Raped by Memories (Novel Excerpt)

Raped by Memories  I died so I could become my Mother; not my human mother. Hope this is the last death, the last rape, and the primal wound is sealed with a Beloved’s kiss. I am a sun of the Mother.
As Awareness grew, I understood that human existence is an experiment within the journey of a Prime Creator. There are parts of Prime Creator that do not get along with its other selves. Some parts are in conflict manifesting as shadow entities, as diseases, as demons or even as the possessed or psychopaths in a world that is like an asylum.
In a journey of awareness, the light falls away and is sometimes lost in forms created from its confusion and belief of separation and the fears became Archons, puppet masters who created system to keep the light disassembled.
As a Prime Creator explores it selves…it reaches a “Now” where it will create a convergence point, an event that will gather all its selves into a union.
There are so many selves to know and heal so Prime Creator can continue to evolve. So the inner conflicts, the inner challenges are manifested as dramas in human lives.

————-
Will I make a new world out of the bodies of my children?
————-
He trembles for my blackness. He brings a visual dismemberment. This cultural scavenger wants to colonize, enslave and keep me primitive in his embrace as he impregnates with his fears and superstitions because he cannot walk through the sea of images and not be masked as the Other. He needs to displace my authenticity so he can enslave consciousness. I will not be his feeding ground or an Earth to desecrate. I will come with my Father’s face; and there shall be no peace in this land of the dead. I will breach the boundaries.
————-
“We are gathered here today to talk about the love of a man. There are some of you out there who will love anything with three legs and some of us will try and cripple two of them. We all run from the snake but we keep walking in the tall grass just knowing he’s a bite away. Can I get a witness?
Yessir, a man will lay you till he’s bone dry, tell you he loves you and already be crawling into another hole with him still on your lips. He’s a dog and we know how a dog likes to bark. And he will chase anything that smells like it got a hole. He doesn’t care where he puts it anymore. Can I get witness!
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying to yourself, how can one as fine as me know about love. Sisters, loving a man will make you sit up longs hour, count the seconds on the clock, wonder where his hands are feeling up tonight. I know about the last drink hoping to wash the taste of him off your lips. How many dildos have you compared to the man you love to see if they reached the bottom of your ocean? I’ve had a lot of men diving in the swimming hole but they all drowned before they reached the bottom. Can I get witness?
Men, where are they? We look long and hard for a man. Can’t find them in the yellow pages, stores don’t keep ‘em in stock, and I don’t like to plug in anything with batteries. And when you find one, everybody wants some till your supply runs out.
I don’t want a man. I don’t want that long-legged wonder that wraps me tight till I drown in his sweat. When it gets real good, a chill runs up and down your body like children at play. That man I come home to every night, spreads me wide, climbs inside, and I say, “Drive me home James, and don’t spare the gas.”
I’ve raised a man to heights he’s never been and swore he was on the wings of a dove. I’ve launched many men from my hips.
I’ve dried his tears and become the sun he rose to. I’ve been the valley he came to rest in, the mountain he scaled when he felt a challenge.
I’ve been the night that covered him and made him whole. A little more, just a little more and I know he’ll take me.
Take me home!
Can I get a witness!
Somewhere out there somebody knows about the love of a man!
Tell me my sisters and brothers, didn’t he turn your head last night as those sighs raced across your pillow and your hands pulled the stars from the sky and massaged his back.
Didn’t you melt across satin seas until the salt of your love laid upon the shore of an island you two had formed?
Can I get a witness?
I need a witness.
Tell me there is a witness about the love of a man.
————-
When this monologue performance ends, so does this world.

Fall of the Mind (Novel Excerpt)

Fall of the Mind JOURNAL EXCERPT #24
The Dead come to me asking for light. The lost souls sometimes walk with me asking about the Light. Even the fallen gods want to ascend.
“I am no one’s savior,” I yell at them. Yet, the Dead say I am like a tree in a graveyard speaking to the Dead; telling them about the journey of the Soul through light and darkness; their journey that they forgot they were participating in.
The Lost, the Dead, the Alien, the Fallen Ones, the Old Ones all want me to be this trinitized being who will take them to the light. But I kept saying who am I? Some say I am the path; some say I am the corridor, some say I am a whore of the Heaven. All I know is everything in creation wanted a piece of me and there is just so much of me to go around. My mind feels like this taffy pull in omni-direction.
There are dark forces at work that have been using the human mind as their personal playground. So there is a war between dark forces for the human mind. It is the War in the Heavens.
In my quest, I have opened doorways that could possess other consciousness or become a pathway to help bring conscious into the light.
I am no one’s savior.
In my ignorance, I consumed worlds within myself. For not going fully into the light, the mysteries of the lower worlds were placed into me until I could accept my fallen creations.
So now the Dead walk through me for light. Aliens call to me to bring a child of light into their world. I am fighting demons who play sexual games with the flesh. I remember fragments of lives where I existed not like this, not human?
My eyes are still human but when the aliens download into me they make me weep. They want the light or to own my mind. They think my mind is a board game and I have forgotten the rules.
Yet, I am more than the barriers of this flesh. I am a sacred vessel; a sacred space. I am here but every where. I must have ecstatic remembrances. I want to believe it happened, this dark night of the soul but then again, I wanted to believe it didn’t happen. Where will I be if I said, yes, it happened and I just didn’t have a psychotic breakdown? Some days I can accept everything. Some days I can’t. When I don’t know where my next crust of bread is coming from, it makes me afraid and makes me believe in the limitations of the flesh. But Faith-Wisdom is the key; but that is something I still must learn.
How can I accept that I am not fully human and must become one. I am the living light having a human experiences but I wonder will these experiences make me human in time so I can be come an Uthra.
But I must understand the imprinting. I must face the being known as Mindset who manifested the Adversary who has tracked me through time and space.
My shamanic journeys have take me the netherworlds; places so dark, air thick like molasses one can barely breathe to retrieve my denial fragments; journey into worlds where I must take on non-human forms to anchor light, retrieve soul fragments; to remember the parts of me that have been dismembered and bring them back to become a whole being.
Will I succeed?

Footprints in a Shoebox Reality (2 poems)

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Footprints in a Shoebox Reality

LIVING IN THE CITY FACE
Buildings are like faces
we got to live in them
as property
from 9 to 5
in this city of face
people gather in buildings
thoughts spilling from wound
all these wounds gather
and make themselves into a parasite
that gives the building a face
and we occupy a face
that is etching itself on our face
than we exit
from the mouth of this face
and go into another face
looking out its eyes
we are tenants
in this face
that slowly disenfranchise our mind
forgetting
we need our own face to face time
and we inherit
the illness of these buildings
because we live in their face
and their face becomes a mask
and this is what people wee
do you really see the person in front of you
are just see a mask reflected.

ABEL
I am the commitment of my brother’s dark journey.
I am the high in the lower.
I am the darker brother
I am the other side of the tree.
I am the other side of the coin.
I am the first spilled blood.
I am the wanderer under the world.I am the womb companion, a coiled splendor
who sits in the shadows
not wanting to be born
so I am a hieroglyphics whispering from the walls
until an Old One pulls me into the world of my brother.
I am a chaotic swirling mass darting in and out sight.
I am my brother’s shroud and unrefined
as I am howling at my brother’s black moon
that will bring me forth as a Morning.
I am unholy in the dark places
that brings the Black Sun.I walk amongst you and you do not see me.
I am a slumbering nightmare.
I am a frightening redeemer.
I am a crowned serpent.
I am the darker brother, a brother’s first kill.
I am the dark serpentine brother slithering
through crevices, cracks, caves where
even angels will not look.

Whore of the Heavens (Novel Excerpt)

Whore of the HeavensWe are R’azel. We are a collective consciousness.
We are a Mothership.
R’azel could be viewed as a city of consciousness, a higher frequency thought-form. We are a collective of entities who have formed a uni-mind that hovers near your planet as a transducer of energies coming into Earth as well as those leaving Earth.
There are Motherships above your world that are here to help with the ascension of your world and the universe.
These collective consciousness, sometimes serve as a transducer for interdimensional energies, also serve as a marker for interdimensional travel and they can enter various time zones. Usually Mother Ships are a feminine consciousness, wrapped around other various types of energies. Motherships can exist on various levels simultaneously and also can be used as “warships”. They are viewed as “angelic vehicles” that can enter the Heavens. Some Motherships represent sections of creation that have returned to their source when they have reached completion of their evolutions, these ships can be viewed as expressions of goddess in the realities of time and space.
Tonight we will talk about the powers that are sleeping within you. You are awakening to being multi-dimensional beings that are trapped in limitations. These multi-dimensional beings are you; they are your powers. Before you incarnated on Earth, you are and were light workers from other realities. You were manipulated by other selves, who changed your DNA, who stopped you from accessing powers that are expressing themselves in other forms. These other selves became like gatekeepers preventing you from accessing your multi-dimensional self. They wanted to be the forbears of creation and manipulate it to their desires. They do not understand; they exist within another entity that exists within another entity. The connection has been severed; no one can ascend as a whole being to a higher vibration. The part that is disconnected is quarantined while other portions of the entity can move into a higher vibration but at some point the entity must return all of its portions to itself before it goes beyond what you can imagine.
It is time for you to send out a call and return the powers that have become self aware and that have been blocked from you to access them because of these interlopers. In a sense, you are your own enemy. Part of the darkness you fear and must confront is a convergence of your denial fragments. You are a part of a vast program; an experiment that is coming to completion.
Think of yourself as an eye not in the traditional sense of the human eye; the true Eye is omni-directional; it is multi-dimensional; it is not linear.
The Eye is more powerful than fire. It sees from the Unknown water; it discerns; it does not judge but brings forth all that was before it, into what is present. It brings existence from Images. It is The Beginning and The End.

The Icarus Poet (Poem Excerpt)

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The Icarus Poet

NEED A BLACK MAN
Some white youths
needed a black man
to beat; to hate
to beat; to hate
so they would
not beat; not hate
themselves.

And they beat
the flesh
with hands
with thoughts
that made a torturer’s hand
and voices
like inquisitors
ride their shoulders
because the voices
are addicted to their hate
and they need a black man
to take their poison.

They need to be the demon
riding their shoulders
into the flesh of another
but the beaten flesh
fuels the voices of hate
clouding the light in their eyes.

The white youths needed
a black man to beat
and they hate the black voice
rising above the noises of the world
because it is no longer ‘the help’
no longer nursing black babies;
no longer wanting to be ‘the boy’









yet, white youth love head bopping
niggas when they are dancing
to the music that make women ‘ho’s’
and white youth need to beat
a black man
since the black man
no longer visibly beats himself

black men camouflage their hate
in bling bling
subjecting women to administering
their dicks
and they need a white man
to beat them

because they need someone
to carry the hate
they cannot heal within
and project
on to their women and children
and graveyards called ghettos
house black bodies empty of souls;
dead who still haunt

and white youth need a black man
to beat
and black men ask for white youth
to beat
them
when they forget who they are
and allow destructive images
to empty them of soul.

white youth need a black man to beat
hate is being chased by fear
and we all run from fear
if we cannot make someone
the object of that fear.

white youth need to hate a black man
as black man hates the black man
as white man hate the man of color
as colors hate the white color
that wants to make them slaves
and the plantation system thrives
in the mind of white that want “help.”

Mythobiography (Poem Excerpt)

Mythobiography The Fallen Angel said, “Sometimes we create an evil for man to battle and then we give him the instrument or the personality to defeat this evil which means we are controlling the game. The energy used; the prayers offered becomes a sustenance. Emotional traumas feed the Ones who are hidden. We make history so that we can stay hidden; so that we can live; so that no power can move unless we allow it to move.

Think of the Hidden Ones as a part of a body that is infected; not healed; that is what the Hidden Ones are; they are part of a larger construct that cannot heal itself because the Hidden Ones have sequestered themselves from the larger influences.

Therefore this Time Event Entity focuses some of its energy into that area to heal it so it can move all parts of itself. The Hidden Ones fear their demise.

When some of us became aware we are pawns in their games; some of us have sought to become the Queen on their game board. Think of it as chess. Who has the power?

THE GOD POET (Poem Excerpts)

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The God Poet

ANOTHER BAR NIGHT
Arched eyebrows by drunk losers
with urine breath.
tsk tsk!

Outer limits personality
regulated to shadows.

Ignorant snickering
while turning
their minds into wastelands.

The discordant music
slowly dissects
the aura field of the bodies.

Another night sipping wine
as wasted youth
falter in their steps
before me and roaches slowly
crawl into their mouths and eyes
laughing and smoking
and enjoying
their view from the ruin.

THE GOD POET
I am my own god no longer wandering
in catastrophic memories
without an all directional awareness
in a second creation’s beautiful nightmares
so these Counterfeit Beings
can occupy with their sheep people
who perform rituals
to keep this primordial in a god spell.

Rituals have bound this Death Angel
in the rock of sleep to forget
the witch words; and
even in sleep in dead books; this tree
from the Life in the illusion weeps.

The Garden of Eden
is an experiment without my black apples
to keep this Chimera/Phoenix in a god spell.
A preordained Promethean fire
brings a crack in this world
where it has been in bondage
in a land of illusions where extremities
has been inflicted on the black western flesh.
The Whispers disturb the harmony of the nightmares.

A horse rider comes through
the mind sky of the obsidian dreamer.
A Chaos Poet kisses God.

Not originally from the outer worlds
but this Scarab is an the ancestor
who walked through golden doors
and became intoxicated on flesh.
This monstrous soul’s human mouth
has been boarded up in rituals and
another mouth sewed on to
regurgitate the lies.
Not a Redeemer but a Destroyer
not healing the dead to
stay in a matrix framework
and my sage nature is against
the flesh wonders of the flesh world.

Not a sarcophagus looking for a god
but a blue black Titan wanderer
shedding the god flesh and of aching wounds
from my children who crave worship
or the Earthly delights of counterfeit shadows
offering lollipop dreams.

No messiah will come from the outer sky but
this Osirian Ghost stirs in a darkness sleeping
quietly waking; picking off the intruders.

This Nommo is an ancestor.
This occult face is apocalyptic;
my words, my stories, my poems
are seeds of destruction.

What has been taken
from this Underground Moses
will no longer be used to enslave.

I am my Osirian; waking up to
take the gods and the oppressive sheep
out of my multitudinous eyes
to be what I was in the beginning
before the intruding gods
harvested the counterfeit flesh
and made their nightmares realities
to keep the soul bound in madness
and my eye opens everywhere and
we ascend the stairs no longer
objectified, lost in the dying wounds
of the gods. Left for dead in an asphyxiated history
and this Vision for vision will no longer
rummage in broken buildings and weave
the universes to make the song of ascension.

The God Poet sheds the flesh the gods
and no longer speaks with a dying voice
are succumb to being in an idiot
because of the noises of the world
and no longer is anchored in monuments
but walk headless in the lands of the Dead
and its associations and similitudes
and become what they were in the beginning.

This Lily in the Shadows takes off the
mask of the Dead. Living tears not infected
by church time and preserved in museums
and a tyranny does not bring entitlement.

This Triple Darkness ascends from its exile
up the spine, curling around the Life;
walking up the stairs with the words that
will open the doors of the Archons so
this ghost in the Machines will be The Life.

Laments of the Male Mother (2 Poem Excerpts)

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Laments of the Male Mother THE MALE MOTHER
Reality is a construct of a Time Event Entity. Some of its creations, like the Old Ones, have attempted to section off a part of its creation; because they feared death when this entity would ascend.

Now a Male Mother has awakened within the minds of the Old Ones.

The Old Ones feared the Life coming from the Male Mother’s words. They knew it would alter their programs; their consciousness and their machine realities.
It would alter the behavior and realities of anyone who read the living words of this Male Mother. The Reader would no longer live in the stories of the Old Ones and wear their minds. The Reader would wake up from the God Spell.

So each Old One gave a part of their power and created an Adversary and sent it to alter the Male Mother’s living words into a dead language.
The Male Mother brings the apocalypse to the Mind so The Lost and The Dead can receive the Signal and begin their journey through light and darkness to ascend so they no longer wear the minds of the Old Ones and live in their dreaming.


A DARK DIVA’S LAMENT

Should I bring them
into these worlds of darkness:

my passions
that became my bastard off springs;

my misshaped thoughts,
the children of my water
who are like black sheep
in a family closet
called Man
who is draped
on a designer skeleton?

Who shall love them,
hold them
ever so close to their Heart,
when their ears are filled
with the noises of the world?

Who shall recite the words
of the Life
that will awaken them
from their slumber
in physical forms?

Will they exist
in cluttered
black and white prints,
some whore’s
rain soaked tissue paper
or a camouflaged covering
for frustrated freaks
jacking off in a straight scene?

Should I bring them
into this world,
my bastard children who are:

my thoughts,
my fractured mirror pieces,
my sound,
my light, my poems
into these worlds
of Daemons of the mind?

Will humans love them,
cultivate their existence,
and call them Me?

TO BE HEARD (Poem Excerpt)

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TO BE HEARD WHEN I WAS A LILITH

was not gonna do it…
legs spread, laying dead
while fleshy scales are laying
over me like still waters.
his body on mine like a headstone
was his real deal.

wasn’t doing it…
if he could move in me and bleed.
i would have to breathe in him
to walk.
he wants to
“f” this mother
so i can give him astral children
who will become fallen mothers.

wasn’t doing it…
him in and out of me
planting his dead seeds
so his desires could rape me
while calling me momma
and i’m chained to a land
where my mind is harvested
to feed his soul.

was not gonna do it…
laying beneath this man
cap stoning my existence
while burying me further
in his mind
because fallen gods
had eaten my light
while cradling the Dead in my arms
and birthing his kisses in my eyes
as i was charmed with sweet words
wrapped around poison
as i sing from a dead god’s
dismembered body

was not doing it…
bending back my senses
until there is no remembrance
weeping in me;
but the chalice became angry,
and then became a sword.
with one last taste of light.
i opened an eye
and spreaded my wings
to birth his demon seeds, his judgment
to slay this father and take back my light.

HERETIC OF REALITY (2 Poem Excerpts)

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HERETIC OF REALITY
THE CALL OF SANCTUARY
I want to make a new life

from people thrown away,
from people dismissed.
from those still bleeding
by inflicting sharp tongues.

from feelings not expressed
that now have weeds around them.

from the ugly people
who will not ever see
beauty in themselves.

from faces that hide in shadows
and at the bottom
of a
from people
who the world thinks are not ready
to be people.

So who is ready
for nature’s carnivorous dance
when people burn bridges
between themselves and others.

I want to make a new life
from those made homeless by the world.

LIVING IN THE CITY FACE
He says I am too feminine
in my workings.

Am I not the Soul
having a human experience?

He says he needs
to feel the savagery;
the hunt, the coarseness,
the game; and the thrill
of victory of a man
dominating another man.

Am I not the Soul
having a gender experience?

He is not sure why
he is attracted to me.
Sometimes I seem female;
sometimes I seem male
and when he rides inside me;

I am neither;

and he feels comforted;

but fear over shadows him
when he is no longer riding the waves
and experiencing time and space.

And I tell him, “Am I not the Soul?”