Ascension wound it’s way around my neck and shook the diamonds from my feet as I fell to the depths of her passage- where looking fails and only the blind tell the truth- where are you closing your eyes- inside or outside of me?- until I think my way out- there is a fumble or a realm to go without feeling my way back into the center of the earth- where diamonds grow like wild strawberries and mocking birds glow and sing rhythmically to the haunted who wander in circles – up and down the spiral we go spinning- spun wild and hallucinating secrets, we hear you well from the center of forever where nobody cares about dying and only the few don’t know what she really looks like naked and surrounded by mounds of diamonds- she stands with the light of profusion dripping from the walls of this vast womb- casting her glance of holy red fire anger and burning away the last bit of soot- people are only people in the web- but inside the center of the earth people aren’t people anymore- and so flying vagrants swarm around the goddess blowing smoke in the middle- and the red fire oozes from the pours of the flying vagrants who appear as wasps with eyes of a sparkling gray and wings of crimson laced with a metallic thread- and they have thick and smooth golden skin shimmering with a sheen of dust from the falling smoke -their tails are long and wide and flip with every changing mood as if their tails were all they needed to tell the truth- and their wedged shaped heads of emerald green rest atop a neck that rotates in circles and all is seen and known from every direction in the center of her inner chambers- blinding the looker and disguising the whistler who had nothing to see or say anyway- “You sound like heaven but you look like death to me” -and still she stands in the middle- tall and fiery, wrathful and eternally misunderstood. “Where does God come from?” Look into my eyes- black and burning magic turns over like a pancake- the question is, ” What did you just eat?” So the swarm of vagrant wasps sting the sky and make bright noises while she dances and stomps out false fires. Who matters most is the least of my worries- where shall you go without her migration? Feeling through the darkness the world weary blind see so well- eyes shut to the worldly darkness those blind fall and never stop falling- the difference in the vision quest is what are you blinded by- the light or the dark- can you see through me at all? See through me and into my secrets- it is written in the books you can’t read- blinded by the other sight-who isn’t real?
All is hidden by the sweetness of wasps or the bitterness of the pearl. She is the oyster in my ocean of mist – creating and killing as an act of exposure to the outside that cuts and bruises from beyond her deep condensing waters and into her plumes of sacrificial smoke- she isn’t kidding and she’s stooping and picking up the world for you- time hiding lines in her hands and thunder striking constellations that awake the other Gods…night and day are relative and the sun and moon can never compare to the Red Fire that rises from her and covers the things we’ve made. Inside the center of magic and motion – the wheel moves backwards and doesn’t make a sound and the wasps stop hissing and we all watch who falls into the hole- you are nothing without her and her spiral weeps through you and no thought can hide what’s being ignored and no tear can blanket the cold and no other sound and no other death can replace her. Save me from the depths of me and wander as a vagrant on high- and she dangles the beast upside down from her finger and she blows kisses toward the ringing of the warning chime. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t listen and it doesn’t matter if you’re blinded by the light- the blind that I am is immersion into dark matter- before time and space- and I remember her before she started spinning- let me warn you- there has never been a place to stop and say “I’m done, wish me well” these things that happen that feel like dreams could be her calling you home to the darkness of God- these impressions could be coming from the snake God wears- these words could be written by a hand that knows no rest – the blackness of anything that isn’t suspended by her is selfish delusion and open rejection of anything solid that stays in this womb for more than a flash – but who cares- keep walking the streets begging for money. She sees everything no matter where you are- she will always be the center of all occurrence and director of all murder- holy is synonymous with feuding- think about the violence of God on God and don’t tell me I’m wrong. It’s not personal. Its not my feeling or word- it’s not about a piece of the naked wrapped in a name- death has eyes bigger than I do and true darkness is brighter than any light we can bare- she spares us by making red and furious fire and spinning inside the swarm of flying vagrants- wasps who hiss the silence into sound and form pictures in the smoke- the hive is alive and we can’t say unholy is the smoke that rises- wake up, get real- will you tell me then, ” Where does God live?” God is smoke and I am fire- thats what I said- not
“God isn’t real” God is real because I’ve seen smoke and I make it with my fire- “Where does fire come from?” I told you, it comes from the mercy of her black hole- from where she rises and rages and burns you to ashes- smoky smoky smoky God heathen love affair effortlessly going nowhere- the temple is the orifice and the projection-
find God where you put God Ok?
Dont blame me if the back burner is the best you can do.
I struck the match with a fury and you let it burn out.
Thank God and get inside of the meaning of me.
The meaning is the fury of her holy red fire.
I am the Fire that made God.
Sorry if this is way over your head.