Ode to lusty love, and the sweet liquors of youth.
Date: Sat, 04 Nov 2000 13:35:12 +0000
From: "Captain Z." <firstname.lastname@example.org>
To: Ancient / Modern Mysticism List <email@example.com>
Mother Mysticism dripped warm sweet honey onto my open lips, and laced her words with cool rivers of iced tea and love just as I was contemplating the surface of her ivory skin and voluptuous breasts. "Inhale the breath of
Magick, and silently howl out the seven names of God," she instructed, as she blew a shotgun of dreamstuff into my eager mouth, and suddenly there was a field of flowers blossoming in my mind, and I was drifting with a dream so
long held high above all else, that it had long since disappeared since I had been forced to deal at length with the only reality available. Or so I thought, and so it went.
A photo found on the Internet: A tender young female figure - she could be 17 or 18 - poised solitary on a blanket spread on verdant grasses, fully dressed in a long white cotton dress, reclined and demure in deep country
fields of emerald Summer. This was no public park. This was away from her town or city, as though she sought the solitude and company of a more natural Nature, and I'm thinking the most natural thing that could have
happened to me would have been to come upon just this young lady when I was wandering the fields and woods surrounding my hometown as a youth. I walked those fields most every day dreaming of such a visitation... but alas, I was not in charge of reality, and my desires, though like the most sincere of prayers, fell upon the ears of a deaf and uncaring heaven.
Let me fantasize: She's reading a book smuggled in by a man whose existence is a secret about a secret that can only be revealed by another secret. She is waiting in silent expectation for you, though she has never met you. She
knows you are coming, for the book says that you are. And though the thrill of her spirit strolls up and down her spine, ambulating towards the soon-to-be feel of fingers on her flesh, there is much more to your meeting
than to satisfy your sexual desires. Still the warm, fragrant air, redolent of Spring's own orgiastic explosion of nectar and new foliage, fills the air with a dream-like heady scent. My God how she loves being a female! She
hopes your fingers are cool... for her flesh is hot and thirsty!
You part the bushes that line the field and step into her domain. She greet you with an excited hug, but not one to ignore the full matter at hand, she swiftly tells you that on the mission this book she is reading will send the
two of you on... well, there is a chance that we could be separated forever, or we could become immortal and spend eternity as poets in control of creation. What this book will give us is free will, something humanity hasn't had for 2000 years. She also tells you that the journey must begin soon, and we will be risking our lives as well as our eternal souls, but first she wants you to take her virginity... because if she dies, she wants to know you were the one, and no grave will keep us apart. Ahh... it's great to be the author of reality... for only then does one have true free will.
She explains to you that there are others reading this story you are in... this text that holds the beginnings of things wished for. And they have their own part in the story that will begin after you mate for life in the secret marriage vow of these fields of green grains. In fact, chances are you will meet them while reading this story that contains a book yet to be written, and yet already complete in the first step you make into the unknown. You are outlaw DNA, and beyond these worn out territories of reality lies a way to live not yet considered by those who are reading this
story. For you see, in the end, God goes to his home on the range to rest for a thousand years, and then its only blue sky, and the great below, to offer up whatever your heart can shape out of stone, wood, earth, and fabric, with a dose of electronics thrown in because electricity is the liquid that flows through solids, and that in itself should tell you that magick is here for the taking. After all, the Ark of the Covenant was a giant electrical capacitor that stored a charge with enough punch to kill you if you touched it... and thus the law to never touch the Ark.
Flesh conducts flesh, and copper, silver, and gold conduct that fluid power that rules the thunderstorms of the Dakotas' plains. Flesh conducts that power that sings the body electric, while computers think in logic gates of
celestial fire hurling across highways laid down by light. Reality is but a garment worn till it is worn, tattered, and bare, simply because no one thought to dress in something more appropriate for the beginning of the first day of the rest of their death. You don't have to accept warmed over twentieth century. The American populace is bored with run of the mill politicians who seem like nothing more than reruns on their TV's. 2001 approaches, and this could be the hot wiring of reality tethered to fantastic dreams incubated in the soul of Hecate, the queen of the witches.
You want magick.... fashion and write a spell. You want wonder... believe that anything can happen. You want lust... fill the temples with lissome, lanky, jiggling beauties strolling with pouting lips and smiles that lead to
secret rendezvous on the many altars of forbidden delights. Because you know all they are serving on TV and the movies is leftovers from days past. How many special effects on the silver screen will it take to cow you into some
corner like a god reduced to the village idiot forgetting the true magick of your own flesh and blood. How many cinematic lovers will it take to make you forget that your flesh is the true repository of desire. When will you
embrace the fact that the old religion was glossed over with transistors and video cards, until magick is now only purchased in software boutiques in the mall. Science killed all the gods, then set up its own temple of environmental pollution placing mass produced power in the hands of any fool with a credit card.
The fields and woods were my first bedroom to bed the whole panoply of endless phantasms of ladies too ignorant to know that the true sexual current is best unleashed in Nature beneath the dome of heaven where the ghosts of Adam and Eve still stroll whispering to the winds the carnal pleasures of Eden catalogued in the tantric positions of the tree of life. And now she is here, at first just a picture hidden away among a horde of young Internet lolitas, but who knows what power that photo holds?
A black rainbow spotted in an early morning sky, and surely the gates to witchcraft are slowly opening as the children of Hecate scatter across the endless plains of deep mind seeking access to poetry penned by masters of Ages only now cracking the morning sky as this present reality slips away like an old worn out table cloth revealing underneath the exquisite table's hand-carved sigils and symbols to raise the science of witchcraft, and the art of sorcery back into the famished soul of the 21st century. So long denied the dream of my youth. So many days spent searching for the maiden of Time's Spring just now discovered in a photo with her lying in the emerald fields of her youth, but alas now I am old enough to be her Father. Woe is me.
Why is it reality twists our dreams placing them in a sequence only an insane god would offer to his creation. Or is there method in this madness? How is it when I was 36, a beautiful, seventeen year old virgin once came to me to lose her innocence, whose gift could have perhaps been our engagement night had I played my cards right, and not held to some vestige of morality shaped by Caesar's ruling of jail bait, and my own useless faith that should have ended in youth after never hearing from my guardian angel no matter how dark the many circumstances were, until my natural magick lashed out at those who did not recognize a young male witch cruelly crushed by the weight
of their Christian plan of salvation.
I pulled the plug on their temple of tinker toys, and later in life eventually found myself surfing the edge of the biggest wave of magick rushing upon the beaches of the New Age where even time gave up her secrets in exchange for freedom from her weight of inherited sorrow, where gravity is no respecter of size, as kings and paupers fall at the same rate of speed in the bottomless pit, which I at last realized like the glimmer of a new dawn, and spread my wings for the first time, and flew to the whore of Babylon just to bask in her presence. Jesus may be the way, the truth, and the life... but only her long legs and her bulging pantied crotch can cool the hell fires of my lust. Sorry Jesus... but your truth could never hold me tight late at night. That truth for me can only come from her lips. But then I think that you would understand.
It's the force that drives the green bud... that heaves the marrow bone... you can see it in the stars... all points shine out alone. But they cluster in the haze... giving form to formless space... in full galactic schemes. As the atoms set their pace... the stars adjust their rays... are we not in between? Siddhartha tried luxury, then asceticism, and decided the best path lay between the two. But the same choice everyday leads to hunger for what
lies beyond the borders, with variety being the spice of life. Follow the extremes to the other side of death and wisdom will greet you like a young Pentecostal girl who has an itch she is just dying for you to scratch. Scratch and sniff it, and the two leaved gate separating the two super powers will soon open to the power of the leaves of the tree of life that are for the healing of the nations... and the pleasures of her fountain of sex, and the occult fire of Satan it bequeaths you will at first eclipse the love of God, for her love is flesh... and flesh must obey.
And Satan's love is a mass murderer wreaking havoc on all those who thought they were your victors. One is a child conceived by the force of a young female's ivory flesh flashing virgin white in a morning light as I made thrusting repeated contact with the maidenhead's prelude to a greater awakening, and the other was the road leading me deeper into darkness... and sometimes the darkness is the whore of Babylon as she plays midwife to deliver you from the womb of the virgin Mary just in time for you to assume the role of the great prostitute's geopoliticus warrior. Goodbye Mary, and hello to our Lady of the Well.
I need another deep draught from the fountains of freedom from foregone conclusions that always taste just like the frightening, yet perfect plan of escape smuggled into the prison of this all too logical 20th century reality of the scientist-priest. A breath of fresh air like a crack in the fabric of time as all the possibilities of "being" like a billion billion coincidences colliding at once reveal all of time in a moment made for choosing the path beyond this ending stalemate of a dying century where men still think the gods care about them. I have been force fed on reality's stuffy cloaks of impoverished design until I regurgitated all the sanitized sanity of modern man only to be left with a photo of a girl in a long white cotton dress lying in a field that is an answer to something I lost long ago. She could be from any Age... and therein lies the power of her mystery... her defeat of time. What does it mean... is she still waiting for me there... Does she care if I am late in the day of my youth's desires.
It's as if maybe if I only drink from the mouth of the great prostitute, before she loses her innocence, and takes up the road of whoredom, thinking that the only path permitted her, then the lonely painful detritus of these past 28 years will yield the chance at love that will jumpstart the 100'th goddesses' endless inner universe permitting a threshold of witches to open Nature's temple once again to us, and at last admit a man and a vision of a young girl strolling naked through the forests and fields enraptured by the feel of sundown's colored fingers of sky on their hungry skin, followed by the nights offering them the silver garment of moonlight's cloak of sacred lust and bawdy laughter as all the stars fall one by one in completion of the universe's only great purpose: the unspoken depths that speak so fervently when lovers touch. Rock a little Lily, and humor an old soldier charmed by your youth.
Ashes to ashes... flesh to flesh... and the beautiful dust of lust covers every saint...
Painting by Lida Geh <firstname.lastname@example.org>