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The Poet

A moody child and wildly wise
Pursued the game with joyful eyes,
Which chose, like meteors, their way,
And rived the dark with private ray:
They overleapt the horizon’s edge,
Searched with Apollo’s privilege;
Through man, and woman, and sea, and star,
Saw the dance of nature forward far;
through worlds, and races, and terms, and times,
Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Entombed In Youth

Alas!—others like myself;
Seeking truth, finding meaning.
Yet, when gathered, only one book to help.
My back lay sore from information reeling.

They scoff and hurdle, adhering to the singular source.
Am I false for pulling from the All, or none at all?
Using his divine name Jesus, the one beaten like a horse.
Joshua! Yeshua, be his historical name—know they not even Saul.

Alone in a room of strangers, lost children, and yet still searching.
Blameless they be, for together we seek all to be free.
Questions of who are we, when death comes what will we see.
Time, and only more time will tell, the stories the ancient ones befell.

Are we to turn within, or to cater non devout.
Am I to churn within, physical self looking without.
A riot begins inside my cage, rage, further rage;
and yet more—a peddle through the floor.
Control, patience, faith is what I aim to keep.
Each night alone, swinging wildly in my room,
where are my kindred who seek?

A new age is to come, you all just forgot.
Fixated on material lot.

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On Love

What is Love? Ask him who lives, what is life; ask him who adores, what is God?

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I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even thine, whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness,

I have everywhere sought sympathy, and have found only repulse and disappointment.

 

Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another’s; if we feel, we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood. This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom of its mother; this propensity develops itself with the development of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is composed; a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness; a soul within our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret; with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of our own; and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the type within demands; this is the invisible and unattainable point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules.

Hence in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky.

In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes the living sepulcher of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818

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All Religions Are One

The Voice of one crying in the Wilderness

NPG 212; William Blake by Thomas Phillips
by Thomas Phillips, oil on canvas, 1807
The Argument. As the true method of knowledge is experiment the true faculty of knowing must be the faculty which experiences. This faculty I treat of.
PRINCIPLE 1ST.
That the Poetic Genius is the true Man, and that the body or outward form of Man is derived from the Poetic Genius. Likewise that the forms of all things are
derived from their Genius, which by the Ancients was call’d an Angel & Spirit & Demon.
PRINCIPLE 2ND.
As all men are alike in outward form, So (and with the same infinite variety) all are alike in the Poetic Genius.
PRINCIPLE 3RD.
No man can think write or speak from his heart, but he must intend truth. Thus all sects of Philosophy are from the Poetic Genius, adapted to the weaknesses of every individual.
PRINCIPLE4.
As none by travelling over known lands can find out the unknown, So from already acquired knowledge Man could not acquire more. Therefore an universal Poetic Genius exists.
PRINCIPLE 5.
The Religions of all Nations are derived from each Nation’s different reception of the Poetic Genius, which is every where call’d the Spirit of Prophecy.
PRINCIPLE 6.
The Jewish & Christian Testaments are An original derivation from the Poetic Genius. This is necessary from the confined nature of bodily sensation.
PRINCIPLE 7TH.
As all men are alike (tho’ infinitely various), So all Religions & as all similars have one source.

The true Man is the source, he being the Poetic Genius.

-William Blake, 1788

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World’s Apart

I’d dilute the love I hold for you, if spoken verbally.
For what beats within so sacred—words destroy eternity.

Taunting lover! How you turn me this way and that.
Not meeting my gaze, constant pursuance on His mat.

Look once—let me drink the blackness of your iris.
Look once I plead, you’ve stirred in me a crisis.

Oh, how much I loath and despise the physical.
And yet without the material, we would rise helical.

Intertwined in space; existing for each other.
Both of us love, neither of us lover.

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Darkness

works_of_lord_byron_poetry_volume_4_frontispiece“I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went- and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires-—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—-the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire—-but hour by hour
They fell and faded—-and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash—-and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—-they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—-and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress-—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects—-saw, and shriek’d, and died—-
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless-—
A lump of death—-a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—-
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—-She was the Universe.”

-Diodati, July, 1816 by Lord Byron

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Farewell

This is how we say farewell.
All the love and moments vanish,
to the toll of a wedding bell.

Take my hand, take my love,
Kept me away, lead me astray.
Never had the chance, nor the say.

Cowardice, with that yellow heart.
Will I play the villain, when you
speak of me to your fresh new start?

Nothing-it meant nothing at all.
If professing your love is so easy,
don’t come around, don’t call.

After everything he had put you through,
the tears, the pain,
All I found was something True.

Goodbye my displaced Queen.
Seek thy unhappiness, misfortune may marry.
Just like you, I bid adieu, from behind a screen.

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People

“Look at the people: elbows, knees, earlobes, crotches, feet, noses, lips, eyes, all the parts usually clothed, and they are engaged in whatever they usually do which is hardly ever delightful, their psyches stuffed with used matter and propaganda, advertising

propaganda, religious propaganda, sexual propaganda, political propaganda, assorted propaganda’s, and they themselves are dull and vicious. They are dull because they have been made dull and they are vicious because they are fearful of losing what they have.

The people are the biggest horror show on earth, have been for centuries. You could be sitting in a room with one of them now or with many of them. Or you could be one of them.

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Every time the phone rings or there is a knock on the door I’m afraid it will be one of the disgusting spiritually destroyed useless babbling ugly fawning hateful humans.

Or worse,on picking up the phone the voice I hear might be my own, or upon opening the door I will see myself standing there, a remnant of the wasted centuries, smiling a false smile, having learned well, having forgotten what I am here for.”

-from Betting on the Muse: stories and poems by Charles Bukowski.

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The Key of Mysteries

A stapled man on a cross is not the Son.

The Goodness of Light be the Anointed.

A pentagram is not evil.

The fear of it is evil.1411134753055

A man in clouds is not God.

Sense perception be thy Epoch.

A baphomet is not the Devil.

The terror of an image be thy Archon.

Pretentiousness and spite,

Humility and altruism.

Synonymous in all of Us.

The Last shall be First,

The lowest the Highest.

From decent, ascension.

From darkest to brightest.

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The Encumbered

The lowly fates are sealed;

Our societal masters have already decreed. 

Souls belonging to Macedonian soldiers,

Whom road for the Alexandrian cause,

Hearts of Poets and pious scholars,

Revolutionary thinkers and scientific tinkers,

Cast again into the River of Lethe,

Fate chosen by Moon-Spewed back into vessel anew. 

Perplexed to find ourselves shunned, unrecognized in the courts of Kings.

Wisdom is eternal, accrued lots will perish.

We ourselves are our own kings, though all of you forgot.

Since I have sense, as well as you:

For what gifts indeed have you that others do not?