Joining Spells

Once paid to write the spells of joining.
Now do commence to write my own spells.
Not spells of joining in that manner,
in the manner of some partners
joining up with one another
in a business endeavor,
but the joining I would share with you.

If I write them, two outcomes may result:
one, that when you come to me and would endeavor
to explore with me, then I will give you
these words written to you in anticipation.
Yes, a secret spell that worked!

But if you don’t,
don’t know that I will approach you once again,
or if I did, it would be later,
at a time when it would be less hurried.

What was it that she wrote,
she said? I hang on every word
that one may give me apprehension
regarding her intentions.

If you don’t come to me,
I must accept it because
what can I do?
You can’t make a person love you.

All I can do is keep writing spells.
More words written that won’t be read
by anyone except the spirits
that do linger by my shoulder.
They can’t read my mind
but they hunger for the stories
and they read the words I write them.
By now they know me well and
would anticipate my writing.
When I fall silent, they do recognize
that they must make a choice.
No time for hearing anymore,
but now for reading.
When they would see me leaving,
a decision they must make.
Would they come with me
hoping to hear the few words I might speak?
Or do they stay and read them,
but only those that are written on this one page.
For the spirits can’t move matter,
they can’t even turn a page,
and so their reading always incomplete,
always wanting for the finish,
and the beginning, and eventually they don’t bother.

Baby Dancing

One theory of the reason,
what was it then that brought you here?

It was that early trauma
that we all might have endured.
When you heard the music beating,
from a very early age.
You would start to move your body
in involuntary fashion,
scientifically proven
intrinsic in babies generally.
Not to Mozart do they respond
but to EDM, and held on mother’s lap,
they start movin’ to the rhythm,
would move and shake their entire bodies.
They do respond accordingly.

Some mothers might get nervous
suspicious of the baby dancing,
an auspicious sign of Satan,
that the dancing then is evil.

When he was a little baby,
this was his initial trauma,
when he starting baby dancing,
his mother would constrain him,
and would scold him thinking wrongly
that she saved her son from Satan.
What she really did instead then
was condition inhibition.

Devil’s Jubilee

Don my dark glasses in the shade.
The darkness is that which I crave.
I would conspire with the night
that I ascribe unto the light.
I am a censor of the dead.
Their cries are silenced, and instead,
the silence deafens, in their place,
no hope for freedom, grace erased.
But not because it’s really gone.
Those who yet live sing that old song,
its meaning drained from overuse.
“Amazing . . . “, hackneyed, yes, but true.
Like I would warn you from your fate,
that you might change before too late?!
Your soul is what I would possess.
It’s mine! I know you won’t confess.
You are too proud! Deny, like me,
creation is reality.
It’s a mirage, what you must know,
it disappears and then you go,
to your reward in hell with me
to be as nothing you were meant to be.
I will welcome you with open arms.
These words that sound like false alarms
unto your ears, you needn’t worry,
’til it’s too late, then you’ll be sorry.

I Miss You

Expression, will you bring relief?
My only hope is measured by a depth of ink
inside a well, encased inside a pen.
The well that fills with blood inside my heart, encased inside my chest.

Combine now, blood and ink upon this page!
I would command you as I do the wind!
It does my bidding for I would know a secret spell.
The wind, the blood, the ink, my spirit, I would command it too,
but like my heart is like a well,
then my spirit likened to a bird.
All things are like some other things,
absurdist similes and metaphors
that no one understands but you.

The whole point of this exercise:
to write a spell that I could cast,
a certain guaranty,
that none of what I write is ever gutless.
Never fails to pack a punch, or pierce the darkness,
or the light, as you would pick your poison.
Like a dagger that would rend the curtain to two bits.
My words may sting but knives might be used
for other arts than stabbing.

Put a drain into my heart,
my first words spoken unto me.
My blood, no more contained but mixed with ink,
and writ large upon this page.
Now spoken to the ether, and now born upon the wind.
The daggers, blood and water, wells and birds and wind.
I would write of all these things
just seeking for relief from the pain of missing you.

Temptation

I think I hear you calling.
I would tune into that channel
that the desperate have on pre-set.
When I need a special comfort,
we create a real connection.
A strong link that can’t be broken.
You would join me in that union.
Join my member to a demon.

No way to prove that who I hear
is really you and isn’t me.
All a matter of perception.
What you prefer: insanity
induced by loneliness or frenzy?
Or rather, boredom on the one hand, and terror on the other?

This dilemma has long cow horns,
that move dangerously when he shakes his head.
Would poke your eyes out with the sharpened tips.
The right or left, when you go shooting,
you might miss it. Then again
you do well to hold the reins,
but hold them loosely for the shaking and the poking
should remain minimally unhindered.

That massive beast, the universe,
will have its way. Your reins are but a flimsy handle
made of a substance, the viscosity of which
is assayed to ascertain fertility.

The moment’s ripe, so seize it.
You may offend. Can you achieve
while still avoiding gross offense?
The audacious never ask permission.
Lust after the unpardonable sin.
Don’t think of a snake.
See, you disobeyed me!
Every passion, just as he did,
you would know them, too, but much more deeply.

Temptation, not to be avoided, but indulged.

For Every Rose That Dies (Annotated Verse)

For every rose that dies, another one comes alive.
Every dream you dream is a felt frequency.
Hold between your lips, your tongue.
What about [that golem]?
Feel into the power of you.
You’ve got it you’ve got it.
Feel into the power within you.
Feel into the power that is in you.
You are your own god.
You are your beloved one.
You are.
You are.
You are!
You are!!
You are!!!!
You are.

You are your beloved one.
Recognize that fact.
How we treat ourselves,
much worse than we would treat another?
Condemnation, criticizing, doubting our own worth?
Recognize your value, S______,
you, a special creature, just like me.
We’re side by side upon creation’s workbench.
Why are we here?
This dimension we experience
has some special purpose, meaning just for me,
a divine one too, for you I know with special certainty!!!! OMG!!!
What is that purpose, meaning, where to find it?
Don’t take directions from a madman,
mind just as warped as mine.
Look unto yourself because
there is where you always have to live.
The solution is to identify the problem.

You are your own god.
You should worship daily!
Be faithful, in the end, what might occur, but
then again, what is the alternative?
An atheist unto yourself,
disbelieving your divine reality?
Dark heresy: would you deny your meaning, purpose?
Only make public practice of your religion.
Don’t hide your worship in a midnight mass,
but bring it out on Sunday, leave your special smile.
When you start your worship,
when the service does commence,
look around you, who is sitting in the pews?
Fickle, they audition every new religion.
When they see your worship, they might want to join you.
We could start a cult.
Let us all wear dark sunglasses,
purple robes, and drink each liquid
presented to us as a sacred sacrament.

And now your roses:

Every rose that dies, another one would come alive.
Every death is somehow joined with life.
Being born means born to die.
Lots of living in between, but
the real objective is the loving.
I would love you, yes, but really love you!
When that portal opens,
we should explore it with commitment,
as an act of ministration to your beloved,
both unto you and unto me.
Not intermittent but something that might drive us.

The dream again, my thorn would pierce your heart,
draw your blood, that would issue forth,
and join with the color of that flower,
our union making liquid roses.
I would heal your wound with special antiseptic.
Healing with my mouth, the part of me that does the eating.
I would hold between my lips,
my tongue, upon your member.
With the pressure from my tongue,
a bright healing you and I would both receive.
The portal opened once again where that altar was created.
The blood upon it, running down,
our union and our pleasure,
cycling worship of our bodies and ourselves.
Participation in that cycling that I hope you’ve thought of too.
I would be inside you, as much as you might allow.
Bring healing to you just as I have healed myself!

Every dream you dream, a felt frequency.
A dream of you is all I have,
the frequency obtained by close proximity.
Like Wi-Fi, would you let me have your password?
Adjusting my antenna for improved reception,
of your broadcast, just as I would transmit mine.
Share a frequency, broadcast, transmission, reception, cycling,
repetition, closely, with you, sweet vibration.
Tune with you inside that dream.

Feel into the power of myself.
If not, impossible to write these words.
I have it, I have it, I have it!!!!
When I see you, and the power you project,
like a darshan, transmitted by your five eyes, three of which are secret.
Feel into the power within me, within you,
that you transmitted through the ether,
that I receive and would transmit to you.
Power to incite these words
written to you, a fantasy that I conjure.
Would make you come alive, but I too would honor your reality,
and know it better:
my desire, you are.
You are.
You are.
You are!
You are!!
You are!!!!
You are.