Friday, 22 September 2017

Time and Time Again - a short sketch

You are a vision of a dream, and you know or sense you know how much your are admired and yet how well your admiration and mine becomes you and me wrapped around each other's orbit for so short a period of time, so short a ride together sitting opposite of one another as I so hoped you would take up the choir of electric purple light that sparked between our very spirits suddenly revealed or revealing with an entire formerly mythical language of revelation each our spirits suspended in a watery crevasse so seep it bleeds into that of our mothers, of our fathers, even our sons and daughters the waters of the waters and the emergence of our emergence from even this the sex of one another's sheer depth of being, of growing, of knowing such remorse as courses through the coldest currents of the winter panoply, a fitting backdrop for how I see you now, in your inexpensive shoes and trusty black coat and no less for how you inherited it from a friend pulled around you though another world at the imaginative as celestial head waters that sprang eternal - or would - from so vulnerable a place or a face for having rendered precisely so legendary and strangely heroic the passing of our spirits from one water to another and from the water into the clouds of air, never losing or even needing to the Atlantean as amphibious dream of a deluge in which our own tears of sorrow or joy were absorbed like our voices croaking like frogs or squawking like crows in a rainy autumn morning while people walk and speak with drudgery all the way to their jobs, would we let them where they were not formerly permitted to form their own voice with regards our nature and that of the winds and spirits in the trees.

I wish that for you - that you will get through everything, that you will chart your course with the fire of your fire and with the air of your air, with the water of your water and the metal of your metal and that you would know the touch of true and strong love that truly nourishes your slender countenance and that of all the most truly holy rivers through stories that ran from Paradise to Purgatory and from Heaven to Hell, winter to winter and spring to spring, the murmur of your voice on the first day of your nativity never losing its ardor nor its strength enduring, to be sure, the banshee wails of a world too much with us all and for shame.

That you will succeed where others have failed, and that should your admiration of yourself exceed all regard for what is spoken of in common places, yet your voice shall proceed like the river of laughter and even sadness of young children from the richness of constellations of your beautiful as holy flesh and blood, your richness living on through your voice through the wind and trees, one of their spirits and the spirit of Man about you like a space between breaths of night or day, of life and death, every whisper of your spirit delivered from wells of crushing defeat and illimitable powers of growth taken up by every measure and chord, every voice and story in heaven and earth and, most importantly, your great value known only upon reflection - yours - in the obsidian supernal lake of the faces that first looked through the clouds by day or night and smiled with the great talks we could have together wrapped, here and hereafter, in spasms of laughter and love in every limb of the Marriage of spirit and spirit made flesh and so knowing like only that Marriage and Tree of Life and Knowledge can know the language made a celestial cathedral by everything that pricks its very flesh of feeling and thought and all the gods that so swiftly carry us, agonizing though the journey may be, from one shore to the next, there to mourn or improve the very language of our birth by every measure of truly celestial biology.

So I wave goodbye with a sing-song note in my voice as I commend the driver of our coach for delivering us this far and spare a briefest of instants to bemoan the end of our acquaintance so soon after we two met in precisely that kind of close and fairly vulnerable place that keeps out the night with the fire of a memory born from numinous gossamer threads that, for but an instant, tugged at each our hearts like a long lost golden age of a face adequately shaped in if by the palms of our hands or those of whom imparted themselves to us like every roiling panoply of sea and star to the passing affections of a heart and indeed a hunger, a loneliness and togetherness so deep and wide as that.

Glad tidings.

You will endure.

For none of us are long for this world to which we return, time and time again, so that even those words would be utterly suitable to adorn the cover of any book worthy of the story of your life, Time And Time Again.

Corinth, how thou art so fair I bow mine head when I
Much rather gaze upon thy face and hair the rays of Sun
That must hath bathed in such a gracious face as makes with mine
A kind of opalescent God from whom we shy and run
To think with all a Man can think of sons and daughters were
As fair as thee, as bold and kind as would absorb a Queen
So that her richest voice and body flesh and blood returned
Unto the generations like the sweetest God of Memories
That when a daughter much as thou would draw most from so vast
Oblivion that laps upon the seas the wastes the living and the dead
Thy passing form will then become immortal in the hands
With thee and he though chooseth hold with thine will so be wed
And Earth and Heaven flesh and blood that from their womb and tomb hath wrought
From all that came before the Church of Nature, Mother, Man and God.

Theory of Medicine

Sails might hath Siren used from deeps to reaches wide
Terrific legions of the stars that trailed in their hair
Like clouds that gathered for a storm or parted with the tide
That answered the unfathomable living impulse that we share
Shot through the colours all the world both septic and surrounds
Accommodating revelation flowers sun and dew
That glistened in the smile of the sun dropped from the clouds
That hath their molten congress with the hells of earth, supernal blue
Released the body from the grip of agonies unknown
Assaulted by the medicines and drugs that perforate
The skin upon whom life is written in the blood and bone
Revealed even its startled mind the will to tolerate
Unending crags and bitter scars of distant mountains hewn
Impossibly deliberate and vulnerable, born
From all that wracks the earth with thunders of the gods were strewn
Across the flesh of space and time, of spring and winter morn
Asleep with, still, the dreams she gathered from the bounds of night
The birth of thoughts and of the gods whose labour is so bright.

"The thing about human poison is that it is both so repulsive and attractive - it fracks into the primeval depths of our vanity while raiding them like Ramses tomb for every ounce of sapphire hewn by millions of years of sheer vulnerability."

Legs and bottom formed a tulip, breasts her bleeding hearts
The hands that filled with the precision of a soldier cups
An liquid coursing through the veins that spilled the raging rivers parts
That had been touched by Sun and Moon and by their human lusts
The grace of many maidens formed with every step they pressed
Into the body of the Earth the folds of Man's desire
Welcomed her into his arms to drink from such a belly and a breast
As graced the prows of many ores the helm was once a forest fire
Leaves of yellow, red and silver pages of a book
That fell from heaven and were crucified upon a tree
To cross the Mind of Man the gods that robbed from every crook
Of time the very flesh the ample apple of the Hierophant a family
She walked in pride and grace her stride from day to day a war
That no one ever breathed a word of but to try obscure
So painfully intrusive engines voices that would form
Upon their gods to make them stop the torture of the birth
Of Man in heaven and in hell in winter and in spring
She served the poison and the nectar worthy of a child, King.

Let their little minds decide just in whom they will confide
In the voices, winds and spirits of the trees

Let their little minds dissemble all their nature from the tremble
in our voices at the altars of our doom

In the waters of our birth and of the Heavens and the Earth
That hath commended us like fish to frogs to walk among

The gods and thunders of the waters of our lungs our blood
Our sons and daughters

The electric church and purpose
that, alone, would carry like an ocean that can burp us

All the voices, winds and spirits of the Sea...

All the voices, winds and spirits of my Holy Family.

- The Hierophant

1072 - Voice of a Heathen King

As a Heathen King
My Voice is in My Richness
My Richness is in My Voice.

Thursday, 21 September 2017

Axiom 1071 - Dead by Birth: Cybernetic World Religion

Taken from

Hot Acid Chunks


Body Language: President Trump UN Speech

Rayn Gryphon

Hello Mandy

This was, if I may venture an opinion, the most UNspeech of all the UNspeech that I have heard. At times, exegesis and prophylactic legerdemain blurred into one another in a rising crescendo of truly celestial proportions took up the organs of my own mind and sex the better to weave a spell of enlightened circumspection and postlapsarian circumcision that stitch before our own listening ears a vision of inimitable depth and affect that gathers up all human passion in its competent arms and says, "Boo. You Man. Me Woman. We be safer this way. Now. Bring your unstinting credulity and what is left of your manhood. And, by the by, my name is Thor, Lord of the Universe and a string of fantastically unsuccessful hotels."

So Bravo. Bravo, my friend, Bravooooooo..... 

Comment from

Body Language: Russian Verbal Battle

Do not you think, Mandy, that there is something of the actor about the craft of securing that sufficiently unpalatable assault upon one's adversary so that its measures of benefit to oneself were but a pittance compared to the Biblical scales of grief conferred upon anyone so misguided or resolutely evil as to threaten to repulse the steady ingress of whatever it is we do when we are not labouring under the constellations of the celestial biology and indeed ancestral intelligence of our own flesh and blood?

Please feel free to answer in whatever pigeon tongue that you have managed to patch together from centuries of ecclesiastical flag worship of the representative organs of our formerly fertile imagination of ourselves.

Comment from

Body Language: Bill O'Reilly

Rayn Gryphon
He is a network cash cow and you have to ask if he fucked some interns or some shit?

Get real.

Mandy, if you are gonna go mamma bear on someone else's behalf, pick someone higher up on the shitbag food cycle. 

Body Language: Author of Manliness vs Feminist

Motte and Bailey.

One needs to study and ascertain what feminism, like any death and sex cult, is actually proposing. This way we can see what feminists themselves are attempting to say under the banner of the cult because they are too scared to speak up for themselves.

As with any cult or sociopath (which are wholly isomorphic systems of intelligence regulation), fundamental is the biological necessity to assert as much as possible with impunity using subterfuge and degrading allusions about any prospective objector, including women.

Listen and the whole story becomes perfectly evident and that is that society everywhere silences the voice in order to protect the voice of society as though both are biologically and psychologically equivalent.

Cults are the result and the means - the only way to exert impotent rage in socially-acceptable ways for regulating what little working intelligence is left to anyone in the largely contrived religious and political spectrum disorder.

"The world's a stage."

Shakespeare was a committee of military priests for advancing the cybernetic-industrial imperative subsequently shared by all of its glorified constituent human organs, soldiers (people with dead souls) and master glands that feed on mass human sacrifice wholly inconsistent with every flag and virtue and branch of knowledge - as it is commonly understood - in a cybernetic-industrial society.

If any of this is difficult for someone to understand, I would recommend any of the fifty or so books I have written on the subject of an Interdisciplinary study and practice of living creative intelligence and truly human heritage, ancestral intelligence and celestial biology in a society as religiously as scientifically kept poised upon a bloody brink of perpetual near collapse veritably at war with every natural instinct with which a child is born and to which we force our most vulnerable citizenry to conform under only the most Herculean duress, duress that could not possibly fail to stymie the courage and whole brain development of the most battle-hardened combat soldier, let alone that of a wee child. 

Practically speaking we can thus reassert the native biology and language of man, which is nothing if not biological and familial. We can also predict and explain the fact that every religious and political philosophy on earth served as both the apotheosis and wholly legitimate refutation of any and every competing religious and political philosophy. 

Some have observed that "all religions are the same" as though the only conclusion that can be inferred from this is that all religions are as good as they would all like to be. This is ridiculous. What it infers is that all religions have the same goal as any military intelligence culture - to extract as much labour as possible from the source of all wealth - man's birth and labour - and so by disturbing the communication of flesh and blood, of life. 

More specifically, we can than translate this proposition to that of financial systems, instruments of which were known by most people as "money." These systems have farmed and exploit as their primary imperative a total monopoly over the extraction and distribution of, if any resource, that of human capital.

A note of legal currency is truly a current in that it serves several purposes, not the least being the ever increasing leverage exerted over all newborn children - leverage of god-like proportions of insults to their whole brain development and so what they come to think of as "development" of anything the rest of their lives - in order to extract more capital out of them while representing this capital in ways that generally tend to exert a corrupting influence over all surviving cognitive function. e.g. Debt, deficits, inflation, all contrived religious instruments that transform the whole wealth of human labour into an infinitesimal fraction of its totality while foisting egregious social imperatives regarding what one owes society in terms of the strain that one is placing upon it as a surrogate family, having first lost the whole function of one's own family and brain. 

This has electrical and celestial dimensions. The more effective the slave labour system, the more meager representation of human origins, the most astronomical and "explosive" measures of stars, space dynamics etc. Even the Hindu scriptures which are tens of thousands of years old serve as very modern templates of Roman fascist propaganda, to be perfectly banal as the system actually is.

As a consequence, nothing we think is a fact is a fact unless one first removes most native prospects of cortical activity. This is a medical fact. And most people know and comply with this fact with a "gratitude attitude" as the Oprah nigger likes to exhort her followers.

And she is a nigger. To be niggardly is to be deceptive, deluded, and poor in mind and spirit and to extol this as exceptional beyond all reason.

Most people are niggers. 

I am not. My family is not, nor would we be proud of being morons if we were. 

This subject deserves a much more mature treatment than you have given it, Mandy. Just chortling at your political or religious adversary is unworthy of a three year old chimpanzee. 

Up your game or don't expect people with surviving cortical function to pretend like you are "really smart." 

By Roman fascist law, all children are rendered dead upon the transfer of their cargo - flesh - from the amniotic celestial waters of the mother. The ultimate goal of Roman propaganda, philosophy, science and religion is to render the human flesh dead but still capable of being animated by and animating the corporate fictions that have been and will be insinuated into it, him or her, making them a soldier - dead and so more inclined to serve to help render dead one's fellow man under whatever flag or banner of our apochryphal sexual functions - flags are sex symbols and religious objects of mass hypnotic suggestion, the pleasure from which is cultivated from conception at a neurochemical level in the brain stem, greatly inhibiting cortical development - killing the mind with its own burgeoning endocrine system and family tree and then given the child magical symbols that remind them how dead and stupid they really are and should be if they wish to "survive" or "succeed" as any number of glorified soldiers of the Roman Catholic and Judaic church of rabbinical kabbalah or alchemy - how the electrical properties of human conception are re-purposed to serve the "greater good" of fashioning a new heaven and earth that works better for society as though this is the same as working better for you and your family.

From a wide angle of tens of thousands of years, we are constituent organs of a Death and Sex God that has taken the natural intersection and celestial or solar and stellar fountainhead of a life and death that is the critical impulse - the very principle of Man - of all mind and matter and whose communication crosses the threshold of all mind and matter or subject and object as survives in the "Romantic" tradition and turns them into an alloy of functional equivalence and mutual self-annihilation, so that in seeking our life we seek our death and in trying to destroy death we destroy life beyond all subsequent notice or comprehension. We have aborted over twenty million babies since the late last century. But we actually abort all children on Earth routinely as constituent organs of the ecclesiastical martial disruption of all systems of communication that of every dimension of the heavens and the earth. Outer space, as we know it, does not even exist but as a celestial command of mass cognition that we generally call "religion" but which is the primary mandate of all branches of knowledge on what used to be the family tree of life, death, good and evil in the quaternary intersection of the whole mind of Man as he banished the darkness with constellations of his and her own flesh and blood.

Hence why you read this and go, "What the fuck is this guy talking about?" because you have been effectively rendered totally enslaved by your emergence from your mother's womb - this is where and when in the first few minutes of all human life your labour and that of your mother - each your mutual conception - is rendered the mutual conception of a life-death alloy animated our every pleasure and surviving bond of "family" and animating the impulses of a planetary-scale Death and Sex God articulated through all religion, philosophy, military, finance, medicine and science on Earth over the last ten to twenty-five thousand years and continuing. Seen from a thousand years hence, we are no better than slaves in a glorified charnal garden of beatific marriage of life and death in mutual self-annihilation, Janus Jason and the Golden Fleece, a good Argonaut for the "final frontier" of glorified self-mutilation and impotence of truly Biblical organs and proportions that we clearly relish to no end - and are meant to if we want our voice to be heard, which it won't be anyway and is not by any profession on Earth, the silencing of which and of whom were the most strategic objective of the most glandular organs of all armies in human history, cults whose wisdom is given to its fodder for human sacrifice in order to "enlighten" us at the very base or with the very apple of the flesh that is taken and mutilated on our own behalf, our own family crucified upon it and not even called our family, Mother Mary someone who is divine and a mother precisely because of how unworthy her children are of her and hers.

And the filth goes from there.

Roman is said to have invented the sewer system.


This is the cancer of cancer - which is a subliminal reference, in our own surviving mother tongue and celestial biology - to the breast and womb of our flesh and blood - is an aggregate and a burgeoning ballooning aggregate of increasingly "social" customs predicated beyond all subsequent notice or comprehension upon immersion the human mind entire in an wholly amniotic hyper-septic - read "feminine" - system of waste metabolization causing acidosis of truly astronomical abnormal but normal mass psychology that makes any but a true man or woman turn from the fundamental care of one's own young - a crime suffered by all families on Earth and whose effects are exploited by all families on Earth as dead babies weaned on the sacrifice of all babies forever in "socially acceptable" ways to hate our own mothers and fathers, daughters and sons with impunity and in ways that render both love and hate as effectively equivalent as life and death and so ready for battle if by battle we mean the multiplicative order of shambolic conflagration of the mental and emotional inflammation of billions of infant minds on crack.

One out of maybe ten people will feel significantly disturbed by these words. To those people I commend to whatever place allows you to be disturbed, to get the most out of its inimitable power to nourish the restoration of your whole mind and voice - which are wholly connected - and to be most conducive or nourishing to your relationship or communion with your whole environment and so with your ancestors, your native voice and celestial biology, starting with your own mother's womb that of Man and Mother entire.


Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Railroad Vision - A Living Essay

We build railways.

I say We to denote we the human species.

Not that I have any particular talent or affinity for laying hundreds of miles of wrought iron and fashioning the gigantic animals of steel and iron that will run over top of them for hundreds of miles without incident, without repulse to one's ingress, except by reason of insufficient fuel to satisfy its veritably insatiable hunger for human sweat and blood - and hear we speak of trains of many orders of persuasion and locomotion. No. What I have and indeed all that I can claim for myself is a taste for development, for taking the greatest possible license in the big and little matter of the whole language of my life and of, indeed, the incredible ineffable as bituminous translation of one state of living to another in some varying accord with that of the nature of my nature as a whole kind of celestial body more or less indifferent to me, whether I like it or not, owing to my success or not at wending my mind and fortune with its own - which is to say that I mean to make adequately generous provision for the most critical exchanges of my body or my mind with that of the entire intelligence within and surrounds, much as I, a mere passenger and so a mere sojourner through these lands, may take something of the current of my ancestral intelligence as a king might, when stopping at the side of a road to rest his horses, sip from the local stream and listen to the voices of his children, calling that congress and so that whole place his Church, leaving it for them in the precise form of his mind upon their own.

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Your body is all curves and miles
A terrible road that cares little for her travelers
Cold, windy, and prone to fits of disconsolate rage

But beautiful.... O Yes..

As a summer's day
A delicate flower, even though there has been no better metaphor for her for
Perhaps thousands of years

A tender flower waiting to be teased open
The better to devour one's swollen manhood

Maidens tender
Maidens fresh
And evil as a printing press

Embossed with gold and silver glitter
Just to say, "Hey. That's your litter
"of bastard children every one
To praise their da an punish their mum..."

So of course I fantasy slapped her ass
And used my large manly hands
to take the full measure of her girth
What for all the horseback riding I hoped to put her through

And the lord knows what she wanted to do to me
Perhaps domesticate me
Or worse
Make me get a job

But pretty soon the road stretches out
For everybody
All twists and turns
Gaffs, tragedies and revelations of glorious morning joy
That slam you together
And rip you apart
Leaving one another
Even as that same road brought us together
Seeds and sons and daughters
Intersections of heaven and earth
Who hardly spoke our own native language
And fumbled where we tried
To undo
The zipper beneath lay hot supple flesh
An electric celestial animal - like the sun -
As we drink each other's flesh like blood
And slither with only our electric sex to guide us
Impossibly weak with pleasure
Strong with that fever that comes over people either in great heat
Or cold, creating a kind of death rattle of animal satisfaction
Though for every spasm of hot passion a world was consumed and born,
Engulfed and revealed
drenched with rain
Or illuminated from behind clouds which had polluted our windows for too long
Too long teasing this beast from the darkness
Constellations of our own flesh and blood

Monday, 18 September 2017

Axiom 1070 - Home and Church

Together we fight off the darkness with constellations of our own flesh and blood.

Children, Friends, Brothers and Sisters, do not hesitate to fight your own family, for they respect you the most and have the least mercy for any stupidity in you - and so with their every neurochemical and electrochemical celestial el-chemical (angelic) and originally biblical (of the two horns of the moon and bull - and cathartic as creative bullshit and divinity - of the seed or the star in the face of heaven and earth and their Great Hunt a Grail Cup inlaid with the nerves of all that curbs and disturbs the blood of Man - of the current all coming and growing catharthic and creative impulse of body and mind, heaven and earth, life and death, good and evil, letters and spheres of the congress spelling and dissembling, of body and soul, of the whole that would cradle the substance and transformation of the Mind of Man and God alike) their and our originally biblical as atmospheric and geological, seasonal, emotional and cosmological pandemonium of ancestral intelligence, an intelligence at home in a tomb, a womb or in the courts of nobility - at home as sun and moon and star, as bug or beast, as breath of air or pungent even putrid flames that convert our birth into eternity, our word into flesh and blood, our desire into a home worthy of our blood, our flesh, our sun, and that sun into food and beauty would grace a summer's day or an autumnal wave from our unborn children cradled, still, in their perennial nativity and their celestial biology, their church, their cradle, their home.

Only do not fight them too much.

Save some fight for the darkness that would vanquish us all. 

Together we fight off and reflect by currents of heaven and earth, of plant and animal, of all song and knowledge the darkness with constellations of  our own flesh and blood.


We call a temple or church, sacred or holy what a child would call a home if we would call and answer the whole mind of our flesh and blood.

A true home should be our temple, our true temple anywhere where we can make ourselves at home.

Speaking of which, such a home would be our most beneficial and powerful hospital, temple or school.

For in this home you will and to this whole home you have already given your whole mind, flesh and blood and to your great fortune and that of all your family to come.

So a true home or temple (or relationship with the Great Physician of our invisible friends nee ancestral intelligence worthy, alone, of our whole mind and body) is a place where we can let out or even excrete all that we would or should like - we should be able to take a shit, to drain a wound, to fuck or cry or go numb there.

For here I stand with my fathers. Here I stand with all my mothers. I stand with my mothers and fathers in heaven and earth.

We stand against all the world that is against our flesh and blood.

We fight off some of the darkness and share this, or so my family exhorts me, with the world. 

Together we fight off the darkness with constellations of our own flesh and blood. 

Children, Friends, Brothers and Sisters, do not hesitate to fight your own family, for they respect you the most and have the least mercy for any stupidity in you - and so with their every neurochemical and electrochemical celestial el-chemical (angelic) and originally biblical (of the two horns of the moon and bull - and cathartic as creative bullshit and divinity - of the seed or the star in the face of heaven and earth and their Great Hunt a Grail Cup inlaid with the nerves of all that curbs and disturbs the blood of Man - of the current all coming and growing cathartic and creative impulse of body and mind, heaven and earth, life and death, good and evil, letters and spheres of the congress spelling and dissembling, of body and soul, of the whole that would cradle the substance and transformation of the Mind of Man and God alike) their and our originally biblical as atmospheric and geological, seasonal, emotional and cosmological pandemonium of ancestral intelligence, an intelligence at home in a tomb, a womb or in the courts of nobility - at home as sun and moon and star, as bug or beast, as breath of air or pungent even putrid flames that convert our birth into eternity, our word into flesh and blood, our desire into a home worthy of our blood, our flesh, our sun, and that sun into food and beauty would grace a summer's day or an autumnal wave from our unborn children cradled, still, in their perennial nativity and their celestial biology, their church, their cradle, their home.

Only do not fight them too much.

Together we fight off and reflect by currents of heaven and earth, of plant and animal, of all song and knowledge the darkness with constellations of  our own flesh and blood. 

Tribute to the Great Canadian Novel, a Poem by a man who posts videos showing him relieving his bowels upon the Xian Holy Bible and using its holy pages to wipe his own holy anus, a Bible he tells his viewers was "greatly improved by the experience."

Morning, winter, breakfast cooking, snow as fresh as e'er
She touched my cheek with rosy-coloured fingers smells of home
Her scent like spring in winter's fingers tangled in my hair
As fair a bride as I a Man had ever wished to bone
Her mind applied to every thing like music to its pitch
Mine comfort much assured asserted bonds a blood that hast been crowned
The boughs of mighty roots a Tree the fire all that lives
Inimitable as our rich invisible redoubts
Between these pages of a Story spelled and spilled with such a force
As spread the petals of Her legs they crowned with being born
Lips giving birth a Word made Flesh celestial adores
The Sun a Mother and a Father nature's favourite porn
Our daughter cradled in her dreams and these her mind and ours
As cradled as a Man were cradled by a summer's day
An apple from a Tree green grasses tingle with the Stars
A firmament as permanent as reason's children laugh and play
And learn the most immortal if the most important things in church a home as bright
As learned the currents of that river of our flesh and blood just passing in and out of sight.

Creaking trees, chirping birdies in the trees their home
The face a mother and a father Heaven and the Earth
The Adam and the Eve of Man and Woman, of the whole
Conception revelation of the flesh of Man the Words
To eat the flesh that forms the flesh of life and death and days
The current plunged the turrets pearly gates of early infant years
A wheeling feeling seeing smelling tasting of the ways
That life impressed itself immersed Herself in thee much as it first appears
At first the world was all abuzz the comfort on the face
Who introduced us to the Bible that would be forgot
And resurrected only in the Temple of this Place
Where Man is free as Man to speak and listen to his gods
His body's thoughts and aches and lusts and wounds and puss and joy
The Congress king a musty tomb or in the court of Bears
As ravenous as cavernous a constellation to enjoy
As much as you will need of darkness and its first repairs
Of fruits as bitter as the womb the grave that flesh that passes on
As people say they always spoke the currents spring and winter, and dusk and dawn 
Appeared the face of Man and Nature child, mother, father, Church.

Sense a flood that wends with thee upon thine hallowed course
Through God knows all the force and fullness seasons of our leaves
Inimitable thought and feeling walking talking speaking with the force
Multiplicative orders and proportions voices human needs
Steeped in these Legions of the church that hath reversed the flow
Uprooted and inverted roots of human truth in bonds
Of constellations human flesh and blood the sword of great importance though
King Arthur's sword the Lord hath yielded and upended God's
Monopoly upon that rock the hilt the tree of death
Festooned by all the truth that church of science so that none
Who want their sword the most important Temple of their child's living Breath
Celestial ancestral Congress poking through the Stars the Moon and Sun
Whose life and ours no mere charade or an anomaly
That were exhausted as the Church and State that made our birth so grave
Pronouncement on the wealth of Man and his whole family
Were Heathen long before this wholly septic dying architrave
Run through and biting from the apple of the very flesh
The mind the matter the electric Congress good and evil, life and death
A sword that none could take from Man the stars down from the sky
Interred the very birth our roots the stars that only burn and die
Our youth at best a passing fancy turned into the war
Upon the gravity the language ne'er exhausted all the Congress all our being born.

The holy tree gleams
and heaven steals
Its river back for once

celestial notes
dogs barking
nerves of earth and sky

Autumn can perfume the air or bite like molten and contrite antipathy
But then no season hath more claim upon the minds of men
Suspended in celestial currents that polygamy
Of any order cannot dwarf nor silence or condemn
Except to train the human brain of nature on the stars
Inlaid upon the very Hilt the Mind begins to stop
Upon the Genesis of Man is known only parts
Authoritative, true and good as any human God
Whose sword were made of constellations of the Flesh and Blood
Celestial biology that nourished, Once, a child
Of that Mother Man the Man that Motherland of Once
Upon a Child's living congress with so wholly wild
Seasons left alone at once one's birth were a success
Exhumed from all the brute dissent the nature all the world's
Contempt for any language of conception fails to address
The meek compliance of its hordes of soldiers boys and girls
The measured labour of that Lord that Sword were driven to the very Hilt
Into the hearts of stars the Church a child's birth first built
Turned upside down their roots tits up the lips of God or Bangs
So big that they eclipse in the beginning all of Man's.


Sunday, 17 September 2017


The holy tree gleams
And heaven steals
Its river back for once

Saturday, 16 September 2017

Forced to Grow Up

We were the lonely ones.

We lived at the frayed edges of society.

A rose did not open all by itself, and nor did a man.

A book did not write itself, despite the rumors you have heard.

We knew from long experience that people were alternately electrified and spasmodically rejected by the frayed edges of society, rejected like so many missed holy days from their youth, either lost to time or to voice or both, for when time brought a voice to an end, another voice or another time took up the song if only as it tapped its way out some dusky afternoon at the bus station waiting for an estranged brother or cousin who still thinks that the soldier's prerogative - to really "put it all behind you" - was next to Miller time in all time good ideas, unless you were a heathen, a weakling, a rare widget that did not aim to take to be quietly subjected to the truly perennial favorite of being "forced to grow up" or worse, a poet whom some will read and love, love like a child, a friend.

Love like the quiet red rose of our own personal salvation.

Love like the smell of old varnished wood and the antiseptic moldering premonition of a perfect calamity of Biblical proportions that mixed with your dad's wet aftershave on a sunny Sunday morning between peeking at a girls tits for the ninth or tenth time since the wise old Pastor was improving upon Thessalonians the way breaking open your eyes in the morning - their having ceased from their divine sports - improves the contrast between sucking a girl's breast and breathing in the musky air of your own sex and sweat and ragged breath as you tingle all over from head to toe and then again, secretly, sanctified by the sonorous declarations of a wise old tree and a serpent with revelations to deliver like rain on a summer morning or the blessed quintessence of two bodies of flesh merging together in lust and blood and something all organ and substance, water and skin, salt and the kind of electricity just before that summer rain, even in winter, when the world is cold and a second wave of fruits as anxious as a tinder dry branch to break into flames and sweep over the cold wet world with glad tidings of spring and the rest reserved only for the wild, the wicked and the free in a story that shuddered, Once, to give birth to its flesh, its voice and never stopped crying out with pleasure, measures of man and nature, heaven and earth, all language, song and knowledge, the powers of nature the powers of our growing into them forever, and they into us all anticipation and sorrow, all lost and found, all that mourned and all that formed upon the most delicate new stems of the Tree of Paradise, of Adam and Eve. 

They meet, you know. They meet even in these words, two heads of the same snake that Devil, that wild Diana of Eve, of Life, of the air and water, earth and fire of our most sacred words made flesh, our flesh made words.

They secretly conceive of each other. Even you and I do this.

We count the days of the year in many ways and with numbers and days that do not just move from one square page to another, from one week to week in an orderly fashion. No. Instead we are handed a bag full of numbers like the number of days since Christ hung from a tree, nailed, dying, crying out for mercy, and the number of days since dad left for the war, the number of days since life irrevocably changed from good to worse measured out with more delicacy than even our money by the ones who remember and speak even just to the night with ragged breaths that fade into a silent ocean of night air, absorbed in the brain of the world like it once might have been into the dawning comprehension of a little girl who has just been told how truly special they really are or by that God whom no truly desperate man neglects to mention as in "Fuck. God. What the fuck? My fucking God What the fucking God am I, who is clearly just a mortal woman, going to fucking do now?" 

It beggars belief quite literally. 

Why, forced to grow up, do we insist on growing up?

It tortures the very word that our birth made flesh.

It might as well cut our flesh, or our mind.

You cannot even force a tree to grow.

No more than you could a man, a woman, or a child. 

Reducing human mental and sexual development to "Get a haircut and a job" just may be the most premier topic of discussion in the vaguely postlapsarian halls of the distant future, next to "Why did they give their labour to gods or organs of their own fucking [sic] minds that were not related to their own flesh and blood and then pretend as though this was reasonable beyond any question on pain of violent and degrading aspersions as to one's loyalty, sanity, birth, intelligence, health and motivations and, indeed, any social acceptance at all, except maybe by strikingly and acutely painful and even hellish new triggers and set points not very much unlike the rich unduly self-interested brother who is forced to watch from hell as his poor brother gets endless affection and no one can help him because of the bottomless abyss between the two places that graces the delicate folds of Luke Chapter Sixteen of so Holy Bible?"

I am confused.

Who is rich and who is poor in this story?

Perhaps rich in the kind of imagination that one of their most notable holy men called "more important than knowledge."

And the hits just keep on coming.

I will be here until Michaelmas, at which point I will be pouring lighter fluid all over my male member, lighting it on fire and then bending into weird and unusual shapes that you might only see when the setting sun is right behind your back and your shadow looks just like somebody dancing around and shouting, "Help. My penis is on fire. God help me."

This is when you learn that there are some things that are beyond God's power to intervene in, unless by intervene we mean let nature takes its course that of the most successful savior and mass murderer in all of history. And that's saying something. Because we are fucking insane.

I've been happy. This is like a teenager telling her friends, "I've had sex before." Childhood just comes with some happiness. So you might be tempted to opt for the fairly logical assumption that, having been an infant, you were, in fact, Once upon a time, happy. You bubbled with mirth that only gods, great artists or children know and you didn't even have to pay for a hooker or a rigged election. It was perfectly free, which might be a clue as to why you were so happy. But that's just me.

Some people will smell a story in that.

Some will smell a whiff of canons of great medical literature, occult sciences, revolutions in thought more incendiary than the microwave.

And some will not, blissful idiots, wise astronomers, tired fathers, mothers, priests who will die if they have to see one more penis and teams of engineers long assimilated to the bituminous crust that is forged like the blood of nations from the engines of innocence lost and risen like the phoenix or the flag upon the field of battle in a haze of propaganda so thick that you cannot even cut it with the sharp point in your head, a vitruvian architrave of some delicate weave of pomp, servility and floating hostility filled with that plagiarized vanity that we so often call pride. 

One man's happy may well be another man's sad but one thing is for certain, you do not get from one to the other by merely growing up.

To get from happy to sad you have to grow away from people and in human terms this is not usually a good thing, unless it happens to everyone in due course, in which case it is an apocalyptic thing. And to get from sad to happy people have to grow back together so that they can recommence this growing up we keeping hearing so much about.

My life will forever bear witness to the fact that I myself came from a strong and powerful people. We adapt to our environment almost too well. We lose track of people sometimes, sometimes for years, and when this happens one from among us reforges like Thor the bonds of our celestial biology and the organs of our ancestral intelligence - a minstrel, a doctor, a poet, a friend, a brother, a sister, a daughter, a god or goddess, a witch, a pitch-man for a life of crude anonymity and perfectly sinful self-acceptance braided like rain and wind into oblivion's colonnade, its rich living creativity into rank antipathy toward the Religious or, worse, the purely Scientific, Spiritual or Supine manginess.

Friday, 15 September 2017

Axiom 1069 - Feel Your Voice: Wield Thy Sword

Comment from

Audition Tape for AGT (American's Got Talent)

JD Walker

If you performed that in a public setting like a pub and I was there havin a pint, I would definitely lol and applaud. thats just me though. some others would probably think yous a weirdooo.

Rayn Gryphon
They would be correct. And incorrect. I am actually a wackooo. The difference is small but significant in that, mainly, a weirdoo is someone who gives people the impression that they are incomprehensibly deranged in some fundamental way, whereas a wackooo had some choice in the matter and still went that way, the way of letting your voice out. Nobody ever sang a beautiful song or told a funny or wonderful story who did not cry or who had never been keenly sensible of what had been done to their voice in the world. Hail Satan and pass the ammunition. The Xians are coming - and not in a good way.

Obedience is futile. 

Rayn Gryphon
Actually, upon further review, it's totally stupid. That's why I like it. 

If I have to submit the (in lieu of To Te Ching the most stupid thing of the most Biblical organs and proportions so fatally close in resemblance to our own and that of our mothers and fathers across the whole of time that we lose ourselves in the tortured folds of our own most sophisticated lobotomy of the precession of the celestial equinoxes of cockseses whose genital and celestial mutilation we carry around as the flags of Man's most dubious achievement in knowledge and glorified inventory control) most stupid thing I can to posterity. 

Let this channel be its magnum opus from the Saint-Exupéry of my family religion equal to the task of answering in liturgical fashion the truly and only truly Biblical stupidity of this world's surviving ideas of freedom, knowledge, voice and story, of the environment in environmentalist and of the Christ in the Xian, God in O my God.

 We did not always know our direction, so we
Will still need our connection under the Tree.

The stars had fallen from the sky, the sky had fallen down
And sex Herself had lost Her Child to the froth of war
Upon thee, Argonauts of God upon thy womb thy crown
The lips and wisdom, milk and jism, Man and Mother every being born
Direction lost connecting gods under the Church a Tree
In place and time just like a faery virile story passed from year to year
By every kind of song and knowledge speaking thus to thee
Who art the object all my mind's immersion in so dear
Connection of the substance and its organs open one to one
Communication of the world electrical and sexual, emotional and wild
Our families of mothers, fathers, sons and daughters Moon and Sun
Celestial stories organs, voices and proportions stories of a Mother and a Child
Virgin words the flesh of his and hers the language of
Communication, congress, consummation all our blood.

Thursday, 14 September 2017

Axiom 1068 - New Ageism and Martial Civilization

"But the loss of Eden made the western epic necessary, and western epic is what we know."

Milton and His Epic Tradition, Joan Malory Webber, University of Washington Press, 1979, Part II, "Paradise Lost," Page 133

See Paradise Was Epic

New Age Martial Brainwashing As Symptom and Effect:

Here is New Ageism:

"Don't be afraid. Ever. Fear is useless and the more so the more it has to do with you. Any question of this is a sign that you are separate from the most holy and providential and knowledgeable flow of Society or Source or God. All the same, and so you should trust them as The One. And the less you trust or ever learn anything from your fear (in particular, if it has anything to do with you, even though the more it has to do with you the more afraid you will likely be to anyone but a psychopath who has lost a clear sense of respect for their fear or yours) the more of that Oneness and the power with impunity of that Oneness you will get. In fact, as Oprah and Eckhart Tolle say, if you don't get the Oneness, You Will and Must Die! The ego is death, like death, death to all goodness and life. And the ego is you. But you have a higher destiny, a higher self out beyond these middling fears about yourself being attacked by such propaganda. That is not yourself. That is your ego. If you call it by its real evil name, it loses all power to control you - or gains the power to dictate as would the world and eclipse as would all the armies of the world your cortical activity and that of everyone around you. Conversion is your duty. Recruitment is your job. Quash all fear. Smile with compassion at all resistance to a life without fear and without any respect for any surviving capacity for fear to inform your life. To question this wisdom is to consign yourself to ruin. And that is all yourself really wants. So we have spelled out both how impossible it is to get away from yourself and the absolute necessity to do so if you wish to live! Do it now, Soldier!

"We love you."


We love you but we hate you. Under the only conditions for truly spiritual or human existence (what Emmanuel Kant and Dr. Wayne Dyer say does not yet even exist!) you must be rendered psychotic in order to be socially accepted. The more the better. If you feel at all isolated from society, this could only mean that you are at fault. It could not possibly be a chemical urge to examine the world around you.

"Don't be afraid. It is pure ego to be afraid. Being afraid separates you from the Source."

Here priests like Wayne Dyer and Michael Tamura (who comes right out of Berkeley University mind control departments of parapsychology) and others give examples of people (in the case of Michael Tamura, himself during a bank robbery "caught on camera," likely in the fine arts division of the military) who, as in the case of an African woman during a genocidal Ugandan slaughter, simply detaches from her fear and ego and so is the "only survivor."

"So the Ego or who you were and are by birth separates from Source (or the necessarily beautiful flow of all the world, especially when nobody wishes to use their cortex, as history shows?) and makes you afraid - this is the opposite of the spiritual ideal - going with the flow and ignoring as a soldier would ignore your fears or those of others. We are "in this together."

"You only feel fear or isolation because of yourself! And not because of anything else. So you have the control the mind of an infant wants at an or any electrochemical aqnd neurochenmical and even celestial developmental watershed when they are being tortured as part of ordering the multiplicative order or mass delusion or "the flow of Source."

"Do not find value in what fear and pain would say, in your own voice as it retains that of your body, your flesh, your development, all the impressions of life upon your development (the only way to check to see how well your trust is being served).

"Do not find value in your fear, your voice or your heritage or ancestral intelligence or native celestial biology and language necessary for the most liberal communication of all life and knowledge that honours its blood bonds to all the organs of body, family and so all space and time dynamics and stories.

"Your heritage, fear, ego or yourself does not matter. And if your fear does not matter to you, it does not matter if other people are afraid either. Their exhibiting of any such fear can only be a sign that they are separate, by nature, from Source and all goodness. If they die of fear, it is their fault for merely being afraid and not knowing how stupid it is to be afraid."

You want a new age guru to be your father? Your mother?

What this really extols is the virtue of being a psychopath, a natural effect of trying to fit into a cybernetic society, of surviving under the religious conditions that prohibit their critical examination in order to to be free, liberal, educated, sane, intelligent, good, happy, civil, healthy, patriotic, spiritual enough, etc.

This is a person who, made to be afraid, sees fear as bad as the true self or as a child must view the overwhelming fear of such a world (an intelligent if not the most intelligent reaction to such a world), as bad and all their fault, the resolution to which was married to the killing of oneself, something all civilians and soldiers must do, since both are soldiers in slightly different states of slavery or under the effects of differing doses and mixtures of stories that serve as opiates that are needed by the neurochemical dictatorship adopted by any mind in such a society. This is the real source of all crime, addiction, religion and war in any society in human hystory.

Stories are changed over time, merged and altered, improved or updated all across the world. Islam is Bible 3.0.

Evolution is Xianity 2.0.

The Big Bang is Bible 2.0.

Myth, Religion, Science and War are all isomorphic activities with one gleaming goal that makes absolutely no attempt to conceal itself in order to direct its effort more effectively at telling such a barbaric and charming story so as to make the most advantage of all credulity coincident with your legacy of torture at proportions with bloody swelling tides of hard working constituent human organs beyond all subsequent notice or comprehension if you want to survive in society.

So the Ego is bad and the higher self or God is Good by definition. God or the Higher Self being anything but yourself and its fear, which are the same.

But really you are good and this assault of God-like military-grade propaganda or "celestial stories" is bad, and not even because it is wrong (could be right or wrong, as with all stories in knowledge and knowledge in stories) but because it makes your voice and particularly the most terrible threats to or neglect to your voice anathema and utterly without any value in learning from or considering as even possible the more widely we distribute our attention upon Mankind and the more singular the experience of any child in fear.

Really there is a lot of ear in the ego, in oneself and one's whole mind and flesh. Because in such a world the ego or the self of a child has a lot to fear from people would condescend to tell us how little our fear means to any "truly spiritual" person as they attempt as much as any common psychopath to tell us exactly what has happened to their mind the more they wish to arbitrate for how we should use ours instead of respecting our voice and intelligence.

As the Big Celestial Stories turn as they must to account for the listing living nature of the celestial biology of our own flesh and blood voice and story (the celestial organs of our brains and organs of family and body and mind alike) from original sin to original abysmal evolutionary beginnings swinging from the family tree instead of being nailed to it and from In the Beginning to the Big Bang sexual climax of the apotheosis of destructive and creative energy from the apotheosis of torture and creation (or grace) and from God and Satan to the self and the higher self as dictated to the self removed by its total immersion in Satan or Egoic fear and manipulation from any power if every power of subconscious tyranny most symbiotic with a psychopathic society that alternately shames and rewards the ape-like behaviour it farms and calls our "origins" while eliminating any human being but a "monster" who cannot own property for an ape who is becoming more ape like.

The higher self and the lower self as dictated by "spiritual principles" of social compliance but novel embellishments and inferior embellishments (since the audience is so much easier to control with time, not more modern but more primitive called more modern in a pole reversal of Satan from the truth of family to the Betrayer of Family that shifts the axis of Man himself 23.4 and 66.6 degrees, taking the roots in our feet, our sex and our mind away in exchange for regiments of priests who know better than we do even the language of all knowledge and the "true stories," embellishments of perennial cybernetic martial religion to get you to slave away in happiness and, if not in happiness, then in impotent apathy and resignation that is all the happiness you will ever know, which is a start.

A distant ship embarks upon the far horizon ne'er
To reach its destination but in the imagination of ourselves
Who watch for all the Gods of the horizon will prepare
A way for ships and distant kith to slip the surly spells
Of earth and sky, of life and death celestial abodes
Propitious living scriptures beings like the Sun and Moon
The stars the organs, hands and hearts the voice and story those
Who know, it seemed, their seed were planted in a mother's womb
The amniotic language scented legends of the Fall
The dropping from the dam so postlapsarian a thrust
From innocence dictated and eclipsed the voices (demons flaming wounds and swords of children, seraphim and burdens on the world) cortical the pall
One heaven for another heaven were erected though concussed
Of any reconciliation of a child with their flesh
And blood those voices lost their life the greater life the gods
And heroes took their trials and immersion such a breast's
Heroics like a soldier made out of a child's loss
A torture all the organs and proportions stories changed more than the stars at night
From Adam's Eve-ill to the Bang of Zeus-Olympus priests
Of knowledge not religion and the best religion yet (sex)
From Satan's great temptation any fear of such a light
As wonderful as those who go along with all that story's and that torturing of stories currencies
Improve upon inhuman roots the highest work of men
Of knowledge take that copyright and all that light love's labour lost to bed.