The Old Ball Game

---

In that year,

There was a full blood red moon

It was the third blood red moon,

the other two being the previous year,

and it commenced its dark reign staining all

in the third month, The Golden Child Others, called Adar.

A total lunar eclipse – Yr 2026,

passed its swift slithering shadow over The Sleeping.

Unseen by most, its call to arms long assumed normal and unimportant,

went unrecognized by most; lasciviously, It licked the fresh lids of REM eyes

its shadow communing with those nakedly unawake lazy mortals, who had no time left –

for recurring ghostly things and such ridiculous emerging myths -

these fatuous mortals had much better dreams, above all others, to live.

It slid its darkness over all

with its own nontemporal dreams

of claiming The Hidden –

those ancient, contracted things, which dwelt silently within

Humanity’s gormless, fleshy containers –

the well-Hidden never ending

stood silently within each avatar next to That seated on the right,

and with expected horror and concern, while their closed cages slept,

the well-Hidden-never-ending watched on through the barred windows of The Sleeping All.

It was during this time of eclipsing,

My lost world passed

between The Moon and The Sun.

That old warning again -

cast like a spell from an ancient Book –

arrived on a black horse in our nightmares

stampeding the id of all like a prophecy long brewing

on repeating glitch –

the forgotten childhood stories of old,

defibrillated something inside us while we slept

something unseen pounding through us,

on and on it went –

it never missed a beat,

its endurance swallowed shallow evanescence

along the path it exposed towards reclaiming

what it demanded in return -

for the contractual matters it was owed,

its relevance remained nebulous

in our burgeoning common dreams – true knowledge undisclosed,

like full-term pregnancy anticipating such unknown yet to emerge -

to the well-Hidden observing, the swelling

of the changing tides inside the sleeping All, clearly showed.

While a lost unopened world, ignorant and vulnerable, slept on,

riding on the back of Ganymede clinging for a pertinent life

through wars and famine, annihilation of families, the sacrificing of children -

an ancient wickedness had risen and moved amongst us

in our worst dreams, to feast ravenously on all the undone.

Men,

who thought they were giants, those kings without kingdoms,

rose in cliques over the unprotected,

from their bunkered war rooms

of geriatric insomniac dreams -

the ancient invisible puppeteers pulled the first of their dark strings

above these grizzled war mongers at the Table,

who were its mere marionette things, entranced

completely with their own importance –

taking first shots over the beleaguered life of All –

both worshipping and non-worshipping,

the left and the right,

because they, and they alone –

regaled for so long as the ‘promised’ and ‘chosen’ ones –

it whispered, taking hold of their greedy minds and hearts -

were worthy of such stars and stripes,

and on its chess board, the rest of us were set apart.

Like Emperors of God, commanding,

they wore all of us out

with their ancient repetition,

like Fool’s gold made from sulphate,

their promises polyatomic, fake and loud.

Each day became normalized with expected anticipation,

their arrogant uncalled-for instructions riding shotgun

next to new sheriffs wearing their tinfoil David stars,

they stitched our nakedness up like Ed Gein, like tarnished armoured suits to wear –

and like martyrs, we took the brunt, with Eve's ripe apple in mouth,

soiled and riddled with worms, we were now numbed to it all,

useless beings, worthless empty zombies,

we just scrolled and stared and scrolled,

depositing banal messages on our walls.

In our stupefaction,

and at a loss

to comprehend the intelligence

behind the moronic broadcast messages

fed daily to us like sheep of the new heard -

the majority,

in our assumed safer zones,

questioned the benefits of God.

Deep within

our newly acquired rigor mortis mind paralysis –

we heard the old boys channel dinosaur frequencies

shouting their new Sieg Heils

delivered like born-again Reichstag dictators,

all of us marked and baptized

from their slippery God-righteous podiums.

Their well-timed forgetfulness arrived,

one can’t say ‘unheralded’,

for this had been ‘heralded’, brewing for centuries;

Unilaterally they resolutely paraded out

their self-serving missions as “united”

with their monkey-mind what’s-in-it-for-me enablers

and lobbyists, beating their tin drums while wagging the dog,

the lesser yet more important part of the story, became buried,

and the more solid arguments for war prophesized brought forth -

such attention adroitly manipulated away from the larger putrid scandal –

with its sticky “Rock Spider”,

devouring cream cheese and beef jerky,

pizzas and grape sodas,

fuelling its well-entrenched invisible network,

the heart of its esurient Moloch tangled webs fed -

the growing feeling of unease underneath such well-buried exposure,

erected - stood alert with attention –

war-muffled shouting, mere echoes, in now darkened bedrooms,

the sordid deeds of those involved in this intrinsic story –

were not by the competing war, nor its camouflage, quite yet dismissed –

this wicked story and all its ilk, stuck viscous and close -

consequences remained far from over, like a loaded gun cocked

waiting to shoot ghosts.

Mortal memories of vengeance in more humane matters of war,

will always over-ride forgiveness of the raping and torture of innocence

and the trials of charlatans are trafficked for far more worthy causes,

such as divinely glorified War. These sullied creatures never die, nor suicide,

they are just born again, resurrected in their black masses,

by the chance-medleys of kingdoms without kings necromancing.

(Poisonous arachnids such as these, are found hiding under common rocks,

creeping all over this inhumane monstrous world laying false narratives,

some eating their own eggs;

it’s a commonly sordid sad thing).

Away from that story for the time being,

Let us return to the One

of religiously glorified war-worshipping -

The Golden Child and their fawning Eagle

believed they were fully in their rights –

for it had been written,

signed, sealed and delivered

by something greater – God? had it not?

By holy decree, in chapters God-given-God-written,

misread in a Book, with alternative stories and meanings

planted like seeds sewn from blue ribbon, such poetic form is driven -

from a particular tree, the kings without kingdoms were given royal leaves,

to slaughter more innocent children, to genocide all the lesser borne thieves,

those unrighteous Levant families left-living on Exodus land to be removed

one way or another, along with their sisters and brothers, those flea-ridden rats

breeding in the West Bank, their allies all Mecca robed and masked others,

espied worshipping a much lesser god to theirs – so, like terrible Archons,

the new Sieg Heils raged on, because Heaven was theirs - and they alone were with God.

Some would say ‘war crimes’ ensued,

the dropping of deadly bombs –

children dissolved to dust while sitting in class,

it was all considered ‘just’ – an eye-for-an-eye,

jus ad bellum theories for the unjust.

When has war ever been just?

In wars of religion there are no true gods

patrolling the ruins of soiled valuable strips with their choirs of angels singing their hymns

shining their saviour lanterns swinging hearts of gold from their seraphim hips –

emitting royal waves of protection to all creatures and mortals their glorious blessings,

through fumes of frankincense and myrrh arrives the ash and charcoal of decapitating war –

sickly it permeates oozing out over all

from their Ezekiel hypnotic self-righteous censoring thuribles –

all entrenchments deny they are wrong in the pursuits they are pursuing,

mortal man continues to make his future wishes on four leaf clovers

and the continued goodness firmly embedded in the heart of God

and their likeness in others.

Songs of gentle kindness and love are replaced

with “For Sale” signs stamped over the rubbled crumbling unnamed

and their unwanted streets, to transform into New Edens,

those better electric smart cities by nepotism seeded,

conned by the smiling SS Officer wearing the armband 666 –

that unforgotten old mission – walking amongst us - firmly entrenched.

All is now set all is now fixed.

In all wars, there are no godly sures, just roaring archons,

lions biting off their own snake tails, and like lizards

their misbegotten tales grow back again to sting the world

with their replenished venom, like scorpions shooting fire now

patrolling their firmament skies on their god-awful ungodly god-given missions -

the worthiest ones

are now seen as demons, protected by Kipat Barzel,

under iron dome playing fields, such wars are seen to be won;

yet - no one ever wins – critical thinking is replaced with perpetual field strategies;

the old ball game plays on and on.

In The End, Zion’s forgetfulness,

of their own lived nightmares in Hell,

their kin being stockpiled into trains like unwanted cattle,

gassed and slaughtered, are no longer rattled, it is all an eye-for-an-eye,

revisited without mercy on the lesser flea-ridden sons and daughters

of those much lesser others, to be cut mercilessly down and cast out –

these other lesser Levant mortals now homeless in a strange land,

caught in the holy Cross-fire of six-pointed tin stars,

fall prey to other angry gods eating souls drinking fresh blood,

counting their barrels of oil in their thick war fuming fogs

borne from their immortal motherlands – Gog and Magog.

This unforgiving rage

is now taken and owned

as the Golden Child’s God-given right,

for they believe, without flinching,

that they are fighting The God-given Good Fight.

This apartness from ‘humanity’ would be their final undoing -

their world and the world of all others imploding –

they would take everyone down with them, an eye-for-an-eye;

at some point – ‘just’ wars must be finished.

There is no waving white flag,

no giving in, no giving up –

absolutely no giving.

That year, unlike others, the final war to end all wars arrived,

The third blood moon commenced by cheering them on,

swiftly its angry old men

with their flying monkeys lead the battle

hungry for oil, allied now, making demiurge decisions,

they encourage the deployment of intelligence artificial,

job loss, the hideous rising costs of petrol,

supply chains permanently broken, disease, global famine –

such is the price that comes with the collapse of Life –

an eye-for-an-eye;

they broadcast their strategic electric missions along waves,

bands of sullied energy, and within the muddied white noise something alien

cackles back, as if walking above open black box graves, somewhere other

and foreign – the God chord snaps;

Different armies, strange and uninvited arrive unannounced,

riding Blue Beams, their shadows cast amongst the clouds causing doubt,

they arrive like prophecies, while sluggish dreamers watch on with faith anticipating grace,

no one could forsee the nightmare unravelling the new gods their promises rippling,

at first unclear through their open Cern Gates,

like unseen holy hosts from loftier dimensions,

some thought they were our saviours –

yet they brought forth their much stronger unimaginable immortal Saturn assizes;

In weird chariots these strange legions arrived -

The Above-World Watchers taking full ownership of their Anunnaki skies.

All the while, below these strange newcomers -

The Sieg Heil old men with their stalwart unjust storybook gods in hand

continued to blindly war on, playing us all for a spinning blue marble ball

with their well-oiled sinking phallic guns, and

their full-blown dangling ball-busting nuclear bombs.

Not long

One minute to midnight,

the free-for-all arrives

just seconds, in a child’s short life –

like some terrible global domestic violence,

the missing light and love switched on-and-off, the ensuing gaslight,

it’s all part of the eternal “good fight”, The Remnant on sempiternal repeat,

The Reckoning – a terrible family battle, ununited, alienated,

lasting far too long - the nucleus dismantled.

Just like an army of locusts annihilates a crop –

The Unbelievable destroyed every home,

cave and dark cockroach crevice.

Like humanity was some diseased infestation –

our nests in every nation were all exterminated –

we were all seen as unclean, an unwanted menace.

In the time of the Great Soul Harvesting,

nothing living was left.

The world was thoroughly cleansed,

free of what makes all of us non-human -

sin –

And just like that,

Providence was freed

with His lunatic Watchers

to start the old ball game,

all over again.

Candide Diderot. ‘26

Comments