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 ~ “The Mastermind Sacrifice”

allnewspipeline.com
(For the purposes of this experiment,
one should be regarded
as visionary.)

A) THE POTENTIALITY LOOP

In an open letter to Voltaire
discussing how fickle the art of inspiration
can be,
imagery ought to include: boats & eagles;
effluent rivers
& the renewal of time—to reach the dark side
of a moon,
one need only reveal to this late Master
which bear supports cherries:
the inner-conscious principle.

*Roll canned laughter*

Still—the question
surfaces inside any geography,
within any place of devotion:
When does effort roll over
into magic?
Dipped in flash & light,
fumigating cosmic the spirits in such need
to be cleansed—there is something very modern
in all of this.

Raised with a curse for
self-fulfillment,
the builder of the cathedral
serves resentment like rancid soup.
At first inconvenient, then impossible
to separate instinct from principles moving a project
forward & onward.
Catalogue inspiration to defy causality;
the most archaic residues
of ever-shifting insight & perception,
manipulations of energy,
consciousness brought into mind—the forces between
this exchange.

B.) ABUNDANCE CYCLE

A mastermind of flavour & skill,
raw like blasted granite,
stole the act of an art-kook
inspired by sacred & commercial
contrast.
Next step in this quest?
Prepare for yet another rattling tale
of self-righteous discovery
&
dim-witted enlightenment.
Activate that narrow, judgemental mythology which
rests upon
a mantle of elitism.
It’s a bad man’s world—any psychiatrist
will tell you that & some titan who
will-be-bad
uses slow suffocation in a landslide
of expression, protected by
half-assed attitudes of moral dualism,
compliant through naiveté & shrieked, doomed frustrations
to be taken seriously.

C.) REVELATION OF THE METHOD

Are you the one who named it,
ugly believer?
Then you get nothing—ask for
an autograph. You lose
the most infamous instance,
hence the chipped crown,
that symptom of an Apocalypse
dark & impure.
Wise beyond what is
practical, doubt-addicted
in a place of honour; riddled with
obligation & renunciation—the secret delights
of calling the
shots.

Your friends were right:
karmic debt
is the secret price of success;
it is selfhood in its first instance.
In repentance hides any last vestige
of decency & harmony—thirty aeons in the pleroma
should settle a score,
then gravely into the macabre
where authorities’ wicked dragons
mutate common cause.
Back here in the Year
of the Sheep,
Draconian government vigilance blows
sensitive souls
to pieces by frantic momentum.
From chaos grows consensus,
such sceptics with their hand-picked masks,
depicting emperors of the past & leaders
of present.
Subject to the disciplines of tradition,
half-remembered slogans,
earworm song lyrics,
tag lines, jingles & copy—the high jacking
of imagination for
nonsense.

{Image by Frida Kahlo }

Quotation from Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Without music I should wish to die.”

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

bookhaven.stanford.udu

{Photograph from www.bookhaven.stanford.udu}

Sister Baffy

493px-5850_-_Milano_-_San_Nazaro_-_Dipinto_-_Foto_Giovanni_Dall'Orto_-_7-Feb-2008(Action beings on a simple, bare stage. Sister Baffy enters ceremoniously, wearing a Halloween costume version of a nun’s habit, complete with a crucifix constructed from Popsicle sticks. A white gauze bandage is taped over one of her eyes, held loosely in place with several thickly applied layers of tape. Sister Baffy pushes a shopping cart to the center of the stage, removes a suitcase and opens it to remove an empty margarine container. Circling slowly around the perimeter of the playing area, she drums lightly on the bottom of the container with a chopstick. Once full radius, she returns her drum to the case and after a  brief moment of silent prayer, addresses a woman in the audience, speaking directly to her in a British – something brogue.)

Sister Baffy: You must share the weight of your cross, dear lady. Christ had to bear the strain alone but we are blessed with the help of others. Know when to reach out.

 (Sister Baffy suddenly puts her hands over her ears and ‘lalalas’)
 
Oh — But I am an imp! My dear, you must forgive my dropping in and out of private conversations like that, but the sensitivity that has coursed through the bloodlines of my family, for centuries you must know — this inherited gene has created a psychic awareness towards the thoughts of others. Often I am simply carried away on the messages drifting by in the ethers. ‘Head like a short wave radio,’ Mother Superior always said and I will share that it can be an overwhelming experience but not tonight. In here this evening, with all of you right now? I feel the love and so swoon in response to all of this unbridled joy!
 
(Sister Baffy suddenly appears dizzy but corrects herself gracefully.)
 
Not to worry — the antidote to these harmless little spells of mine is to close my eyes, lift these hands towards the Heavenly Fathers and ask them to transport me to the land of Spirit. There my soul soars in bliss, the virtue streaming from my fingertips, caressing the lands below with a healing touch.
 
(Sister Baffy wraps her arms around herself, praying deeply)
 
As sworn enemies to the pain and suffering which cloud the reality of Divine imagination, God has placed me above the moral and physical codes. Please do not worry, for it is our time in history. Thank you to all the angels and especially to you, the Heavenly Fathers. My heart is signed lovingly, as always yours — Sister Baffy.
 
(She opens her eyes, smiling broadly.)
 
I do so love a good spiriting, for it makes a body want to laugh and sing and dance, all at the same time. Yet the soul is a curious thing. It can rejoice in the raptures, to be sure but it can sink into anguish, as quick as that. It’s always best to approach the enemy from the position of a convert, you see. I was once a ‘them and us’ kind of person, same as you. As someone who wanted to draw lines, point a finger and cry for justice — the deep, black part of my being wanted all the bastards to pay! My head, like cloudy tap water recalled time in layers, screen after screen came the visions of vengeance and I yearned to loose that terrible anxiety that wore against my soul like a pair of uncomfortable shoes. With so much pain and hatred, where was the palace of love? This is why I would lie with strangers — hard, desperate strangers who tempered the anguish but only for an instant and oh! — waking to find myself in the strangest places. Even though my heart was truly connected to Jesus, I allowed myself to burn on the altars of lust. Why did I do that? To make myself available, just as Christ instructed. I suffered as one of His devoted apostles and those memories today feel disconnected, yet somehow part of the whole. Do you see? I did. I saw the light and it revealed how I was wasting all that precious love and staining my sacred soul but the Saviour was always there to wipe it clean, re-setting my course. The lone feeder of the fire, lighting the beacon for the righteous, Jesus is the man!
 
(Sister Baffy removes a bible from the suitcase and searches for something in the well-worn pages.)
 
Remember people: an unhinged mind is forced to latch onto something to slow itself and the church does so love to give answers to Life’s difficult considerations. Mind you, time spent inside the Holy Fugue can be quite exhilarating but that is completely beside the point.
 
(Sister Baffy laughs and nervously scans the audience, suddenly pointing to a particular audience member.)
 
You there. Yes — you, the one looking like you recognize me from somewhere else. I have been struggling all this while to place your face. Do I know you? No? But I am positive I’ve seen you before. Are you perhaps a historian visiting us from the Vatican? You aren’t here to take notes? That’s a little disappointing to hear. Me? Am I a historian? Dear me, no child, I can barely read. No, no, no — my lack of formal education aside, it is worth asking if we are able to act independently of Fate, once it has been activated. Free will is an off-shoot of Divine will we are taught in our catechisms. It is not entirely ours and all I wanted to know was if there is wiggle room for error. That’s all I asked and this woman sitting here tonight, who may or may not be a spy sent by the Pope hisself — this woman is saying to her charming companion, yes hello, how do you do? She’s asking her dear friend what I’m on about.
 
(Sister Baffy sighs deeply.)
 
All I can say to these two —  sweet, complicated women is that there is no greater impulse than the desire for harmony. It is what all souls crave and sometimes that golden peace is achieved. All suddenly, the bottom of your tank opens, plunging you into power, beauty and authority. What a blend! 
 
(Sister Baffy whoops in celebration.)
681px-Egon_Schiele_033
Do they always go so well together? You there — ask your friend. A strange woman, this creature. I am certain I see her or someone who ‘looks just like her’ exercising regularly each morning. Near the convent she’ll be, on a very public promenade mind you, doing tai chi or whatever martial art she specializes in. Now, like most magnetic people she is puzzling so cautiously I approach. ‘The soul is a complex thing,’ I warn with the same protective intent as a mother panther guarding it’s young. As a Christian woman, I can appreciate that kindly advice from strangers is not everyone’s cup of tea but this woman reached out as quick as Jesus’s love and snatched a hold of my head. ‘Are you confused?’ she asked. Trembling in her grasp, I admitted  it was so. ‘Look at the pictures in your mind’s eye for clues.’ She released my head and it snapped back like a healed believer! Uncorked my brain she did, the second time that month so immediately I hurried to church to mediate over her fascinating remark. ‘Look at the pictures in your mind’s eye.’ Indeed. There in that well-worn oak pew inside St. Ignatius church at 23rd and Main, I allowed images to tumble like rocks through my feverish mind. I prayed and prayed and prayed until the beard of St. Peter scratched my nose. I prayed until all at once I saw the reason why the Catholic clergy have become a pack of degenerate pedophiles. It was as if Moses hisself had breathed it into my lungs! I went straight into the priest’s sanctuary to tell them how wrong it all was. ‘For certain we could improve on existing methods’ said the rabbity man in the vestments and I asked to speak to the superiors in the Vatican. ‘We must not dwell on the specifics’ they cried and who can ignore those bastards, hovering above the church impenetrable as God hisself!
 
(Sister Baffy shakes her head.)
 
Now that I’ve given the Lord a chance to speak, He doesn’t wish to stop. Oh sweet Jesus! Do they mention that in the bible? Nevermind — we must make do with the channels we are aligned because the human organism is capable of a great many things. There are amazing, hidden functions released through the power of faith and if channelled into the correct functions, there would be no need for hospitals or doctors. ‘We need a potluck Jesus,’ I told that priest rather brightly, considering the odds of his actually taking me seriously. ‘We need a leader who will let people bring whatever they can to the Holy party.’ Oh! I argued with him. ‘You want paradise now,’ that pervert said to me and why not I asked? Why tell people to wait for their rewards when the heavenly bounty is available now? ‘You are meddling in church business’ he said, looking at me like my name was Pandora and I was wearing a ragged cape and too much eye makeup. I only wanted to peek under the cosmic tapestry but it would appear I released an adventurous cracken. ‘There are tablets for these states,’ he said and if the young filly is foolish enough to ignore the doctor’s orders, then she gets exactly what she deserves!
 
(Sister Baffy sings and dances)
 
‘I can smell your burning engine / Yet we’ve a thousand miles to go!’
 
(She dances over to the case and pulls out her Angelscope. She surveys the audience.)
 
A gossipy, needy bunch of angels.That’s what I see before me today. Is it real or is it Memorex? Hard to say, sometimes. Can I get a  ‘Halleluiah?’
 
(She puts the Angelscope back into the case and returns to her bible.) 
 
I quote to you now from the Book of Isaiah: ‘Naked I entered, naked I will return.’ Now that there is a golden band of truth around my head — a halo of sorts, I have discovered that more than money or self — can I get another  ‘Halleluiah?’ Like a sexton releasing incense & spreading love, we must keep faith alive and the Jiminy Cricket – type says it’s fine. You — oh, yes you! Why is the snake not affected by its own venom? I can see right through you. ‘In my flesh shall I see God.’ You know that feeling of talking and talking and people are listening but they don’t understand? They just twist things? Then I will come to my point more directly. 
 
(She once again prays deeply.)
 
Father forgive them for they know not what they do.’ What can we do for the truly hopeless?  How long will this take, my Heavenly Father? Oh! Don’t bother then. As Mother Superior always said: ‘Worry is just wasted prayer and patience is a part of God’s design.’ Ultimately, it boils down to a matter of credibility. If I am to meet people and they ask what my occupation is, I am at immediate odds to tell how I struggle to pave the way for Jesus. He’s a fountain, he’s forever and I am utterly possessed with notions, high on this man Jesus and vibrating in coffee — the walls of Jericho come a’ tumbling down!
 
(Sister Baffy throws her arms into the air and slowly circles.)
 
Images within images, different layers of reality all wrapping together, ingredients gathering, the mixture stirred stiff. Time now to light the candles that will illuminate the bridge crossing the cosmic divide. Mired in misery no more, converted and regenerated — this is good people! My thoughts are expanding to the point where I am a magical thinker again. It is the basis of my whole character.
 
(Sister Baffy thumbs her nose and wiggles her backside to the audience. She returns once more to suspect audience member.) 
 
You see — she has something against me! I must always explain myself. There is a certain type of creature that does not possess power on its own. It is capable of influence only through its poison. You best watch your girlfriend there. She needs the indulgence of seeing herself as unusual, as someone who Fate has screwed. Sees herself as a victim, she does. I swear I can taste your curses! I shall have to unbewitch myself. ‘Find the ghosts in your head and tell them you love them.’
 
(Sister Baffy crosses herself, then sighs loudly, realizing she will have to explain her position more fully.)
 
My dear, poor woman — I am merely spinning for some truth. You should try it yourself and then you’d not make such a fuss when you see someone else giving it a whirl, now would you? It is our aim to stop the violence against spirit. Are you in agreement with that, at least in principle? Yes? That is a start then. Now where was I — oh yes, I remember. When I was just a wee girl, those donation boxes that swirl the coins around fascinated me. Mother Superior would allow me a shiny copper penny and I’d watch it spin round and around. That’s what praying to the Heavenly Fathers is like, you know. Round and round and around! 
 
(Sister Baffy laughs heartily) 
 
I’ve been on every pill you can imagine — Thorazine, Lithium, Prozac, Paxil and Valium for extra measure — round and round and round she goes! Woohooo!  I was already the perfect vessel for the Christ–light and it didn’t take long for the Mother Superior to realize that when I prayed to the Blessed Virgin, I meant it. The other lasses soon noticed this too and would sit apart from me in the masses and one afternoon, Mother Superior took me to a doctor, a special doctor Mother assured me but I have strayed from the point. Once you start accepting these holy symbols as truth, your thoughts begin running together like carefree schoolgirls, dancing through a sunny meadow and it’s the momentum carrying you along and. . . like I was saying, Mother Superior noticed this and brought me to the Doctor whose name I cannot recall and he prescribed pills, just like that. ‘Prozac’ scribble, scribble, scribble. ‘Might experience side effects.’ Scribble, scribble, scribble. ‘Drowsiness, light-headedness, fatigue, depression.’ Scribble, scribble, scribble.
 
(Sister Baffy puts her hands on her hips.)
 
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘What do I need those for? I have Jesus in my heart.’ How could I make them understand? ‘Speak to me in the language of God!’ I cried ‘A disorder of dopamine metabolism,’ he told the Mother Superior. ‘If not treated will result in deteriorated functioning, the learning of inappropriate response and spoil her identity.’ She handed me the prescription. Later on, when no one was looking I took those poisonous tablets and threw them into the Kettle River! Oh cry your selfish tears if you must, but if the Christ himself came along tomorrow afternoon, he’d be drugged on Haloperidol and thrown into a psychiatric institution as quick as an Irish wink! This is what I said to the Doctor whose name I cannot recall, when I was committed to a ‘rest home’ after my indiscretions were discovered. ‘Aren’t you tired of being trapped in a reckless fugue?’ On a better day, I would have argued with the man but being quite buggy at the time, could hardly dispute the matter. The good thing about God’s love is that there is a miracle around every corner but to tell the truth, I would have preferred madness at the turn of the century — vintage madness, when it was passion and torrent that drove a mind to extremes, rather than chemical imbalance and self-indulgence. Mind you, the good doctor did apologize all those years later for locking me up against my will but what good is an apology without contrition? When all is said and done, it is hard to have respect for someone living a lie.
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.)
{Artwork by Giovanni Dall’Orto, Egon Schiele & Kark Briullov }

Quotation from Madame Blavatsky

RK Schlueter“The origin of nearly every popular myth & legend can be traced invariably to a fact in Nature.”

~ Helena P. Blavatsky

 

{Painting by RK Shlueter}

Fresh Poetry ~ “On Rumours of Eternal Recurrence”

Matthew Johnson - Eternal RecurranceThis is the touchstone:
Identify dangers to your soul-source
from sacred streams
which
boggle the mind:
No supernatural reincarnation;
dual principles of material & spiritual
forces,
involving presumptuous encroachments
on the Mysteries & powers of Sequence;
unacceptable to the majority that
each lesson is a process, with its own unique aspects
& plausible denials.
Absconded by filthy dreamers;
by economic, political,
military changes,
the very tippy-top
engorged exploding stars
from the highest points of antiquity;
slaves toil beneath invisible, cruel masters
who came down from the heavens to
siege by storm,
siege by blockade
the rational identification,
beloved & admired;
working in batches:
to whom, by whom
for whom.

Constant devotion to the Light
will reduce
images of violence—those instances when
faith in the slow burn fades & memory
emerges;
an extension of this forum,
crowded into this vision,
somewhat of a legend—the luckiest
all-knowing ego,
a complicated ally
fresh from the dream of life,
sits in some gurgling crock,
slimy & bored, waiting
to be called upon;
slowly, over centuries
will open again.

Resist all folly of deceived
expectation—shatter preconception,
both blessing & curse towards
the nature of such ultimate
revolution
which forms the duality defining existence.
Some parts are easy to understand—
much exaltation!
Tapping into the same appropriate knowledge:
clairvoyant vision to influence
the present;
dreams of both success & failure
explained to the bewildered how
you can only be responsible for all
you can
be responsible
for.

Scientific chemistry is cold & true;
magical chemistry
complex & absurd.
Who is calling the shots here?
Repent, to whom, for how long
&
why?
One can only hope
the pendulum of puritan self-expression swings
after the vernal equinox,
neglected emotionally
& all
those responsible shall be
held accountable—how they are
rendered by this craft.
How the beasts do groan.
See beyond
but blind to the full spectrum available
inside
this sacred breech, located finally despite
the secrecy involved:
Being prepared establishes
no priority over the Divine.

Calculating the echoes of influence:
Before the advance into battle,
as in any war,
we establish a period of concentration.
Money—the gilded dust
clears putrid skies of molestations; money
in possession of a malignant imagination,
burnt for warmth;
channels of purification lining the
kingdom of justice,
where ancient priests,
lavished with praise & positive reinforcement,
ultimately
sold to the game, for Pete’s sake—then the English
came along…

How many hours; how many
minutes?

{Illustration by Matthew Johnson}

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}

Fresh Poetry ~ “The Terrifying Beauty of the Rib”

The Terrifying Beauty of the Rib - Goya

In
establishing a subjective life-myth
inside this Luciferian structure,
the following is essential:
We must find a rose,
the one with casino eyes, spinning fierce for
truth & breath;
capable of being
glamourous, gratuitous &
Modified; in need of calibration;
able to create universes
[for better flow,]
applied literally since
there never was a Plan B.

In light of recent competition,
anomalies proliferate: for all the tea
in China,
what is there but to deepen charm & drama?

Transference is complete; settle in.

Planning to bite
the naughty apple & stay
in the glorious garden?
A matriarch with scattered clan — we all have
our temptations but where to start with this precious
pool of Ætheric warriors?
Taking notes?
Speaking in tongues?
Float the howler that
witches have power over the weak; her loyal
clan. A thing can only exist through its opposite so
neutralize calmly:
Super-normal powers & magical abilities,
vibrational compatibility;
secondary chaos
in the sphere of Operation.
It all reminds me of how in the movies people
come together to get things done, in name
under the carrot & some slick
innovative teaching methods which fall
like a psychic hammer
creepy, weepy & exactly
where the partygoers are drinking & dancing
inside the hidden ballroom of
a mysterious castle,
glowing like Brahmin; all
controlled demolition concealed.

Trace a myth: Does it help to stay
in the Holy Garden if you
peel the apple
before biting it?

Understanding comes from
a rapid interchange of symbol;
the different ways women give birth.
Soon we learn the price of disposable friends:
shake the kaleidoscope of a shared past;
delete the perfectly dystopian text message.
Every line read esoterically
why not account for it?

How could this be hero worship? There isn’t
a single heroic thing
about her.

*the vigil candle flickers.*

She’s still on the bale
that slippery witch,
exploiting all notions of loyalty &
slyly reminding us that rich men
eat soft clit.

You wanted someone who would give it
uncensored, right?

*shuffle, shuffle, shuffle*

In the dream she stands — that man is naked:
the whole school jumps
to their feet
applauding her bravery; for openly sharing
information pertaining to the nitty-gritty on power,
all for the benefit of instruction,
for a safe mental space
the stuff of urban legends.
When knowing the outline of history,
all the alphabet soup
from succulent streams; anticipated & annexed,
enormous, bloated senses
the cold, kerosene smell.

Answers to time & space come from nowhere:
There is room to explore
in the world of the Gods but a
native converted
is a native
spoiled,
banished & returning with a need for
re-introduction & re-consideration
she was not always a weedy neurotic,
this former child of my heart,
like a privileged tenant
under the sway of karmic law;
attachment versus disavowal.
We can’t be impatient either way,
to lust for conversion,
to see the fruits,
eat the apple,
stay in the garden.

The trophy fish swim by:
Faith hangs withered
like a winter apple on a tree,
it is time for conclusion in the form of lyrical prophecy
dipped in blue, rising strong,
let resentment congeal & dissipate.
Allow cruelty to devour Memory, leaving only
shame & this lonely greed
for bitterness
free from that.
Liberated by tolerant television & the sweetest songs of love;
back to the natural state of calm & serenity;
before the fire.
Can you smell the freedom
through silent consensus?

Our circle is complete.

{Painting by Francisco Goya}

 

 

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}
 
 
 
 
 

Sister Baffy ~ Part 2 of 3

681px-Egon_Schiele_033(Sister Baffy whoops in celebration.)
 
Do they always go so well together? You there — ask your friend. A strange woman, this creature. I am certain I see her or someone who ‘looks just like her’ exercising regularly each morning. Near the convent she’ll be, on a very public promenade mind you, doing tai chi or whatever martial art she specializes in. Now, like most magnetic people she is puzzling so cautiously I approach. ‘The soul is a complex thing,’ I warn with the same protective intent as a mother panther guarding it’s young. As a Christian woman, I can appreciate that kindly advice from strangers is not everyone’s cup of tea but this woman reached out as quick as Jesus’s love and snatched a hold of my head. ‘Are you confused?’ she asked. Trembling in her grasp, I admitted  it was so. ‘Look at the pictures in your mind’s eye for clues.’ She released my head and it snapped back like a healed believer! Uncorked my brain she did, the second time that month so immediately I hurried to church to mediate over her fascinating remark. ‘Look at the pictures in your mind’s eye.’ Indeed. There in that well-worn oak pew inside St. Ignatius church at 23rd and Main, I allowed images to tumble like rocks through my feverish mind. I prayed and prayed and prayed until the beard of St. Peter scratched my nose. I prayed until all at once I saw the reason why the Catholic clergy have become a pack of degenerate pedophiles. It was as if Moses hisself had breathed it into my lungs! I went straight into the priest’s sanctuary to tell them how wrong it all was. ‘For certain we could improve on existing methods’ said the rabbity man in the vestments and I asked to speak to the superiors in the Vatican. ‘We must not dwell on the specifics’ they cried and who can ignore those bastards, hovering above the church impenetrable as God hisself!
 
(Sister Baffy shakes her head.)
 
Now that I’ve given the Lord a chance to speak, He doesn’t wish to stop. Oh sweet Jesus! Do they mention that in the bible? Nevermind — we must make do with the channels we are aligned because the human organism is capable of a great many things. There are amazing, hidden functions released through the power of faith and if channelled into the correct functions, there would be no need for hospitals or doctors. ‘We need a potluck Jesus,’ I told that priest rather brightly, considering the odds of his actually taking me seriously. ‘We need a leader who will let people bring whatever they can to the Holy party.’ Oh! I argued with him. ‘You want paradise now,’ that pervert said to me and why not I asked? Why tell people to wait for their rewards when the heavenly bounty is available now? ‘You are meddling in church business’ he said, looking at me like my name was Pandora and I was wearing a ragged cape and too much eye makeup. I only wanted to peek under the cosmic tapestry but it would appear I released an adventurous cracken. ‘There are tablets for these states,’ he said and if the young filly is foolish enough to ignore the doctor’s orders, then she gets exactly what she deserves!
 
(Sister Baffy sings and dances)
 
‘I can smell your burning engine / Yet we’ve a thousand miles to go!’
 
(She dances over to the case and pulls out her Angelscope. She surveys the audience.)
 
A gossipy, needy bunch of angels. That’s what I see before me today. Is it real or is it Memorex? Hard to say, sometimes. Can I get a  ‘Halleluiah?’
 
(She puts the Angelscope back into the case and returns to her bible.) 
 
I quote to you now from the Book of Isaiah: ‘Naked I entered, naked I will return.’ Now that there is a golden band of truth around my head — a halo of sorts, I have discovered that more than money or self — can I get another  ‘Halleluiah?’ Like a sexton releasing incense & spreading love, we must keep faith alive and the Jiminy Cricket – type says it’s fine. You — oh, yes you! Why is the snake not affected by its own venom? I can see right through you. ‘In my flesh shall I see God.’ You know that feeling of talking and talking and people are listening but they don’t understand? They just twist things? Then I will come to my point more directly. 
 
(She once again prays deeply.)
 
Father forgive them for they know not what they do.’ What can we do for the truly hopeless?  How long will this take, my Heavenly Father? Oh! Don’t bother then. As Mother Superior always said: ‘Worry is just wasted prayer and patience is a part of God’s design.’ Ultimately, it boils down to a matter of credibility. If I am to meet people and they ask what my occupation is, I am at immediate odds to tell how I struggle to pave the way for Jesus. He’s a fountain, he’s forever and I am utterly possessed with notions, high on this man Jesus and vibrating in coffee — the walls of Jericho come a’ tumbling down! 
 
(Sister Baffy throws her arms into the air and slowly circles.)
 
Images within images, different layers of reality all wrapping together, ingredients gathering, the mixture stirred stiff. Time now to light the candles that will illuminate the bridge crossing the cosmic divide. Mired in misery no more, converted and regenerated — this is good people! My thoughts are expanding to the point where I am a magical thinker again. It is the basis of my whole character.
 
(Sister Baffy thumbs her nose and wiggles her backside to the audience. She returns once more to suspect audience member.) 
 
You see — she has something against me! I must always explain myself. There is a certain type of creature that does not possess power on its own. It is capable of influence only through its poison. You best watch your girlfriend there. She needs the indulgence of seeing herself as unusual, as someone who Fate has screwed. Sees herself as a victim, she does. I swear I can taste your curses! I shall have to unbewitch myself. ‘Find the ghosts in your head and tell them you love them.’
 
(Sister Baffy crosses herself, then sighs loudly, realizing she will have to explain her position more fully.)
 
My dear, poor woman — I am merely spinning for some truth. You should try it yourself and then you’d not make such a fuss when you see someone else giving it a whirl, now would you? It is our aim to stop the violence against spirit. Are you in agreement with that, at least in principle? Yes? That is a start then. Now where was I — oh yes, I remember. When I was just a wee girl, those donation boxes that swirl the coins around fascinated me. Mother Superior would allow me a shiny copper penny and I’d watch it spin round and around. That’s what praying to the Heavenly Fathers is like, you know. Round and round and around! 
 
(Sister Baffy laughs heartily) 
 
I’ve been on every pill you can imagine — Thorazine, Lithium, Prozac, Paxil and Valium for extra measure — round and round and round she goes! Woohooo!  I was already the perfect vessel for the Christ–light and it didn’t take long for the Mother Superior to realize that when I prayed to the Blessed Virgin, I meant it. The other lasses soon noticed this too and would sit apart from me in the masses and one afternoon, Mother Superior took me to a doctor, a special doctor Mother assured me but I have strayed from the point. Once you start accepting these holy symbols as truth, your thoughts begin running together like carefree schoolgirls, dancing through a sunny meadow and it’s the momentum carrying you along and. . . like I was saying, Mother Superior noticed this and brought me to the Doctor whose name I cannot recall and he prescribed pills, just like that. ‘Prozac’ scribble, scribble, scribble. ‘Might experience side effects.’ Scribble, scribble, scribble. ‘Drowsiness, light-headedness, fatigue, depression.’ Scribble, scribble, scribble.
 
(Sister Baffy puts her hands on her hips.)
 
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘What do I need those for? I have Jesus in my heart.’ How could I make them understand? ‘Speak to me in the language of God!’ I cried ‘A disorder of dopamine metabolism,’ he told the Mother Superior. ‘If not treated will result in deteriorated functioning, the learning of inappropriate response and spoil her identity.’ She handed me the prescription. Later on, when no one was looking I took those poisonous tablets and threw them into the Kettle River! Oh cry your selfish tears if you must, but if the Christ himself came along tomorrow afternoon, he’d be drugged on Haloperidol and thrown into a psychiatric institution as quick as an Irish wink! This is what I said to the Doctor whose name I cannot recall, when I was committed to a ‘rest home’ after my indiscretions were discovered. ‘Aren’t you tired of being trapped in a reckless fugue?’ On a better day, I would have argued with the man but being quite buggy at the time, could hardly dispute the matter. The good thing about God’s love is that there is a miracle around every corner but to tell the truth, I would have preferred madness at the turn of the century — vintage madness, when it was passion and torrent that drove a mind to extremes, rather than chemical imbalance and self-indulgence. Mind you, the good doctor did apologize all those years later for locking me up against my will but what good is an apology without contrition? When all is said and done, it is hard to have respect for someone living a lie.
 
{Painting by Egon Schiele}