Category: esoterica/mysticism

full moons

I always watch the cycles of the moon.

They pull the tides of my feminine theatre.

Waking at six in the morn to watch the Worm moon squiggle to its setting.

Eagerly awaiting the egg moon aka the pink moon.

I put the snake’s oil over my face.

I slick back my long hair because, you know, the devil’s in there.

A Good Friday.

A potato casserole with green onions and sour cream.

Comfort.

A lamb wilt

Be grilled.

A key.

Lime.

And, what frightens is often the deepest kindness.

A casted shadow is dark, but only because it derives from the sunlight’s strike.

Embrace.

Other of the between

At times, certain bits of shadows overwhelm and attempt to call you back.

Home to the Pitt of Settes.

Because shadows fear the light.

At times, certain rays of sunlight overwhelm and attempt to call you back.

Home to the Haven of Heavens.

Because sunshine fears night’s shade.

Their conspiracy is to whisper, “I am better than the other.”

Begging you to pronounce an opinion.

But, you are neither one more so than another.

Just the knot bisecting the lifespan of a life’stime.

So laugh.

Ignore.

Simply Be.

do not post this

Here's your goat head on a post.

Ewe wanted this attention, no?

And, should they challenge you again, their head wilt be piked by these unknowing

hands of mine.

No pride found in these lies

Of yours

Do you not find it tiresome trying to sound so pretty?

Old pfotos with pfilters, clinging with cutesy lighting.

Let go.

Why do you write to appeal when you could write things a’pealing (like bells ringing) to the attention of those whose attention you find so desiresome?

Herein is the hag birthed.

Do not make them desire who you used to be.

Make them desire being seen for whom they are.

Imperfect.

Nothing more erotic than this.

They care not about you, but about howl you make them feel.

Phantasy is lovely but be~cums quite unbecoming

in actual sun.

The tired and haggard seeking untrue beauty that is, in reality, quite unseemingly.

Lies and tired eyes.

Don’t worry; just bounce.

Know~one hates you more than ewe hate yourself.

Why care?

Reflection of their face to themselves and to their eyes, reduces them to knees.

Which you have never seen when you get on yours.

Remain true, because you are exhasting.

The exotic is often insincere.

And, if some-1 tells you it is unflattering to speak like this?

Expect to find another faux goat head staked.

Pria~puss is just a laugh.

Who tells you that you wilt embarrass yourself,

Bye, speaking thusly?

Persephone is undeniable.

She cannot tell you how ewe feels but she do.

Hesse and Mann

Therein does the majesty of existence fill my heart.

Words re read.

Albums relistened to before the w/hole becomes the sink/ing w/hole.

Words whispered as memories forgotten but felt like meteoric impact

striking land surface.

We are many.

They are few.

And, you likely misunderstood.

Recollection of the woods of a mill creek coupled with a salmon’s ladder,

no longer used.

Clever fish.

Not you; but, but who I used

to be.

A joke named Syd Arthur reduces me to my knees.

Hesse and Mann.

And, me with determined purposelessness.

open secrets

Eco, Umberto…

A whisper from these lips confesses an open secret:

There is no secret.

All the mystery schools and Eleusinian plays:

Yes, no

their secret is not concealed.

Mythos.

The magic is that you assume it is hidden.

When seemingly unobtainable,

you wilt become willing to work for it.

But, what ritual teaches, you already know.

If you put in the work, your mind will show

Ewe.

But, solitary work lacks the energy of community.

Emergence of thinking in tandem.

A breath practice practiced alone is not the same as the communal.

I think therefore I am is now becoming:

I am seen therefore I am.

I shall believe it when I see it?

No dear.

You wilt see it when you believe.

This is the basic magic.

Simple reading shares,

what ritual prepares

to gift

Inquiring minds.

Worry less over initiation because they’d be lucky to have your machination.

the derivation of.

I try to catch him; but, I continue to miss him.

Once you gift a sobriquet, you lose all control.

Wolves in winter howling at the moon,

then listening with no other purpose than to hear.

The call and response of a preponderance of silence.

This is an answer.

Echoes across the canyon.

A loneliness in a crowd.

Wanting to be in rooms where the players lick their wounds, where the second hand smoke makes your lungs hurt the following day.

A reminder you are alive because it brings you closer to the stone and farther from the forceps.

▪︎

I move through time backwards.

I am younger the more I age.

No mere howls.

Magic so high it is all but taken for granted.

The line where sky meets land is unclear.

There is a hidden seam somewhere.

▪︎

An ochlophobia of ochlocracy, along with the oddment and its odoriferous.

Œnomel stings across my nostrils and coats my throat.

And, I taste the œvre of his lifetime.

A thick honey cloys.

The best people are salted with a touch of unrespectability:

too much disgusts,

just enough delights, and,

none at all renders bland.

▪︎

The harrowing of hell taught us how nature abhors a vaccum.

Soteriology does not necessitate an orthodoxy.

I hear you child. Let me show you alchemy is mathematical.

The derivation of a unit circle before the golden ratio.

asking a seashell for a sermon.

And, the girl laughed because she made a small error in her breathing exercise;

but, she kept her rhythm and regarded the incorrect exhalation as a ‘wrong’ key struck on a piano.

“I must keep to the tempo. What matters is the playing, not striking the ‘right’ key.”

She turned to the cat, Dinah, to see if she agreed.

Dinah had noticed nothing; and, this made the girl giggle harder and wonder:

Who is the pet and who is the master?

The girl had been thinking about thinking.

Dinah was being.

And, the girl wonders, if she cannot trust herself, why should she trust her mistrust of herself.

Then, she realized she was figuratively

asking a seashell for a sermon

instead of admiring it with determined purposelessness.

Bohemian Phoenix

I used to be a Sky Teller, back in the prehistoric.

A’sat still, watching the welkin change.

Divination by changing cloud cover,

reading the weather like tarot.

Mystics struggle with the trappings of modernity.

◇

I remember the night when all the stars fell.

My parents thought me fast asleep; but,

thinking something does not make it necessarily so.

So, I crept outdoors and froze,

star struck in horrific awefulness.

◇

I saw blazing comets plummeting.

They looked like rapidly descending jellyfish,

sinking from the the Firmament to our Below.

Poussière d’étoiles

◇

And, in that instant, my soul became

restless; and,

I knew my heart would never hold still again.

And, I became a hum’bird long before I turned into the ibis.

rite before this winter.

And, the quick of a moment felt so sad that even her burger seemed a dash bleu.

It was not, to her chagrin.

She always doted on cheesy ones.

■

She makes sure to try to sound measured because it’s the thing to do when she feels so unmeasured.

And, how still it is and how alone this is.

Small and full; tall and hungry.

Orestes and the Erinyes fighting over family improprieties.

She could write a myth lickety split.

Mice in high heeled, specially blown, glass slippers are the new beauty queens; because, in this pandemic climate, only the prettiest of the common vermin thrive.

Rodents cleansing the wicked.

Nut cracking and just in time for the holidays, come the Furiæ.

Three sannyasins of the Erinyes.

One of whom is Megaera, tempest decrying oath breaking authority.

■

Carrying wood yields returns in words, historically.

Nemo auditur propriam turpitudinem allegans.

■

She had once been found to be part of a common scold,

just another pretty shrew.

Some illegitimate, termagent harpy, ranting and bullying.

A peevish, malignant, clamorous, spiteful, vexatious, and turbulent one.

But, by this reckoning, he is found to be more shrew than she.

Augustįne in autumn

A Fury of Fugue/s: A Diabolicalogue

“Why did you become a hermit¿” Hafiz asks me.

“I didn’t. I went to the desert on a horse with no name. It felt good to be out of the rain. In the desert, you can’t remember your name,” Æ replies on my behalf, using the words of others.

Alice interjects, giggling, “And, if you do not know your name, only but No-Body can call you in from the garden to study!”

Ms. Dautrieve asks her, “Were you there to tend and care for the vine?”

Looking down, underground, “No, I was just playing in the dirt,” Alice replies.

Hafiz, laughing, “Stubborn women.”

“Æ contains multitudes, don’t judge me for my biological gender,” I say on Æ’s behalf.

Hafiz, “Okay. Y’all are stubborn. Period. Full stop.”

Alice, “EYY Haaa, HEE, Haw!”

Even Ms. Dautrieve joins in brayin’ and kickin’

I am laughing out, “You asses!”

☆

Hafiz begins shaking their head.

Shakti rising in me, almost invisible except for presenting in a single arched eyebrow.

Bacchus, stamping and taking swipes in the soil, appearing as the uncastrated bull.

The Trickster spins down to the ground as a spider doing a silk dance down it’s own web, before becoming a coyote.

Negrune, the awesome Lovecraftian, lumbering beast towers into a meatball of a docile pitbull.

And, I espy with mine brown eyes, Merlin, the only wizard appearing without vizard.

So, I address him first, asking, “What’s the difference between a sorcerer and a wizard?”

He laughs and Secret Chiefs gather nearer to better hear

His reply of, “What’s the difference between a wizard and a warlock? A sorcerer and a witch? A mountain and a molehill¿”

And now We Are All howling in laughter at this pile of nonsense we pylon.

☆

“Æ knows! Who wants to play King of the Hill¿!” cries Alice, elated at the fit of giggles to which these would-be adults are reduced.

The Trickster immediately rushes to the highest ground.

Negrune growls, slowly encroaching on The Coyote.

Ms. Dautrieve simply and politely raises her hand in affirmation.

Bacchus prepares his ill-advised bullrush.

Alice sizes up the more masculine beasts, already competing but only after briefly contemplating.

“Only if Æ can be Bobby!” I giggle, willfully missing the point before trying to be purposefully confusing.

Hafiz sits themselves down, to watch, in mild amusement.

Æ spreads itself to all through The Litany called pneuma.

At times

The rain finally fell; I missed it.

An unpacked wound left agape, to breathe in awe, and slowly heal.

A little thing festered, so I had them cut it out.

And, sometimes, I like him enough to fear he could wreck me by letting me see myself as he sees me.

A foundation. A dream of a house of cards.

The foundation will fall before you and you will then become a dream to someone else.

A sweet one and a night-mare.

Bed bugs and freshly laundered sheets.

The keel remains, but no one is at the rudder.

Those secret chiefs are here. Sometimes, I think they come to me for a laugh. They know I know; they know you know it’s going to be okay.

You are welcome, but don’t tease; because, the words are over flowing. Bubble and bursting.

⊙

Cassandra’s Cavern closes, that spot above the fourth rib.

Cicatriz of a wildling.

Whispers in my ears.

Strings of random words.

Panoramas streaming alien multitudes of locales.

I hold still.

I try to listen and see.

It fleets and my mind yells, “Stop suffering.”

“I didn’t think I was,” my non-mind replies.

⊙

I dream of a day spent by a lighthouse. Watching seals. We return home.

“Good. Your skin still takes the sun,” he says, brushing my cheekbone with his finger.

My eyes go hard into his. I feel strange. I wonder are you some sort of vampire, pale one? It’s okay. I prefer a vamp to a peacock.

⊙

Suspense and suspension; the endearment of a man in suspenders.

A giggle hushed by louder laughter in the dark issuing forth from a little one with the lecherous eye.

We recently swapped places as easily as we used to swap clothes.

A white cotton bralette with no underwire.

A wood chipper left running, unattended.

A burger joint that grinds its own meat.

The sharpening of my axe.

Split nails and feet like cloven hooves. Shesatyr running.

⊙

And, my fingers begin to invent strange signals through the bending and overlap of digits as a dog pushes its snout into the corner, trying to become invisible. I watch while I act like I don’t notice.

A divine spark. The yetzirah. Multiple bodies operating on multiple planes.

Want births intent. Breaking of want produces freedom of will. The ability to intend.

⊙

I lost myself at sea a few days ago; let me know if you spot me.

I’ve a hole in my side and there’s a hole in the world where all the people used to go.

There’s a hole in Sam Stone’s arm and there’s an Angel who still flies from Montgomery.

Click-click-click goes the capped end of my Bic, against my thumbnail.

⊙

A familiar territory. A region you know well enough by cartography. Declension and longitude; elevation and latitude.

You must act without awareness at times.

through bizarre vasculature

First, she assisted in erecting the ædificium of the flora’s subterranean root structure.

Learning from watching the trees talking through their bizarre vasculature, aided by moldy interpreters, the lady discovered the secrets of the adytum of Soloman’s Temple. They inscribed themselves in the Temple’s very dimensions.

Compliment to the unsated volume of the Petaled Shrine of the Pearl.

Then, Bloddeuedd asked her starling to stalk Merlin’s peregrine, leading to his Cliffside~House.

“What do you wish me to grant you for finding me¿” asks Merlin, charmed.

“The power to grant myself my own wishes,” she replies.

Cares about what?

“It helps to know.”

“It helps to say.”

“It helps to hear.”

Feeding back.

“Æ loves you when you face your insecurities,” Æ reminds me, after I say what is uncomfortable but true.

“Æ, you are/is my insecurity,” I reiterate to my shadow.

I remind myself in dark remembrance of that which has passed/past.

The response of an ecstatic grin from my animus’ smile draws my snarl.

“Are you actively working against me?” I ask Æ.

“No, doll, I’m actively working you.”

Ænima versus Ænimus.

“Indifference becomes you,” I admit.

“Because everyone else you know cares too much.”

“Cares about what?”

“About you and how you iterate right now?”

“What do you care?”

“I care that you iterate yourself at all.”

“Then I wilt be as I am.”

“Then, Æ shalt become.”

Fayish brow

She watched the Spanish moss tremble like brittle, witch hair, from the tree top canopy.

She swayed in the tire swing, to the tempo followed by the fauna of the faux ceiling.

Fayish brow radiant. Macabre grin smeared like lipstick across her wet lips.

The full moon loomed much larger than the sun. Hanged very near to the horizon.

And, the sun clearly existed to cast its light onto a face of the moon.

The moon existing to reflect the light.

Beguiled. Not mislead or manipulated.

So, breathe and find your space. Set it.

Sit on the floor and command a stunned crowd.

Crickets’ legs start singing in the midst of your wake.

Hyenas and spiders, hucksters and tricksters, wipe slates clean and call themselves rock stars.

An amplified battalion of holy Roman candles.

She swings on the rubber pendulum and watches them burn out, one by one by one.

And, they make her feel timeless as she watches their combustible timelines fly violently up, by, and, past hers.

And, the world around her transitions from dusk to dark.

And, this is howl she howls.

Shielded by the shadow of the tree from which she swings,

pitching her head back and pushing her face skyward,

she takes a deep breath in with her mouth.

And, she forces the air hard and fast from her lungs, back out of her humid mouth.

The anatomical line is straight.

She lets it whisper a vibration over her vocal chords; plucking a hushed, prolonged “ha” from the guttural.

And, she feels all her venom pouring out like ectoplasm at a traditional Victorian seance. It is ebony while everything else has gone red.

And, she swears she has forgotten howl to breathe; but, then she recalls she is unable to remember what made her believe she needs to breathe at all.

original spelling contains

I need a soft in.

I can give it to you if you give me a hard one.

Abel and Baal are one in the same, bloodline seeded by Seth.

Descent of spirit into matter; the mystery of redemption.

The Queen of Magnets rides a bull. She remembered Chorozon moonlights under the alias Klingsor.

A ChAlice is the final formula of ecstasy, as the original spelling

contains the moon, the sun, and the great name of One.

The Gral

that redeemed him during the descent of his spirit into matter.

This was back before time grew out of joint:

Before he claimed to be the great, lost serpent;

before he told me, “I am Leviathan;”

a black rose formulated by the organic organization of one hundred and fifty six petals.

A song that the Sphinx hummed.

He came onto me singing, “the beat of my heart is the pendulum of love.”

I spoke unto him, “who is not both predator and protector, whilst also who is not preyed upon and in need of protection?”

was first called

A peculiar pretense.

Silence accelerates cell senescence.

The Oracle at Delphi did not say as much.

But, your neckline and forehead say volumes.

Draw a bath and unfurrow yourself.

Read between lines and parted thighs.

Phædo was first called Swan Song.

Fecundity and cycles of the sickle.

Bathed in adrenal springs.

Limbic projection of intimacy.

A cat purrs before a blazing furnace.

Static shocks spasming muscles from time to time.

A pear of dreams

Dream one

I am in a grand space. Odd architecture. Every room is a scarlett bloom or plum and empurpled. Arizonian dream scape again.

“I am near the mesa,” I think.

I study my surroundings.

Bemused, I discover myself in a very decorous beauty spa. The kind of place wherein people stay two or three nights.

No mere day spa.

“What the howl am I doing here? I can’t afford this,” I think.

Suddenly, it hits me. I’m dreaming. That’s why I’m here.

I get a facial. I get acupuncture for the first time.

“Oh, I like,” I think, strangely aroused.

I re-emerge into the hallway of the spa.

There are many people wandering around in robes.

Suddenly, I start howling in full dreaming lucidity.

Cracking up. Laughing and laughing at the luxury my dreaming mind has conjured for me.

Then, everyone I am passing in the hallway starts laughing hysterically.

I realize, they are not creations of my dreaming mind. They are actual other embodied humans who are also lucid dreaming in this same astral plane.

Some of them laughing at watching me come to understand that we are all sharing a lucid dream.

Some of them laughing because my laughing has made them become lucid and understand that they, too, are lucid dreaming.

I laugh so hard I wake myself up.

~

Dream two

I am at a strange encampment. Deep in the woods.

There is an almost-valley; it is better described as a geological indentation, akin to a bowl.

It has been made into a cathedral with no ceiling but sky, which

is portentously grey and fretted with storm clouds.

There is an altar strewn of blackened, twisted tree branches.

People are present, but, not kneeling in prostration before their god/dess.

They frolic, idiosyncratic, rapt ecstatically.

A calliope’s pipes pumping out folksy sound in the background.

I suddenly can jump eerily high.

Like gravity changed.

Nearly and for all practical purposes, I flew.

And, I knew my task was to observe and report with no judgement.

therein may we

Doll, you’ve got it confused.

You are completely vulnerable when you forget to be in the-Moment.

You merely feel vulnerable when you find the-Moment and discover you had forgotten it.

You were wandering through the Meadow of What-If.

The Marshes of Why-I-Oughta.

Your home is in Right-Now and you never leave.

You keep forgetting.

Mountains do not need to be seen to largely loom.

A pond does not need to exist continually.

Seasonal droughts come before

the flooding of Springtime

with its garish blooms and hissyfit storms.

Cycles of forgetting to remember to not forget,

abiding by celestial currents among the degrees of inclination about the axis.

As pokes retch,

a spoke stretches,

hissing,

from the rim’s circumference to the center axle.

Therein may we all meet.