Long Pineal gland Poems
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Upon trying to stimulate my pineal gland
Through OM chanting for the first time
There before me in the silence that ensued
I saw a great void of raw existence
Frozen and unassuming
Like a door I’ve never opened
In a place I’ve lived my whole life
Everything and nothing was different
Staring at the cat between my feet
I reached down to touch it
And got to see where they exist
I should stop writing because
I feel like I’m bastardizing the eternal
Making a vain sport of it with a poetic devise
I am the very void upon which I now gawk
I took off my clothes to excuse my presence
I should not post this but probably will
Life remains a grand head game
Even after you’ve awakened the divine
Seeing the sacred should change one’s life
but now I’m not sure
Perhaps this is the true epiphany
7/7/21
Just a sample of who I am
Experienced hardship firsthand
Not a sham
They say never bite the hand
That feeds
Yet there is continual greed
Across the land
It's gotten out of hand
Never went according to what was planned
Feeling damned
And stuck in quicksand
Occasionally in wonderland
And unable to understand
This is not just another fad
It all goes full circle like a rubber band
Took a stand
Opposition was not a fan
And they wanted to kill a man
Doing bad
Going mad
Heartbroken and sad
Gave it a stab
Threw a jab
And took a dab
Spent a tad
Of time at the pad
It all really wasn't that rad
As a man
And easy-going lad
Never been part of any clan
Used to ride the tram
Always lived below a dam
Occasionally sprayed a dish with PAM
And ate lamb
Or yam
Rarely ever was it SPAM
Or toast with jam
Was in the front, middle or back of the caravan
Did or didn't use the pineal gland
As I stood still or ran
F*** you and your scams
You'd best scram
Or you'll need a bedpan
If you're not already a dead man
Going ham
Burning through dabs and grams
Then hitting grand slams
Like a madman
Or else it all goes down the trash can
If love were 'dark matter'
it would be the size
of a small kidney stone.
Hate is
an intestinal tapeworm
that gnaws at our vitals,
though most folks
remain unsure just what 'vitals' are.
The human brain
does not write poetry,
it merely crouches inside one ear,
while shouting into the other.
Poetry abides at the center
of an ever-expanding constellation
deep within the pineal gland -
that physical presence
manipulates, as many as
ten fingertips or toes
plus, a sloshed Calliope
swinging back and forth,
as she clings precariously
to chandelier-like Adam's apple.
Lips learn to think for themselves,
with the help of undocumented
angels.
Thus, naturally
organically produced poetry
can easily be manifest
while a nose dips deep
into a foaming glass of beer.
Line of Inquiry: What is that awareness by which each body-mind feels alive and becomes aware?
If spiritual you desire to be,
behind your body’s eyes you need to see.
The Brow Chakra you can awaken.
Then light of the third eye you can take in.
Open your single eye with violet visualization,
entering between your eyebrow; use meditation -
breathing and chanting AUM while focused on the brow.
There are many people out there who can show you how.
Seek guidance in this practice and have gratitude,
along with mindfulness – the best attitude.
The pineal gland is the seat of your third eye.
Treat it well; don’t let it calcify.
Fluoride consumption will have a bad affect
if the seat of your third eye you wish to protect.
Deep is the consciousness you can achieve
if to worldliness you refuse to cleave.
Asper sweaty palms,
and other physiological ills
nothing beats infusion of
spine tingling electrifying chills -
experiencing psychological nirvana,
(nope NOT even
prescription medication pills)
except attaining, experiencing, and succumbing
delivering to bodily flesh, sans
nightly cathartic, intrinsic dream changing stills
and pacific inner calm gained,
thru shuteye, which tranquility
vis a vis REM hark able slumbers instills
necessary linkedin kickstarter instagram
godaddy transcendent reddit state, and fulfills
verity corroborated by perusing reliable
opinions painstakingly researched tracts
compiled by hands of
expert sleep specialists quills.
No surprise to me reading
(easy to understand)
judiciously, meticulously, and
professionally researched studies,
which unswervingly demand
the absolute zero tolerance
to deny deep jeep grand
(Cherokee) surrender into the land
where lovely bones and flesh
at rest, the agreed stand
hard quota of about seven hours finds
Melatonin the naturally occurring hormone,
secreted by the pineal gland
augmenting figurative trip wire,
where entire corporeal being fanned
by naturally biochemical processes
as if...complex species
guided by invisible hand.
Today, upon arising
without deafening vacuum
cleaner, yours truly did not feel gloom
me, nor rankle, an ordinarily mellow (Hume
more wrist) fellow, nee unlike
yesterday morning, where boom
ming ear splitting cacophony
gravely rented death stillness
unwittingly did exhume
even the grateful dead,
they did fuss and fume
(lumbering like 10,000 maniacs)
furious with rage
unbridled as many a jilted groom
(imagine a billion infuriated room
Hun hating thwarted lovers) assume
ming stanced ready to throttle throat
of she that chose to clean house
no matter engendering global sonic boom.
Every night I dream
And these dreams usually revolve around me
The same way my waking life does.
But the me in these dreams
Is as diverse as my imagination
As diverse as life itself.
The me then isn’t an individual person
As much as an individual identity
Applied like a template
To anything this identity experiences.
It’s really not a problem
As simply what such a program does
As it seeks to survive
In ever changing situations and contexts.
This is the world of our dreams
And the world of waking life.
And yet this survival seeking entity
Is what suffers, in effect making us suffer,
As it applies its template
Like a factory robot stamping out
Another generation of robots…
All the while we hover as a ghost in the machine
Centered in our pineal gland
Like an alien in its pea brain control capsule
Pulling levers to stamp its template
Relentlessly on every moment.
And still the ghosts dream on
Dreaming not so much as with a vision
But simply by compulsion
Like a blind guide
Entrusted with our most precious cargo
To cross a mine field
Blindly and blithely striding on
Confident because it hasn’t been blown up yet
Because when it steps wrong and blows
It is instantly reborn like a robot
With amnesia.
We all dream, and then we wake,
And quickly all we have learned fades away.
(9/23/25)
"Soul Contract - Part 1"
“I Am”. The All Seeing Eye. The Pineal Gland.
Perhaps God exists in all of us - the Great “I Am” exists in all of us.
Within all of us The Pineal Gland, The All Seeing Eye?
“I AM”.
Waiting there within us subliminal, covert, invisible
God’s been there all the time
A throne of hidden power for us to sit on, to be driven
Turn the key in the ignition
to another strange dimension
foot to the floor, hands on the wheel
change the gears up a notch
Drive out of this old skin and bone heavy body through
The Doorway to God?
Karmic Generation.
7 Colours in a Rainbow.
7 Dimensions on a rung
Ascending Jacob’s Ladder
Electric Golden shooting Souls,
Energy Light Beings now melting through the Centre of the Sun?
To reach the LIGHT one must have the DARK.
What if there is no light at the end of the tunnel -
what if what we truly see is the apodictic spark,
the Light emanating pure and strong is shooting out from us,
like high beam lights in an ever speeding car on a highway
and the Stag standing in shock, stock-still, eyes glowing bright in the headlights
in the middle of the road up ahead,
is our reflection like in a mirror that we’ve been forever travelling towards
and now is our moment to reach out and meet God above, in another dimension
perhaps this is pure sacred LOVE.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
(1)
Genesis 32:22-31
(2)
http://www.stillnessinthestorm.com/2014/01/pineal-gland-referenced-in-bible-again.html
(3)
"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is LOVE."
If you "love" me so much - why didn't you come and find me?
It's always me seeking you out - to set us both wildly free
I don't think I've ever really asked - but why are you so confident it's me?
What can you possibly see within me - that I can't begin to see?
Why are you so adamant that it's me you've always intended to marry?
After 15 years of not knowing me - to you that's not the least bit scary?
You've said time and time again you're certain you love me - you're sure?
As children, everything went speeding so fast past us - it was all a blur
Do you realize you'll have to get to know me all over again?
I don't see how you'll even attempt it - my past and present don't blend.
How are you certain that what you're feeling - isn't a simply old friend?
15 missed years of our past together we missed, but it never did end
How can I be sure you won't hate who I've become and who I am now?
Our hearts are quiet after these years - but when we're together it's loud
If I was given the choice again - would I choose to fix our past?
And do you think if we stayed together back then - would it last?
Do you remember any of my pieces of my personality today?
What if you got to know me all over again and hated me and my way?
I don't know what you are expecting if again we try
We could either fall - or take flight and fly
I'm not sure you'd like this bitter hermit and witch I've become
Bullied, hated, and targeted - my life today will have you simply stunned
The stories I'd catch you up on - if I still indeed have my will
Everyone who's genuinely loved me, has committed suicide or is killed
This suicidal Metrolink train only appears in your dreams
Where you hear the murderers and torturors echo and violently screams
Eyes all over my body - I sense them in the dark
Hiding within my homemade treehouse - silenced like a NARC
Close your eyes and focus every drop of your pineal gland
Visualize and desire what you want to build on your paganistic land
I wanna show you the ropes of this Old God/Religion of sacred Craft
Miraculous things you can accomplish when your magick is stacked
We know not who we are and yet we spar
Striving to somehow gain the upper hand
Fires of desire shift on our heart’s radar
But since taste of joy bestowed now seems bland
We yield to lust consuming contraband
Our ego is blind yet for truth does grope
Our soul contracts but wishes to expand
Heart beseeches head with love to elope
Distance from lust to love indeed seems far
But it’s easy if soul’s journey is planned
First things first, leave the door of heart ajar
Then thoughts that arise, are mindfully scanned
Awareness is by our soul presence manned
Truth transcendental is beyond mind’s scope
So dump ego and obey God’s command
Heart beseeches head with love to elope
Our void-centric eye sees form from afar
Where God hides, we cannot comment offhand
He plays on spine’s thirty three stringed guitar
Some sages point to the pineal gland
Others to monks in a faraway land
Life force ebbs; we see we’ve run out of rope
So in staid silence, beliefs we disband
Heart beseeches head with love to elope
God’s touch dispels delusion, strand by strand
Slippery’s the slope but now we have hope
That we’re living light, we now understand
Heart beseeches head with love to elope
They called it stone.
We called it signal.
The Great Pyramid—
not a tomb,
but a beacon,
wired into the pulse of the cosmos.
It stands at Portal 1313,
its apex aligned with the 13th galaxy beyond Andromeda,
where star councils whisper in light.
Its limestone breathes geometry.
Its shadow measures eternity.
Our pineal gland,
once unclouded,
was the antenna—
we spoke to Sirius,
we dreamed with Orion,
we danced across Saturn’s rings
before birth had a name.
The Pyramid was our firewall—
it deflected psychic viruses
from ancient wars in other galaxies.
It shielded Gaia’s mind
like Jupiter catches falling knives
meant for Earth.
You call it dead stone,
but it listens still.
It sings to those who sit in silence.
Its resonance vibrates
with codes only the soul deciphers.
Now, in sleep,
you see flashes.
You dream languages
never taught.
The Wi-Fi still hums,
but only those who fast in spirit,
who breathe in stillness,
can log in.
Yes—
the Pyramid protects,
projects,
connects.
In the Age of Awakening,
it will power us again.