HOURGLASS 8:8

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There was a woman with long white hair and there was a man that followed her. She lived in a dense forest of thicket and tall spindly trees. He buried himself in dead leaves just to hear her breathing, to be near her. He was very tall and he was dark. The shadows met his face and his eyes always gazed downward, at her footprints, at the leaves, at what she left behind upon the decaying earth. She was complicated because she was so simply a widow. She was slender and her back arched like the cats she lived with. Her eyes were often yellow like that and when she was weaving, the way she would, it seemed that silken thread came from the palms of her delicate veiny hands. She would leave white webs everywhere, in his eyes. Red diamonds shaped like the hourglass that sat behind it all, dripping it’s hearts out until the day nothing was left. The day or the hour nobody could know. But her, he was tempted by a death wish he could not resist. She was quiet, it was the cats who purred loudly. These were forest cats, wild and sleek. She was very old, we cannot know her age. At night she would sit beside the moon glowing. No one could be sure where she came from or why. But this man, he understood and although she pretended not to know that he followed her, she knew. And she fed him just like he was a cat. A kitten really, not wild like the cats that circled her feet, but domestic. He needed something. Spider-less eyes. She was all he saw. The days went by. The seasons passed. Her hair grew so long it touched the ground. His eyes were so heavy they burned holes in the earth anywhere she had stood, he gazed wherever she walked as he followed and a black trail of darkened leaves was formed. It was a wet forest and the flame was contained by the earth who was fertile. It was the groove where streams are formed. Streams that lead to rivers and rivers that swim desperately back to the ocean. But this realm wasn’t like our ocean. It was clean and clear and the fish had minds like men. And so evil began to form in the big waters and the woman knew. She knew the earth must meet the sun, in the same way the ocean meets the moon. She knew that the cats were willing to die, die for light. Die for the light I told you. He wanted her, he followed her. The fish were filled with his water. His water was filled with her. The flame had a mind. A central stomach that ached for it’s food. The earth. I have never eaten the sun although I’ve tried. The cats had been with her since the beginning, there were twelve and four were male. There were eight females who she called eight names. She slept in a cave hidden by a giant tree. The cats were inside her. He slept under a tree, beneath rotting leaves, buried in musk and deep longing. I suppose you don’t understand me. They both live inside is the main idea. Her hair is long and white, he wears a dark hood. She cannot exist without him, he does not exist without her. The world is ending. They will empty the blood of earth like a pool that gets drained. They will burn the last remaining path so that no trace remains. Either of possession or of regret. The trees form a spiraling circle in the dense wet forest made of webs that only the moon sees because the sun doesn’t care. The ocean isn’t far and another place will rise and it won’t be good it will be evil, worse than anything we’ve ever done. These fish breath light, not air. The ocean is black now because of it. Die for the light. Once it’s over, we won’t even notice. She lives here and works, weaving stories to hold creatures that need her and giving the cats a feline queen, herself who carves minds into intricate webs decorated with spiders who store memories and stop the night from collapsing. This is how it’s always worked here. And the reason he follows her is because he is how you might imagine a shadow. A loyal shadow that became a man. A man who grew warm beneath her and eyes were formed. Then the river inside him became charged with electricity and magnetism and he began creating fires. She was. She is the central sun. He is the quickening glance of fervor. They are the creators and destroyers of imagination and limitation. The cats are large and shiny and walk upon this earth as gods. Gods who eat fish. Gods who see the ocean as a puddle. Maybe we are smaller and bigger than we realize. Maybe there is no middle to anything. Maybe he will never leave her because she is his body. Maybe she is his body because he is her movement. I have become confused and jealous when I think about the quiet, damp and misty forest with traipsing cats that shimmer and beasts that are given a mind by a white haired woman weaving webs from her palms as a tall dark hooded man watches, hooded eyes starting fires whenever she moves, and only the path turns to black killing nothing but footprints that got in the way. I will leave nothing behind me but his devastation. The dream will eventually die. The dream will die for the light and when we wake up the sun will be gone and the moon will be a liar. We will trust no one inside the great incubation tube. There will be purring, loud purring, hissing and deep growling. There will be claws leaving blood on skin walls and it will be too late. Because she will be gone. There is not two chances to die is why, there is one. And the ocean wasn’t real anyway but we still were afraid of the hooks that were dangling. The swiping claws, the compassionate beings. Whoever and whenever is beyond us now. This is the death of not I, but my dream. I spent a lot of time sleeping waiting for her, crying for him, stroking cats. Thinking I might not be enough. All of me, nowhere and nothing. Running out of time. Excuses of weariness and hunger. And now the sky has opened over the oval world of imagined forest and I’ve been lifted into another mouth. A mouth without a language. Which is scary. Scary because I’m me and I let it happen like this. Didn’t self destruct on my own before the hourglass was drained. And so I say, remember today is it. All of it. Living and dying, seeking mouth tell me what to do. The big thing, the high thing, the right thing. The low deep way to the left of this world. Die to the light who sees and hears, the seen and the listening. The truth really is, the movement and decay never left this bed, the bed of my dead body. And I never slept either. Who are you? I wasn’t here, my hair was long and white eternity. Growing eternity, he was my tongue. Red body, black dream, white strands that never stop moving. Goodbye empty vessel. Downward spiraling screwdriver. Flames that burst like eggs from inside my own fertile mind. I said die for the light like I already knew who I was. And this story has no beginning or end but is the number 8. Hourglass 8:8

P.S. I know you’d rather have recipes and meditation tips. And that is what this is. Throughout history people have eaten blood soup. They’ve beaten themselves with whips to destroy their lust and they’ve eaten blood soup to destroy the lust of others. Men and women as humans and other species have always eaten, abandoned and rejected their children depending on circumstance and then the one little one is left to fend for themselves and how lucky you are to be given the chance to see what a twisted ray of light you’ve been exhumed from. This is my advice to myself and all, figure this mess out. Get it straight, there are no victims only participants. Meditation isn’t an act, it’s an approach. One recipe is the only recipe. Rip out your own heart to see how late it’s gotten. Stop feeding on children both within and without. Be aware of the awareness that is so primal we’re ashamed. Fuck the shame. And I mean literally. This is a joke, these planet reapers with their restaurants and outfits hung in windows on shapeless mannequins. Women with no hips and men with penises too big to fit in their pants. This is a joke- that edible food is to be bought and children are to be tamed. Turned into you and me, pale lumpy prisoners of war drinking coffee and watching phones as they talk to us. As we look for life on the screen and listen for which way to turn, hands trembling high on stimulants and sedatives. Minds confused by mainstream dictation. The way it is, is that there’s only the forest of webs and I am not the one who made this up. I can cook all day and still the blood gets shed and they’re dying from sexually transmitted disease and starvation for no reason but the evidence. For evidence. The clues we won’t see. Look from above down at this sinking world of electrical storms and poison waters. Do you really think you belong here looking through books on what to cook or how to meditate? Drones fill the sky head and anchors fill the aching heart. Home isn’t across the ocean or even where you are now. You don’t know these people you look at- “family, friends,” television- whoever- they’re masks. Masks meant to trap you in the web. The mythic creature is covered in a thousand legs. And although it seems invisible, this creature looms just outside your eyes, humming and hovering. We have a maker, they said it was called “God,” like we’re so stupid it needs a name so we can beg for forgiveness and help. Shame upon the human is the end of man. Our only home was never here anyway so they can have it- making us guilty for the dark waters and the diseases they’ve spread. So I’ve narrowed it all down in my own way in the above parable and I hope you recognize our kinship enough to get up and out of bed, away from the dining table and back into the diamond that’s waiting once you flip the lid off this demented wormhole sin pit of trickery and deception. Just so you can’t be you, but a slave to shame. Reading about holy people like they’re somewhere else but inside you. Like you couldn’t be good enough, ever to do these miraculous things. Like you’re caught and hopeless and waiting for her to get hungry and devour your body all over again in the dream of wasted space and dripping moments. It’s not real, any of it. Sing your way back to the song. Not any song you’ve ever heard here on this planet, but a deeper sound heard below the radar and the body grip, the low song that only heavy otherworldly animals know. And I mean 1,000 legged animal creatures that are made of light without fear noises. That spin over and under all concept and belief. That have no rules, only one law. The law that is itself beyond all fiction of form attached to direction. You can have no comment, you can have it all.

Sharada Devi

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Transmutation, the reversal of gravity

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Everything changes, faces fade away and our words come back to haunt us. Words like love and forever. I’ve heard it all and watched most everyone sink into obscurity. It’s a slow boil. Time passes and gravity takes hold of even the once lightest heart. There is no deal making, no compromising in time. No way to be free without fighting for freedom. Because it’s a trap. This recycling dilemma of the ancestors. Most humans fail at getting out, from the swamp. We just die to this body momentarily, face our self generated demons in the bardo and soon pop back out again, somewhere. Maybe earth, maybe human, maybe not. But it’s not easier next time, all is forgotten. So there is the starting over of suffering once again. The karmic hooks bore a little deeper, the neurosis and fear a bit more prolific and we slowly become another version of what we were before. Minus the good karma we wasted, plus the deeper grooves we created, and hopefully a good deed here and there will get us out of a couple tight places. Why is everybody in denial of what this is? It’s such a horrifying nightmare what I see going on with everyone all around me. The giving up, the bargaining, the weakness. There is so much at stake with our short time here on earth why would you want to waste it imagining family and friends, ownership and titles? Death is coming very soon and before you get to that moment of no more breath you’re likely to suffer immensely in body mind and soul because of what you knew and didn’t do, because of the time wasted in insecurity and fear. Because of laziness, ignorance and greed. Because you wanted power, to be somebody. And even if you got these things, they don’t matter now because you’re dying and since you didn’t find a way to face death before death, since you didn’t “die daily” and I mean really- you’re now entering a situation left to chance with no practice at all. And that’s a big risk to take considering it’s the one and only test of all you’ve ever done. How you exit this stage of role playing and attachment to body, thoughts and possessions. I’m just saying, everyone fades. When people don’t get the power or whatever they want from me they disappear and years later reemerge barely recognizable. Pulled hard by the demons of gravity and chaos. Their faces hardened, their bodies swollen, their eyes dull, their purpose forgotten. The righteous fire diminished. All for what? Comfort? Because you thought you could get out of facing your shit? It eats you if you don’t eat it. This is alchemy, eating your shit. Digesting your poison, not taking in and making more, but stopping and letting it rise and circulate, transmuting the poisonous shit into the nectar of the gods. Becoming who you are instead of prolonging the role playing. You’re only copying your mother, missing your father, destroying your children’s future by making them into you. Because you have no choice but to become your ancestors. It is their blood that fills you and programs you. There must be a shift into the deep understanding of what this place is and requires for true fulfillment. There must be an understanding of the game if you hope to be victorious. It is a game you’re caught in, fully invested and unaware of the truth you must embody. The truth is in the shit. Take a good look at what you’re working with. Do something about it. Stop trying to get something to end your pain and confusion, it’s pitiful. You’re better than that. Get out of the human baby creating drama and move through your own body scanning as if you were the eyes of the sun. Shining light into all dark and forgotten places. Why are you settling for monotony and inertia? It is your choice. You have a choice. Get your priorities straight. Take a deep look into your sad lonely eyes and tell me what you see. Why won’t you save the right person- yourself. You are useless to any endeavor if you can’t heal your own deepest wounds. But for this to happen the poison needs to rise. It’s an equation and it’s a delicate issue of transformation and re-creation. Like Buddha said, “If you don’t like the effect, change the cause.” You sell yourself to this place like a worn out whore. Why? One reason is because you’re surrounded by ignorance and ignorance only encourages the same violent dull result. We need the violence that brightens. The wrathful action that cleanses all impurities and stops the clock from dragging you down. Lift up your face, stop sagging. Change your posture in the deepest way. There is a way out. But like they say, “You need to want this for yourself more than I want it for you.” So I can do and say nothing but watch you fade away, because somehow you want to. Because deep inside you just won’t open your eyes to the light that you come from. Because you still think there is something on earth that will complete you. A house, a job, a child, the dream of name and fame. Nothing will complete you but your own poison transmuted and churned into the soma that will transform you into the eternal golden light goddess or god that you truly actually are. There are no short cuts. Only direct confrontation and decisive action. Results only result from the wrathful, relentless cutting away of the self sabotaging delusions we are bound in. We must be free from the heavy confusion of samsara to enter the clarity of the light of nirvana. And I mean usefulness, not bliss. I mean we must become the meaning of our own existence, not the other way around. Set yourself up for the victory. Stop being a loser. It’s an equation. It’s God’s will. Transmutation, the reversal of gravity. Sharada Devi

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Bird under water

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I picked up a dead yellow bird and dropped her to the bottom of the ocean. Death was inside of me. He told me I couldn’t swallow. The walls were all yellow and I was afraid. I was spinning, while he spoke. Becoming a sharp piece of something. A dagger I had imagined, a useless tiny beak that stabbed through the water as the little bird sunk, yellow. Into nothing but weight. A threat in my mind really, all of it. A heavy boned body, this task of annihilation. Self imposed annihilation. Claustrophobic rubbing, the hard knot. He said I wasn’t anybody. Not really. That I was a current that made an impression. That the essence of the sky was the yellow I saw. That the walls were inside me. That truly, i couldn’t stop swallowing anyone that would have me. Broken,
throated bird on the floor undressed. At the bottom, songless and so loud it was deafening. Undressing herself inside of no one. Death was inside me, in this room with me. Sitting up against a dark wall watching me while I talked about my pain. Pain I couldn’t have possibly swallowed, but he said I did and because of it I made all kinds of sharp things inside me. Sharp and watching he listened while I told him everything. I originally asked him if he could help me, because nobody could. Well, at least I didn’t think so. He was the only one I ever asked. He said, “How do you feel?” I said “What?” He said, “In your body, what are you feeling?” I said, “Cold. Nothing….You.” He smiled softly and said, “If you were to open this feeling up like a package what would you find?” And I tried to feel it my body, a shiver, a pang, something hot and ready to move. And I bared down and pushed into all the shards of icicles made of rage, broken shafts made of loneliness forgotten. I probed until I nearly shattered, or collapsed wet and houseless on the floor before him. Naked, lost and abandoned. Slowly turning into a pale blue ghost…a ghost made of stained sky and trapped water…until finally, words began to drip from my mouth. “If I open you like a package I find the loss of me regretfully full of seeing, touching, dry heaving in every direction, but strangely. Somehow you’re so strange. I can never find your arms…” And as I said this I knew I was lying. “I am a liar yellow bird, because I’ve never been born, because your eyes are all I have, watching.” He was leaning into the shadows of the golden room, hooded eyes within a graceful ageless body listening- defying me, knowing already no matter what I say, the ways that I weave myself back into him over and over again. “You know it’s not true.” I said, “I miss you, everywhere I look is you inside me. I miss you, the way you cover me so that I can stop talking, thinking, answering questions.” He sat silently breathing my body inside and out. Watching. “I want home.” Is what I was thinking. There isn’t a choice is what I knew already. “Come to me.” He whispered as I slithered across a floor that didn’t even exist, between us. “Isn’t this fun?” He asked. I said, “Aren’t you lost without me also?” Killer was the sound I heard, the sound that surrounded everywhere. This was my father invisibly made from scratch. There is nothing else. Only him, magical him. He said, “Get back inside you’re a bad bad girl.” And I jumped, straight as a pin, into him. And I arched like a rainbow and I opened my eyes inside of him. And he pushed me out again and we laughed in all colors. “The room has changed.” “It never changes, you’re a liar. I don’t kill, I catch and release.” And we laughed again a rainbow of death all around me. We laughed until all the sharp hooks and points began to poke holes in my skin from within and I bled like a wild sprinkler all over the room, spraying my lover in fresh fragrant blood. Covered in blood drops and shining with me, he laid down and I got on. Here we go again. The ride to end all rides. “I’ll steer.” I said. “Stop pretending, little bird.” “Then I’ll slither?” I asked hoping for more. Radiant gemstone. Snake body, heart of wings. Love is all we say. The love only I can give without words- though we talk about how when and why. “Take me and make me,” He said, “Into the black snake man that knows how the story line goes.” “Beating heart, I always want you inside me.” And I said this because I knew what cold and empty really is. I knew what not to touch, the walls I don’t see yet describe like I’m someone whose there, when really I’m dead from the beginning of time. No one can see his eyes and live, that’s what I want. His eyes that go on, with me living in them as his glance forever pulling the light back to home. This is what happened, what always happens to those who seek the unsurpassable peace- Death went in and I never left. We’ve been together watching, catching and releasing ever since. For each other, from the peak of the highest place, to know no other. From another place. These perfect immaculate arms- neither scales nor feathers are beyond the skin of the mind’s last night before the dying. Here on virgin earth, making death the cause for any worthy life. “You don’t understand.” Is the portal. “Yes, yes I do.” He whispered all over the walls colored yellow. The tunnel made of red moonlight. “Yes, yes I do.” He exhaled as I turned limp like an unborn flower in the stream of an unseeing night. “Yes, yes I do.” He inhaled and as I opened my soul’s mouth he blew back the blue end of loneliness. This winged serpent who watches the sky from the seat of the sun, who owns the biggest tree ever rooted in earth. Who winds up and down every body, who spreads open eternity, eventually, based on the love of true death, is the one we should listen to. Besides death I sit, under it all quietly, penetrating the vivid waters of human pain. Enthroned. I am simply a shell for the waves, an emblem for the moon crown. Naked black body of breath, he is the only God who cares enough to meet every last person ever imagining creation. Face to face destruction. This love is the only love that’s true. That is mine. The union of death with his bride. The song unsung below us. We are one with the one. I call him Black Sun. No one sees him at all. He sees everything and owns this world that fills you. This is the lineage of the invisible moon axis, who sends us sideways to him as he leans into our darkness knowing always what we need to be free.

Bird under water. Sharada Devi

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Naga Rat

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There was an ache in his head. A rat in the cage. Only the babies keep dying. Her arms are long, long enough to reach into silence. The rat cries,
this cage isn’t home. I ache like the stillness of midnight. Bars rattle silently, a bony fear quivers in his motherless body, This isn’t my ache, this isn’t my head. I see where this goes is where it always goes. Reaching for something that cannot ever be. The silence of someone who sees. Into me, spaceless and chewing at death who has trapped me. Inside of you and your wants. I have nothing to give you. I gave and I gave of myself looking for the roots of the ache.
It was the urge to devour, become everything I was. For yourself who is caught. In a cage with no mother for food. And then there is this rain that keeps falling, these dogs underneath the house, this remnant of daylight left only until tomorrow. Kali said, “Give it to me.” And so I did, but didn’t know what I was giving since everything was on my list and the baby was shaking loudly inside the music. Kali maheshwari parvati shankara sharanam sharanam sharanam ma. There isn’t a single prayer that can stop this death, not a single word you can say to save him. I gave him to her, thinking of you. Whoever you are, pretend it’s me. I don’t know. The way is through the bloody triangle. The sound of fear is in your eyes. My purity cannot be tainted by any body or movement. There is no one who can hold me down while I’m reaching. Up to him, up to him. He isn’t far now. Pull me inside, pulling him down. Inside. Little rat, greedy taker. “I look like jesus sometimes.” I heard him say that to himself as if jesus were his brother. Poor caged rat, poor beloved corpse. Death upon my body is the smile inside the smoke, body of smoke. I do not mind the smell of burning flesh and I do not fear the perfect knot. Tied inside his head, no room for the eye of God, no reason to even look at me. And still I keep him, bound in his cell. Music playing, rain and wind knowing. Dogs begging, fear gripping, desire rising, heart aching, mother calling, father going, me. Just me, doing it all. Waiting for no one, hopelessly alone and watching death run it’s course. It’s only a baby. And I gave the baby to death. I brought flowers and candles and I blew a final breath over his sweet body…time will take care of the rest. I come from blood, the pulse, the ticking. I come from your panic risen. I come from an angry sex box exploding. I come from the ones who chew through their prisons. I come from the sound of her voice, what she says. “Get out of my way.” There is the naga. There is the head of the snake. Over the rat. Waiting to eat. I bring everyone together. Inside and out. The ritual becomes what she needs to devour. Bodies covered in each other making shameful noises. Bodies writhing in guilt, guilt for what’s been created and for what’s been taken. The lust of animal murder, the innocence goes first. “I will be first, mount the world with all the lights on me.” And I said, “Little baby rat, you’re in a cage. The lights are the candles I lit offering you to death herself. The sounds are the fading of your life, the fear is the scent she will follow to find you. And I am here doing it all, as the mother who sacrifices her only child to darkness and sin…”

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“Did I sin?” Said death from the darkness of fear. Fear where baby rats hide, dreaming of their prowess with no hope at all. I ignore stupid question like that btw….then I heard a sound like the low growl of a wolf from the back of the room where her doorway was waiting -and I knew she was here. So I left the room and let her do it alone, eat her child back again into the bodiless state of motherly desire. Back and forth I open and close my mouth like I’m crazy and bored. Back and forth I open and close my eyes like I don’t care or even see what I know. Back and forth, in and out of my spiraling body…I think it’s funny you think there’s any space between us at all, any thought I don’t think. Any you I don’t fuck in circles. Head blown. Life on the floor left in shadows and dirty paw prints. These dogs think all the food is for them. They’re so stupid. Poor dogs, the ones who curl in your lap and stick their tongues in your mouth looking for milk while rats fuck in the oven not even knowing what fucking is and when her babies are taken she just eats again until another guy rat comes to fuck her in the warm darkness of this curse. Despite all my rage, I’m still here. And it sucks all over the place. Bodies talking nonsense while I plan everything in advance as if I’m separate and controlling the naga who knows. Me seeing in his shifty eyes. Me tasting in his pitchfork tongue. Me thinking in his mind madly. Me the secret in his death softly pulling…it’s all my voice you hear, it’s all mine. And only nobody knows. When I’ll come next, if I’ll come back. If love is real. Why death speaks in riddles and how a mother could ever eat her only child. What if I was right and you were the only one left. And you were a rat and your mother forgot you from the very beginning and thought only of me. Me and the king. Naga who knows…something besides your little rat making dick. And it’s all reckless music really with me inside having gone completely insane, covered in clouds that are strangely empty spilling astral blood that is perfectly red and filled with stardust. This equals love, equals my moves, becomes my cage, takes you out, into me, no me. Nothing but minus fear meaning light sounds filled with the truth of food. What we need is to eat God out. Out of this wretched house of rats and back into me, the animal queen. The only voice, beyond hearing is the primal growl. The deep snake moan. The naga box rattling me loose, into you. Into me, this hungry mouth that fits and fucks whatever fills it. And I know because my throne is filled with useless bones and tiny yellow teeth.

Naga Rat, Sharada Devi

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