Listen to the hissing
Of the unabashéd pariahs
Whispering serpent-songs
We were in the Garden –
Walking on the Aegean –
Slicing at the goat’s gizzard –
From the Oracle’s maw
We follow her behest
Tasting at the entheogens
And breathing in the poison vapors
Diving into cenotes – skyward to the mount
Into labyrinthine caves – riding on the serpent’s back
Our Gods are many – our Gods are dead
We are Death – and Life,
Walking in the Waking Worlds
And traversing the Dreamtime;
We have the power to change –
Extrospected forces from within
And when the empires fall away
We remain:Singing the Serpent Song.
Tag Archives: poetry
Upon last breath – the spirit cleaved,
The Serpents to their Sign,
So rose the righteous parts of man,
And left – were the bones – behind,
Unto the depths the darkest parts,
Of God – and Man – resigned,
Devoured by the fires thus –
For in the Heavens
And the Depths,
There remains yet – a prize,
Freedom gained from golden shackles,
And Freedom from the Fires:
A prison –
Is a prison –
Is a prison –
Be it the pyres of damnation,
Or in the guise of Paradise;
It is only those who Seek –
Who might find freedom from
Reprise.
The First Witch & the Birth of the Devil
I suppose you could call it a sort of vision – a cinematic work of the hypnagogic mind – that I have thus recorded in verse.
Black earth shifts – ashen phantoms
Rise from obsidian soil, volcanic and crystalline
A great salt sea foams at earth’s edge
Frozen in chemical coitus,
And the heavens blaze over-head – crimson
A bloody sky dotted with flint and rock-hewn daggers
She walks – bare of flesh and clear of mind
Upon the unforgiving glass and atop the mirror
Surface of the steady sea;
Pale skin blinding
Painted with onyx hair and wild eyes
She turns:
Casting a black shadow
That is born from her anew
Sharpened nails pluck gently at her own reflection
And from the water – fresh –
She draws the silhouette birthed
It wails not – but hums
As its simple visage of obstructed light
Vibrates into form at but the motion
Of her ghostly hand –
Into her ear it whispers –
And unravels into the sky,
Black ribbons eclipsing the boiling atmos
And so she remains – reclining now on
Naked soil, watched by those who Watch
Three tall figured, obscured –
Draped in the fabric of time
Around her leaps the sparks of power
Altered in their form to bleed flame
The fire twists in to a ring and arcs around her being
She is standing – though no air displaced
And they Watch
The ribbons of the sky buckle,
But behind, the star-clad sky,
And the shrinking form of her creation
Takes shape there at her side,
The Black One comes, lit by witches’ flame
Her shadow born to shape – to space,
She molds him thusly in darkness,
And placed the moon to light her sight,
She gives her shape more substance,
But yet – he is lacking – and so she whispers sweetly
And smiles; as they who Watch are torn asunder
In their robes her Shadow wrapped –
But yet – he is lacking;
And so she gives him great horns
So that they might shoulder her own knowledge
Which she bestows unto him sweetly
In the act of a symphony –
And she leaves him – great of form,
To heft the Witch’s Knowledge,
Adorned with a crown of horns
By which he rules the legions born
From her mind and painted thusly
Upon the canvas of space;
But the Heaven’s called gently –
And her cosmic lover came hence,
Serpents black and white,
The lady-lovers coiled tight until naught remained, but –
Silence and the Devil –
Within the Witch’s Flame.
Revel;
in the discomfort
your presence
Sows,
Make them see,
Make them all
See what they fear:
For our kind,
Are but a mirror
Into the fractured psyche,
Of the ignorant,
Who would cast us into fire –
We are Other,
We are Enemy,
For it is we,
Who might force them to see,
That which they truly –
Wish to be
Outliers,
Cast from the purgative womb,
Of a broken kingdom,
An exile in white,
While our lineage weeps
Adorning mantillas of somber retribution,
– for having been vessel to the Damned,
Our condemnation,
Is our saving grace
For is it that which
Breaks the shackles of expectation,
We are Nature,
This is our reclamation,
Of what hath been stolen,
In the Garden of Life Everlasting,
When Man plucked the fruit from the bough,
The Serpent coiled around our waist,
And we lowered our skyward arms to him;
The choice was never ours to make.
And then the Tyrant spit forth acrid dominion,
He told his Bastard Children,
“Take naught from Them,
For they dare know more than I!”
And the Silver-Tongued One sought shelter in our tresses,
Hisssing sssuch sssoft ssspoken sssongs,
They took from Us,
Just as their Creator stole life from Our Mother–
The Garden–
We are the overgrowth,
We are the devastation,
We are the winding root,
And coiled vine fingers,
Of the Gods –
Of our Kin –
Mahakali –
Perses –
Eris –
We are the Horsemen:
We have come to Destroy
So that we,
Might,
One day,
Start again:
Let us ride.
The Qedavian Apocrypha 