POET OF DARKNESS
I am called
a poet of darkness.
I am infused
in the dark places.
The Mystery enters me
The Beloved knows me.
My footprints are left
in many consciousness,
in many dark waters;
and I learn
without understanding and realization
that I walk upon many waters
with many names.
I am the Work:
the One who imprints
the passage way
the words
the ladder
the secret.
I am a poet of darkness
spoken not in the light of day
but spoken to the darkness
that is silent within
Slumbering at the base of the tree
and even the angels and the devils
cannot hear the songs of my footprints;
but I walk among you
plain, simple, obscure -
most throw stones at me with their eyes
most would demonize my touches
most would cast me in the wasteland;
and yet am I not the moisture in the desert,
the conversation that will bring gnosis.
I am the poet of darkness:
the darkness that brings the soul to the Beloved.
The body with its carnal cravings
cannot sense me nor will I be trapped
in beastly urges.
This perfect cloud is not known.
The perfect knowledge wanders.
This perfect sound is not heard.
This perfect pregnant darkness
is hidden for time of birth
and will not be known by any man.
My tears have awakened
at their appointed time;
and my spiral dance begins
as my song carries
The Lost up the ladder
Am I not one of the ladders
that is hidden in the dark places.
I am the poet of darkness.
Words are ships
to sail the dark waters.
Words are the anchors
that will seed the thundering.
Words are pregnant
with lightning.
I am the humble and the exalted.
I am the road that must be traveled
but no human eyes can see.
I am the secret that the Beloved reveals
and the Beloved that reveals the secret.
I do not worship the one who taught me
but become the one who taught me.
I am the likeness and its similitude
to become and ark, a path, a ladder for
what was lost when I stirred and conjured in ignorance.
I cannot be spoken of in plain language.
I am the outside and the inside.
I am the lightning that thunder brings.
I am the pregnant darkness.
I am the alchemist within.
I am the poet of darkness.
who comes to himself from an Androgyny
and weave together the parts of duality.
I am the angel and the conversation
riding the shoulders,
walking the waters,
and rising as a tree in the desert.
I am where all paths converge:
all words fall into this form
all symbols, all images
all conjuring; whisperings.
I am the poet of the pregnant darkness.
I AM THE DARK ART
I am the View. He is the Living Book.
The face I wear is the Seal of Venus
so open me and let me be your face
as I walk in the places
made by the mouth of Man.
I walk into the Book. I flow into the Book.
I am The Unusual. He is the Dangerous. We are The Work.
Will he blow my trumpet of Venus
before he is silenced
and walk among the common empty-eyed people
with an impotent voice?
And the man in the ear is broken mirror pieces.
Am I to be sexualized when I am a Stygian Sojourner
until I am a dark room,
and his wooly-haired Black Venus
is for the naughty and nice
when my companion cannot eclipse his passions.
Will he let his passion own him
before he is the Silence, an alchemical text?
Will he be burned out of existence
as he lets his hand, his mouth, his anus
bring him the orgasm outside him?
Will he blow the trumpet of Venus
when he appears as something else?
I open to him as a talismanic image
so he can be consecrated into the First Magic.
He is an indigenous follower.
He enters me as alchemy.
He travels the underground stream.
The screech owl announces me as a riddle and a prophecy.
I step out of the mirror with the Song
as he becomes a throne companion to this Androgyny.
He will be struck by my thunder rod;
and I will release my uttering as
manna from Beyond.
I will flow into him and he will become a living tree
where this phoenix will sit and divine
as I am seeded into him.
I will not know peace
until we are no longer a trinity.
I am a Black Venus
with an Osirian phallus.
I have lain upon trees
as I have laid upon lovers
and have eaten their apocalypse
for what bread I gave
them I must harvest
the hunger, the infinite sadness of this weeping stone
so I can become a Treasure of the Working.
Will he blow the trumpet of Venus,
become a black book companion
to this Sun of the concealed Father?
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