I added the Autobiographical Fractal Framework and Trip stories in this volume because I wrote them during the span of time that is encapsulated within this particular book. The trip took place at the end of 1999, and the autobiographical framework stopped at the trip. As I continue backwards through time, in a sort of 'Dreaming Back' as W.B Yeats would call it, it is vital to the understanding of my Art and my Story in this timeline. Everything that I experienced in that disMemberment and reMemberance and shamanic initiation, has continued to unFold within my neurology and biology, and biology becomes psychology, (just as psychology becomes physiology). My whole life has been an attempt to Integrate what was ripped open that day and night. I was quite literally shattered completely. I was already painfully sensitive but had now become a Raw Exposed Nerve Ending in Synaptic Rapture. The Current that had run through Me, was to take me the next 20+ years to finally Ground and reWire. It's all Current, See.....the Currency of this Dream.
For years now the need to complete the Story where I left off in the telling, after the trip, has been haunting me. I laid only the bare bones skeletal framework of my childhood and adolescence here, so that also will eventually be fleshed out. For my whole life has become a sort of Recapitulation of all the most intense Lifetimes that have been Lodged within my Fascial Matrix carried over again and again in crystallized synaptic patterns that reWeave Selves from Seams I have been unable to Let Go Of in this NeverEnding Story.
There are certain repeating patterns that loop over and over. I have tracked them and wooed them and played their game so often, and l am taking a step in this Incarnation to completely Clear the Vessel, so that the Seed that I drop in the fertile soil of my Matter Matrice WombTomb shall bear Fruit of an Entirely new Expression of Being. It is the purpose of me ripping open all of my seams and letting the filling fall out, sanctified, purified. I want to be completely transparent by the time I leave this Dream as Charleen, so the Light that pours through me can shine effervescently and without inhibition.
It is an entire Life's Work. It is the Magnum Opus. There is no other task. Every single thing I do in this playground is connected to that single Vision of prostration to the divine invective Kun! Be! And I have learned that to Be, Fully, one must be Free of the tangled memories and moments that bear narratives that weigh One down. In the telling of the personal Mythology, there is a redemption of the vessel. In the creation of an Alchemical Athanor, we are transforming the Matter of Self, and EveryThing Matters, literally, if It is to Know ItSelf.
I came to realize through the years in which this collection of poetry and writing came to be, that In a sense I had 'MK ULTRA'd myself. I had broken down my own consciousness in the same way that has been done for long periods of time by the Powers that Pretend to Be; I had overloaded my system and shattered the foundation with psychedelics. It was a slippery path and a razors edge of stitching myself back together in a sovereign manner and not giving way to external programming...
….in such an intensely sensitive psychic State for so long afterwards, the field was fertile for succumbing to the matrix manipulation of the overriding program of disempowerment. I definitely became extremely intimate with the various Alters and Sub-Personalities that made up my Psychic Tapestry. I would spend many years in a whirlwind of moods and madness and manic depressive pendulum surfing, trying to ravel myself back together in a functional way. I entertain the idea that I had scripted it in from the beginning, when I undertook this living dream, in order to assure that my life followed the trajectory I had chosen. It is all in my Natal Blueprint. Woven in. Healing and Wholeness and UnFiltered Expression of the Sovereign Self was to be my Life Mission, and in order to make that possible, I had to literally and metaphorically dig myself out of the purgatorial realms and navigate through every fractal landscape of my own darkness over time, slowly allowing myself to Let Go of all the painful narratives and myths that have shaped me. I am still undergoing that Great Work. For Alchemy never ends. And That Art Thou. We Are The Process.
Some of my most painful relational lessons were unfolded in this time period between 2003 and the end of 2016. It was a time of constant New Growth and New Letting Go and unbearable emotional darkness in many ways. I made some of the most painful decisions in my life thus far, during this time. I also made some of the most empowering statements of my sacred intention to live Free and in devotion to my Vision of sovereignty. I am grateful for all of the Pain and the Joy that have been a part of my Grand Dream. And I'm still Dreaming.
I am still making the Word Flesh. I am still learning to Embody more and more of what and who I am. I have always had a strong mental nature, and a tendency to intellectualize and become tangled in the vast array of my Mental Reality. The work of these years here contained, has been foremost the work of Leaving the Ivory Tower and Coming Down To Earth. I spent so much time building castles in the sky, so utterly dissociated much of the time into vast internal realms where I was disengaged with the physical realm. When I went through the initiation of pregnancy and birth, I had undertaken the most incredible magic of my life. It helped to configure me into this more dense and slow realm, one in which terrified me; for the wings of the spirit are so unfettered and swift, and the plodding path of the feet on the earth of the mother, can seem so desperately slow and torturous when the Self one is Playing at Being has at it's disposal a Mind that can travel the lightening path and disappear so easily into different dimensions, Hermes Quicksilver playing tricks with light and with thought. Thoth Psychopomp finally midwifing my own Spirit into Body as I birthed my Son into this World.
What a Sacred Task. And what a Mirror, as I brought the Light of my being more fully into Form, I literally brought the Light of my Heart, the most precious gift of all lifetimes, the Consummation of all my beautiful pains and sorrows in all timelines...through the portal of my womb and into this Earth Playground, with spirit unbroken, with body and soul and spirit intact and unfettered. Our Sacred Contract. The roles we have played for each other: "I will bring you through the Hymen of this world in sovereignty and protect your divinity until you can carry the weight of that task on your own.... ....and you will help me to ReMember my Joy...... You will help me find my PlaySoul...”
For I had grown so ancient, in so few earth years, this time around. My Consciousness had been inside the LiveWire for millions of years, for Aeons, and the small daily tasks of Living in Body seemed so overwhelming.
But through Mothering, my Heart grew so large and so full and so raw and so overwhelmed with the Beauty of Enmeshment in Flesh, that I became Wide Open to Life and to Love and to Light and to Laughter. The Puella Eterna finally grew up. And part of Growing Up, and Growing Out and In, is making choices and taking responsibility for those choices in Saturn's kingdom ....within the skin. And where skin touches skin. Where the All Sinks In to become Woven in Time and Space because that is the Marriage Bed.
I went from ‘hating the confinement of this PrisonGame' to the 'Absolute Adoration of the Beloved That is Everywhere and Everything' and I am filled to bursting with the Desire to Share my Descent and ReAscent and all the winding paths between. The Road goes on and on...And I look forward (and backward) to the Infinite Adventure...
I Thank you for being Witness to my Journey, and invite you to follow me further in Dreaming Back, and Telling my personal Mythology, through the next Volume of my Poetry and records of Psyche's Tasks.
Don’t they know? They are all just electromagnetic pulses All just embryos in the body Of motherMatterMaterMatrix Placental playscapes practicing for ultimate Power in the Now Or Never
Don't they know? They all suck from the teat of the Same name What’s the Formula for this false Game? What’s the concoction that allows the blame To be placed outside Fingers pointed in chiding derision Forgetting that the Self Makes its own decisions And needs no Other to order decrees A sovereign Being earns its degrees On the zodiacal wheel No permission needed from any Pretense of Real Power This is Ours It’s now and Flowers Unfold when the hour is too old To cower any longer behind the soul Of latency The Elect of Life Electricity Spermatic emphatic God of pregnancy Sparks divine creation In Magnetic womb , Magdalenes elation To carry the sonic boom Of natures embodied satiation
Sacred Sacred ….. Scared with hatred and fake matrix Manipulation They all scream All hide in foggy dreams denying Their own hand in this plagiarism The Cluster of Cells where In-dwells the Hint Of sacrificial embodiment Asks only to hold the mirror
Do you know? Do you know Who you are? Are you a gob of flesh Staring into the abyss of imprisonment Angry at fragments of your own Disillusionment? Fears and tears and shame from years Of traumatic wounds And dismemberment? Are you a pulsing electromagnetic spectacle Of stardust impregnated into the divine mother I-And-US Unfolding embryonic supersonic lust For Life Wandering Waves of cosmic Dust Dancing the dream of Being As Body Bleeding with the intense need To See The True Seed that grows within This multidimensional PlayPen Again and again.
What’s the Formula for the artificial Algorithm That tosses you to and fro From -ism to -ism Falling prey to the slayers Of minds beauty And truth And dangling your sovereign self From the tight noose Of proof That red fish blue fish One fish two fish Keeps the Me And the You Twisted Into dichotomy Wishing for ancient sanctions So patiently Doctoring reality To give permission To step out of this glistening Wet-dream Steeped In sterile Seeds Injected into bodies That no longer Bleed. Free. The Self. And See. Differently.
I drip thru the torus Teardrops from the eye of Horus Saltwater brine Twisting thru time On the sacred Lathe Of Space enTwined before us
I sip From the rushing river Lethes wisdom wakes the shiver Of ancient lethargy Sacred reveries Swimming in the lethal loam As broken Looms quake and quiver
Within the honeyed marrow Within the cherished arrows of Eros As Psyche sorts the seeds
……as she parts the lips of the Dead Sea And whispers the sacred decree As the faded dream learns to bleed
( soft wet tongue of love peaks thru And speaks truth In the shape of of You~s and Me~s)
👁️We sometimes think, and even like to think, that the two greatest exertions that have influenced mankind, religion and science, have always been historical enemies, intriguing us in opposite directions. But this effort at special identity is loudly false. It is not religion but the church and science that were hostile to each other. And it was rivalry, not contravention. Both were religious. They were two giants fuming at each other over the same ground. Both proclaimed to be the only way to divine revelation.
:::::::::::
Science then, for all its pomp of factness, is not unlike some of the more easily disparaged outbreaks of pseudoreligions. In this period of transition from its religious basis, science often shares with the celestial maps of astrology, or a hundred other irrationalisms, the same nostalgia for the Final Answer, the One Truth, the Single Cause. In the frustrations and sweat of laboratories, it feels the same temptations to swarm into sects, even as did the Khabir refugees, and set out here and there through the dry Sinais of parched fact for some rich and brave significance flowing with truth and exaltation. And all of this, my metaphor and all, is a part of this transitional period after the breakdown of the bicameral mind.
And this essay is no exception.
…….
Curiously, none of these contemporary movements tells us anything about what we are supposed to be like after the wrinkles in our nutrition have been ironed smooth, or "the withering away of the state" has occurred, or our libidos have been properly cathected, or the chaos of reinforcements has been made straight. Instead their allusion is mostly backward, telling us what has gone wrong, hinting of some cosmic disgrace, some earlier stunting of our potential. It is, I think, yet another characteristic of the religious form which such movements have taken over in the emptiness caused by the retreat of ecclesiastical certainty — that of a supposed fall of man.
This strange and, I think, spurious idea of a lost innocence takes its mark precisely in the breakdown of the bicameral mind as the first great conscious narratization of mankind. It is the song of the Assyrian psalms, the wail of the Hebrew hymns, the myth of Eden, the fundamental fall from divine favor that is the source and first premise of the world's great religions. I interpret this hypothetical fall of man to be the groping of newly conscious men to narratize what has happened to them, the loss of divine voices and assurances in a chaos of human directive and selfish privacies.
We see this theme of lost certainty and splendor not only stated by all the religions of man throughout history, but also again and again even in nonreligious intellectual history. It is there from the reminiscence theory of the Platonic Dialogues, that everything new is really a recalling of a lost better world, all the way to Rousseau's complaint of the corruption of natural min by the artificialities of civilization. And we see it also in the modern scientisms I have mentioned: in Marx’s assumption of a lost "social childhood of mankind where mankind unfolds in complete beauty," so clearly stated in his earlier writings, an innocence corrupted by money, a paradise to be regained. Or in the Freudian emphasis on the deep-seatedness of neurosis in civilization and of dreadful primordial acts and wishes in both our racial and individual pasts; and by inference a previous innocence, quite unspecified, to which we return through psychoanalysis. Or in behaviorism, if less distinctly, in the undocumented faith that it is the chaotic reinforcements of development and the social process that must be controlled and ordered to return man to a quite unspecified ideal before these reinforcements had twisted his true nature awry.
I therefore believe that these and many other movements of our time are in the great long picture of our civilizations related to the loss of an earlier organization of human natures. They are attempts to return to what is no longer there, like poets to their inexistent Muses, and as such they are characteristic of these transitional millennia in which we are imbedded.
I do not mean that the individual thinker, the reader of this page or its writer, or Galileo or Marx, is so abject a creature as to have any conscious articulate willing to reach either the absolutes of gods or to return to a preconscious innocence. Such terms are meaningless applied to individual lives and removed from the larger context of history. It is only if we make generations our persons and centuries hours that the pattern is clear.
As individuals we are at the mercies of our own collective imperatives. We see over our everyday attentions, our gardens and politics, and children, into the forms of our culture darkly. And our culture is our history. In our attempts to communicate or to persuade or simply interest others, we are using and moving about through cultural models among whose differences we may select, but from whose totality we cannot escape. And it is in this sense of the forms of appeal, of begetting hope or interest or appreciation or praise for ourselves or for our ideas, that our communications are shaped into these historical patterns, these grooves of persuasion which are even in the act of communication an inherent part of what is communicated.
And this essay is no exception.
No exception at all. It began in what seemed in my personal narratizations as an individual choice of a problem with which I have had an intense involvement for most of my life: the problem of the nature and origin of all this invisible country of touchless rememberings and unshowable reveries, this introcosm that is more myself than anything I can find in any mirror. But was this impulse to discover the source of consciousness what it appeared to me? The very notion of truth is a culturally given direction, a part of the pervasive nostalgia for an earlier certainty. The very idea of a universal stability, an eternal firmness of principle out there that can be sought for through the world as might an Arthurian knight for the Grail, is, in the morphology of history, a direct outgrowth of the search for lost gods in the first two millennia after the decline of the bicameral mind. What was then an augury for direction of action among the ruins of an archaic mentality is now the search for an innocence of certainty among the mythologies of facts.👁️
~Julian Jaynes, the Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the bicameral mind
But by the time of Solon in the sixth century B.C., something different is happening. The poet is no longer simply given his gifts; he has to have "learning in the gift of the Muses" (Fragment 13:51). And then, in the fifth century B.C., we hear the very first hint of poets' being peculiar with poetic ecstasy. What a contrast to the calm and stately manner of the earlier aoido1, Demodocus, for example! It is Democritus who insists that no one can be a great poet without being frenzied up into a state of fury (Fragment 18).
And then in the fourth century B.C., the mad possessed poet "out of his senses" that Plato and I have already described. Just as the oracles had changed from the prophet who heard his hallucinations to the possessed person in a wild trance, so also had the poet.
Was this dramatic change because the collective cognitive im perative had made the Muses less believable as real external entities? Or was it because the neurological reorganization of hemispheric relations brought on by developing consciousness prohibited such givenness; so that consciousness had to be out of the way to let poetry happen? Or was it Wernicke's area on the right hemisphere using Broca's area on the left, thus short-circuiting (as it were) normal consciousness? Or are these three hypotheses the same (as of course I presently think they are)?
For whatever reasons, decline continues decline in the ensuing centuries. Just as the oracles sputtered out through their latter terms until possession was partial and erratic, so, I suggest, poets slowly changed until the fury and possession by the Muses was also partial and erratic. And then the Muses hush and freeze into myths. Nymphs and shepherds, dance no more. Consciousness is a witch beneath whose charms pure inspiration gasps and dies into invention. The oral becomes written by the poet himself, and written, it should be added, by his right hand, worked by his left hemisphere. The Muses have become imaginary and invoked in their silence as a part of man's nostalgia for the bicameral mind.
In summary, then, the theory of poetry I am trying to state in this scraggly collation of passages is similar to the theory I presented for oracles. Poetry begins as the divine speech of the bicameral mind. Then, as the bicameral mind breaks down, there remain prophets. Some become institutionalized as oracles making decisions for the future. While others become specialized into poets, relating from the gods statements about the past.
Then, as the bicameral mind shrinks back from its impulsiveness, and as perhaps a certain reticence falls upon the right hemisphere, poets who are to obtain this same state must learn to do it. As this becomes more difficult, the state becomes a fury, and then ecstatic possession, just as happened in the oracles. And then indeed toward the end of the first millennium B.c., just as the oracles began to become prosaic and their statements versified consciously, so poetry also. Its givenness by the unison Muses has vanished. And conscious men now wrote and crossed out and careted and rewrote their compositions in laborious mimesis of the older divine utterances.
Why as the gods retreated even further into their silent heavens or, in another linguistic mode, as auditory hallucinations shrank back from access by left hemisphere monitoring mecha-nisms, why did not the dialect of the gods simply disappear? Why did not poets simply cease their rhapsodic practices as did the priests and priestesses of the great oracles? The answer is very clear. The continuance of poetry, its change from a divine given to a human craft is part of that nostalgia for the absolute. The search for the relationship with the lost otherness of divine directives would not allow it to lapse. And hence the frequency even today with which poems are apostrophes to often unbelieved-in entities, prayers to unknown imaginings. And hence the opening paragraph of this treatise. The forms are still there, to be worked with now by the analog 'I' of a conscious poet. His task now is an imitation or mimesis of the former type of poetic utterance and the reality which it expressed. Mimesis in the bicameral sense of mimicking what was heard in hallucination has moved through the mimesis of Plato as representation of reality to mimesis as imitation with invention in its sullen service.
There have been some latter-day poets who have been very specific about actual auditory hallucinations. Milton referred to his "Celestial Patroness, who ... unimplord... dictates to me my unpremeditated Verse," even as he, in his blindness, dictated it to his daughters.? And Blake's extraordinary visions and auditory hallucinations — sometimes going on for days and sometimes against his will — as the source of his painting and poetry are well known. And Rilke is said to have feverishly copied down a long sonnet sequence that he heard in hallucination. But most of us are more ordinary, more with and of our time. We no longer hear our poems directly in hallucination. It is instead the feeling of something being given and then nourished into being, of the poem happening to the poet, as well and as much as being created by him. Snatches of lines would "bubble up" for Housman after a beer and a walk "with sudden and unaccountable emotions" which then "had to be taken in hand and completed by the brain." "The songs made me, not I them," said Goethe. "It is not I who think," said Lamartine, "it is my ideas that think for me." And dear Shelley said it plain:
“A man cannot say, "I will compose poetry." The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness . .. and the conscious portions of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure.”
Is the fading coal the left hemisphere and the inconstant wind the right, mapping vestigially the ancient relationship of men to gods?
Of course there is no universal rule in this matter. The nervous systems of poets come like shoes, in all types and sizes, though with a certain irreducible topology. We know that the relations of the hemispheres are not the same in everyone. In-deed, poetry can be written without even a nervous system. A vocabulary, some syntax, and a few rules of lexical fit and measure can be punched into a computer, which can then proceed to write quite 'inspired' if surrealist verse. But that is simply a copy of what we, with two cerebral hemispheres and nervous systems, already do. Computers or men can indeed write poetry without any vestigial bicameral inspiration. But when they do, they are imitating an older and a truer poesy out there in history. Poetry, once started in mankind, needs not the same means for its pro-duction. It began as the divine speech of the bicameral mind. And even today, through its infinite mimeses, great poetry to the listener, however it is made, still retains that quality of the wholly other, of a diction and a message, a consolation and an inspira-tion, that was once our relationship to gods.
~ Julian Jaynes, Tbe Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind
….I am on a bus with my brother.........we are talking and I decide I want to fly and go have a lucid adventure... I tell him 'remember when you said you could do anything if you believed?'....
..he says 'yes'.
........I say 'well im gonna fly out that window.
...he acts as if i cant...
I say that I can and I am going to.... and I just stand up and dive out thru the bus windwo…..and fly up into the sky lucidly...I think to myself it feels good to be really lucid again...I decide Id like to travel into my body....so I dive deep down toward the ground, intending to dive thru my body...when I peirce the ground, I have actually peirced my body and I am a point of light.
....I am traveling high speed thru the different layers...first the skin and tissue etc thru to the cellular level...thru to the atomic level.
...and I am thinking how amazing and wondrous it all is....and its very high velocity... come to what seems to be 'the end' and its a massive 'ocean' there is mist rising from it...and I just stop, right above it, suddenly....I then have a body again...and I make a decision to dive into the ocean...knowing ive found the core...and as I go to dive in, right before immersing, a hand or something grabs what seems to be a t-shirt on me, and stops me....really suddenly....I think...am i not supposed to go there at this time? I hear a very light subtle voice say, echoing all around and thru me, my name.......”Charleen, stop!”
….I hover there for a bit wondering why I was stopped, who or what was holding me back.....and I think then...perhaps its better not to leave my body...which I know will happen when i dive into the ocean...that I will be in an 'out of body' state..or however you want to view it...and I think that perhaps its best for me and baby for me not to spend alot of time away from my 'body' at this point.... wake up then...thinking about it all.
Dreamtime November 6, 2005, Ireland
(I Dreamed It All)
A midnight mood came to me asked me what I wanted to be all I knew was nothing at all and so she watched my angel fall
Again I sing in sweet repose treasures are hidden where no one knows Fairy wings spread and flitter through the cascade of summer glitter
I dreamed it all I dreamed it all I dreamed creation I dreamed the fall
Angel tears washed me dry kept me clean and purified
I closed my eyes and began to see just a little and nothing more faint shadows crossing the plains heading for the ocean shore
where does the secret lie where does my secret lie dormant beneath the rainbow placid in the sapphire sky?
Angels know angels know and they can tell walk beside you ring their bells the shepherd is gone the sheep are lost vulnerable to the threats the cold midnight frost
Can you break into me pry open my disease find your way inside give me your secret keys
I dreamed it all I dreamed it all I dreamed creation I dreamed the fall
When I awake I'll start again I'll make my world new again.
One of the most controversial posts I ever made in Facebook, and most shared, in 2020…sparking some terror and fear and angry debate in the comments….trickster heretic poking holes in paradise…. I wonder how many views have changed or deepened with hindsight. Poem avail em along with other heretical expressions in Linguistic Trickster Volume 2, available on Amazon.
Play dead said the devil, and they did, in fear They wrapped their face with poisoned lace And mapped disgrace with leaden tears
Play dead said the devil, and close your eyes So they stitched their lids and ran and hid And twitched and cried and begged for light And ate the lies that they were fed
Play dead said the devil, dressed in Red Cold and still with broken Will And isolate in iron gates and wait until Fate has made the Devils bait A foundation for the future of Pills and Kills And Willing shills who deveState And speed the rate of fleshly ills.
Play dead said the devil and wear your muzzle The puzzled panic enDemic in this gimmick DemonAcrobatics thick with automatic tactics That stick the sickly crowd in homogenous tax brackets with InTentsive Care packets That shackle the scared borg factions Into complete submission of mind over matter Of fact-Checkers stuck in the whack Job Sideshow of undeniable homeWreckers Who have mediAted crass mind control onto The medicated masses, RedRose colored Glasses tipped in a salute to fascist Masters Who cash in on disaster like fortunate Forecasters that blast programmed hashtags into the minds of all classes and kinds Of women and men trapped in the delusions Of their own illusive split Ends....
I bore mySelf into this World Knowing the task at hand I wore the mask of childhood And played the Game again I nightly left this physical realm To reMember how to Fly I suffered through hardship and pain To Strengthen my heart and Mind I made the game into a Play And challenged my gifts and guides I wandered thru mazes dark and grey And found the treasures Inside I lost mySelf in forays of fear When I tried to run from my power I struggled thru paths strange and unclear While constructing an ivory tower I let mySelf die on an alter of Fire And tore illusions from my Skin I fell into Death while struggling for breath As I battled my demons within I laughed with freedom as I awoke From Aeons of blame and Shame That tangled itself around my shell And strangled the magic of my Name I wept for my friend who could not stay Whose bones I wear with honor I held his face in Dimensions of Space And promised I would Die Honest I screamed aloud into the clouds Every night by Forest and river I spoke the words from my mouth In streams of gold and silver I made my oath and signed in blood And faced the mirror of the Dream 'I Vow To Die In Battle' , I cried And fell to the Ground on my knees I Let my tears seep into the Dirt And Dug thru the deep with my hands I crawled thru the humus of this Earth And was healed by the Spirit of Land I rose with the Seed nurtured by Awe At the glory of my own Deep power I cradled the embryo deep in my soul Knowing in Time it would Flower I pledged my Life to the edge of the knife Never to fear the dark abyss I promised to unFold the Seed of my soul Adorned in the fabric of beauty and bliss I watch as the tide now starts to rise And reMember how the script unravels I shout out loud to shock the crowds Who cannot see the road they travel I speak in Tongues but not to ears And twist mySelf into Stories and rhyme I wear the neurolinguistic Nails In wrists and feet impaled with Time I vow to Die in Battle I vow to die Free The chessboard is the Master Test Of the Blessed Will to Be
The Trickster twists perception Through the NewsFeed Twined minds in GroupThink FeedLots
Marionettes dance and Pirouette As Myelin Ministers twist the knots Into viral See Ee Oh My Gods of Deception
….sacrificial Lambs for Dear Ole Set….
Blessed Inception of regrets embedded Within brains as the frozenPlay rewinds Again and again
To point fingers at the Sins And the Stains And what remains to be Said
Of ThatStory Of ThisStory Of HerStory Or HisTory
Millions of taunting fingers pointed in blame Millions of tongues engulfed in flames Millions of clicks and tik tok toes Tipping quietly Through the Show …..minions clapping at their masters blows…..
A cyclic repeat of the cameras lens Optical Collusion as Harvest Season Begins (Fallen Idols’ idyllic hymns In Idle Hands as the puppet descends From the public pulpit
To mock the culprits In a Feast of Loosh)
Hashtag #cheaters sweeten the meat As the blood rips loose
(Rotten Pomegranate Seeds Drip from the Nous)
This old man, he played One He played Knick knack on my Phone With a Knick knack paddy whack Give the crowd some stones.:.: ( this old man came scrolling home)
Wakey wakey the Devil said Just two fried eggs On a toasted head
BlissNinja 