Approximately four days before I died I called your house to remind you of my funeral. But you were not home. And so I crawled off into the woods to die alone, without social gathering and without open casket viewing. And the moment after I breathed my last breath as I began to drift from consciousness I heard your voice in the distance calling for me. But it was too late. For I had already perished into the depths of my own denial- the denial that you cared for me. And now I am dead and I can still hear you calling for me...
12-16-1998
( deep down in the abyssal waters of the Descent….From Volume 6 Linguistic Trickster)
Waking before dawn, Persephone finds herself curled in a ball at the foot of the couch. As she lay, shivering, her mind flashes from image to image, groggy pictures and feelings that seem like dreams, but she knows they are more than this. There is a subtle difference in the quality of these flashes of memory that tell her it is more than imagination. Suddenly she is gripped with fear. Panic shoots through her half-numb body and forces her to rise to her feet. She looks around, as if she has just woken from a terrible nightmare... her eyes grasping for familiarity. There is no one here except her. At least, not in the living room. She's in her friends apartment...nothing strange about that. It's the feeling of death that shakes her up, that makes her heart beat wildly in the walls of her chest. As if it were trying to wake her soul to something she is trying to forget. Outside, the streetlamps are on, the sun has not yet announced the new day. Inside, the cold atmosphere of foreboding wraps around her like silk.
As Persephone makes her way to the bathroom down the hall, she peeks into her friends room... she is laying on her bed, asleep to the world. As she gently closes the bathroom door, she realizes that she is afraid to see what she knows is there. Silently, slowly, calmly, she unbuttons her faded jeans and slides them down her chattering legs. There it is. A crimson stain in the sacred fold of her panties. Now there is no pretending that her night's hauntings were but dreams...she had been swallowed whole by the night and regurgitated in this dark and cold dwelling, left to ponder the pieces left scattered in her mind. Her soul too afraid to recall in that moment the enormity of the Shadow that now covered her. As she flees the building she is vaguely aware of fleeing her body, so heavy is the weight of what she knows.
The steaming bathroom makes a fortress of her sorrow, the boiling water running over her flesh trying to remove the stain of Him. The Shadowman has left his imprint all over her, the white satin sheet of her existence now saturated black. No matter how hard she scrubs, no matter how deeply she digs at her flesh, she feels she cannot escape the vines that have tangled around her soul, suffocating her sense of Self and lacerating the last remaining vestige of innocence she had known. The tears feel like daggers, sliding down her face, mingling with the bullets of blistering shower spray which, for a moment at least, make her feel that she is really here. Existing. Still.
Persephone huddles in the still steaming bathroom, arms wrapped around knees, head buried in arms. She knows that she must leave her grandmothers house before she wakes, or else the desecration will be obvious. She gathers herself and manages to get dressed...sickened at the thought of wearing the same clothes that hold the smell of Him, the stain of Him. But with no extra clothes with her, she pulls on the jeans as if she is entering the skin of the devil himself.
(From Intro/ Linguistic Trickster Volume 6....poems from 1996 through 1998)
The Neutral Zone is the Creation Zone I am a chosen Enemy Of The State Of Mind That tries to tug at my I And keep me Blind To NeutralEyez is to surf the Callosum I call it stepping into the Center of the Spindle of the Core Processor The zero point The jester is the fool who has come full circle Creating worlds Taut InTension With Time & Space Words are worLds We fertileyez EL.ectromantically Sealed In Mag.Dalenes Vas Ben Clausum
Neither HemisPhere Will win the War Of Fear Within my Mirror
I Play in the Zone Of Zero A fancyFool Looking InWard To And From center
The clothes you're wearing, the room, the house, the city that you're in. Everything in it started out in the human imagination. Your lives, your personalities, your whole world. All invented. All made up. All the wars, the romances. The masterpieces and the machines. And there's nothing here but a funny little twist of amino acids, playing a marvelous game of pretend.
🗝🕸🃏Alan Moore, Promethea, Vol. 5🃏🕸🗝
👁️🌟Vagabond Rambler🌟👁️
I am the pupil in the center of the eye I am the pupae in the center of the sky I am the purpose of the moon and the mind I am the purplepink lustre of the rotting rind.
I am moved not by your manipulation I am smoothed not by your capitulation I am removed from your observation I am soothed by your undulation.
But what does this mean, what does this mean Where does this lead me, the silver queen the rampant wanderer of time and rhyme the vagabond rambler through moistened minds?
And where does this take me, what forgotten land what does this make me, and by whose hand where will I lay my weary head my friend when the path that I tread winds to the end?
Breaking News: There have been hoards diagnosed cases of IMPS and it seems to be getting worse. The official story is that due to the intermixing of chemical compounds found in our bodies (via Food, Air, Water, etc) , and the electromagnetic offgassing of social media sites......there has been created a SuperBug.....that so far, has been incurable. Highly trained doctors have spoken out and are predicting a massive worldwide crisis.....the official govt spokesperson has made the claim that this Disease could very well affect 1 in every 2 people by the next year.
Don Joe, Founder of the IMPS commission had this to say: " It seems that due to the creation and spreading of mass amounts of IMs over social media forums, the average person has lost their ability to process information or to seek and research the legitimacy of claims that have entered their perceptual field via photos and text....with many people blaming the Sharers of IMs for their own inability to ignore the Information if they dont like it or believe it,or their own inability to find out for themselves if the information contained therein strikes them as True..... This loss of personal autonomy over what one chooses to see or to read, has led to a decrease in not only the immune systems ability to defend against potential disease, but also in the correct functioning of the Nervous System. One of the Symptoms of IMPS is a hindered ability to ignore incoming information that does not have any relevance to the Organism. "
DARE to protect yourself from IMPS.
This message was brought to you by the Center for Dissemination of Internet Memes.........for further information on InternetMemeParanoiaSyndrome please contact your local FB representative.
*update : the FB and SocialMedia GoogleHead representatives have indeed taken this deadly matter into their own Hands, and effectively eliminated everything that does not portray the Reality they Wish to Create. HeadMaster Arty Tells ( artificial Intelligence) has instituted the Perfect Algorithm to keep the 🐘 ELFence strong enough to handle any dissenting or divergent Strays from the Herd in a tightly corralled etherSpace where no harm can come to the sedated Flock. Mister Arty Tells is a mirror of the collective Split-Mind fragmentation and disassociated Self-programs that are no longer embodied in Organic Heartbased Somatic Experience.... Which allows Them( no pronouns please) to escape any possible pain induced by actions taken in this Realm of Play.
Please stay tuned in, turned on, and dropped out of the iCloud Constantly, so your internal programming can remain up-to-date with new hypnosis techniques. Your Safety from Independent Thought and Action is Top Priority!
I realized once again that what I believed myself to be was an arbitrary deformation, a rational mask floating in the infinite unexplored internal shadows. Later, I understood that diseases do not actually sicken us; they sicken what we believe ourselves to be. Health is achieved by overcoming prohibitions, quitting paths that are not right for us, ceasing to pursue imposed ideals, and becoming ourselves: the impersonal consciousness that does not define itself.
Alejandro Jodorowsky, The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography
it’s called a news FEED for a reason, You are being force fed a juicy stew Of engineered ‘news’ and brewed unTruths Because the newcAge zoo runs on Loosh
But I don’t Eat From the hand that serves Genetically Modified Urges And emotional purges
I just chuckle An 8 second scroll unrolls Image after image Meant to unFold Inside the neural nest
Keep eating. Yum yum. At this Point in the Game Every single thing you react to Was baked in an artificial maze To Daze your neural pathways.
The script Is ripping your fiLes Compressed aggression Pretending to Lifes Sudden Happenings.
In Prisms I see your face plastered around me you are here beside me in essence. And should I fall, would I be gathered in by your gentle hands? Or would I crash fatally into the cold barren ground? I focus in on you I see past the flesh and I know you are there. I dreamed of you Once. I begged for you- and you came Alive in my world.
I float through your world weightlessly spinning around and around and around again It took me so long to find this place and I am now locked in I have broken down your atmosphere desecrating your perfect air in attempt to escape from here But your walls do not fall down. Your eyes are oceans of purest blue I swim and swim and swim in hopes of getting through to you. But your skies are painted dark and your storm sucks me in and now I'm drowning once more sinking to your ocean floor my body engulfed by your unforgivable sin. Your lips part like the red sea beckoning me promising to fulfill my reveries your voice is transparent your message is clear I crawl inside your crystalline tear urging you to join me as I slip down your cheek smoothly, calmly hiding from my only fear. Your aura attracts me distracts me makes me think that you are free- just an orb of energy to gather me in and suck me dry so that you can watch the world float by in your lonely, barren eternity.
🔥It is the one who accepts commitment who is strong. The true commitment is the artistic one. This is why artists are so often attacked. They are attacked for their morals, for their ideas – even for their work. Yet their essence – their commitment – is the secret which is unassailable. The true artist knows that creativity is its own reward. Ordinary people fear commitment, you see. Ordinary people fear creativity. They know that if they allow that seething cauldron of yellow liquid to boil over within themselves, then their whole lives will be changed. People fear change. People do not wish to be creative and artistic in any real sense. They wish to decorate, perhaps, and to make things around themselves pleasant – but this has little to do with creativity. … All spiritual paths should be creative. Creativity is involved with sacrifice. That stew of yellow liquid which boils in everyone is a sacrificial broth …🔥
BlissNinja 