The Gnostic Church of L.V.X.


Paul Joseph Rovelli

"Jesus died
for somebody’s sins
but not mineMelting pot
of theives
wild card
up my sleevethick
heart of stonemy sins
my own
they belong
to me…"

Patti Smith

In memory of Kevin ItingerAnd

The Spirit of Ramapo

To Whom It May Concern:




 Ó Paul Joseph Rovelli1999evXCV Published by

Birdland Communications

Author’s Dedication

 This book is dedicated to all those whom have been a part of my creative life; namely:

Sal Caruso
Bill Medei
Kenneth Lumpkin
Russ Landis
Bob Winter
Arlene Maher
Warren Sonberg
Keith Karagan

In especial dedication to the memory of Arlene Maher

my last remaining friend from Saddle Brook High School

Class of '78 ev

who tragically died of cancer in the summer of 2002 ev.

She taught me how to dance...

And most especially:
Patti Smith: My personal Goddess & Savior 

These poems having been composed over a span of two decades
are distinguished by their graphics.
The poems printed in Italics were written in the 1980s ev.
The poems printed in bold were written in the 1990s ev.



 Oh god! Let this be nowThe washroom, the kitchen of bellsThe curains of sailors who breathe lightThe magnets and serpents of doom…more lightMore mind splashed on the streetMore mass of swirling cavalcadeContinuous motion in extended time

Breeding sailors on horse/back

Combing dreadlocksinto gray duston the floor of an island parlor

adrift in the midst of night

Quiet Solitudedisturbed by rustling leaffrittering about

a grassy knoll

te amo me amorewith love I must adorethis and so much more

when next you reach my shore

There were no dreams in your heaven

So the kids ran to hell

The end of my thought—Ran off the embankment…

Waterfall of ruin 


Rhythms—rhythmsMeandering rhythmsThe measurementOf the spaceIn my heartEmpty—rhythms

Meandering rhythms 

 I am of the feeling-Held; bound by my karma.I am playinga secret ritual;

Walking on tight ropes. 


How separately we live togetherwhen it doesn’t rain.How far we run at dawnwith the storm

and the wind 

I have made my penanceMy time has ended

I’m free 




A secret dream
often becomes a private nightmare
And so we straddle
the night of this moment

Still the candle
Dances in the secret temple
of the soul;
Where we always smile

Mounted and founded uponthe glory of the sun/easel;One thought—One brush stroke

with a thousand fiber tracks. 

 Children cry in their old ageas their youth is forsaken;As the elements rage war.I was born, screamingfrom my mother’s womb;like so many others…My innocence was lostin the serpentine splendorof this, a ‘progressive’ culture!Wisdom wailed it’s sirensas the TV newsman told me;When the flaming guns had showed me,

death, was near at hand. 


Why is it
that when the heart
we feel it so clearly?Why is it
that when the pain
We feel the heartbeat?

It would seem that
joy makes us numb.

A SONG I CAN NO LONGER SING Let’s prowl the depths of disaster;You and me along the banksof some forgotten river. Seething between our white teeth;Lurking like sharks;So afraid of washing ashore. I know…I know;There’s sometimes and all-the-time.(Rhythm has its own separate rhyme)But you’re so hopelessly distant— I’d kick you if I weren’t so busykilling myself; aground on the rocks.Roll me in the waves. Leave me to the courtesansof my own forgotten memories.

And I’ll sing a song I can no longer sing! 

DRUM CEREMONYThe Indians beat drums for rhythm;
the ceremony servicing respect for an old alliance;
acting as opiate for dreams

The river swells to crescendo;
striking dirt of defiance;
leaving mud for the growing corn;
as we prepare, making ourselves clean. 

Images, Earth Mother, Wakan Tanka,;
mesh underneath the water's plow
as we offer up our skin.
Ripping it up and releasing spleen—
we celebrate prayer for the eternal now
in perpetual existence



The moon dripped dreams on a
funny crying night.
I turned my synthesizer on.
It screamed and yelled
I turned on the radio for comfort.
The sun descended on my head
in a cold sort of way.
I put my Japanese hoe
into the clay filled earth
and made a jar to cry into.


CULTURE SHOCK Culture shock and the queer ran
away with the spoon;Morning glory; me and
my fix of caffiene;Destiny and the San Andreas fault;The artist and a roach infested slum;Freedom and death on the cross;Reality—sex and death;Morality—and the rational interpretation
(of love);Shades of Jim Morrison;Shades of desperation in a dying



TIME MOVES SWIFTLY INTO THE FACEOF AN OLD WORN CLOCK Time moves swiftly into the faceof an old worn clock.And with it comes the collision of stars.And dreams are born. An air of sensibility is colored warmin the presence of a throbbing sun.And smiles are no more. I stare out over a puddle creepingabout the living room carpet.And it freezes My reflection cast off the ice;shoots up at meand pushes me into the ice. I am deep in the heart of the ice.I melt, I spread, I dry up. Time and time againI dance. I make rain.I fall on clay.I am ooze. 

I am freeze-dried and preserved. 


RADIO SONGfor Roseanne

The words and voicesthat whisperwhen we speakof eras in sound; As time runs—and so the musiccalls backhaunting memoriesof younger days. We cry in our old age. People collidein a calliope of sound.The eyes recallthe shapes of cloudsgracing ancient skies. And the radiowhips out its crueltywhen a song emerges;inducing memories

of a lover; lost. 


ANCIENT ETERNAL The wind treads desolationon the banksof an altogetherdistant shore. Cobwebs fermentin crystal patternswithin the shelvingof my latent brain. Delirium—or something like it,Lurks about. It’s presence shineson the desire for needshere-to-forerepressed. And blood is the toolfor the sculptor of spirit;the maker of dreams;and the vision

of ancient eternal. 


HANG Pain in my houseA foot step/boot print on the stairs.I stare attentively at the black leatherbelt hanging around the neck of aSkeleton; clinging desperately onto thelaminated surface of a playing card. Gypsy fortune hangs around my dream.Surreptitious nubilous venom clingsand the world hags onto a revolution;smattered with the eternal protector—Conservative s/motherism and clowndances cardinal cantata. Boogy-boo, monkey dungand 1980 politick has me groping.Seeds crumble and leaves preparethe swollen drunken earth of my care.Dissurrection and my erection falls—Short, because your mindset would haveme to hang low. I scream vicious; you scream latherand the razor blade is sent in;only to mention my eye.Like a dream in the night,the sword swoops; pinningme to the wall. The floor drops

and I hang. 

 A cool wind rushed across the desert;Followed by a short cool rain. I never experiencedrain in the desert. I guess it must happen at least once in a great while. Snakes crawled out from under their rocksto batheand be nourishedwith the sweet gift of heavenly descent. I alonegot to watch the great prophetsathe in the shadow of night

and show their sublime powers. 


SEVENTH PSALM A current undulates through the bloodas it courses through the fibers of my heart.And dreams of passion confuse theboundaries of taste and calm. Seven layers of desire;Seven angels and demons;Seven abodes in the heavens;And in these first seven days that Iam so far away; I will love you

seven times. 

For seven lives could I do this. 

 FOR RIMBAUDI drifted upon an ocean
I could not endure.For the waftless sea
offered its calm foreboding.Sand mixed into the
earth's venom and
made jelly.Something for the
Cakes of Light.Something in the stillness;
So bright!
So bright!The flickering presence of
the eternal Whine...To me! To me!I am disarmed by
the silver on her teeth.I drop my shield
and weep for more.I am trapped...Having drifted on a sea
I could not endure.

I could not endure! 

 PICKING FLOWERS The silent side of your pain is the scariest moment.Watch, up in the sky;The tethered weather vane. To behold your darkest wondersand float in the sea of your intent,a voice, a scream, a world asunder; In a whirl and curl and a storm. Making my mind scream,my eyes are hell-benton hearing a sound within a dream. Somewhere from an unknown distance,comes your voice.Time meanders an d steps asidefor the dance; en—trance. Within the walls of an ancient Oath,Angels are deflowered by Demons.

And we all feel the truth! 


PRAYER II Father—paint the earth on me.And hag me upDrip dryon the dusty tongueof a peopleWho yearn

for their own destruction.

  Do not encumber my vision.The earthis a slaughterhousefor fools. Give me the means to make amendsand renew the sacred circle;broken by raiders. Thunder-beings,Stand tall tonight.Grandfather is bowling;is balling.

Paint our broken face! 


The night is so painfuland the morning; so hopeful. The river is but a streamin the ocean of my memory. Stars fall to the soundof ancient trumpets And the dream surprises me;Revealing vicious beautywith continental savageryin the ape-like hunter. Possessed for the hunger of lustin pursuit of myth and lore;it’s the hunger for attention,the drive; forever pressing forward. Silently observing the obsessive feeling;my muscles contorted and thobbing; A grimace appears on the stage (my face);

that infinite moment as I am about to come. 

 THE WARRIOR’S DANCE Dance Moccasin Man;Warrior for the wind that rules night;Medicine man of ancestors;The ones who came before;The ones who disappeared. The ritualdrags into hazy delirium.And once again the warriors are infected;sucking up the ceremonial opiate;Impassioned with the desire for battle. For war again loomsin the land of the sun god.And the edge of shadow retreats.Our front line assumes the position. We stood looking north,and from the sky whirled a streak of light.It embraced us;It meshed with our skin. Such a power surge I cannot describe.But through our blood vitality raged—There was rapture.There was horror! The landscape quiveredand all life was but a reflection;A reflection piercing through the night. Our images bounced off the groundat our feet.My eye cast itself upon its own imageand peered into its own pupil;Such a window to my soul. I saw more light.The luminescence was engulfing—And I realized then

that I would return from battle. 


EULOGY 1You’re in the box now, but I knew you beforethe ice, the flame and purple passionwere used as bed-sheet and mattress.I saw it oozing, dripping desire; acceptingthe tongue of life; indulging inAgonizing pleasure—hairs on end. You pushed, kicked and bucked like aBronco trying to shake it’s rider, yetyou let me tame, tease and explode. Eruption after eruption; accepting lifeand giving life, and sufferingto create the cooled lava. 2Now there all I see is ice—ice cubehead, icicle hands and pretty dead dress;A cover for your friends; a mask to me. Let me see your mount where I onceclimbed to find glory and despair;which now lies in masked chastity. Let me see the pit where I once descended;Where soon worms will chew; whereI once licked and kicked anxiously. Your face and hands are pretty as they were.And always will remain pretty impressedupon our erotic reflections but… I want to see the center of your web—I want to see the final death, the last,final and complete surrender to life. Unmask life and expose life; even inDeath, life lives and memory lingers…

Am I not mad, malcontent with head and fingers!? 


LOVE CHANT If in the long,dread wanderlust ofan age That speak torhythms beyondthat whichwe now know; When the vaporsthat covera still pond; Lurking in thenight, cover thee;And the dragonstirs to his feet; Having fed uponall the soulswe now know. In such a time,

I will be with you! 


ENIGMA(for Warren Sonberg) Movement is something morethan the sum total ofit’s ratios;Is so much more thanenergy colliding, splitting;Also breathing;Pulsing, pulsating, doing this! Mountains weren’t made to falldown—but to reform—Inside:A rubber surgical maskand techno-shaman gazesfixedly; Hands protecting the face as theWarrior enters familiarbut foreign ground—Mind (is the) matter;Metaphor. And vision matters as wemeasure our breaths and bust-line;As if we are carved to siton our own pianos,or book shelves.We are on display;The creator/narrator also— 

I am the audience. 

 LET’S DANCE (for Monica D. Rocha) I am going to make the
world happen.Yeah—me;Secret Inventor;Magickal Maker.So potent am I in this
ancient stream;To believe anything can be new—To believe in I and You.Wrap your arms around me.
Strap your legs to my girdle.Let’s dance
Let’s dance

Wonderous Woman—Let’s dance! 

 SPEAK TO ME With regent fulfillment,the cattle crawl of bellstells me to chase themost pitiful dream. If only to emergefrom this hasty darknight and intocomplete repair! Then we shall stealbut closer to thatonce illusive streamof daylight— Oh dear Sunto be w/you forever;Adonai But they wantme to swallowthe consolation prize— They want me tounfurl a false bannerand bend my knee. Adonai,Speak to Me!Speak to Me!Speak to Me! 

Thrice great art thou. 

 FOR A RAINY DAY Searching skiesglaze over themuddy pondof earth. My eyespour throughthe endless lineof clouds. Whisper! Prayers singin my heart; lonely heart. The pain of division;

The joy of dissolution. 

 SECTION IIILASTING IMPRESSIONS  Love, my son, LoveThese are the first wordsI would say to you. Greet the brightnessof this new light; Let it burn awaythe unconsciousnessof your birth. Lay a claim, by challengeto your birth right— Let it wrap itsglowing arms about you;And stalk your soul. If only to swallow itin a field of meting snow; You are living the dreamcalled from the nether world,as a shadow of night. You have defied Hadesand the gods of the Abyss; To wrap and warm yourselfin the streaming sunlitwatery ocean of this moment. I claim you my own—My creation and longing. I yearn for the dayI lose you to your solemnstrides of individuation; To your own trumpetand your own enchantment. You are god of my god;Loin of my loins—

Love, my son, Love 



Anais Nin said about America:
"All around there is excitement
in place of exultation;
rush and action
in place of depth;
In place of feeling."

 1Amongst the babbling dreamof a border who holdsthe only promise theWorld is to know. America weeps rememberingThe puritan ecclesiastical orb. And they sat on the Indians;And the Jews came;And the Catholics;

And the Unitarians.

 2We marched into the 60’swith Timothy Leary;With Hare Krishna;With the Beatles Recovering from Stalin’s promiseto undo us from within;Realizing Kruschev’s confidenceas he withdraws his spies— Wall street, and we corrupt ourselves.

 3The dream, to rebuildthis tired continent,and resurrect the traditionof generation and regeneration; The inspiration of assuranceand the confidence of maturityis ample supply for an American Dream. 


THE SPIRIT OF ETHER Thou art the Spiritof Ether; The flame that burneth only unto the…subtle body; The Prime Motivator;The One and OnlyCreator; Weaver of Dreams And Linen Cloths Smoke! I burn thePipes of Peace unto Thee; And enflame myself with Thy rapture. Hermes awaits theewith three gifts; Marvels to bestowamongst thosewho have takenthe plunge. Peace is offered only unto thee who would risk war for aprize one can not hold. 


MIGHTY The future is now as it exists;As we enter into the Aquarian Age;The age of the conquering child;Horus girded with a woman;Holding a sword.She does-the mighty and exalted harlot; Time waves in a tripodSpiral aeonswhirling a danceof fever, god and platinum.The future is now;This inserted Aquarian Age;The invocation of Shiva;The mighty SheGoddess; NUIT The victom;A swoon of blood;Venom of Magick and Power;No more sheep;Only snakes and doves;Only mind and matterlost in the fire, the spirit;The dream of the mighty;A STAR, we all Mighty. 

 THE HORIZON The horizon;Clouds point overhead.The skyline glows,but no sun.Drums are heardNo—Thunder, from a distance… I can’t see to either side.Columbus is holding on,Hanging from a rock. The city lights belowspin in an undefined pattern;Whirling and reaching at his feet Our modern day Prometheus;Columbus—held by their chains of gravity;The unveiling of Americaand it’s puritanical masochism… Landslide—boundaries broken;Columbus falls with a bang.The drums are here—no horizon. Anguished screams fermentand the wine of revelation punishes.And the sun’s rays fluctuate like a strobe…

All the world’s a dance floor. 



 Texture and vision become as one.Panorama—Corduroy landscape;The sight of mountainsRubs against and irritates my eyes.Or is it the air? I feel it with my skinAnd decline further conjecture… Movement is mandatoryAs the earth flexes her muscleOf pain. Cosmic orgasm—Devastating debris— She dreamed in texture on that quietUnlit night.And fog permeated her cornea.Or was it me? A dream of a dreamer—Shades of Poe—No macabre, and no borders. Enhancement of texture;Definition—It feels like a book and is tooHeavy. Or is it me again?

I just don’t know. 

 HOST The meditations stood,as if all to themselves. And as for the furies,they fluttered their wayin leaping bounds all aboutthe church;Consuming the alter ina blaze of yellow flame. The passions lurched and reached;Unsuccessfully trying tofind a way through tothe mantle piece containingThe scared host. This is the story of desire;The sweat of the body;The explosion of mindplaced against the perseveranceOf emotion— The body is on the defensewhile chaos offers itselfas an all pervasive threat. The entreaties of mankindskirmish;And the hope of life andliving—Hang; As we wait for the consumptionof the flames—Inspecting the injuries;A furious attempt at

placating the Host. 





(For Sandi and Bill)

 -1-Standing, we now run forward towardsthe reunion of present with past. Ginsberg sang of jazz and street dope—Beatnik idiot in a shallowed facial impression. Lines of runners marathoned the time shipand rubbed through the voyeuristic streetsof ‘Rock and Roll’. Our hallucinogen or opiate for a new ethos;Thoughts of Marx and French poetry;

Visionary cries and outraging morality.

 -2-Since our birth in the fifties,we now leave pubescent wonder and glory;Running into the memory of eighty something. Reality splashed in our face;Leaving us searching for the old feeling of aired roots. Jazz again rides on the forefront of ourtimes-a-changing into things becoming;As we grow older, have babies; Renew creative lust, philosophize and exalt inThe authenticity that life gives to those who know;And unite against those… 

Who would take it away! 

To receive and transform my associationwith the moment of awakening;The ringing of transition in my head;Life—is the victim; the nourishing victual. In the realm of all thingsand all lines of possibilities;The passion, the collected consciousnessof all men;The dreams of a generation resurrected— It was and is the period of epicycle.The woman’s resolution;Life starts anew in her blood. Sweat over manReturn t the leftFind the rightAnd claim a new era Behold life that stands firmin the burning dawn of creation.Lilith, Lilith, the realm of your presenceThrobs with joy.In the darkness shines the light of your glory. The reign of destinyThe grand connectionThe heart of the cycle The complete and ushered transitionin to the black hole/bastion of infinity.The universal—The dream in my head. And so tomorrow standsin the vision of my dreams;as we now can walkinto the embryonic passageway;The cunt of the universal;and the dream dreams on,and the dawn arises. Moccasin man, my friend,I have heard your cries.The agony of truthonce again mounts the freeway;Hitching to the heart of LA;Out of the desert and home.

If only tonightI could dream of you again;As I stand here;Drained of my willand my glory. To realize the conceptionis only the foundation. Tonight I prayfor the merging of forces.We should recognize the enemyas our equal.Let the dream find

the turn-key for daylight. 

 PHOTO NOVA The camera zooms down and inwith blazing speed,for a close-up. Then, with an intended upswing,it swarms over the topof the building; Or at least,that’s what it intended. Instead, the camera—the eyeis jammed onto the corner ledge;Jutting out—Hovering about, the camera bleeds.Wires and broken glasspour out from the overexposed eye. The peopleon the streets beloware showered; The glass reflectingand refractingthe light… Stigmatized by the wires;As lasers shootingat the pavement; below. The sunhad been baking the pavementall afternoon. And now,new forcesStir the tar. And the street takes ona new stench—a new disguise,The night crawlers come out from under rock,and the holy day begins. I came on the scenelast night—as if dreaming. Then I remembered the feeling,it made my skin cold;Yet there was no tactilesensation…A numbness overcame my limbs.  Blotches of pulsating coloursfilled the air.The tar oozed over the sidewalk— As my feet fellthrough the road…underground. Rat dementia;The subway sun survives! I reached up for the tar;My hands to give it shape;Becoming useless;Blinded by the glorious light. Then the rain,and I can see the shapes The tar shapes ran in the rain.There was a presence;It throbbed. My heartpumped a thousand dreamsthrough my body. I grabbed a blade,Cut a veinand bled. I painted the subwayand gave it colour.I was nauseous. My guts spilled into the water;Coagulating about the oily surfaceI fell again and again,until I could no longer get up. The camera descendedand grabbed my cock. I filled the aperture.and it was warm,and it was smooth. We glowed together;Basking in a yellow lightthat permeated the darknessof the subway sky. The night became lightwith the offeringof holiday—


ONE THOUGHT One thought passes through andencompasses the open view of my mind;Like a leveropening the hidden passageway;Illuminated . . . too bright for light.Crystal clear vision;A camera lens out of focus. In my nagual gaze,a harvesting of energyso intense,it transforms the physical. Articulations on tangentsstream through my consciousness;And I feel them all.I see them all. With the merger of all fields,all participate in the grand conceptualizationof the gods who sat on Olympusand mapped the destiny, desireand foundation of all mankind. The cocked head of our civilization,ready to explode and come intoa new myth; Renewal of death and questand the lust of desire;We obtain realizationfrom the rock of the mountain,and we feel. One thought passes through andencompasses the grand view of myopen mind;a hole dug through the walls of my skin. I absorb my visionwith reckless action.suicidally structured,me, warrior;I swallow the illumination.The bomb explodes.The deepest recesses of myinnards splash on the canvass;This planet civilizationonto canvass. To touch, to exalt, and shout with a fury and a celebration deep in the heart of ritual and tradition. Blood has sealed an era shut and war has made warriors, blood brothers. 



You and Me;

Our consciousness arouses

the melodies of enchantment,

the seeds and science of . . .

and rhythms of emotion;Offers chants to be taughtonly to the levelswhich, as we bear bodies . . .to the expanses in radiance . . .radiating—radiation—and the clouds thunderand the rain goddesspours over oceans;Caught in a warscorched and burning in the hot lava;Boiling on the surface below. We are cooled in variations.Changing; entuned to our own conceptions;Falling, clinging to broken vines . . .or which ever way is up! INOur New Age andYou and I together;Twisting: ceremoniously entangedwith
demonic reaction.We apply force inthe fullfillment of will;in the equation succeeding wonderment,exitement and fullfillment.The integrations of art,religion, sex and musicmingle as one;Enfusing themselves into our lifestyles.Incorporated, as if dreamsto each other;Giving us movement in life,within and without time. We are the young regenerationand we remember, with theresolve to rectify old mistakesand weld new solutions.The new alchemy;Doctor in a bottle,The Rosetta stone;  Heralds— sounded by the cerebral delegates; envisioned within and without panic.
The mind cluttersand is cleaned. The webs conquerand are conquered; Forgetting which is which

and remembered, sometimes/anytime.Inspired by the struggle it'sthe repetition in revolutionthat we forget.The organism,breathing through sighs and recovery;The symptom without system;The disease with semi-fatal cure;The method, the madness;And insanity of clarity. Visions, hot and lucid roll of the tongue;Fevered by the wells of delirium,rattles even the chains;Embroidering the darkest of imagery andthe most malevolent of intent;Each seeming as madnessto the other . . .each gripping our thoughts;twisting our spine andcreating yoga for balance . . .The sooner you are in the thought,the more assuredly you are oneand I be fulfilled . . .I be YOU 

 JUST WAITING FOR YOU Torn between pagesin the raptures of time,she meanders quiet hallsin the chambers ofheart, vein, blood, and muscle. Scheming quietly to forma potion that would still theancient fury; that torturesher left ventricle. So does she seem to bein this still quietudethat pushes my languorto such an extremity. And so I stub my toeand yelp like a schoolboyon the last day of summer;The last day of dreamingSchemes of simplicity. And the thundercrackles upon the moonlit sky. And the lightning shootsits venom from mychurning belly. How I yearn for thee,my love Wouldst but a songthat I might havefor thee;If only I could lingerin the azure fieldsof Yama. Yada, yada, yada,she cries.And I screamthrough the silent night. Such a loud raucous night;Such a violent dream;Such an hidden song. Is this yours? or mine?Do you mind that I sing?  Please sing this songunto me.Please revel in thatwhich I give so freely. And my passiondrips its sweetnessfrom head to head;From song to song. Shall I sing for thee?This I shall do to woo thee,my love. This shall I do for thee.but for one kiss topass to my lips. A thousand nightsI would hold theein my trembling arms. A thousand nightswould I comfortyour nightmare. A thousand nightsI would waitfor the songof the wanderinglark;Singing uponso dreadful a perch. Children invade the fieldand crescendo to a feverin the reddening sky;Tossing hoops of firein rock & roll heaven. Love me do—Love, love me do.I am a bug.I am a song.I am another lark. Just waiting...for you my love. 



 Oh mirror! mirror!

You have seen all my years;

been my constant companion All my changes beingembraced by your memory;All my wanderingsand hair styles. All my acne was spitonto your glossy surface.All my tears made youClean.All the joy in my faceis reflected on your screen. Pictures! pictures!Tracks of time—You are the recordings;The documentations of my mirror. You alone catch me stillin a momentI otherwise couldn't see.You alone catch the secret journey,between moments of timeand cognition. Oh rapious cunt!You alone bear the burdenof my passion.For you alone is desire.All else is metaphysique.Within you is mysticism. Oh joy! joy!At the quest confrontedand conquered. The eternal glowis a flickering candlestickby the window, near the wind;At home both with burning painand a soft waming glow—Fire and brimstonehailing within so generousan hearth.  Trust in deeds andactions yet to comeare bound in times past;As historyrenders the true meaningof the word archaic;As traditional devotionto the primordial flames. Words!
words!Words are used, to bedried up and rekindledin the heart of the poet;Once pierced and nowthe blood dries on this,a godforsakenor god given . . .page. The angels visit mewith messages of truceand balance. My weak eyescan't separate the demonsyou, the audience, must decide Am I a poet? prophet? Teacher?Or am I to be stonedas a madman? Stones! Stones are the measureof my freedom.The stones cast up;Racing from the heartof isotopal reaction.These are the stones of transformation The skins of ants,though humans wepretend to be,are burnt offto release ecstatic rapture;As Beethoven lamented because he heardtoo much, too soon—But that didn't stop him! Like the fool stepping off a cliff;The face of the tarot card,we can be in merriment and drunken plunder. To line up the snakes for display,the playgirl tools with the fang;This forbidden cactus,as men give tit and asson the screento cover their ignorance. The realization that womanwields the poweras she holds my cock in her hand;Like the ring—"one ring to bind them all" Oh the bells!The glorious bells!Ring!Like the induction coilof a melodic heart beatacross a complacent soundscape;Filling it with mindless action. Making pawns—Making ants— Koyaniscotsi,and movement is seenas it really is.And the Hopi's preacheternal cobwebs in the skies. Saturnal ringsto glow like fire;Ethiopian freedom with industrialCollapse;The world falls whenthe dream ends. Wake up gentlyso as not to disturb the dream.Remember the dreamand become it's actor;It's benefactor;it's co-conspirator. Eat mindless motions of colourand spit sound like flameto burn the ancient dragons. Oh poem! poem!Oh dream! dream!

Why do you end it here?! 

 "Hadn’t I once a youth that was lovely, heroic, fabulous—somethingto write down on pages of gold?…I was too lucky!" Arthur Rimbaud 

A Season in Hell 

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