The Myth of America

In the starry dream

The lonely bald eagle soars in

Early dawn far above the earth

In the realm of awakening light

 

Apollo Whoescapes the

Barren Island of Delos

Taking flight for the

Celestial city in the sky

 

Purple mountains bleed

Upon amber waves of grain

The blood feeds the people

In their manifest destiny

 

The eagle watches all –

It hears every sound

As it hovers over the

Sheep of the valley

 

Watches them –

Keeps them safe

From the wolves

On the prowl

 

Apollo shoots his

Prey from a distance

The predator dances upon

The fatal tension of his bow

 

The sheep of the valley also

Feel the stings of arrows,

The clawing talons of

The jealous, ravenous eagle

 

For the eagle is a bird of prey

Who attacks your enemy

Only to have your curly

Flesh all to itself

 

Apollo seeks order, what

He calls ‘beauty’ in the

Repetition of his own denial

Of the playspace of the earth

 

The sheep, some now turned to goats,

Resist the voracious hunger of the

Eagle, seek to repel the interests

Of Apollo by turning themselves ugly

 

Apollo lusts after the sacrifice

Of the goat and his terrible song

Casts his light and his medicines

Upon the darkness of the dream

 

The eagle swoops down as

Lightening upon the goat and

Sheep alike, to kill one and to

Utterly devour the other

 

The goats prod the sheep to

Conjure the depths of community –

Awaken the remembrance of Dionysus

In the dismemberment of Apollo

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Long Live Margaret Thatcher!

Margaret Thatcher’s veins are filled

with formaldehyde, and the fluids

from her body have already been

flushed away into the sewers to

be savored by the joyful rats –

(unless the fluids have been

preserved in the Canopic Jars)

But, let us remember, that

Margaret Thatcher was at least

honest about her hatred for us –

for ‘Society’ … in the arms of her

lover Reagan as the welfare

state was gone with the wind –

better than the Golden Syrup

boy who smiles in our faces,

while he destroys our world –

mocks us with a ‘Big Society’

For every time, there is a season –

A time to love – and a time to hate –

Let us relish in our hate, but raise a

glass to the Iron Lady who taught

us – with the Sex Pistols

(Thatcher’s background music)

again to hate, but perhaps not

in the manner that she intended –

Margaret Thatcher becomes an

icon of negativity, in the manner

of other satellite puppets like Pinochet.

Jesus, the suicide, counseled after all… love thy enemies….

The death of a great enemy calls for a great celebration,

there will be a festival of death

there will be remembrance

there will be joy

The Suicide of Jesus

The Suicide of Jesus

the anguish in the Garden
shatters this sublime King
‘May this cup pass from me’
in the nausea of silence
seized by the nothingness
of his own project, the man
ingests his beautiful poison
given to him by his mother

The window is open again, suddenly

in this moment

the event shines, scintillates

hums & frenzies a rhythm
shatters these stale drones
of our invisible totalitarianism
we no longer even hear the digital
coxswain pound out the proper beat

the coup d’etat happened long ago —

it was all covered up –
Judas, Jesus’ brother
took the hit, like a good son
Saul, their distant uncle, came
home to set up the franchises

……..

but I was wrong, but not completely

I finally figured it out –

Jesus – the Lord of Light –

The Light of the World –

That which became This –

Creation –

The Fall –

Pride

Light

Do you get it yet?

Jesus is Lucifer!

Revelations is merely a re-statement

of the Prodigal Son –

Lucifer comes back to heaven….

*****

But that is the likely story –

the wish

In fact, Jesus faked his own

suicide according to a script

which articulated a

project of Messiahship –

He took on the role and acted

it out to the end….

But, saved by bribes and theatre,

he could not allow his great work

to be unrecognised – uncultivated –

He could not fall to the fate of the

author of the Ecclesiastes...

He re-appeared as Paul –

the sacrifice had been made….

And….. he ruined everything….

be here now

what is it
to be a ‘friend’
on Orwell’s telescreen
in cyberspace –
surveillance machine –
goose-stepping into
smokey backroom
torture chambers
this ecstatic lust
hallucinates
as we hide
behind masks,
flesh… ghosts
are you a girl or a boy?
are you 16 or 60?
then again, does it matter?
as – disregarding any
sense or notion that any authority
has any legitimacy or esteem –
we are suspended over an abyss
it is only our desire
that keeps us from falling
into Nothingness

to here knows when

voices

turbulent

hiss

forest

spirits

chant

distant            earthshine

casts    across      spring showers         moon

little     one        pisces        child          crests

open       eyes     whisps    joyous    season

here      opens      this    chance

lotus   flower   dance swirls    rush   teeming

voices   sing    rusk    laugh   shout

if  you  wish  to dance  you must lift   your feet  off this ground ……. offf off up & away… put down that shovel…

do not get sucked in seduced by candy coated mystery…

this lying clown burps out love… that right hand stabs your sacred heart… this left hand knows not what… she says to me not to be seduced… & i say it to you… yet, now you are here… you waited in line from that eventful bog moonrise steams primordial soupkitchen…  so now your on this ride…. get ready to get off at your end… enjoy this ride…. you will get no other… its goinna happen… this opening closes with you… as far as is seen known etc.etc… anything else demands this sacrifice, my lucre lies elsewhere…

whirl frenetic leaves dance

quiver frigid lash winds brush

strokes choke release void displace

opening light closing these eyes    opens these those these this   each opening erupts joyous swirls darkness

rhythmic orientation    contours   grasp feel senses this these cascade openings intimacies fall deeply within amidst these                    scintillate throbbing surge streams

i see her sitting there with her lacy legs cross slowly, quietly, intently devouring an ice cream cone…                                              grip this face caress hands rubbing rustling frenzy feast shaking quivers

this this now you this you right now

feel your body grasp your self this body rub your breast heal neck face this wound dance across against around your calf you now this you right here this one from all you cannot look away to that other

persists there over that contour amidst this dwelling concentration confinement containment captivity carceration consumed feel your self stroke suck drink eat lick your self you this right now right here you……… eternity opens

To read more, click to here knows when

torn threads

█in the beginning█

whispered to myself that it did not matter anyway

wind gushing

over

body

racing

across

hair pushing back

body

reclines on rising water

feeling gentle waves displaced touch

To read more, click  torn threads

Pope Peter & the Moon Child

Once again upon this moontide frenzy, streams this last twilight, this Night, it gleams… Pope Peter, his head & legs a goat, breasts of a woman, this last of his Noble kind, his nimbus glows, rhythmicly fucks her curvy, burly, blue ass via this white-trash, plastic, armless statue, this Sacred Virgin, raw shit flows out, orvis glows, across scaly scarlet tissues, fluid red throws fleece. ‘Oh, what did you expect to find, … peanut butter & jelly???…,’ (Choosy Mothers Choose Jiff, No SKIPPY goddammit, not that, you lousy Mother fuckin’ whore child, aids & crack addiction! It is Peter Pan who is sublime, only this brand ascends from these dark primeval waters, encircles its own horizons, this Mother dries herself off, casts across libations to those thirsty ones…. she brisquely beckons, ‘Holy water, come & bring, cast in salt for seasonin’, give these zombies, here this plight, ring these bells, hell’s affright.’ As preeee- programmed, these unchoosy mothers stood limply aghast.

To read the rest of the novel, please visit Pope Peter & the Moon Child

dechire-fils

█  Au début  █
chuchoté à moi-même qu’il n’avait pas l’importance de toute façon
jaillissant du vent
par-dessus
corps
course
parmi
les cheveux repoussent
corps
allongé sur la montée des eaux
sentiment douces vagues déplacées contact
boîte noire site lumière visage
saisir des armes d’auto mains cou penché
serrer les dents linceul yeux

Pour lire le reste du manuscrit, visitez:

https://jamesaire.wordpress.com/dechire-fils/

to here knows when

voices

turbulent

hiss

forest

spirits

chant

distant earthshine

casts across spring showers moon

little one pisces child crests

open eyes whisps joyous season

here opens this chance

lotus flower dance swirls rush teeming

voices sing rusk laugh shout

if you wish to dance you must lift your feet off this ground ……. offf off up & away… put down that shovel…

do not get sucked in seduced by candy coated mystery…

this lying clown burps out love… that right hand stabs your sacred heart… this left hand knows not what… she says to me not to be seduced… & i say it to you… yet, now you are here… you waited in line from that eventful bog moonrise steams primordial soupkitchen… so now your on this ride…. get ready to get off at your end… enjoy this ride…. you will get no other… its goinna happen… this opening closes with you… as far as is seen known etc.etc… anything else demands this sacrifice, my lucre lies elsewhere…

To read the entire book, please visit:

https://jamesaire.wordpress.com/to-here-knows-when/