It is a blackening. Infernal-S/He out of the deep the scribe looking-inwardly above the legion of our Heathen-                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Heathen Caravan…


Burning through an inherent “this-ness,” unleashing an almighty resurgence, Maati of the Lady/Queen God/dess to know myself not?


Within is the countenance of the Psychonaut. Of the inner-space worlds, relentless and becoming forever, the aeon; in terms of guidance our sietch is eternal?


Outside/back-through…leaving a trace enthroned and ‘I’ am the going. Here, precious to the ONE. The thoughts of Mary-Jayne, inwardly-spaced and summoning all her strength shining into the Supra-Kiaoetic.


‘I’ forever know myself-not. Fore! Embark upon New-Wyrding/abilities

O’er the aaoratic in a blissful utilization towards a New World Order. Threading the yarn through the legerdemain realm of “not-is,” to know when someone burns the fuck outta tremendous. A deathlike silence, for surreality…


Opening…Take ME one-pointed and with the accompanying insane blasphemy ride upon the Simurgh/Metatron, sucking the marrow out of bones and the painterly. Unsummoned/towards the fantastic boots that walk…


Adoratory Moon answers. We are of her high countenance and the Legends of the Heathen; or the dream, effigies of the Aeon. That is, the Apparatus/Earthbound Tree. From within is above all…the shining of these our Shiva/Shakti perambulations.


The Heathenist of Bells is an incorrigible and insane Behemoth; a-mass with blood and the feathery soaring-spokes o’er mine ‘I’-aetheric…fade-out…






It is the opening of the ways in/two and unsummoned. Becoming our Shining-Hour to whom the liking, through Mice-Elf. Within the ‘I’ of Thoth-am our skry.


Through the “know myself not” and to remain dragging our spent aeons. Then resurge through ME…inwardly, (God-Fodder) “as-now.”


Across the Abyss, it is a Wolf-Flow-Drop. The crucifixation of her countenance; all Godspeed are becomingly concerned by the Maatic crystallization o’er…through watery fears. Complete and running from: yet intuitive, arachnean and always crawling. Out on the pending (w) holes in the fabric of Time-iada/ ‘I’-blackout…





Alight “as-now,” the re-mastered God/dess curling ouroboros through this love of my life. A-cross even though inwardly: Pennae Agi-Prop is the supreme-bluest, (after another manner) flies; the spiralling/unwinding –‘I’ and all come, magnified through Andromache.


Nu-looping through the thought/memory-slipstream, through Nine Different-Worlds, their eyes, jus’ a hop…‘tis a-mythopoeia…


This gilded infinity is a conjunction: the Super-Coven and strip, bones: out upon our feed, within powerful echelons, lent by the Therion, crawling, Qoph vel HEKT and “fuck-around.” Tia-Maat shod o’er the blood and the wounded God/dess watching the skies.


Through her “this-ness,” ’tis accomplished through one’s inner-vision. “There is no such thing as fearless pleasure?” Chainsaws by the aeonics of a thousand: positronic, triptych bliss, (CPU) through the lens of unrectified night, apparatus beyond the final affinity.


A scout in the city tonight: betwixt the mythopoeic-slipstream, ablaze…“fuckin’ me dead,” running …from the fire that they; incandescence. “Stood-still,” or my veritable Upanishad-Infinitum, revolving resolutely around: the Lord of this World?




Tank-Hierophant knew the Chao-Metatron: you can read, “clippity-clop,” have the OM/unchained and your illustrious temple, here. Industrial-strength “within mine-‘I’ are this time of “now,” kaleidoscopic aside.


Turnabout through self-love, ‘tis a becoming, the penitent touch the island within. Past: from positive/amoral/passionate. This surreality is a Secret-Spool louder/heart-beat being the ONE/Life-Force o’er TimEmit regarding the current stasis of the Chaosphere. Riding the Shark of my Kiaoetic desire…


Compass is my very own rainbow. Rifling through the endless/gateways…so it beckons and ‘I’ turnabout, dancing widdershins. ‘I’ am relentless, inquiring tirelessly and into the roaming secrets of the besom-handle?


Through the cavernous shining, the Sub-Bass valley that cloaks the abyss “quid pro quo,” Two-souls-in-ONE Temple, initiates “going,” within realms of OD and OB.


Ride…God/dess within my view; it is the kindling fire of my blazing abundance. All: they, from the fire, that’s ignition.


Smell the colours; faveolated, like a book of oracular-visions. A feathery-thousand and banish. The “shine,” have long razored the future and like the Heathen never discarding our X-Roads/’tis a Promethea. Thought? Our “very-own” light and the re-remembrance “of a daemon in my view.”


Now for surreality: slaying the Gods, taste the morae-plane and see trails/aeons of “non-mobile becoming,” running from the fire that feed.


We hit Maximum-Volume and aeon through Jodorowsky’s Dune. Above this Tale is the Alchymical distillation of The Peacock…eyes spiralling and unwinding beneath loathsome-skies. Blazing like oracular-flowers…



Moon-Wrack through the standing aeon; the unsummoned Nebula@ Darkly-Noon: “this-ness” our sietch, ‘tis a conjunction, through thoughts of Self-Love within Artist/Magickian countenance-Atu ONE.


Through contained energies waiting for release, its very nature an endaemonism powered through heartbeats. Feeling “colder,” up through the Silver-Dusk, laughing as dreams made flesh throughout the aeon beyond. We awaken this “need for not,” a serpentine; breathing apparatus and oxygen enormon?


The Penitent-Agitant; relentlessly becoming the Shining Hour/a tremendous resurgence through the inherent light of truth ouroboros “as-if’s” itself “as-now,” returning to claim my land. Cloven, roughshod, and cleft in twain, casting the funambulatory way upon the ONE.


Upanishad lands throughout…skrying through the ‘I’am@ ensnaring Metals. A trafficking resurgence of Lord Pashupati roughshod o’er…the saucerful attacks, gazing upon the fantastic Hoor-izon



~ by EMPTY SUN on February 9, 2017.

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