Behind closed eyelids. Where silhouettes become equine arced horizon’s wide bids. To dressage unforgets. Canter shadows in the moments of our syne. Incantations of the kin we left behind. Coalescencing with the patterns come the night. Inconspicuous are guises called, ‘the Dark’. Behind those closing, tired eyes. I gallop towards a blink in ever’s memory. I shall not cower at pinks, greys, and blacks linked together; emery. When I brush and tangle with my thoughts in the mane I charge on forth. To the lushing greenly meadow of our reverie. This is happening. Yet, has already happened. From the start. And, too, will happen. At the end.
A Hummingbird of fire, hanging wingly snow, that obliterated ire.
It delivered me — a message, in envisioned freedom’s essence.
When, I feel it, again, at my snowblind end, I’ll thank it for a lend, of belly-flamed repent.
As, I flew amongst those frozen blazes, that purloined balance from our ages, and, called upon prophets and messiahs, doomed to burn to dust; Ignatius.
Like, so many, uplifting, scriptures pages.
Yet, my fiery, snow-tipped Hummingbird, never turned, or, forgot my words, nor, faces.
I’ve worn many through my stages — books, profiles and cases.
But, my Hummingbird, floating there in stasis, is a transcendental dirge, that lives to soar within my traces, a vestige not seen or heard, by other people’s gazes, nor ears buzzed and stirred.
My Hummingbird, saved me from, extinction, with a cold and warm embrace, that I’ve since adorned, within my graces.
So, it might sound and look absurd, but, thank you, for my life; Hummingbird.
There is a grave disease, that has impregnated, and, perpetually attacks, the homo-sapien mentality. Far superior, in ailing humanity, than any pandemic.
That disease, is; an inflated sense of self.
Egocentrism.
A diseased religion; of the self. Symptomatic of, a human valuing only itself, as the God of self-governance, within its own, myopic, dogma of ego. A distinct regression has occurred, from, a psyche, looking outward, via empathy, to glean, an understanding, of one another. Instead, there is a; reductive, skewed, inhumane view, looking solely inward, through a selfish, blinkered, and, uncharitable lens. Used purely, to, aggrandise; self-worth, self-gain, and, self-achievement.
Human pride, and, arrogance, have erupted. Risen, to such a towering height, that they now pose, a daunting, grandiose cliff-face, from which, mankind is destined to, regrettably, tumble. For too long, societal; apathy, indifference, and, disillusionment, have been the leash, which has guided, the distracted masses, toward humanity’s fateful plummet.
Where once there was humility, now, there is conceit. Where once there was kindness, now, there is avarice. Where once there was compassion, now, there is callousness. The time has come, for mankind to, finish it’s freefall, from the lofty cliffs of narcissism. And, finally, be strewn, across the jagged rocks, of cosmic justice.
Human-beings, have taken it upon themselves, to, place their material, carnal, and, gluttonous desires, above all else. Above their fellow kin, above the sanctity of the planet, and, above, even, the Creator of the universe. Only, in the destruction, and, rebirth of, the sapient’s; feeble, corrupted, disconnected mind, can the Creator, and, the cosmos, begin to impart: true knowledge. Restoring, in the process; the nurturing nature of mother Earth, and, humanity’s, capability for; community, compassion, empathy, and, philanthropy.
Zero mercy, or, sympathy, should be alotted, to anybody, complicit, in the detriment of; society, the planet, and, the cosmos. The establishment’s system of finances, greed, and, promotion of hoarding worldly possessions, as well as, the spineless, ignorant silence of the masses, have become; tainted, golden, toxic tokens. Poisonous ducats, which have paid, for our doom, via; mortal, collective, and, deceptive hubris. We, humans, deserve, nothing less, than to pay, the ultimate price, for our cowardice, and, complicity, when faced with the forces of; wanton, globalist, and, dominative evil.
As a sentient being, doing nothing at all, allows; the lie to become the truth, the struggle to become the status quo, and, hatred to become the usurper of love.
A drastic change, needs to occur within our own, collective consciousness. We must, realise, these material trappings, for what they are. A temptation; a bribe; to tame the spirit, and, suppress the soul. We must obliterate them, along with, the divide, and, conquer tactics, which, only, serve to subjugate, and, seperate us.
Only, then, can we, collectively; restore, and, channel, the force of good, and, ruefully, dismantle, the force of evil.
the puppeteer; has scaly, reptilious skin, a charming, colourful, cataclysmic chameleon, with eyes of, devouring, gluttonous jealousy, like glowing, bite-sized, emeralds, the puppet-strings, that are pulled, are made of, flaccid human backbones, spineless, and, apathetic, docile, and, weak, always easy, to bend, shape, and manipulate,
the puppets; are twisted, in a daily spin, forever unfurling, and, falling from favour; like disgraced comedians, or, top-storey, tumbling clerics, guilty of heresy, their shelf-lives, are; fugitive; ephemeral, the pre-packaged, chicken-y cattle, are; disjointed, culled, mooing, clucking; moo-ucking; those unrelaxed tones, soundbites of; tinned laughter, canned speech, eager to unoffend, a sterile escapade, veiled by a fake-crusader’s cape,
the audience; never looks up, from their, feeding troughs, staring, ravenous eyes, and, mawing, myopic mouths, transfixed on; oven-ready propaganda, an amuse-bouche, of; punch, and, judy politics, succulent headlines, curried scapegoats, a diet of; regurgitated news cycles, each garden-variety brain, is, washed, boiled, and, mashed, then, cannibalised, and, ingested, by the, frenzied, factory-fed,
the puppeteer’s; plotlines are misleading oft, making polar norths, into, cancerous tropic souths, teaching true-falsehoods, that reveal, and, cover, the lingua franca, with, tongued wands, that cast, polyglottal tricks, selling ice, to; Inuits, and, Amazigh; Saharan raincoats, making a play, of religion, and, a cat’s paw; the idol, the final act is here, box office takings, are; sealed, and, stashed, as, the audience; counts sheep, daydreaming, of lying in fantasy’s bed,
but, ostensibly…
the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the show is, almost, finished,
and, inevitably, before, the final curtain, you beg for…
Inevitably, your moments of; heartache, and, jubilation, sorrow, and, raucous laughter, will be momentary brushstrokes, of humanising colour, on an eternal, universal, canvas. It does not matter, if, post-use, your sapient, vehicular, corpus is; burnt, buried, or, embalmed. Every; thought, behaviour, and, action, made, in all conscience, must be accounted for, on your soul’s departure, from Gaia.
Just as, an ancient, Egyptian heart, must weigh, equal to, or, less than, the sacred feather of Ma’at. And, St. Peter’s keys, will only allow entrance, to the righteous, at the pearly gates, of the kingdom of heaven. The bearer of the soul, has, not only the mystical responsibility, but, the metaphysical obligation, and, duty, to be; morally and intrinsically: good.
Goodness is paramount to a clean conscience, and, more importantly, a clean soul. Spiritual; cleanliness, wholesomeness, and, goodness, are imperative, in order for the soul to continue, peacefully, on it’s supranatural journey, along the Milky Way, and, onto, the perpetual realms of yonder.
And, when, all is said, and, done, as your life, in all it’s ubiquity, magically, propels before you – like a feature film, or, flip-book, composed of; your natural essence, transfigured by, the shifting sands of time – will you be pleased with, how you; formed opinions, treated others, and, lived your life?
Or, will your soul, be burdened by; sin, loathing, and, regret? Forced to recount, every; hateful decision, every misinformed opinion, and, every missed opportunity, to form healthy human, and, spiritual bonds?
Your familial bloodline, and, genetics, may carry forth, or, they may not – that is, ultimately, out of your control. Yet, your opportunity to contribute, as many beautiful brushstrokes, to this; galactic masterpiece, as your life permits, is perfectly, within your grasp. And, in contributing with good; heart, mind, and, conscience, you enable your soul’s interstellar travel, to the stars; smooth, succinct, and, better yet, truly astounding.
All bonds, of virtue, that bind, righteously, will endure armageddon – not only, sororal, and, fraternal. Your body, will grow, languid, and, old, but, if wholesome, your soul, will spring eternal. And, while your body, may be, lost at sea, cremated in flames, or buried within Earth’s crust. Your before, your presence, and, your beyond, are, permanently crafted, by the moulded creation, of life, in stardust.
I, Myself. Constantine. A trailblazer. Making my mark, until tremors, quaking, and, a long lived aftershock. Got trapped, got sick, now, making my way home; to Torment. Manifested; off-track, lost, unfound, raging, bitter, twisted. And, sick. Obviously.
Disorientated, tranquil tornadoes, of, marauding memories, revolve statically; sarcastically whirling, with the sincerest, of all, ironies; like a Dervish, riding a languid carousel, a Dervish, named; ‘Constantine’. The inert twisters, carry, and, cast – concealed emotions, that are; born to seek death, that are; created to destroy.
The camouflaged saliences, are;
re -visited, re -worn, re -vealed;
‘In the stitching – a khirqa of shame, whispers, “guilt survives, long after, the dead, have been mourned.” As sorrow seeps, from, a blood-soaked; hood, cuffs, and, sleeves – where cloying, bloodthirsty tarmac, bore it’s teeth, causing shudders. Devouring all escapes, to salvation. And, after grasping, deep-down, in those, endless, cloak pockets, Mercy, was found slain. Smothered, by iniquity, concrete, rocks and rubble, as compassion is, demolished by dark, anguished, traumatic silences.’
Uncontrollable obedience – stagnantly spins, and, turns, soothing provocations, into, a, swooner’s consciousness. Hushed screeches vomit, teasing and tormenting; to mutilate… To massacre; a begging, bruised, exhausted, inner-sanctum.
A colourless draining. The colour is fading, from psyche’s cheeks, a liquidating; of shady pulp, of soft, once radiant, rainbow spattered, but, now, only; grey matters.
I, Myself. Constantine. A soggy, battered, quivering, hasbeen. An already; blazed trail. Long forgotten. Lying beneath, a superego’s ocean-jungle undergrowth, where there, once was, a long, plumed, dove-white robe. Overgrown, crestfallen, and, un-phren-dly; lying beneath, the forsaken waves, of; lost seas, past shocks and, cruel, convulsive, inclemencies.
This global villain is invictus, infinitely oozing “veni, vidi, vici”, with it’s modus operandi, of novus ordo seclorum, clamours of A.I.-based nuclear war, come from the establishment’s deformed Habsburg jaw.
Tenants are immorally and mortally evicted, the laymen scream, “it’s all Greek to me!!”, launching uncoordinated attacks with lazy hand-eyes, spinning webby yarns from a clacking keyboard; to an internetted forum, even the echo chamber’s bored, tired of the vox pop, and, the dull resonance outpoured.
As, the monopolistic hope, became; pain’s loving misanthrope.
A thickened plot of Masonic sorcery, seasons societies, economies, curricula, whilst Big Brother scopes melting pots, of citizens bred to earn a crust, be taxed and die, and, all-knowing; this, for certain, the final debt befalls the final curtain.
Propaganda polices, pigs out and purports to be, the hoi polloi’s mouth-piece; in particular, to be frank, the lingua franca tastes of colonial, malevolent monoglots, Babel’ing in their ivory towers, consuming all under the sky, plebeian thought-filled food is forsaken, unfound, and famished, the third estate is starved, malnourished, their main course of action remains revolting, yet, vanished.
And, finally, the monopolistic hope, dearly departs; a wholly poisoned antidote.
When dodecahedron bombs fall; will you be my buried and sturdy shelter? When cohesion is trodden to asphalt; would you wage pitched and bloody welter?
Breakfast, served at his majesty’s pleasure, often ladles out food for thought… The menu – provides; convicts, politicians, businesspeople, and, royalty, with plenty to discuss… Such as, ‘do the high and mighty ever dream of tasting prison porridge, as they commit high crimes, whilst they starve and cull the poor?’ And, ‘can beggared worms chew through royal lead-lined coffins from a dead beggar’s ulcered stomach sores?’ Yet, what lies in the unasked? The public inquiry into corrupt power, like lunch, awaits.
Relief without a branch to cling to. Bare, shaken, but, also, beyond agonising disbelief. Avalanche met Alpine Firs; a collage of bitter viridescence – often mistaken, as, not life, but, death, imitating art.
What a relief!! That’s the “good stuff”; the pinprick and the poison-pill… The Medicine Men have long traded in shady deals, of jabs and hooks, wearing labcoats lined with vaccined, pain-killing schemes. Patiently making case studies of us all, all the while, toasting, our declining health, along with silent, complicit and sickly governments. Sláinte!
Encrypted night; puzzling and studious, awaits us all, along with an unshrinking denial, a half-blinked eye, a non-thinked; why? And, a nihilistic sigh. It is all, so… insalubrious.
Awaited relief of a final breath when no more lies can be proferred no more lines can be crossed or excuses offered no more questions unanswered no more victims no more cancers no more derision and pain due to another’s conceited vision and gain no more losers no more winners no more abusers or willers of forgiveness.
Just peace; unreplicated.
And, relief, no longer, awaited.
When dodecahedron bombs fall; will you be my buried and sturdy shelter? When cohesion is trodden to asphalt; would you wage pitched and bloody welter?
poorman'sdreams 