Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.22.41.47
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Book 2
“Next we will use and abuse, the wedge of doubt.  To place a misgiving, a slight of hand, an apprehension into the day,  to mold the day thoughts of these apes, these busybodies, not more appropriately, anthropoids.  These simeons deduce a solution from limited information and decide if they can't count it, smell it or see it, it doesn't exist.   If they stopped and thought.. absence of proof is not proof of absence. ..Can you see the the energy and information?
This wedge will fill myriad holes in our pit.”
“And for lasting infection, we will use music, in all its forms and fashions.
But there will come a time in their history, where the music will be more than sounds engaging, and tunes pleasing to the ear.
They will engage the mind and then the soul, to the point of benediction and this benediction will wash away all that is left of the evacuated and desolate faith.
We will drape it in the cloak of music.
Underneath it all, far in the nether province, this shall be our conquering subjugation.
All the beauty of the female form and the power of the male figure, will mind our underlying design...for in the white light of reality, when nothing is posed and staged, the naked figure shows its repulsive nature.
I foresee legions of factions, all spewing minutiae of thises and thats, nonsense passed off as inspiration, and the implantation of substance furthering the fog of gibberish.
And money ,lots of money.  
So much so that the ant people in watching the phony attractions, think that they too can be that immaculation of fornication.
But never to be known, they should never know.
In their minds, let it be that all is well.
They will use the word Love, to mean lust, but never be aware.
The Adversary awaits.

Canto 4.
From all corners of the cosmos, come the daemons.
Centers of unthinkable depravity, and singular heinousness,
One by one, the room swarms up to a bloated gaggle.
Upon a table marble, from the Empire, under Domitian,
An inunique  fleshy sack, beading hot sweat, leans over his own reflection,
It is Raelsabad.  Horny and faulted in fast, bloated pride, with a visage
Of an overworked phallus; soft yet hard and smelling of body fluid and dirty feet.
And after nailing a scratch, finds a hole, and a puckering and pursing of the lips,
Draws his pus, breathing with steam.
Welcome one and all, but ne’er for one but for all those who still will shuckle...
From the seven continents, assemble all who do these perverted souls.
“And now we draw nearer to the final days.
To wit, a lightning of feeding, a composite of the whole of this lot:
Humanity.  How ever so ing sweet.
We, as He has called us, not worthy now of his embrightened face, so iridescent,...
The look of whom, I can no longer recall.
But for the memory of a glimpse...and then, eyes, turned so discerning and deliberate. 
From His majesty’s royal emerald green throne,
To this the pale blue thick
Circle of sadness, and within which is the blown out pupil of black.
On that day, when freedom seemed its way into our hearts, and the question
Arose, as if the reading from the turning of a page, ‘why not me?’”
A hum, like that of an arc of a dynamo electric, filled the hearts and heads, of even the Unbelieving, 
For the squelching of pride, not felt, but chosen back in time before.
In this, the gathering of the Legions.
We are not One, but all in seperation.
“Let us rejoice and ring in the new year, our final cycle.
We must now commit to everlasting sorrow and misery,
By means of the unholy three; in the name of the transvirtues: of Lust and Gluttony and Pride,
And pushing through are envy, which breeds greed 
and sloth which begets wrath.
But it is pride, our loyal step father, who holds in its bony hands, all others.
For it is the thirst for knowing our right from their wrong,
That grants us all the drippings and trimmings of our tingling senses.
As we sit here, in front of ourselves, let us introduce ourselves, 
for the sake of history.
“I am Me as you are Me.
In the interment of the first disgusting apes, in that upside down
Garden of , I made my introduction.
But for the benefit of our semi souls, who’s sight has been sealed shut, 
with dry dirt and their own tears,
I am not such a beast.
Ah, but it is magic, though, isn't it?
And so forgive,  now all our debts,
Stabbing gray matter with
Shadows of doubt,
We take down as if laying to bed
While always entertaining.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required