The Horned God

 

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I reassemble this lamp of Thoth, within? The sublime nature, this kindling self-love mind, fires. It begat a unification of momentum through the divine temporality of my kiaoetic shark’s desire, unto the Sabbath-Now!

To whom are the skies bluest, a peacock’s tale? At the gates, a kindling fire has blown the stand in righteous fortitude. We are through every forest and above the tree in the clandestine seclusion of our honeycombed private-mind.

Mage and acolyte of the dark goddess. In joyous ecstasy, my brothers and sisters are all the same. Our oaths are uttered in sanctifying solitude.

It came out of the death-valley, slow and cool. We drink and smoke, assuming a polemic of majesty. Earth power transmutes the location of each door. We ride on through and gather at the arboreal moot. Our planet is armed with one-pointed ecstoical purpose. We bear witness to a righteous, stratospheric and alchemical suspiration. Rise against the putrid fallacies of the monotheistic ones who encapsulate these fallen hours, back beyond and is dangerous…

The magister templi step forth, adorned within brave, heavy-metal sky. To rise above, incandescent, zero-dark foreboding and shit-eating motif of a diamond-tipped razor smile.

We lay steadfast, crossbows at our sides. The eyes of men are our hands. A fleshly Cernunnos, who knows everything but see’s nothing. The power of triple seven, the inner-space time-emit of which I invocate kindles a fire of the outshining light of truth, to know myself not.

The horned god who is our warrior king voyage 777 o’er the occupation. I begat the infinite space, we drink from the twin-chalice, the vinum sabbathi. A libation of luminescent permutations, infect the pan-daemon-aeon. The whole, presciently speaking is an armageddon, receptive to the arachnean connectors.

We carry sabres, axes and scowling like wolves, begat heathen cosmic consciousness beneath a heavy-metal sky. One of our creed, laugh through the crack with the shit-eating motif and rise from behind the guiding light eternal, on a fascinating quest. A claim too is aorizing insane blasphemy, aided from above and also below by the earth and the forests of the dark serpentine in a vast purification of my mind-stuff motion.

My lord has set his stall, no libation shall be, but for the arachnean receptors and connectors. The willow’s at the campfire of my people that make-up my astral body, my ka, with an ever open door?

Our warrior king, inspect fate and faith as my astral read-out weaves the wyrding way. I prepare the potion, the chalice, enchanted on the suspirations of the dragon. Luminescent truth and “total fucking armageddon,” our name is legion!

Our selves, “wanna puke jus’ lookin’ at it,” saith one “it do form when darkness is increased,” “as if something small had fallen out of a thousand eyes.” We prepare with the use of gunpowder. The sweet nectar drips from the teeth of the winds as I take my place at the campfire of our people.

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So we set out on our sky chariots o’er the shade of mother-earth flight, guiding timbre of the ancient cracks and hollows. We drink mead and speak of a most definite saturnalia and the blazing ziarah of the fire-angel. We have come to ride on blessed, black o’er the repulsive cathedral citadel.

For “seven is the number of the young light,” borne out of rattlesnake hide and made out of human skulls. Silent memory tribes ablaze, under beaconed self-love mind fires.

We land at dawn at the druidic mound of the ancient ones. Elsewhere, on the astral.

I traverse styx-river and harness the receptive connectors of familiar pleasure, drink from the cauldron of re-birth.

As the sun also rises we ride out to the borders, a hand guiding this battle to resurrect our power, this love of “oh so sour.” 777, fucked with, head, visage battle, through and beyond time we emit.

She turns to face us, speaking through the chaosphere of which we tirelessly seek?

She relentlessly regresses, re-emerging from our righteous soul mind. Oroboros peacock’s tale, ride on the tempered love of the gnomic cracks and luminescent shadow-time of our crimson shadow. We are somehow purified, traversing through the land of the young scopin.’ This I do in honour of my true will, to know myself not…

Io! The Ice-man cometh!

It is an auspicious entity, galactic, seismic-shifter of mine life-force. We plunge within and drink deep, the chalice of lugubrious possibilities and the storehouse of memories with the ever-open door?

It is by definition a silver dusk, cradling the battle, he, laughing and splashing yet “one-pointed” with sensitivity in fearless pleasure.

 

Ride…sides covered in goat’s blood, the eyes, on the doors of the fucker, righteous like. As we know everything and see nothing, for mine I, within the bountiful, hollowed, cocoon. Arise and form ecstatic, joyous dweller on the threshold. Herself, the ley of the land…

Our sietch let out a shrill, daemonic, yaup and radiate infinite slayerology. As I howl my consciousness is projected. Lives turn “as skirmish,” destroying all “god-botherers” and we slay them in our wake. This power, this love of “oh so sour,” go to feed our addiction, it chimes the rebirth of she who cannot be summoned, resurging, resonating through my solar plexus.

I am his trusty shaman and confidant. I am the crawling temple bell of she who cannot be summoned. I transmute in a resurging transformation from flesh to spirit. “Swift and straight,” as a clandestine epiphany, never failing, animistic and am dangerous.

We ride the universe as I am the sky and can fathom the deep, dark waters of consciousness. “Straight as an arrow,” wearing the skins of…black-cat cloak and furs of azure.

Through this sublime and luminescent moment, we set our stall at the great “pow-wow,” threshold adorned in the reified gathering of the tribes. It knows no satiation and our tribe are all in front of the sky. Generations of my warrior soul, twist and en-sorcell, ignoring the worn lesson in “how to feed,” with a backbeat narrow and hard to master. I left my anguish at each gate, guided by the light of hope and a dragon, showed which way to go.

I watch with a hundred feathery thousand, we blow righteous, on cultured wings. For the benefit of the tribe I inscribe something of the animations (both within and without) which I partook of before I take my sacredotage at the sacred place of the divine Sumerian suspiration.

We did not fear before stratospheric earth-ride, is this the double-chalice served?

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I-infinite space…

 

 

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~ by EMPTY SUN on December 22, 2015.

One Response to “The Horned God”

  1. Very cool. BTW, Pat Mills wrote the introduction to my book KHAOS PUNK; https://www.amazon.co.uk/Khaos-Punk-Nathaniel-J-Harris/dp/1326213768?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0

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