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    The work is to consummate the soul, the spirit is conflict, the conflict is: the Soul is Boredom, without the soul is oblivion; to remain aloof from the work is stagnation. The Soul doesn't see it that way.
      Is there another soul?
We love the serpent and the trees, otherwise we'd shut up
                                                  about them.
     There are wordless mes and meless words, and things altogether,
     and things altogether other. Otherless beyond, and maybe
                                                  similar.
 Newest technologies come of insane better visions, but who says better?
  Every prophet was a madman once. Every definition of prophecy
   is a description and a diagnosis of now.
   The spirit has fear, it loves, the soul is beyond all that,
    the animal responds. 
       

My best writing on online poetry was what I wrote on the COVID-19 poem. On the Internet too. On the Amazon sidewalks. It was deleted before I posted it. I wonder who else could have read it, if no one here did. Did it just so happen a technological problem happened then?

Jesus walked naked in the world,
he exposed himself,
all his shame and guilt, paranoia and fear,
he saved himself by destroying himself;
then he said, You come too.

All love is sexual, all opposition friendship;
fear is balanced by mercy
of and for ourselves and others.

Incest and rape are mere fearful thoughts,
we have mercy on ourselves and others,
that is the strength of the dame with the lion.
The raven in the cave, the dove in bright sunlight.


                         .  .  .

  The world is in the trunk, the WORLD is all
                                  around;
  the sky in the star.
  The trunk we carry, the burden we donkey.

      Hold fast, whale in the atmosphere, let go;
      the water is cleansing;
      starbait, fishbite;
      turn your rods to rods and piss a flood;
      the ark is a slave ship,
      throw your burden in the water and swim like me.

Don't care what the others say, [or] they love you.


                      .  .  .  .

                    It rides every horse.
                    Wears every hat It likes or wants.
          The fiddler is in the basement.
          The tea is in the north.
Heavy drifter, sit down a while, there'll be plenty of light
for leaping, soon. Only remember, there is
no space and time only land and lore.

What is?
What knight? What rabbit?
Call It Influence Theory, call It Integral Theory, call It Ivanka Trump,
                                                        call It the Institute of Technology.
Call It azathoth, call It deadlights. It is It. It IS.


                  I am only one man,
no matter what they say,            at the end of the day.
Hey I read and admire these ?
Every prophet was a madman once. And will be again.

One law for the Christ and the Cynic is masturbation.
So go fuck yourself.    (0riginally Go fuck yiouself. Typos have brains of their own.:.Every mind is a libel, I mean, Bible of its own. And I ammean)
























Die daily. Carson.
Ignorance is a virtue, and Mystery is a church and a cave and 
a wide open field and a forest and a walking path and a paved
road and a dream and a joke and all that's forgotten and unknown.

Imagination is nondual magic. And nonduality contains duality.

Self-reliance is all your influences, all mysteries, all
self, all living.

                  Truth, and Knowledge, is a bottomless
pit with a beautiful Virgin riding a horse
called Salvation at the bottom.

    The Dragon of Living, which is living spirit,
guards the Treasure of All Realities by pushing you
up violently away from It into Transcendence. The
dragon's name is Not-Two, and he survives on horsemeat and
the bloodwine of broken hymens.
To his right is a table where is set a bowl of thorns obscuring a flower to represent the integrity of his Simplicity. On the floor behind the table are two jugs of white wine, a symbol of his Wisdom. On the table is his Cup.
He wears a Mr. Perfect double-singlet to symbolize his Seriousness, and The Original Sheik curled toe boots to show how he walks between cultures. And he wears a bathroom [sic: bathrobe] to display his Humor, which covers portions of his Seriousness, and make Allusions to unique and (so-called) dubious religions such as Dudeism. He takes a throne as a seat.

I AM ad hoc ad libitum Samraj sits before the listeners with their backs to their Shadows on the wall.



                      The golden ball beyond the sun is beyond truth and reality.
                                                    Conscience.
Universal love.                                                                                      Selfless desire.
                Beyond itself. Beyond an image. Beyond a symbol. Beyond a concept.
                                                      Beyond It.

                                                No will is true will.
                                            Responsibility is always.
      No apologies.                                                                        No blame.
      No explanations.                                                                  No regret.
                                          No need to have to forgive.
Laughing.                                                                                                Healing.




His first talk done, some Philosophy student asks a question in all honesty.


I AM replies.

People tell me there are areas around the country where people are suffering. I say, so what?
Rather than their suffering add to mine, why not my joy add to theirs?

Everything you've thought, felt, seen, heard, everything you've done, you can't not have done.
This is not fatalism, is not predestination.
  Not quite.
      No will and true will are the same.
Weren't thinking. Forgot. Made a mistake or an error.
Can't change what's been.
Don't apologize. No need to put blame on anyone or anything.
Don't explain. No need to even have to forgive anyone or anything.
            Laugh at everything and heal everything.

Forget the commonplace moralizing of commonsense Cynics, and embrace the commonplace.
I found Sublimity standing under a lime tree.




Some mug asks a Political question.



I AM:



The Left and the Right are correct. [A five-year-old is heard saying, "Can I go home now?"]

   
The Left and the Right are correct. If people have the rights to live as and how they like, they'll be happier and freer. If values are changed or eliminated, cultures and civilizations will loosen and break. There's an easy solution to this problem. The [clears throat] The Left accepts: Laugh at everything. Forgive everything. Heal everything. Wherein nothing is sacred, including your painful history and your precious identity. The Right accepts: Mad Max philosophy, where everything is sacred, even the punks and badlanders among the ruins of your Paradise.

This is all very simple. Even simplistic. It's even possible it may not bring on The Time of the Great Boredom.


  I'm arrogant and proud, I'm self-deprecating and defecating.
 I've got my Hermit's staff, my Diogenes' lantern, my Hotei's sack.
I've got feet for walking and a mouth for talking.
                                     Antlers/Branches

               The Lightning Struck the Serpent on the Tree,
    the Horns are Waning and Waxing, Dreams and Antennae;
                Present/Past: Man, Serpent, Seeing,
     the woman sees what the man is. The woman lies,
      the man is tricked.  The woman's the Flood,
      the man's the fool who builds the ship of fools,
over and over and over and over and over and over and over . . . 
                The Tree is the Ark is the Ark is the Cross.

The pair of unicorns supply the third man, the horned man.
               Not a devil.           The green man of the
           wood, the well, the field, stars, dreams.

Decadence = Baphomet. Classical = PAN. Primal: Cernunnos    

                       Snake + Raven = Qtzlctl

                               Future is interracial.

                           Dragon Bigfoot Alien Cyborg


                                    [other]    strange strange strange

Quite and not quite like something out of Lovecraft.
 Art isn't the key. Too obvious, true and false.
  Present a fiction, run with it. Which is it?
   Any love is precise and exceptionally mundane;
    not God enough, or God, or too God;
    we realize something, that's not it; we
     realize again, we. Where's the problem?
     It's us.
                         Don't try.

When the lightening strikes the tower,
the new mother feels it in the cave.
There grows another tree.
There was a time when the planet was without trees. 
How can it be without what isn't?
Not there enough to know.

To answer. Can you answer without knowing?
I can. I do. I just do.
Who will answer me?

 There will be another.
I've read this series a few times now.  I want to know what the "silent temptation" is or was?
Search Thunderembargo's threads.

The responses are silent, because they're not actually responses. Hence, their location split off.

Also, since there is no discussion going on, despite the discussion quality of the talks, these are silent responses.

These aren't poems. They're talks.
Woman and man are one. The woman lies to the man, for the benefit of the child. The creation of the third. 1+1=3.
Women only pretend to be bad at math.

Girls in school tend to be better at math. But they haven't learned yet. And I've talked enough of my fetishes.

Let's get back to the talks.


This is going to take a little while to type. I could just have posted all at once. But some things just need to brew as I stew; or is it another way around?
the woman lies for the man, to the benefit of the child

When Tommy Johnson sold his soul to the Devil,
he simply gave up his ego for this carnal world
of genius and heartbreak.

Physical and Mental are the same.
Ego, nonego.
All alphabets have the same letters.
All ideas have the same thoughts.
The feeling-tones,
the feeling-tones are different. 
Emotions are biased. Angry and lustful.
All sex is love.
As trees know, 
the systems in the air,
in the mind,
in pain       anger   lust  hate,
all love.   Everything is sexual.
Sexism is lust. Racism is lust.
Childcare is lust. The Salvation Army
plus ideas about lust.
No will is true will
and no will and true will are the same
are two different things.
No one will is true.
All you do, you can't but have done.
That situation, that directional course
of the nervous system
is what's meant by karma.
Karma is nothing. Do what you do,
and who can say you aren't?

To give yourself to Christ
is to be somebody doing something,
as selling your soul to the Devil
is to sell your enemy the moon.
This is the Interesting Gospel.
One foot before and after another.
Everything said and written,
are mine. A Thing with many eyes,
T. S. Eliot opens eyes there, Lautreamont there,
me here. Different Eyes of the Same Body.
One monster of the Word, imposing a Logic,
eating a fruit, rolling my pants legs,
going to bed with your wife,
one door opens, another closes,
the house is pregnant with Silence.

Interesting, but lame.
You'd have to be an Angel
to navigate the world that way.
Love is only free.
Jealousy is the only Sin,
and Envy is its Brother;
free as water and sunlight,
the Twins take to vocations,
the Nomads die in one place,
the intrepid Gardener wanders. . . 
Planting seeds in realms beyond the living,
The Right Brain joins hands with the Left Hand,
and a new pair of eyes open in "dead space."

Who here has been in Love?
Real love. The kind that's not our Kind
but theirs?
Who among the dead living hates his Enemy
to make Sense of himself?
One time I saw two squirrels 
battling in spring.
Limb to branch, one riding and
tumbling
from the other.
A fight, and not a rotten branch,
not once, as distracted as we would be,
not a misjump. Clear and even 
jumps. Nothing tumbles to the ground. 
And next Spring, new Twins
run clawed hand in hand in early June.

These lines are told me by the Spirits.
I switch pencils, and still they come.
Not a mote, not a tittle changed;
I write with right hand and open eyes.

Forgiveness is the only idea
the Church ever had.
All else is of the Beast.
And the Lady riding is my friend.
I'd ask her to dinner, if she knew 
I exist.
Fame stands between us,
quotations and open roads.
Love has no sense of humor,
otherwise it would be dead.
Who hasn't cried when love was lost;
true love is without humor.

Understanding is a Verb Nouning.
Wisdom   is             a      Noun Verbing.
Dissonance is the bad music
that makes Great Musicians laugh.
Their pride is their sacrifice;
they must have that agon with Good Fun.
To exorcise a demon, is to remove a cub from its Pride.
Mothers and brothers, sisters and newly noticed friends,
they are lost and forgotten. And the demon becomes a man.
—Genius is the end of things, not the beginning. 
A crossroads is transplanted from state to state,
passing on from Tommy to Robert, Rimbaud
and Paganini, T. S. Eliot and William Blake.
The Beast is merely ridden, the Scarlet Woman merely rides.
The Sword says I love you.
The most open heart hides.

Too much is said about the Poets.
Why they talk about themselves?
Not hide behind quotations,
but talk instead of write.—

I want to say something, just for now;
but I won't.

Sara Albanese,
Beth Roars,
Emily Browning,
Zooey Deschanel,
Laura at Food Lion,
Summer Stewart and Dollar Ginny,
my lost girl in Hell;

I want to be there when you awaken,
I want you to hold me as I die.
My life is nothing without you.
I'm the most honest when I lie.




                  [And here the angels say
                                    take a break]
                        Agon 


The Left is Receptive and the Right FORCEful
and the other way round.
Two hands, one man,
and the women out there.
The Flood is the woman and is in the man.
Let women speak for themselves.

I'm the I, the Phallic jot
and humming fiddle.
Burning for the riddle.
You, dig?
The woman.

I'm the Sun and Moon,
you and she.
I is everything.

I AM nobody, big — Expanding . . . 

Improvising, Simple,
large and fitful.
Ready . . . 

Nobody knows anything. And if they do, it doesn't matter.

GOD exists and doesn't.
These distinctions are ungodly, godly.

Let us talk nice.
Let us seduce the pretty girl.
Like the cat strutting on the edge of the well,
her body wants what her mind abhors.
What a bummer.
But Joy is in seduction.
Delight is the dance, the wrestling match.
Only human men can lose.
Hence Romance. The Romantic.

Animals don't love each other, they ARE love;
humans love each other.
Human animals.
Pain conceptualized is the origin of God,
where the First came from.

Beforehand, everything was belated.

Some totems aim down, some up.
Most don't aim at all.
Evolution has no direction . . . 
the savage is just as much the goal
as joy is a deceiver.
There's more sex around the equator.
Every thousandth death is equal.

Respect is the weak link in adoration.
As though there were understanding above difference.
Well, there is, dear child. Am I so dear?
I'm not AM I; [font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]— I AM.[/font]


[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]                       _______[/font]



[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]Stress is a response to danger;[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]it produces and offers out poison[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]to the source of its sense of danger,[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]that source of danger is you.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]That source,[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]that perception, realization,[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]recognition of a danger is you.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]The charging bull is you.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]The bisexual bum who needs money is you.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]The Cross is an erection.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]The death is a hard come.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]The resurrection is obvious.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]We men can never get enough.[/font]

[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]You are who you hate.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]Only your pain isn't theirs.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]Hatred is less than masturbation.[/font]
[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]It's even less than suicide.[/font]

[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]Be a man.[/font]

[font=Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif]I AM.[/font]
I made some minor corrections among the later things posted here. The Angels got a little pissy about it.
I said, that's the difference between William Butler Yeats and Aleister Crowley. And they got a little more pissy. It's almost 1:30 am where I live, so that's ok. You ever noticed how sexy the word OK is out of the mouth of a british bird?

And there is a difference.

Yeats was a good guy. He wrote great poetry. Crowley was bad news. He wrote silly poetry.

There's this girl on YouTube I'd really like to meet. And she's really into Aleister Crowley. So play along.

She's not really into him, as much as she's into herself.
But pretend I didn't say that.


I know no one one here takes me seriously. Every site has to have its silly thing. It's Dude.

Now,.

,
I really like this chick. And I don't know how old she is. But I konw hwo seh LOOKs. And that is the whole of the whole mutherfukin law if you want to get down to it. Before the wholeshithouse goes up in flames, for you Jimmycumlatebuthotlys.

I corrected what the Angels said to me.

What did they promise me?

More angels. More Angels.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



This is just another poem.
So go about your business. . . . I'll tell you when it's not.
It's like 1:41 in the morning. 43 then.

Its Dude. Its It's


We worked this out in an augmented post

I don't need to know the basic answers. Every past Five and Dime can offer ALL of them that.
Five and dime,
Zooey Deschanel is the Goat, who the fuck are you?

Really? 1:50

And this the 12th post. So Fu

Well, the 13th

Or whoever is the 13th, you're cursed with a kind of GOODness I've mentioned.

11.

Eleven?

WE11, some people are dead.


Are yous

Turn your amp up to eleven: that's Aleister Crowley.


Tread softly, hey!, yoy tread on me dreams : that's Yeats.

Now, if you watch Spinal Tap while eating Lucky Charms, and quoting William O' Neal out of context, while drinking, flirting wit girls online,
and being up and writing a post at 2:10

am, the number og, I mean, of my old highschool schoolbus.


You might be able to he;p me get this chi,k's #


CAn anybody FIND ME

SOMEBODY TO LOVE?

He was gay wasn't he?

The guy from Queen, who sang that?