Blasphemies Poems

GOSPEL OF A CURSED WARRIOR

I converse with my demons.
The monologues are endless,
Dark confessions on scraps of macabre memories.
My mouth stays shut after uttering blasphemies,
I terrorize my ghosts with the darkness of my fantasies.
I stumbled before the gates of hell,
It's too late — I'll end up in Lucifer's furnaces.
The journey will be chaotic until the final breath,
No consolation, only incurable wounds in this infernal abyss.
I smile at the angel of death like those fanatics ready to die for a few virgins.
My humanity embraces all the demonic facets of its spark,
Forever at war with a legion of the damned,
A procession of curses on the highway of immortality.
A few impure souls to sacrifice on the altar of repentance,
Pharaoh's blood to cleanse my dignity,
To be a slave for the glory of my oppressors — impossible.
To brandish arms — a saving urgency.
Throw me a banana, and I'll send you straight to the doorstep of my ancestors.
I learned to handle weapons of war in a banana republic.
I'm on alert, like those sleeper agents.
Servitude and submission are forbidden.
I preach peace, justice, and harmony,
But I do not fear the horrors of chaos.
My existence traumatizes my enemies.

The Melodies Of Silence

My demons terrorize my ghosts.
With cannabis, I treat the aftermath of my chaotic choices.
Irrevocable truths engraved on the indelible scars of my impure soul.
I'm still trapped in the same nightmare since my divine spark drifted closer to the flames of hell.
I sing the symphonies of my miserable life into the microphones of the bearer of light.
I stopped whining before the universal force.
One day, I will bathe in Lucifer’s furnaces to taste the delights of eternal life.
I accumulate transgressions and blasphemies since I discovered the grim nature of humanity.
I celebrate my failures so my victories remain taciturn, like the melodies of silence.
I still cannot chase after the fleeting vanities that humans sanctify.
Still not a hypocrite, so truthful that solitude has become my ally.
Still allergic to injustice and forked tongues.
Still alive to never imprison my dignity in a dungeon of victimhood lamentations.

The Confessions of a Tormented Soul

I poison myself to endure the torments of my clairvoyant mind,
A journey littered with catastrophes and irreversible scars.
I chase nightmares I will find in hell,
My face drowned in the fleeting vanities humanity sanctifies.
I am in no rush to honor my appointment with the reaper,
Like a terminally ill patient who still dares to dream.
I am trapped in an asylum where appearances and masks
Are the mirrors of madness.
I burn my neurons with cannabis
To find beauty in the ugliness of my surroundings.
My indelible scars are searing reminders of my insignificance.
I have tamed the violence of silence
To anesthetize my demonic urges.
I trust not in human frailty,
Like a bipolar paranoiac.
The darkness of the furnaces of the bearer of light
Shines deep in my eyes.
I am a solitary soul, persecuted
By its demons and ghosts.
The melancholy of my heart has chained
My mind to the depths of bitterness.
My life on Earth has been infernal torture
Since the day I let out my first cry.
I am compelled to sow the seeds of chaos
In this dimension, to unlock the gates of immortality.
A symphony of blasphemies, to discover every fragrance of freedom.

THE BREATH OF LOST DAYS

She was there, the wilted flower of a day gone by,  
Hair in disarray, and eyes tender,  
He spoke of her with passion, like one speaks of an innocent fool,  
Hands trembling from having loved her blindly.  
Time slipped away, a faithful companion to taciturn distress,  
The sky weighed heavy, like a sullen memory,  
Forever engraved on the chains of his penance.  
Tears slid between each sigh of his solitude.  
What remained of them were the scars of abandonment and desolation.  
Blasphemies flew, fragile, clumsy,  
Like ashes carried on the sturdy back of a loquacious wind,  
They collided with those crumbling walls of silence.  
And in a desert of sadness, amidst the mockery,  
Love remained silent, discreet and cold,  
Beneath a shroud of morbid regrets.

We dream ourselves free and in our pride, we concoct lofty words of praise

We dream ourselves free and in our pride, we concoct lofty words of praise,
"We are democrats, lovers of liberty, free from prejudice and hate,"
In our furnace, we build the great human experiment, a dream always worthy to follow;
We speak melodiously, with noble sentiment, growing gardens of ideals meant to be seen.
But in reality, we are a vulgar mob, shoving and sharing quarrels,
Where passions are easily stirred by demagogues, media, belief profiteers, agitators.
Blasphemies uttered, this is called "the society of free people"; it's a heavy word,
What can we offer the world but overly full plunder we've stolen from humanity's land?
Under the hallucination that this mad theft can be called progress and bright culture,
We substitute our being in a blind race, too often tempted by subliminal deceit.
Everything is built on the foundation of illusion, a selfish altar on which we sacrifice common sense,
And we lose our hopes and dreams in the abyss of momentary prosperity, the delusion of a lawful happiness.

The Solar Kingdom

 High Abode the Ethers where Diadems Glisten
 Beyond Time and Space, where The Sun has Risen
 Shines Kingdoms of Intuition, Gods Religion
 Resurrected by Esoteric Wisdom,
 where the Greater Man Shines like an Emerald Stone
 High Born with the Jasmine Robe,
 In Garments of Power, The True Victory
 In Crowns Of Light, We Crush Blasphemies
 Up the Sacred Passage towards Jerusalem
 Into lands of Shem, I AM

Lamb Off the Altar

The birthmark of Satan
a spherical star
Old curse in the distance
new devils at war  

His prophecy stolen
the markings of Cain
Madonna the virgin
rebirth unattained 

Melody of darkness 
blasphemies hymn
The garden left burning
original sin

Tomorrow in mourning
this moment on fire 
The lamb off the altar
—redemption expired

(Dreamsleep: May, 2023)

On Behalf of Dogs

Happy National Dog Day, PS!

Beagle, boxer, poodle, pug,
Airedale, cocker spaniel, terrier,
Shiatsu, pom, or something furrier,
Pedigreed or cur-ish mug,
Dogs make our lives ever so much merrier.
We pick up after, poof, and pamper them,
But, never like our kids,
Do we with the Ten Commandments try to hamper them.
Consider how they often make us break with number Seven,
And other blasphemies they might incur if there were Eleven.
But for all their sins they make amends
With apologetic eyes, and ingratiating grins.
We try holding out, but in the end,
A sloppy kiss, first us then them,
A wag, a hug, and we're best friends again.

A Bold and Gentle Rain Resounds

O Lord forgive the sins of my mind,
tortures of the brain,
my ears’ inflamed with blasphemies,
my eyes with sordid violence.

Open the heavens, Lord.
Encircle me with a halo of purity-doves,
with peace beyond understanding,
with the gentle and overflowing love of Christ.

My eyes, like a clear day
and ears filled with birdsong, sweet.
My mind riveted on the words of life
my brain reborn, like a ruddy infant.

Wise words form seeded clouds.
A bold and gentle rain resounds.
My feet walk on the waters -
a path well-lit by my Savior. Christ blesses
his decisive people in a crescive lifeboat.

5/29/2022

Platforms of the Estranged

Words_ in my garden@ the edge of thorns. 
Population cultivation of shrapneled bones.
My thoughts, mine, alone.
My as she helixed the change 
of elixired kool aid and iced earth, 
Ayahuasca tea to drink under the crystal sun; 
To be or not to be undone. 
Dangled as a charm over my eyes, 
walled popularity, 
that rivit ring resurrection machine gun
@A rising force of risen suns, 
from the sea of emptiness
@circlet chain fire testing this blue toothed, 
teething proofs of brainwashing that is being done. 
Cutting me tooths on techlobotomy future suturies, 
filling with bad blood, 
of milk undone into channels of soured diversities. 
Blasphemies abreast of Bathory, Borden, 
Mystopheles. 
Metaspinions on bile for birth of strange aeons and late night gerd.
Storied olde.
Waking death, rebirth, federation, 
mental masturbation, folly, jolly rogered 
as if it depends on. 
A friend, so I have heard, 
fair weather turns cold.

Ring Around Religion

Cohort blasphemies 
where we Lie within ourselves
black mirror templates

Blasphemies

Assertions
About Christ's passions
For throat - scalding gin
And his ability to brave a full tin. 

Stubborn claims about Beautiful Martha
Being his much important matter
And main reason
For often nosing
Around the Home of Lazarus
A veritable pride of Barbados

The Argument,
Now, a subject of entertainment,
That he was previously in India
To study Voodoo there

They are all Blasphemies
Never - to - be - pardoned enemies
Utterances that are a spiritual blackmail
Encouraging the Devil to wag a rejoicing tail

Because of Obedience

Because of obedience
I have a vision
My path is clear now
For all my plans
Are in the Lords Hands

I turn my eyes away from sin
My ears hears no blasphemies
And for His grace
My hand are clean

The Lord loves me,
Gives me piece 
And satisfies my needs
When I lack
I do not need

Jealous are my cursed enemies
For they cannot touch me
I triumph over all that is against me
For God fights for me

Pope Francis

Pope Francis's belief in the Almighty
has been brought to serious question,
when, on his speech on Origins, 
the Bible received nary a mention -
save for a passing glance at Genesis.
His credibility has dwindled rather perilous
it seems - considering, of course, Catholicism's 
typical rep of condemning holy writ to ostracism.
The acolytes "explode" with his
acceptance of Naturalism,
Evolution and Bigbangerism.
In a pinch he waved his magician's wand
and pronounced all prior blasphemies - gone!
God - he stated - has no such pointy stick
of which to create all, with a simple flick
of his wrist. The Almighty has limits
and shall conform to Francis's rigid
interpretation, thereof. He tips his hat
in one last show of priestly decorum:
I wish you all a most bless-ed
novus ordo seclorum.



NOTE: The term "novus ordo seclorum" is Latin for "New World Order". If you ever forget how to say it, or spell it, just pick up any American federal reserve note - it'll be right under the pyramid with the all-seeing eye.

Prayer

"...Dominus orationem meam suscepit."


Burning his little jelly bottom raw,
He blisters in his liquid greenish poop.
He has no means to summon us at all 
To drain the acid swamp of split pea soup.
Except to scream, a peevish infant yawp,
And so he screams, until we take his goop.
We modestly subserve our son's ejecta.
Clean, dry and warm: his everyday trifecta.

He's not alone.  I've had my days of burning.
Blistered and raw, to salve my hurt I prayed
for balm from God, ultimately learning
His summit lay on far too steep a grade.
Footless in His scree, inflamed with yearning,
My wounds combusted into wrath.  I brayed
My blasphemies, then heard the Logoi fall.
I had no means to summon Him at all.

Which births a trailing thought about the sainted:
Their whispered prayers, their worshipful reclusion,
Which all the hagiographers have painted.
Don't buy it.  Souls corroded with confusion,
Their love of God with hatred wholly tainted,
And Doubt the only friend to their seclusion,
With blasphemies they burnt the fetid air.
Profanation is the purest form of prayer.

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