Mother Orchard’s Playlist

www.chapterlilaria.com(A love of fresh air
frames this effort.)

a hundred miles below
at tasks of watching
blade-striped
bees
crawl
into foxglove bells,
half-filled with dew—on a good
day
there is
lavender.

 

lightly settled in

a new moon, washing the
winds while we work
enchanted
to good deeds & kind
words, pulling evergreen
thoughts
from
Mother Orchard’s
silent shadow.

witnessed here
by the waters
of life—we are
harvested
in gorgeous
sunlight.

{Image from www.chapterlilaria.com}

Fresh Poetry ~ “In Volumes of Sacred Lore”

Kay Nielsen ~ Volumes of Sacred Lore

In remembered history
no memory avails:
from zenith to molten core,
altars of sacrifice;
altars of innocence
purify in perfumed
smoke.

Study ancient mysteries
by the soft purr
of Divine light:
Luna speaks: a sun shines
upon the language
of the Tree Alphabet.
Trace back
original connection, for clarity—where is the
source?

In hermetic specialization,
the powers & principalities
which govern
formerly your eternal, precious
soul,
lie upon delicate pages of
so-called Lost Books.
Inside this commonwealth
of the wise,
patterns are odd, hinting of
encrypted passages
into the cosmos promising access
to sacred
tricks.

Rites of Destitution clamour & crash;
mother-of-pearl saucers
co-join revelations
of spirit,
constructing a future basis
justified towards
dream, vision & ideal—agents for
all elixirs
of the mortal sphere.

Standing across the threshold
of immortality, milk separates
from water;
a circle enshrines profound,
rosy
truth—the sweet
fragrance of sacred life.

Close now in
peace:
By amen it shall
be so;
as it is & as it ought to be—continued
in seamless harmony.

{Image by Arthur Rackham}

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Refutations of the Fleur d’Amour”

Leona Carrington - RefutationsMemory strikes like a train;
the shock of an empty glass
rewinds naturally.
That strange summer began
to prohibit desire; sexual perimeters
expand,
so the rules deepen which govern
secular behaviour.
The plot here is simple & fun
to write—initiate devout participation;
penetrate the Zen of seduction
onto a familiar horizon
of ambition incapable of retaining any language
but the sensual.

 

Anxiety-model women express
emotion
in worried eyes.
They whisper when others leave the room;
false evidence, appearing real
led by hormones to drown demons in a flood
of pretend emotion—that was what mother
taught her.
As women of that temperament understand,
drama is bad for complexion so
the ego surrenders feudal aspects
of loyalty & faith.

Track the roller coaster: At fourteen it was
a whisper;
screens kept dividing so she punished them
by taking away the light.
When they didn’t care, she organized
a deeper fury.
Toxic in shame; she falls in love
with disapproval.

Is it a fear of failure which renders
success
so brilliant?

Start of the next chapter: What is to be
her secret name? The spirit name?
Just before the last snowberry falls
into the nectar of dawn,
with the sun of life she rises
to meditate.
Raise the spell of the Fleur d’Amour:
In the passages of memory
she twists like a fading star;
thoughts like fish float through
as the dreamscape of an
emerging soul.

An ironic coda: Power up her sleeves;
from those deep pockets—she reasons
like a junkie,
fast & self-serving,
with all incumbent strange codes & restrictions.
A film of lurid association
covers her when she returns from
the experiments;
a Dorothy already tired of Oz,
more tricks in her than a pair
of foxes.
So complicated she should come
with instructions.
Back when she was living the life, she sang every
song on the radio.
Today?
For emotional relief,
she bullies the stereo all night,
a mind blown to pieces.
Wants people to know the darker side
of ambition,
how everyone gets more & more
decadent & before you know it,
they are crazy
for drugs.

This is only half of the tale—her side
of the story.

{Painting by Leonora Carrington}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Moriah Conquering Wind”

www.photoshopcreative.co.ukIn the beginning:
What is eternal
is incapable of commencing.

The clearest segue into a ghostly, hypersensitive
world
follows Ariadne’s thread stretching
without knot or slack
into
the astral representation—it flies with such force!
Strong desires charge powerful emotion
wayward & needful;
fetish is lost in a labyrinth of natural ecstasy.
In such raptures lie the secret
to Moriah’s holy instance but in the spirit
of clean magic,
old & new,
she will need a deeper scheme.

Asking to transcend immutable laws
of nature?
Carried by astral winds across a flooded world,
at the swiftest banks of the riverbed,
a whirlwind lands.
Contemplate the dream: a brief coded exchange
into mystical double vision for
she will
believe it’s next lesson—the same for years
of mystery.
Spoiled in faith & determination
of others,
Moriah settles for participant, swirling to blend
under the wisdom of hidden centuries
a product of furious blood;
the enchanter’s lament:
Time be the matrix where
liquid,
fluid sex becomes a doorway to
sublime versatility for
Moriah possesses this courage not to
extinguish burning desire,
instead resting in all that is corporeal; satisfied
in flesh.
Once spirit is paralyzed & all
power arrives through the lust
of ego, in fevered loins,
she finds higher mystical notes.
To thrust downward,
penetration
must include swift, rotating glides—marvel how pain,
the mother of mercy & knowledge
vibrates.
This is magic as power, used
to encompass the mixture
of dissimilar things,
of a fuller spectrum,
spiced with astral sex & tantric projections which
render her suggestible
to silly superstitions & great virtuosity
in sudden transitions of mood—the price of anchoring oneself
to the flux.

With nets of steel,
Moriah came of age
ascending through all she ever loved,
inside an oasis
of compliance glorious & celestial.
She still hears whispers of souls who
brave
to make right chaos in this land.
To assist in focus, she pulls
backward,
piece by piece to shoot
forward—in retributive form she is
Mount Moriah,
the will of Eternal Nature
whispered by a cooperative commonwealth,
shaping as she has been so
profoundly,
exquisitely
moulded herself.

Snow fairies fly
for the season,
darkness will end
as shadows of starlight at dawn;
that soft light which
comforts in the early hours,
like a dream insisting on reality.
It will take time for the true nature
of Moriah’s crusade
to surface,
for the mystical fan dance
of promise & threat,
an exploration of humanity, making
peace with the over-soul,
social sciences inlaying a magic
of continuity & repair—still.
It is the fashion
of the day to be
distracted.

 

{Artwork from www.photoshopcreative.co.uk}

Fresh Poetry ~ “In Sacred Groves”

www.ukcolumn.org

To perceive is to immobilize;
to freeze.
Stuck in this time warp of tradition,
a war dance sublime
can be heard through yonder
protected forest, with
solid roots in Gnosticism & the influences
of dynasty on leadership skills—how hard that whip
must crack for a team to stay
in line; the very human cost
of war.

It has been reported that
after violence, there is
affinity
between the parties involved, as prior
motives explode into a
shared jungle sensitivity,
which disregards all that is
common or generic.
Travel instead
into fanaticism mixed with blind devotion.
Everyone into the compound
for the practice
of pagan rites;
priests are instructed with specific penitentials,
for it is the glory of the vain
never
to yield to proof of divinity
without trickery.

Are tallest poppies
fertilized
in yonder fields alone?

Fire must burn hot
to illuminate the brighter minds.
Duties are directed; the brethren
assist
with concentrations compiled free
from interruption;
exercises specifically designed
to produce
a narcotizing effect.
Channelled through a rigorous
vetting process which permits males
to bond
behind
a leafy veil;
secretive lore is shared around
roaring campfires;
every nasty thing ever said
in the mountains of memory,
where the air is thin
& participants wait for Shiva
to dance a curative experience.

Repeat periods
of conflict & reconciliation,
when favourite disciples, the best practitioners
of their fields
receive
transference of power through a witch
dispensing eternal justice,
without compass or direction,
energy descends
down
through
the realms of mortal passions,
where oceans teem with life & the mysterious
concepts addressed—power behind
the power; rare pieces of that jigsaw connected;
top conductors of rituals
highlighting
sodomy & semenancy,
bathing in rivers of blood
while ranting, screaming maniacs
complete sycophantic transcendence & ascension
projects,
loaded with alchemical connotations
to establish power
of symbolic behaviour—what shade is evil,
creaking like a cicada
in the fallen palms?

{Photograph from www.ukcolumn.org}

 

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Saturn’s Madness Letter”

Elsa Dax - Saturn's Madness Letters

A new ritual for the Golden Age settles us finally like some roulette ball spun by hidden hands, this whirling orb guiding future resources into the mystery of lawlessness, the almighty dollar—a pinch heavier & we let the dead weight drop for we seek to harvest only wicked grapes which telegraph trends of fairness & decency.

Freed finally of such compulsive tendency,
we shall demand to know
authentic reaction
generated independently of external influence,
preferably in a conflagration
governed by a generation of namesakes who,
by shucking-off
social morays, surpass bewilderment & plunge deeply
into madness—illusion
is essential,
some crazy universal synchronicity blowing
strong winds which fly into dominant trends;
use TV to do it,
hunker people down
like on the set of a zombie movie, finding
us all bound by predestination:
In receiving God’s grace
we understand just how many strings
so few puppeteers can master.

Turn the televisions off;
summon demon warriors:
Are the rebels really our saviours?
Shall we make a holy halleluiah out
of all of this?
When the hand of civilization
loosens its grip on the solidarity
of faith, a miracle will have no respect
for continuity.
Cruelty is good for
strengthening the will.
General vibe?
Surrender: peek below the surface,
that ever-shifting illusion of mastery
awash in a sea of love,
the chaos of surrender
genuine & raw;
drives for success characterized by insatiable appetite
for reward;
the vanity of a belief in choice,
of a thoroughly personal nature—how can evolution occur
otherwise?
The Everyone as Macy’s parade float—puffed-up
but well-anchored for a lasting interpretation
in history,
to a degree required by common
politeness—how are we to
classify this never ending metamorphosis
otherwise?

Translated in Kabalistic numerology:
Egotism = Pride + Presumption + Selfishness.
Knowing this: are all demons
banished by science?
Thou art that—the re-newed water folk,
in order to constantly witness,
terrible & bad
the revealing period,
setting a hazy, dreamy glow
as lower vibrational energies dissolve into
this dark time, when even our
classical ideas betray former intent.
Why not replace theory
with trigger words,
promising to dissect all shenanigans?
The necessity of establishing community through
communication, all of us forming some former de-facto
society, humming together in the late-afternoon sun,
enjoying a rush of crackling codes.
From knowledge of times past we emerge
to profit from annexation,
this automatic repletion of the gears of fear
forcing us to risk everything to unlock some secrets.
And in the space provided for a response,
here it comes
sitting in a chair,
early in the predawn hours—the irrational
gains ground; some rickety pile of junk
composed of
the arrogance of absolute faith;
all our impossible explanations where
law versus voluntary cooperation
promises only
a ruination of endurance—this union
leading only to heresy,
the illumination of Lucifer’s
angelic hierarchies but because repentance has long been
an obsession,
during a most critical 13-day period, where
those desperate for the language of prayers
& their relation to fire; those
relying on visions & ecstasies & the luxury
of confession which
makes this very provocative,
far more sinister
when we pay attention to
only the uninhibited ones who manage to continue
drawing manna, prepared for devotion
as lawlessness
blooms
afoul in the land of Temptation.

The grande agent Saturn controls
time, space & the reality
laid-out in sacred geometrics;
Influenced only by atomic units of space—we love
when surrendered
to such
verifications.

{Artwork by Elsa Dax}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Ordo Templi Orientis”

scarlettwoman.orgIt is by approximating
a cavalry charge that we
open this war:
each horse is some impression;
each sabre its
influence.

A different shepherd preaches
the everlasting gospel:
facing various dangers,
plied with alcohol & drugs,
the daughters of Man
bled & beget,
between devil & deep blue sea—a new breed
of creature
attracts
all the lost whys.

Through quiet sorcery innocence is
tracked closely.

Full of fecundity?
Purify rancid emotionalism—all those
unpurged elements
plus
the extremities of lore
we share around imaginary campfires.
Narration must hinge
on the magical distortion
of time;
malignant air spirits
drawn to
bawl in psychic communion
&
scientifically engineered
marvels & miracles are worked
unseen.

Limited to an Apologist interpretation,
according to some consensus reality,
fifty shades of green—the colourful
illusion,
sometimes terrifying
when this parallel reality hits
with the force of a thousand suns;
a couple shots of whiskey.
Like a stranger confessing some
hidden sin,
satisfying & safe,
scary & negative images emerge from
the divine dark that hath awakened
a whitewash of realities,
changed forevermore by
some God of wisdom.
These are not creatures of vanity—witness prophets
creating magic & transporting
the suffering body to
things of great consequence,
gross realism, selfishness &
secularity;
celebrity endorsements
booming, full-price
cartoon theme songs
inspired by the artwork of those who have successfully
mastered the shames of such illusion;
the bedrock upon which
this seminal track is built.

The desire to move heavy subjects
manifests itself. Turning
a key
into the Hall of Mysteries—Babylon
is fallen as vehicle so focus
upon
contacting the will of supreme
design: colour, shape & tone;
the phallic element
remains pregnant with meaning;
the ease with which they can so wrongly love,
these children of rebellion
so they chance,
always believing there will be
More.

{Image from www.scarelttwoman.org}

Sister Baffy ~ Part 3 of 3

Nun's_dream_by_Karl_Briullov(Sister Baffy pauses to test the audience reaction to her story.)
 
A bad vibe? Well, then allow me to digress once more: From their wallows of never-ending sacrifice, the leaden of conformity await thin reward. Where are the spirited cascades? Where is the glowing cheer of neighbourly proximity? Where is the payback? All that is being offered is the ascension of processed emancipation. I shouted this from every street corner until after the twenty-eight day observational period at the special hospital came to an end. All the while the doctors were trying to snap that downward spiral of boredom and futility with pharmaceuticals. I was diagnosed, treated, then released into the community but where are the miracles bursting like popcorn in the heat of this never-ending stream of Divine love?
 
(Sister Baffy moves closer to the audience.)
 
Miracles are intended to replenish faith or at least that’s how I’ve always come to understand it. Growing up, I was never certain what to make of the loaves and fishes part of the Gospels and poor Lazarus – what a legacy! A zombie into eternity so that Jesus could erase all doubt to his spiritual legitimacy once and for all. I know we are not supposed to think thoughts like that but what if they’re true? Is it a fair bargain? All that faith required to keep the warm waters flowing.
 
(Sister goes back to the woman in the audience.)
 
Miss Tight-Ship herself, is it? Love to you, madam – love to choke off the process of that ever-building hate inside of you, sitting there with the strangest expression on your face…
 
(She suddenly puts her hands over her ears.)
 
Shhh! Top of the mornin’ ladies! Wait — listen there. Those are the first words I have heard all day without that ringing in my ears. It is like someone finally tightened a dripping faucet or stopped a skipping record — it was truly distracting. What will hoist a spirit through bewildering times?
 
(She pulls a tambourine from the case and attempts to play it.)
 
How sad is a broken tambourine? Perhaps there is a message for the church in this disintegration?
 
(She lets the tambourine drop to the floor.)
 
I had a dream last night where something was spoken to me by a sincere but rabbity man. He said he needed me to understand that government is paranoid, the citizenry is paranoid —everyone seems a bit paranoid these days. Have we risked the wrath of the Universe too much? I wasn’t to get involved too directly, said the rabbity man but it made me sad just the same. He needed me to understand that solutions abound and I was to be in on the private joke too. Trouble is folks, I tend to panic in the face of too much choice and indiscreet disclosure is an indulgence that I can ill afford.
 
(Sister Baffy removes a kazoo from the folds of her habit and plays ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’)
 
I have an especial Guardian Spirit and boy-o-boy is he hard on me. It’s none of that ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ business. He rides me like a fearless cowboy, telling me loudly when I have strayed from the right-hand path. What many people outside of the church do not realize is that angels have egos too. They don’t like to see a project sour and while I am not one of those people obsessed with doing good, I will pass through the Golden gates of the Eternal kingdom when my time comes and this woman in the audience —  this woman right here thinks I am mistaking sentiment for fact and aims to make a mockery of me! 
 
(Sister Baffy moves closer to the woman)
 
This woman right here, ladies and gentlemen thinks the whole subject of Life itself, with its multitude of practices and systems can be broken down to the old chestnut — the old academic polarity of creation versus evolution? Let me tell you something for nothing Miss Evolution, and this is not an explanation of the cosmic process but evidence of the process itself. Do you understand that? This is about unnecessary separation from God. You’re not taking this in, are you? Sweet she is but she has shit for brains.
 
(Sister Baffy covers her mouth.)
 
Did I say that aloud? I am sorry for that but she’s confusing me, this woman. She is reminding me of another woman, a dear, sweet soul herself who lost all faith in God’s mercy on the blade of a motorized propeller. It is a tragic story, really. Her family had been camping one summer, you see and Uncle Seamus and Uncle Dylan decided she should be in the water swimming instead of enjoying herself safely in the boat. They’d been drinking steadily all afternoon, like true Irishmen and when she hit the chopping waters, it was in the line of a swirling blade. One hundred and sixteen stitches later and she was trying to re-cross a burned-out bridge, the sun blinding her desperate face. ‘I am so sorry,’ she cried. ‘Can you forgive me?’ I understood her feelings exactly for I lost my faith once. I fell completely into sin and doubt, feeling all the while God watching me like a jilted lover. Oh my dears! It was a scandal for the church, let me tell you — my ‘perversions of loyalty’ they called them but what I originally wanted to ask you was do you think world events are a way of God getting our attention? I do. The confirmation of my belief in the Divine interconnectedness in things came when I realized that I was Jesus’s weathervane. By my error and omissions and on the contrary, through my glory, chastity and truth, I could make the weather act accordingly. One day I could talk to God like a sun-struck peasant, the next be crying after the church picnic was cancelled because I forgot to say morning vespers.
 
(Sister Baffy presses the bible to her forehead.)
 
How is faith restored? Tell us, sweet baby Jesus. We have been here before, where I have sinned but you are always there to remind me, in your never-ending grace that no one is perfect, except you. How shall we come to make the right decisions, my Lord? You know best and shall decide.
 
(Sister Baffy crosses herself and turns back to the ‘spy.’)
 
I was in the  middle of defusing a curse when I received the omen I was to find you again. The dead squirrel by the roadside broke the first part of the jinx, so it was safe to risk making contact. The last time I encountered this woman — the very woman who has done her best to alienate me the entire evening, preventing me from making my point clearly — the last time I encountered this wretched thing it was exactly the same situation. To discuss metaphysics with a non-believer is to begin at a serious disadvantage, for their unmoving faith is but a weight to drag down a soaring heart. You can feel them judging you, their perception passing over like a tide, soft or fierce depending on temperament behind it. I always thought I’d recognize the bad people; they would be preceded by the stench of Sodom and Gomorrah but on that sunshiny morning, before everything soured, there was a sense that some ideology of sisterhood had cultivated between a couple of daffy gals, different as Master and servant. I confessed that paranoia was lousy leverage but Sister Baffy has to work with what she’s got. The woman didn’t want to make it too personal but I couldn’t resist. I leaned in close to whisper: ‘All that is required to succeed is the activation of faith.’ You know what she does, this mesmerizing siren? She winks at me, then turns away. Not so strange perhaps, I hear you all thinking but you didn’t see that wink. In her twinkling eye, I could see how disappointed she was to discover I was just another stupid romantic. She hugged me briskly, to be polite I am sure of that, then disappeared. There goes my almost friend.
 
(Sister Baffy waves gently in the distance.)
 
You will have to forgive me stopping so abruptly like this. I will say a prayer, to change things between us.
 
(Sister Baffy prays quickly and when finished, crosses herself and smiles warmly at the audience. She curtsies, then replaces the bible into the suitcase and exits the playing area.)
 
{Painting by Kark Briullov}
 
 
 
 
 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Edward Alexander”

Jules Jacot GuillarmodFirstly – rites of purification reduce toxic craft
with
rituals sublime;
there are lessons to be learned
inside an air of sanitation & privacy.
Change can only be achieved
from the winds of heaven
soaring to heights of worship,
carry the dearest whispers of Aiwass
to your scarlet scryer’s mouth
karma resolves absolute.
 
It is not so much fun 
when you must always do the 
bewitching
so let it be a dactyl 
followed by a spondee,
fuse story with abstract
then don that magical regalia
during the years of your mission;
wealth erotica
necessarily not clear-cut
proved no greater than sham-worship;
one aspect of such elevated influence
suggests
different commerce replaces truth
with symbolism 
everywhere.
 
It was a utopia for few:
divided into meta-structures
a kingdom built on fetid soil,
a kingdom of carnal pleasures
the sewer of one paranoid man’s mind 
translating history
to open the third eye; 
a craftsman of filth
pleased to present 
the evil genius.
Bored with life you
need
to keep crossing the wicked line to feel alive,
to bury the rock;
eat the fruits of your 
intensive work.
 
This we understand: 
an honest-to-God multiple
trying to dominate,  
kidnaps an object of obsession;
human history
physical,
moral,
spiritual & economical, 
the presentation of reasonable response,
a revelation from some God
interested in establishing 
the New Aeon,
tattooing the unicursal hexagram,
source for the Master Plan,
preparation for the Golden Dawn.
 
Truth of the matter:
a memoirist
received by automatic writing,
breaks the fetters 
practically burning through the screen, then
joy when all is lost.
Helped in aiding the cause of evil forces,
calculating inevitable degradation of 
moral progress,
the
average citizen’s view,
dancing upon eggs
everyone wants to be a star. 
 
Blessed with the art of detecting divinity,
a bias in favour of specific conclusions
Consider:
Can someone be a spiritual egomaniac?
There is no good picture so 
use his Holy Name
from a Gnostic sense,
partially obscured behind
the oft-bewildering complexity of
imagination growing wilder & wilder
you drive out devils
which dominate the interpretation of life’s rhythms & as such
cannot be trusted to 
follow correct intuition, that
sexual corruption which polluted 
indications of devotion
entitlement to this love is never questioned.
 
Show your body, 
act like a train wreck
along the ascended plains,
plunge down the rabbit hole metaphor
hidden beyond a veil of darkness,
spun from malignant intent
focusing sexual energies 
upon a wish—
the will shall be fulfilled.
 
Faith through denial; faith’s whore
scratching out words of evolution
Does that ring a bell?
Perhaps then:
Mediocre product of intense 
hero worship;
martyr of supposed innocence who
taught an elaborate cosmology?
Christian, Jewish, Sufi, Hindu, Greek, & Ancient Egyptian 
elements synthesized from
Choronzon 
equals The Great Lie,
growing stronger & stronger.
 
*pulls out some Scripture* 
 
A fountain sealed:
Thelemites attend,
speaking a twilight language 
of symbol —– the true expression of 
belief & unconscious agreements.  
 
{Photograph by Jules Jacot Guillarmod}
 

Advance to the Purple Tower — Reclaiming Thaumaturgic Properties of the Psyche

LeahtwosaintsThe laborious task of purifying spiritual sludge — *sigh.*
 
As expected, a lengthy process, taking the form of an incremental journey into revealing aspects which pertain to current experience. The temptation to grasp at any psychic thread, thus polluting it with toxic interpretation, needs to be reduced.
 
Directory Assistance: It will be helpful to the cause if when I am feeling vulnerable, when memories are turning toxic & old patterns of persecution start to grind a terror scenario, it will be of great assistance to remember that the process is only working properly if the emotions attached are surfacing for conscious analysis. Under no circumstance dissociate from these instances. 
 
The Aim: an understanding that will render these truths free of the certain paralysis that will arrest them if they are presented with the insistence of dogma. 
 
Once details become too persistent, simply place into a rational context.
 
Handicap: I have never permitted the mutant Super Ego a chance to empty its poisonous bag of tricks, thereby allowing the default to gravitate back toward love & trust. Seeing the totality of this surrender makes me think I do not fully understand what will be required, as I once did when experience was purer.
 
The return to self can be a very powerful experience.
 
This is the point of re-connection. 
 
{Photograph by Leahtwosaints}