stirred those less visible creatures: stirred the women. Looking how long? for how long now, deeply deprived, beseeching in the depths of his glance?
When he, whose vocation was Waiting, sat far from home- the hotel's distracted unnoticing bedroom moody around him, and in the avoided mirror once more the room, and later from the tormenting bed once more: then in the air the voices discussed, beyond comprehension, his heart, which could still be felt; debated what through the painfully buried body could somehow be felt- his heart; debated and passed their judgment: that it did not have love.
(And denied him further communions.)
For there is a boundary to looking. And the world that is looked at so deeply wants to flourish in love.
Work of the eyes is done, now go and do heart-work on all the images imprisoned within you; for you overpowered them: but even now you don't know them. Learn, inner man, to look on your inner woman, the one attained from a thousand natures, the merely attained but not yet beloved form.👁❤️👁
BlissNinja 