Poetry:

Spider Fucking
The Suitor
Zombie Clown Parade
Time Bomb
A Lover's Dare
Immortal Hunger
Taoist Rebel
Scorpio Eye-Pie
Heaven & Homo-Hell
Fake Biography
Syckadelic Wonderspluge

Essays:

Sacred Masochism
Sustainable Love
Fake Enlightenment
DMT & Erotic Love
We the Wal-Martial Artists

Spider Fucking

Once I fucked a Black Widow

I didn’t know it at the time, but

No one’s Nothing’s as it seems

So sit back and watch these

slippery spider trails slip,

drip, drop off like fish nets.

Catching your bugged out eyes like fruit flies for foes

Swallow them lest I make them my own

and Bone me when I long distance booty call it from my Crater in Venus.

Visitors welcome by invitation only.

I Want to Do You in all the ways a universe can

implode

EXPLODE

Erode soil down to Bare Skin

and then….

And then…

AND THEN WHAT???!!!

Swallow Supernovas

snail trails……………..space ships that slip

by square lips

or drip droopily to

sleep,

sleep,

sleep now

while time squares off into the linearity

of a Life Illuminated

by mental reflection

No-thinking, Eye-blinking,

Better than a Kick in the Head

ARE YOU SURE HE’S DEAD?

Are you sure you’re ALIVE?!!!!

My mouth,

my Mother,

My Open Womb like a Tomb I’ll bury you in

Ever been buried alive?

It was, is, always has been

an unplanned funeral

with you on the pyre, Dear.

Well… How’s the heart-beat?

Has the venom entered your veins yet?

Pumping Poison beats backward,

minds kicking

forward like

broken

babies with cupid’s arrows

falling,

falling,

splooging, splurging and merging

in rainbow-colored oil spills

like so many cheap thrills

in expensive pent house rooms

And I know I don’t need you

to make me complete

but how discreetly do daredevil

sex stunts in jacuzzies

fizzle away like so many bubbles?

Maybe you’re just a bubble…

-----------a reflection I see myself in-----------

Empty on the Inside

When all Illusion is Popped

Was it a Spider on the bed?

Or was it a Spider in my head?

The Suitor

When the dovetails fall

Through fields of weed

And you hear the call of jackals-

Take note of the size and shape,

color, place and poise.

When the rivers run rampant catching driftwood

uprooting and then when

the wind touches everything

Caressing curls of hair blown

Surely off course and still-

My intimacy knows not

the fine-trodden plot

Of Venerable suitors,

Vulnerable not.

------------------

There are no traffic signs in nature

No dangers, stops and goes,

Nor winding one-way roads

There is just the softened flesh of one

Ripped through pomelo

Its inner membrane exposed,

holding no fruit

Its shreds of skin that bathe in sunlight

for hours, hours, hours

My body has yearned to burn but

Not let down my pounding heart

Its ways to circumvent circulatory pulsation

in relation to you.

Permit me to inquire as to why, when and how

we shall feel our time when hours unfold

onto themselves becoming

bloated, wasted, sagging at the seams

this silver soup of sewage

perplex of purpose, nigh

of her hips heaving

cleaving clavicles of cockle shells

never buckled down

Zombie Clown Parade

If you’re Lucky, you Die a Little Each Day-

Shedding Snake Skin of the Past-

in a Zombie Clown Parade.

Our Makers Won’t Deny Us-

the Thrill of Love’s Sweet Kill.

The Animals are Restless,

Close your Mouth to Pop this Pill.

Fledgling Pharmacy of Forgotten Prescriptions.

The Drugs are in your Head!

Try to Tame the Animal-

Join the March of the Living Dead

Time Bomb

Our Mechanized Entropy seeks Lofty Love atop a

Leaning Steeple in Hell Freeze Heinder Muff

Gleamed upon a Bluff that we can

Kill the Robot in our Hearts

We are not Equipped to Make Judgments on

What Kind of Pool’s Surface is Fit for

Reflecting the Will-Go-Under

Thunderblast

of catastrophic misproportion

My Hot Lava Love would Melt the Most

Metallic of Robots but still my Heart Beats

like Clockwork

Tick tock Tick tock

the Sprocking Sparklefags

with hollowed out Black Holes for Eyes-

letting in the heat. Sucking in the Heat.

Sicking in the dick my bone is brain food

for mourning Polar Bears in the dawn of a nude day.

My soul is naked.

A Lover’s Dare

There comes a day when women through WILL

Stop being victims of mens’ Indifference

There comes a day when men through LOVE

Open their Hearts to the Incandescent Violence

Of their own stuffed emotions without pointing

The finger at their martyr/lover girlfriends/mothers

That day has cum and gone

and lives in the mind of the sum

That day has yet to cum

and dies in the minds of the dumb

We are ALL victims of Love

Bound like a String of Pearls

in the Clambiguous Entrails of Love’s

after-thoughts, gooey with our own

Self-perpetuated Wound

For Sale to Salve by the Highest Bidder

Better to be a Child at Large

than a Useless Babysitter

Your Love is My Love

Our Love is Their Love

The Goal of Love if there is

any goal at all is to Swim in Love

For Love’s Sake, Seeing Tidepools

of people as Reflections of

The Beloved that is Always There.

The Chosen few of Morning dew

Do Die a Lover’s Dare

Immortal Hunger

When Death Disposed

Doth Stink of Rose and

Raisins Start to Plump

In Grapes of Wrath I’ll Take a Bath

Recall the Mummy’s Thump

His Bandages of Vestige Blue

And Ill-soaked Thirsty Skin

Immortal Hunger Misconstrued

For Death Will Never Win

Brazen Sense of Justice

Thorough Bred and Fair

Floating Halo Tethered Kiss

A Waft of Whispered Prayer

Erotic God’s Magnolia

Linger in a Scent

Embrace a Slumbered Soldier

All But Heaven Spent

We’ve Waited for our Moment

We’ve Carved it with our Minds

Karmageddon Wedding Day

To God now do we Bind

Our Faith Forever Pleaded

A Plot so Insecure

Man Dismantle Mangel Me

And Lead me Back to Pure

Come and make Love

On top of Montmarte

Come for the Zombies of Love

Head their Start

Heed not the warnings of Flesh

foul with rust

Heed not the Whining of Man’s

ill mistrust

If you must know…..

I Am the Angel of Sex and Death

I Must Lust for the End as I do

For All Things Inevitable

My Erotic Option Anxiety

Is a Well-cast Web Renewable

And you have just been Caught

in Atemporal Ooze

Sentimenstrual Woe Begot

Black Widow on the Cruise

Taoist Rebel

I am one of the Shining Ones.

I Shine like a Spinning Globe

about to Pop its Axis-

Faster than the Speed of Fright.

I Shine in the Dogpile of Apocalyptic Collectibles-

my garbage made immortal through imagination.

I Shine Black and Blue Half-truths

In the name of an enlightenment

Half-conceived and Half-achieved for We’ve Believed

That Someone out There will show us The Way.

I Shine while I Pine for a Future yet Realized

Yet now is young know you’ve won already.

I Shine while being Scape-Goated by men

Afraid of their Own Shadow

Afraid that Freedom means Death,

Afraid that Complexity will Subsume Linearity

and then give birth to it again.

I Shine like Jesus with a Gun,

Buddha with a bone to pick

My Brain of Babaganoush

Ganesha schooled me too

Mohammed’s Make-shift Mumu

was a turdly cloak of poo.

I Shine because I Shine

Whether you mind it or not-

I Shine because I have no other choice.

Scorpio Eye-Pie

Intensity's Density

Face Full of Pie

Fuckface or Fruitcake

Make Love to the Sky

Heaven & Homo-Hell

It's Easy to Horde

When the Heaven Ain't Free

And Hell is an Enema

Waiting for Me

Eye for an Eye

Anus for Anus

Jesus is Abel

So Why Dont' he Cain Us?

Chartreuse Handbag

Hell is Here

In Heels and Make-up

Christ was Queer

Cunninlingus Carnivore

Of Spider Fairy Mary Whore

Tantric Lizard Tonguing Queen

Milk & Charcoal Slow to Wean

Fake Biography

I am a Jew drop of Delight,

The Foresight of Nostrildumbass says Tonight

IS the Fright is the Night the World Implodes.

And instead of watching the Pseudo-Disaster on T.V.,

A Million People in the Future are Staring into the Tube

Between Their Third eye and Their Anus-

Looking Inside for the Answers,

Wishing for Artistic Intestines and Seven Severed

Headless Messengers Riding Faster than the Speed of Fright

To the no-think eye blink rink-a-tink toddler ville.

I am the Wonder Wish know-how Making

Waking Dreams Realities unto the Verily Profitable

Asundry Blunder of Doo Doo Magic while Melting Time.

Let the World Drink Deeply of my Cosmic frazzle Berry juice.

I am a Star- a Stewardess on the Spaceship Nostromo

Carrying Russian Space Monkies and German Iguanas

Through the Chocolate Worm Donut Hole

Of your Subterfuging Sub-personalities.

I am the Conductor of a polyatomic paleosynchronic

Symphony with Polyandroid Theremin Players and

Kazoo Virtuosos Fresh out of Kindergarten.

I am a Psychic Bitch Slap, an Insectoid Road Map,

A car deal, a good meal, you’ll never find a better steal.

If the Blue Kazoo Bamboozle Babble Trap is a Trip

You’d like to Take, Look for Me in the Intergalactic

Teletubbie Directory under “Log Iguanagator,”

“Tarantula Disasterbator.” Then Forget my Number

And Just dial the Ass-terick. (I am an Asstroknot).

It will take you Directly to my Fake manager

Who’s probably too busy being blown by his

Fake Secretary to pick up the phone.

Oh well. Better luck Next Time.

Syckadelic Wonderspluge

Transwicked Frankenfurter from the 4th Dimension

To Whom Do you Pledge Allegiance?

Robot Cop Saying Please Sir Stop-

Or Turtle Jihottie Slingstresses Shining

Cellubator's Shoes tied with Silly String?

I Am NOT your Flower.

I Am NOT your Power.

I Am Just the Clicking Clucking Duck

Who’s Sweet and Sour

Mother Goose Makes a Spruce of the Saltman's Fortune-

Mrs. Goose- you've got Martial Artist's Thighs

Hamspringy Wonderspluge of French Fries

But you Forgot to Shoot the Robot Squad!

Now the Zucchinifrightened Cavalry of

Satan's Highest Bid is Squid that Wasn't Shot.

Who is Going to Kill the Robot????

No one, No one, No one, Mrs. Goose.

Not a Slim Supermodel with Cum in her Hair

Not a Razorblade Psycho who Blinks when He Stares

Not a Petri Dish Poet, Not a Squirrel with No Head

Not an Immortal Iguanagator- 2 Layers of Dead

The Reptiles Who Made Off with Your Brain

Are Not Coming Back.

But the left you the Labial Frangipants

of Turbo Spindular Tuberosity that

Treads through Lime Jello

in Jerusalem saying,

I AM NOT YOUR MOMMY

I AM NOT YOUR SWAMI

I AM JUST A SWASTIKA

OF PSYCHADELIC ORIGAMI

Sacred Masochism

The Art of Sacred Masochism involves pain for spiritual and psycho-sexual growth. Buddhist wisdom says pain is inevitable. Instead of trying to avoid pain, I embrace it as a natural part of life. I’ve experienced so much pain on Earth that I eventually had to learn how to enjoy it in order to adapt. I had a traumatic and painful near-death experience and became an even better sadomasochist. The angels all agree that it’s payback time.

Here’s the story upon which Sacred Masochism sprouted like a divinely inspired weed in the Garden of Gesthemene:

Once upon a time, I regularly practiced yoga at a studio called Sacred Movement. This was a place of retreat, my sanctuary of healing next to the Pacific Blue whose hue imbued the tint of my hair in a neon blue inspired punk rock do, perhaps the only sign of my pansy practice gone awry. I’d also frequent gothic dance clubs whose dungeons and whippings bore stark contrast to my life by day. These two worlds didn’t seem to have any bridge other than a bunch of hot and sweaty bodies and a room full of desire.

And sadism. Who would think it of a yoga studio? A few know-it-all yogis who- in gut-wrenching moments of spiritual fascism- forced their viewpoints upon me and whittled me down to a puddle of tears right after class or on their free time! They did this in my stark moments of vulnerability when one would think that someone operating under a yogic paradigm might show a little more compassion and empathy. I’m not the kind of creature who reveals my vulnerability easily. I stopped attending the studio because of this kind of hypocrisy and insensitivity.

I ultimately don’t begrudge the yogic machine of spiritual nails to the head. Nor do I begrudge well-deserved punishment or pain as play. I embrace the non-duality of being a tantrika and light worker as well as a true dominant with my own streak of spiritual fascism and black widow sadism. What have we learned from the age of Enlightenment if not to come to terms with our collective shadow?

I had a yogini friend who really enjoyed getting spanked. Surrendering to someone who’d smack her silly had a calming effect on her mind and soul. She was like an ascetic Buddhist monk who’d gotten a sadomasochistic download during deep meditation.

“Sacred Masochism” is what she called the yoga studio. “We need to have yoga classes with ass whippings,” she said. This got me thinking. The surrender a sub gives his dominatrix mirrors the yogi’s surrender to his yoga teacher to lead him or her to some desired state of consciousness. Why does one path lead to enlightenment and the other to a dungeon with a dominatrix doling out some hard punishment? Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe the light-filled airy studio of my once sacred sanctuary was a nest of vampiric light-seekers. Maybe goth haunts were hotbeds for enlightenment for people who could dance. Maybe none of this is true or all of it is true depending on whose eyes are viewing the rubix cube illusion of rusty gonads and steely thighs.

One of the most profound lessons I learned from a yoga teacher was that of intent. Intent comprises 70% of one’s power to manifest a desired outcome. The other 30% is hard work. If that’s the case, then with the right intent, one could achieve illumination in any situation, and by surrendering to the physical and or emotional pain and pleasure given by a tantric dominatrix, one could indeed achieve illumination if that is what one was after.

Sustainable Love

originally published on www.realitysandwich.com

“Sustainable living” as a green meme has recently caught like wildfire to the last bleeding shreds of Gaia’s womb tomb anomaly. There seems to be no question or debate that green living is absolutely the way to go if we intend on saving the planet and sustaining life (or what’s left of it). The question remains: if to live is to love, and to love is to let go, might some non-attachment be necessary while trying to save planet Earth?

If we as a species cannot achieve sustainable love, then I don’t want to be on this planet: trees or no trees, ice-caps or no ice-caps. Humans are so mind-blowingly destructive towards one another, and I’m not even talking about our blaringly obvious incompetent and imperialist government waging wars on oil-rich Middle-Eastern countries. The kind of destruction I speak of is the subtle emotional destruction we wage on our most intimate partners and acquaintances, which is hugely indicative that our ideas about love need some serious adjusting before the planet can even think about beginning to heal itself. Earth has a mind of its own outside of human consciousness.

None of us are immune to the pitfalls of so-called love. We have been saturated with mass-media depictions of romantic love and monogamy myths- as if one person could cut out our sexual desire for other erotic options and assure us some kind of emotional security blanket. Such teaching is derived more from shame and fear over one’s desires rather than being indicative of true love. Some people who have gone the polyamorous route forget that the word by definition means multiple loves, not necessarily multiple sex partners. If sexual activity is a natural extension of this love, then so be it and let's explore all the multifarious ways to be sexual with each other, intercourse not mandatory.

Intimacy, honesty, personal responsibility, self-knowledge, love, cooperation, and the mutual respect for boundaries are paramount if we stand a chance at achieving sustainable love. Too much karma is exchanged during sexual intercourse to warrant continued casual sex without a solid basis of friendship an acceptable meme for conscious beings unless one doesn’t mind unintentionally swallowing someone’s etheric load. Who wants to be carrying around someone’s karmic burden when you just wanted an innocent orgasm? The length of the relationship determines how much karma is exchanged, and the shorter the exchange, the easier it is to dispel the karma. It sounds like too much work and wasted energy if you ask me. We have bigger tasks to focus on than getting caught-up in sticky erotic entanglements that don’t have the bigger picture of our life paths in mind. Let us free erotic agents bask in nurturing sexual energy without getting too off-track. There’s a lot of work to do right now. A huge part of that work involves re-learning how to love each other on romantic and sexual terms of our own choosing.

Previous generations didn’t leave a great example of how to love each other in ways that make any sense to us now. Most of us have grown up with terrible examples of how to love- modern family dynamics being strained by a lack of communication and inability to cope with the fact that most of us our not hard-wired to fall into white picket fence fantasies where Mommy & Daddy live happily ever after. Nor are most of us cut out to be genitally focused swingers who are okay getting it on with whomever whenever. Jealousy is nasty bug, and one most of us aren't acquainted in dealing with constructively. In the generation that came before us, the script by and large was one of a stoic and bread-winning father or male partner: responsible, stern, and dominating. However, he left much for his female partner to be desired emotionally. The woman often played the martyr or victim in these types of arrangements, in parallel to the giant martyr the earth is making of herself in order to accommodate an out-of-control patriarchy, including dominating styles of loving. The masculine has run amok on this planet. We are past the point of blaming either gender as the cause.

The quintessential woman of the past played emotional manager in the relationship (she often still does), sifting through feelings for both partners, perhaps even experiencing feelings for her male partner since society has deemed it unacceptable for a man to feel vulnerable. She often winds up hating him for his inability to do her emotions any justice and punishes him for it or stays silent about her resentment because she doesn’t want to lose him. Attachment breeds resentment which is actually internalized anger. The only emotion men were taught was acceptable was anger. Women often feel victimized by outward displays of anger while their emotional concerns are all but completely ignored. Does anyone else see the warped feedback loop playing itself on echo as one gender’s position justifies the other’s position and nothing is learned but more relational trauma?

Let a giant swathe of amnesty salve the romantic and sexual wounds of people who unintentionally succumb to warped psycho-sexual and romantic scripts by no other fault than they don’t know any better and are doing the best they can with the information given to them. These individuals- of which I have been one- are not so much to blame as is a society that beats the ability to feel and be vulnerable out of men from an early age, forcing them to take their aggressions out in more forceful ways or to not recognize their emotions at all. A society that says a man’s worth is measured in money and that a woman’s worth is measured by good looks and lady-like behavior. A society in which co-dependent romance is considered idea. Overly attached love claims to be true love. If you think you have completely transcended these scripts, I dare you to take an honest look at the mirror of your programmed history. Of course, society is made up of individuals, and now it is each individual’s responsibility to learn how to love. Men must learn to open their hearts and communicate better, developing a right-brained intuitive capacity for intimacy and cooperative togetherness. Women must learn to override their programmed victim script while maintaining the ability to be receptive. Women need to re-learn how to be emotionally independent (though inherently we are all interdependent). We also need to learn how to communicate beyond the “I don’t want to hurt him” or “he needs to be punished” polarity. It’s called empowered yin, and unfortunately, most women and men lack it.

In more homophobic societies such as America and the Middle East (I love grouping those two cunt trees together), there is great work to be done in clearing mens’ root chakra or the less elegantly deemed anus. Gay mens’ natural sense of femininity and receptivity has been demonized by the male heterosexual community and has energetically blocked the root chakra of most heterosexual men. As the one opening of sexual receiving as opposed to giving, the anus is the key to mens’ feminine receptivity from both a physical and psycho-sexual perspective. To most mens’ minds, an open root chakra would peg them as gay and incur insult from their male friends. It doesn’t matter if they’re exploring their bottom with a woman; the very reference that they might want to explore their bottom at all raises a red flag that questions their very masculinity. Female partners who shame their men for wanting to explore this area only make the matter worse. “I don’t want a gay man!” they say, defending the overly macho disposition that in other areas of the relationship they may demonize. The average hetero root chakra is now a storage bin for fears, sexual shame, homophobia, and survival issues. Wonder why men are so obsessed with money?

There exists an energetic blockage to pleasure and energy flow in mens’ prostate gland for fear of being seen as gay. It’s no wonder that prostate cancer is the second leading cause of cancerous death in American men. The prostate gland is the male equivalent to the goddess or g-spot in women. Self-actualizing men can do themselves a great service by overriding their programmed sense of fear and non-receptivity by taking the time to clear the blocks in their root chakra through the study of tantra- or any method of sexual healing. Female partners can do their male partners a great service by helping him clear and give pleasure to his root chakra and prostate gland in a safe container of love, support, healing, and empathy. Margot Anand’s Sexual Energy Ecstasy is a great place to start if the route of sexual healing and empowerment appeals to you as a route to personal liberation. The root and sacral chakras are the basic centers of our kundalini life force and the building blocks of our enlightenment. There is no hope for opening up the higher centers until the base and sacral chakras are cleared. It’s like expecting the branches of the tree of life to grow without first planting its roots in fertile and procreative soil. Try growing a tree in polluted soil and see how healthy the fruit is!

Women must strengthen their wills (solar plexus) and clear any imbalances in their base and sacral chakras as well. The first two chakras in women are the microcosm of universal creation; the power of these chakras when balanced and cleared should not be demonized. The resulting desire becomes the basis of tantric union and relationship between all of life’s material and non-material manifestations, a profound appreciation for the matrix of 3rd dimensional creation while providing a basis for union in higher dimensions. Both men and women need to take the introspective effort to understand, develop, and strengthen their own feminine power. Through the balancing of opposites and the re-birth of the repressed feminine that has destroyed the Earth, men and women will develop an angelic androgynous nature making them whole and balanced unto themselves. What basis for true union as equals is there if we are not first balanced within ourselves?

Sex and gender roles don’t even take into account the trauma and outright toxicity that a lot of us have been exposed to growing up in the dark age of so-called civilization. I myself have been challenged in learning to live in an internal environment that supports sustainable love as I grew up in an environment of consistent physical and emotional danger. My real father was a drug-dealing philosopher eventually murdered at the expense of finding fake enlightenment through methamphetamines- the most instant means available to him- while exposing me to home-alone burglaries and nights of wondering where daddy was and what he was doing.

When my dad got shot in the head and was left to rot in the desert, I had a step-father to take my real dad’s place. Unluckily, he was a rageaholic with no emotional boundaries whose unexpected outbursts I was exposed to on a consistent basis while making strange sexually verbal come-ons about how he’d be my boyfriend if he was younger. Throughout my adolescence from 12 to when I moved out at 20, he drilled into my head the idea that if I had just talked to my real dad, I could have saved him from being murdered. Such ignorance and carelessness on his part engendered the belief that I am an emotional, if not a physical murderer of sorts. I had a guilt complex larger than a blue whale’s cock.

Such warped conditioning with the primary male-caretakers in my life was bound to effect my way of dealing with men in ways I could not have foreseen. In my early adulthood, I have been co-dependent, guilt-complexed, sexually vampiric, and an emotionally destructive martyr- revelling in opportunities when my lover screwed up so I could drill into them how truly useless they were to me. In the process of transformation, my neuro-linguistic alchemical mold-to gold has turned co-dependence into interdependence, guilt into personal responsibility, and martyrdumb into admitted vulnerability that seeks protective men. More often than not I sublimate my need to destroy by fighting art battles and destroying memes while providing an emotionally destructive shadow self a playpin in the consensual world of S&M as a dominatrix. The dark maggots of my psyche occasionally get caught in a present synapse from where there temporarily seems no escape but the imagined slate of death to wipe away all conditioned memory. I await the affection of a lover as a doomed woman would her executioner’s blade. I remind myself that this feeling too shall pass and to not be overly identified with my innate doom response. Emotions and thoughts are so fleeting in this infinitely recursive hall of mirrors found ad infinitum in my beloved’s reflection.

The storybook nightmare of early adolescent tragedies led me towards more intense and less obvious aspects of divinity and love as I awoke to my spiritual calling. The Hindu Goddess of destruction, Kali began to make herself known in my dreams. On my altar where I practiced magic stood a Kali painting that my ex-husband had painted for me. Magic gave me a feeling of empowerment that I had so lacked as a youth. As I began to put my attention on ways to extract myself from the dead hand of history- both on a macro and microcosmic level- the universe gave me exactly what I needed to heal.

One night, I left a candle unattended on my altar. The gorgeous flame of the fire licked up the sparkling gold, glitter, black and blue Kali, burning her to a Kali-fried crisp that nearly burnt my apartment down with it, leaving a smoke angel on the wall where once she stood with her scythe. The image of Kali that my husband had painted for me completely burnt through and left ashes of our attachment to each other with an empty frame. A fireball jumped over the carpet and destroyed a comforter that I had bought with a misogynistic ex-boyfriend. The ashes wafted over the dirty mirror of time as a voodoo quantum portal opened and left my mind agape at what kind of warped rabbit hole had just opened. A month later I wound up in bed with my dead father’s namesake William IV. William IV was the name of my real father (number and all).

On the wall of William’s bedroom was an ash mark left by an unattended candle that a ghost had wrenched from its metal candleabra and wafted against the wall. William didn’t believe in ghosts, but distinctly heard voices and saw shadows that literally bent the metal of the candlestick holder, as if proving to him the ghost’s existence. I saw the ash mark on a night I was partying with some girlfriends and synchronistically wandered over to his place next door. In his bedroom, I immediately recognized the ashen burn as the mark of Kali. William revealed a tattooed “IV” on his wrist while we lay in bed together, and I knew that this was where the portal had led me. William IV opened up a portal of grief I had never dealt with when my father was murdered. The two William IVs even looked similar with similar personality traits and shared Ayn Rand as their favorite author. In the midst of my newly enflamed year-long grief, my then husband and I ended our marriage. I left my husband for my dead father’s namesake.

For awhile I thought I was dating my real father’s ghost. You can imagine how that might have freaked out my new boyfriend, whose house I would drive to in the middle of the night to cry the loss of my dad in his arms. We provided each other sensual and emotional comfort. To add to the warped stinkronistic ghost story, my new beloved’s nickname was “Zombie.” I play the queen of the zombies in his movie where I sing alien opera to Mozart’s Requiem recorded in his mother’s closet who couldn’t accept it when he came out of the closet and revealed himself as bisexual. Reality truly is stranger than fiction.

Right before I met William, he had disavowed women as a sexual option. I assisted in helping save William’s sexuality with women utilizing black tantra (in my mind I was saving my real dad and releasing the karmic burden of feeling like I should have saved him the first time around), while he showed me that sometimes people fight and it doesn't necessarily mean that they are evil psycho-erotic killers. If they are psycho-erotic killers and femme fatales, that’s cool too! (whereas before I would feel guilty about being an emotional killer since that role was so closely linked to guilt over my father’s murder). I also cleared out my guilt complex internally dictating that I needed to save men in order to keep them from sexually harming or otherwise vamping women. That script was taught to me by my step-dad.

William IV held space for a few of my major freak-outs when I literally gestalted (permit the word’s use as a verb) that he- or my step-dad’s psycho-erotic reflection as seen in him- would attack me in my peak moments of sexual vulnerability. Through William’s stoic non-reactivity (a quality that I had previously judged in other lovers) and our mutual pheremonal chemistry, I acquired an orgasmic capacity that I didn’t think possible with more passionate men who I did not trust not to emotionally attack me. These men also never turned up the chemical heat of my own internal sexual barometer, though I’d wind up in long-term relationships with them. In retrospect, it seemed as though I was sexually punishing myself and ensuring my eventual sexual martyrdom at their hands. This gift of orgasm (hallelujiah!) with William IV- whose weight bench bore an Irish cross and rosary with my name- has lasted with male partners even after William and I broke up and became creative collaborators and friends instead. William was the first lover I had who showed me that I could be a femme fatale and continually chop off my lover’s false heads and negative ego if they are willing to come back a better man for the slashing.

During my own near death experience a year after my and William’s affair the first time around, my real father’s ghost actually did come to visit me. At the time- I was playing out ad infinitum my betrayal complex with men. William (the young alive version) came back to me after complications from burst ovarian cysts left me a bleeding corpse of a woman who had seen way too much for her 27 years. Though he made some signs of trying to take care of me, he couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with me this time around for more than a month. This was not the time to give me a false sense of hope. The sense of betrayal burned like a stake in my heart. When my real dad’s ghost actually did show up one night in the midst of angelic visions and suicidal fantasies, he sensed my insecurity at being able to feel his presence, and responded telepathically, “you have a gift.” I was surprised to hear myself say to him, “How the f**k could you leave me?” and then burst into a torrent of tears while he sat next to me. He told me that he had sent William into my life to help me sort out my complex and that he would not be rectified until I was rectified. This was not an easy psychological fix. I still see 12:20 on the clock whenever I am obsessively addicting on a lover. 12-20 was my real father’s birthday. Every day is my death day if I’m lucky- death to the encumbering scripts of the past that give birth to my present erotic free will. Will-I-Am.

I truly thought if I spoke to anyone about some of the stuff I was seeing, hearing, and thinking during my near-death trip, that I would be locked up in a mental institution and that they finally would destroy my mind. Believe me, this is not far-out thinking considering our culture’s current response to psychological malaise and Western medicine’s inability to deal with indigo children and starseeds. Fortunately, I found a psychic clairvoyant for a therapist, an acupuncturist, homeopathist, and an Arcturian healer, who quickly penetrated to the core of what was happening. With one session, my Arcturian healer cleared my six year struggle with candida. My female organs were harbinging chronic yeast infections and systemic malaise as a form of sexual protection, having been date raped years prior due to very poor boundaries on either end of another train-wrecked love affair. Until I cleared my martyr-attack complex on all dimensions (I also fell prey to a non-embodied 4th dimensional succubus), I kept on attracting lovers to whom I always played the victim, justifying my need for physical sexual armor to keep men away.

The angelic opening to other dimensions through nearly dying was worth the intensity of all I experienced and everything I learned. I am humbled by the intensity and all-encompassing nature of spirit’s love for me. Death and resurrection have brought such sweet surrender to the moment-by-moment intensity of romantic love, whether it lasts for a year or just for a week. How often is romantic love supposed to fan the fire of existence anyway? Once a week? Twice a month? Every day for a year then not at all? I have no idea. What I do know is the inherent immortality of all souls and that when people die, they become angels who look over us from the other side. During my near-death spell, everyone began to look like an angel, a strange side-effect that restored my faith in humanity’s ability to ascend. I visited the Valhalla cemetery on one of my morbid self-therapeutic jaunts through the land of the dead and heard a ghost named Ted tell me, “Appreciate your loved ones while they’re alive.” Most dead people have many regrets- all except the children and babies who seem to retain their angelic nature. I could feel that in the childhood part of the cemetery.

As one might imagine, preservation in the form of sustainability is not something that makes much sense to me. Creation and destruction, sex, death, and art, are where my consciousness largely prevails. It was Vishnu who came to me in a dream and said that preservation would find a way into my life through the laws of reason as they pertained to enlightenement’s rationality. I often hope for something to give me a sense of stability; certainly it is not the materialistic aims of 3rd dimensional reality. I hope that the source of some emotional stability might be sustainable love, knowing full well that love is the essential ingredient to be able to hold the necessary frequency to live in the 5th dimension to which enlightened souls are ascending.

The Native Americans won- not because they lived- but because they ascended to the light and now reside as 5th dimensional beings of love and space holders for the earth’s bounty to be realized by all those who truly love her. Death does not mean defeat, though the white race who took their place would have us think otherwise. Let us not be fooled by the multiple layers of illusion posing as power. Love truly does conquer all. Those who rape the Earth now will be re-located to other planes of existence that are less evolved after they die. The Earth has made a conscious decision to shift dimensions; that shift does not support cosmic vampires. Ascended masters, angels, and enlightened E.T.s are ensuring that our planet is protected with love.

On my road to self-discovering sustainable love, I am learning that the love for universal principles must be greater than the love for individuals who start to deviate from those principles one holds most dear. Forgiveness and compassion for those stuck in the dark of conditioned responses becomes the crucial medicine to override the default victim script dominant in our love relationships. Love never means compromising one’s own values to accommodate a lack of integrity because one is attached to the object of their affections. Principles don’t necessarily make cozy bedfellows, but they certainly leave one with a clear conscience! By holding close to our values, we attract other people in line with those values. We continue to swim in the infinite tidepool of the beloved’s reflections past the necessary break-ups and ego-deaths along the way that often force us to part ways with our companions who we no longer see eye-to-eye. Loyalty between good friends has always provided my own heart a more lasting love remedy, whereas romance seems so fleetingly inundated with sex, death, and the fire of passion that eventually burns me and my beloved back to the void from whence we came.

Sometimes we need to take stock of what kind of accumulated emotional and sexual baggage we have collected and work on getting rid of as much baggage as we can before we are able to attract a partner who will not keep us spinning in self-induced trauma. Who on the road to self-actualization cannot say that they learned incredibly valuable lessons from all of their major romantic partners despite the suffering (or even because of it)? The realizations from those partnerships are immortal, even if the relationship is not.

Sustainable love has nothing to do with the kind of lock and chain romantic scripts we all had hoped would work. Sorry to burst that over-worn illusion if that’s what the title of this article seemed to profer. There is no getting around the inevitable void that leaves us existentially isolated agents with temporary earthly companions, even if they are lasting friends or lovers immortally bound by dharmic mission and universal love. Love these days seems to be as complex as quantum physics, and equally as difficult to figure out!

After I graduated from my post break-up resentments and grief over my ex-husband and both William IVs, a huge amount of creative energy was liberated- energy that my partners and I would previously dump into our endless drama. I needed to forgive both of them and understand their points of view so that I might have compassion for the hurt engendered on either end. With my husband, the intensity of our passion (both the positive and negative) equated in our minds to the depth of our love. I realized in retrospect how life-negating the drama that passed for passion was and how I needed to cut the cords with my own over-identification to romantic tragedy in order to not be constantly dragging my emotional intestines behind me.

My ex-husband admitted to me afterwards that I had pretty much been his main art project while he and I were together, and I was living under the illusion that I needed a single male placeholder in my life to keep me grounded and take the place of my dad. In the wake of grieving my real dad, for the first time in my life, I'm able to accept the stream of love and lovers who course through my life without trying to control the shape or course of the river. We as a species have a lot to learn about not controlling love. The surrender that comes in the wake of giving up control is testament to our ability to keep on loving despite the challenges with which we are faced that may tell us it is not safe to love someone. We must use our individual wills to harness the shadow of our doubt in love without letting doubt be the driver of our erotic and romantic automobiles. Most of us have our doubts about whether true love is possible. That does not need to be the guiding factor in determining whether or not surrendering to someone is a wise idea. The heart must guide where the mind finds only stop signs. If the heart says yes, have trust that you will learn from this person what you need in order to become a more integrated individual while slip sliding in the grace of love’s unadulterated reflection. We learn so much about the nature of our own wills by relating to others.

A relationship metaphorically gives birth to an etheric child and affects everyone who comes into contact with that child. No physical procreation is required in order to give birth to new life as seen through the eyes of love. I am often inspired by spending time with a loving couple, even if I don’t have a romantic partner at the time. I allow myself to be moved by the outpouring of love these two people have for each other that is literally extending its boundaries and inviting others to take part. How can this kind of love not heal the cracks in the Earth through extension? In a tantric world view, everything is interconnected and in relationship to everything else. The love we create in our intimate relationships will naturally filter over into other projects, including elevating consciousness and saving the earth. If we do not value this basic interconnectedness of our human companions, what hope do we have in saving the biggest lover of them all in the form of an 8,000 mile diameter globe floating in outerspace?

Sustainable love seems to have more to do with deprogramming (making die) relational scripts in one's inner environment as opposed to fixing or changing people in one's external environment in a vain attempt to make up for the hole in one's soul or gain some false sense of security in someone else's reflection. I would be remiss if I did not mention my observation that a lot of peoples' sexual and emotional shame and guilt gets inverted and projected onto the whole sustainable living trip as a messianic complex, with there being only "one" way to save the world and everyone else buying fossil fuels and eating meat doomed to hell in a really long line at Walmart. “Saving” one’s lover seems to be the warped mirror parallel of the false promise messiahs promote that saving anyone is possible. We may act as catalysts for another person to choose to save themselves through the attention and devotion of our love, but that is all.

If our liberation resides in non-attachment to ALL areas of life, we must at least entertain the notion that the things and people we hold most precious in life- including our Earth- are the things we must let go of in order to truly be free. Real love cannot be destroyed, only temporarily tarnished. There is caution to be had in the tendency to become attached to saving the world or seeing our partners as karmic burdens to effectively manage in the process of ascension. The propogation of the human species posing as a mission to save the planet for love of future generations is questionable at best. Perhaps homo-sapiens are not the last stop of living organisms this world will see in order to evolve according to her own principles- without our tinkering. The shape of our surrender and trust in grace for what’s to come will carve out the necessary niches for evolution to occur. If we really do love the Earth, let the love for her bounty and beauty be the guiding force in saving her and not selfish anthrocentricism and survivalism.

Strangely, when we put our attention on deprogramming ourselves instead of holding on to love or life, the environment around us seems to rearrange itself in a way to support the kind of reprogramming that comes from the void of one's non-expectant emotional landscape. We begin to attract people who align with our most deeply cherished intentions and values. We accept the death of our so-called love and planet as we would a caterpillar who consumes a leaf with no apologies. The rose of immortality will arise if only we are willing to water the fertile soil of our own graves with hope and laughter for what's to come. Death is not real. And somehow, as peak oil mounts with love's entropic heat-death, our passions will all be turned inwards towards the eternal flame of imagination that guides each one of us to shape the world's reality according to our own wills. The barrier between thought and reality is disappearing in Earths’ 4th to 5th dimensional shift. Anything is possible.

Fake Enlightenment

In the dawning of the Death of the Age of Reason, there has been much talk of Enlightenment- who’s got it, how to get it, who’s the real deal and who’s just faking it. This phenomenally mysterious yet seemingly secure bit of terminology has turned the idea of Enlightenment sirsana-style on its head. The dislexicon of interdimentia has given birth to light-hungry zombies all hoping to catch a few of those spiritual rays before the apocalypse. The shift is coming; the Earth will continue in the 5th dimension no matter what, though the doomsday sayers may spray their unsung sorrows through fear and misunderstanding.

If one is chasing light and truth, they are running from darkness and illusion. You cannot extract anything from The Void without automatically drawing its polar opposite: light and dark, Big Bang and Apocalypse; pickles and hard-boiled eggs. All antagonisms ultimately seek to complement one another. If one is running away from something, then one is ultimately chasing that very same thing. If one really seeks to become one with the light, they would be wise to embrace the dark lest it hijack their life when they least expect it.

If something that actually exists is denied access to one’s waking consciousness, it will find another way to express itself in ways that will be even less favorable in the eyes of the seeker. Often this occurs as judgment of other people who possess parts of ourselves that we have denied as acceptable. This can manifest in anger, fear, ended friendships and romances without anyone taking real responsibility for their part in the cosmic show. The shadow wants to be expressed and become a fully integrated part in all of our lives. The shadow is looming over the entire face of this planet. The shadow will not be denied.

As Seekers, we may have enough wherewithal to greet our shadow when no one is looking- even offer it some raw meat in the context of Landmark to set aglow the shadowy cobwebs of our mommy and daddy cupboards. We have all seemed to establish nice and tidy causal relationships to our shadows: I got my perfectionistic tendencies from my mother. My fear of abandonment stems from my father. What about acausality? I am what I am for no other reason than because “I Am” without cause.

In the age of Enlightenment as we make sun salutations to eternal life while counting the rings of disaster in the trunk of our family trees, it occurs to me that we are not thanking our parents for the twisted snarls and knotholes that have made wonderful homes for a whole assortment of divinely inspired maggots and moles.

Let’s face it- most of us grew up in the shadow of Christian and Victorian upbringing. Whether or not our parents were Christian, the shadow of Jesus Christ grew in our brains like a holy tumor. We were taught that Jesus loved everyone and that we must love everyone too if we were to achieve salvation.

In a kind of cheap mimetic parrot routine, many seekers of the light have substituted the unconditional compassion that Jesus shared with fake love and spiritual arrogance. Compassion is shared, not possessed. Judgment is an opaque barrier blocking someone from experiencing or transmitting love. Judgment’s positive Jekyl other-side, discernment- is something we would all be blessed to possess in our spiritual toolbox, especially during the apocalypse, translated literally, “revelation.” The greatest risk of illusion with discernment is in thinking that your wisdumb amounts to Ultimate Objective Truth. Such is the necessity of The Death of Reason that would peg cognitive deduction or induction as a means to quantify divinity in all its mysterious and tricky devices because you’re a light warrior now so you obviously know what’s up, right?

Do you think Jesus loved the guy who crucified him even if he was able to have compassion for the ignorance that caused him to make such a decision? I asked Jesus myself and he said he hated the guy. He also loved and forgave him once he got over the initial pangs of crucifixion. Being able to talk to ghosts and spirits has its perks.

Jesus Christ was archetypally similar to Vishnu, The Hindu Preserver of Light. Shiva destroys the darkness of ignorance and is everyone’s favorite androgynous dancing yogi. Krishna plays flute and loves the ladies. Ganesha removes obstacles. Lakshmi sits on a lotus flower in your heart and grants abundance. Saraswati lifts you up with knowledge and wisdom. Kali destroys your ego and illusions of time by existing outside of time. According to Thomas Ferrand, the gods are but puddles in the hoofprints the goddess makes.

Wait- how did we get onto the topic of Hinduism? Oh hell, that’s right. In the vacuum created by the Jesus tumor being removed, seekers needed another religion to fill the holes in their heads, take its place and provide them comfort from the gaping abyss of the void. “I’m Shakti Das Margot Wilcox from Sonoma County, and I’m here to spread the love for Shiva.”

Margot substituted one religion for another in order to escape the ineffable mystery of the Void and all its accompanying queasy emotions. Does anyone else find the existence of Mystery Schools humorous? How can you teach someone about the unknowable except through paradox? Jesus and Lao Tse were pretty good at that.

The most titillating thing about paradox is that unlike most rationalistic binary codes in which we tend to think and speak, paradox is not mutually exclusive and makes room for both opposites to be true. Dark is just as important as light; fake is just as important as real. My mother’s brother was a Christian Hindu who worshipped Satan but only Sunday.

In tantric philosophy, in order to transcend our illusion of separation from anything and everything, we must fully embrace all that at first seems unacceptable. If certain sects of left-hand tantrikas got nasty reputations for eating corpses and screwing their siblings, it’s only because they took the idea of taboo-breaking to its extreme expression in transcending their fears.

By at first accepting everything we believe is unacceptable, spirit has a way of choosing what is ultimately best for us as we realign our wills through the lessons. Spirit speaks in paradoxical tongues. Spirit speaks through you; spirit speaks through me; spirit speaks through the drunk prostitute who’s screwing customers to pay for her baby’s food and diapers.

According to the Bootysattva (a divine being incarnated here to heal all the tight buttholes of the world), human beings want to fix and change everything they believe is bad about themselves, all those characteristics which cause them pain. Did not the Buddha say the essence of life is suffering? Where on Earth did people get the idea that Enlightenment meant a pain-free state in the face of life’s tragedies and challenges?

There is a common misunderstanding that pain will cease once one becomes enlightened. When one becomes enlightened, one ceases to have attachment to avoiding pain. This state of being will become quite favorable to help navigate through the collapse of the technosphere and the accompanying discomfort as society is re-wired to abide by the cycles of nature come 2012. The illusion of linear time has haunted the Western imagination into believing that once one achieves Enlightenment, there’s no turning back. Maybe they’re right.

Maybe enlightenment is like a horse. You ride it for awhile and sometimes get bucked off the back. The pain of the fall either causes the rider to avoid the horse or it strengthens her resolve to ride again without fear- after all the broken bones have healed. There is no rushing eternity, or a cosmic bike ride to the nearest yoga shala.

I believe Enlightenment will become a passing hypnotizement tossed off like a too-worn shoe in favor of buying a new pair of shoes for the guy that lost his job and couldn’t afford a new pair. The economy is crashing; capitalism is not sustainable. This is the perfect time to learn how to live and love without the same kind of fear that the masses will succumb to as impermanence makes itself known globally. There’s no doubt about it. Giving a neighbor some home-grown tomatoes from one’s well-tended vine will become a great joy not fostered from a loss economy mentality. Hopefully sustainable living will become tantamount with sustainable love and we’ll all become a little more death friendly as we realize our own immortality beyond the illusion of our everyday lives in which people die and re-incarnate for the next round of creation.

Perhaps life is just a game of linguistics and energetics in the end of the day. Like any over-worn meme, if the connotation of enlightenment invokes more energetic negativity than its espoused ideals, it’s time to start creating some new memes. How about Fake Enlightenment? We live in a world of illusions; perhaps real enlightenment is a checkered fraud that when seen through the eyes of a cosmic trickster remembers to forget its own self-importance. Under the garrulous faux-hoax of Fake Enlightenment, why should it matter if enlightenment is the real deal or just a close and fraudulent approximation? Fake it ‘til you make it, and if they say it’s not real, say, “you’re right.” If you get a chuckle, you know you’re onto something good.

DMT & Erotic Love

Today I took a Die-Methyl-Trip-to-Mars. I Died Many Times. I Didn’t Make Two+Two = Four but Implored Another Two to Realize 222, which means, I died enough times to become an Immortal. All these mini-deaths I’ve been having along the way have piled up into a magically delicious pile of my sub-selves’ skulls who all have rainbow gamma rays shooting out the holes in their heads.

The delinquentessential epiphone: The Meow Factor, a state of sensual comfort owing to Garden-variety hedonism; the aim of all human endeavor. The example delighted unto me was a fellow tripper who stuffed my freezing feet in between her breasts to keep me warm. I felt like an intergalactic Eskimo and realized that The Meow Factor must become paramount. Tripping to the tune of tinkling bells and different pitched metal xylophone bars, I could see where Bjork drew her inspiration. “Get ready for the Ice Age, ladies and gentlemen,” I mused aloud.

Being denied the comfort and essential yumminess of The Meow Factor often turns men into blazing trails of mysoginistic vomit. Many men have a heavy rejection complex that they often burn women up with who get too close or who won’t get close enough to let them fuck them.

Although they might not consciously realize it, men’s internal meow is revved and amped up through having sex with a woman, an essence they are denied in their male friendships through being denied by society basic emotional and physical intimacy. Our homophobic and goal-oriented culture refuses to allow men easy access to The Meow Factor by pegging more feminine or vulnerable men as gay. Their career and other signs of being productive are valued over their essence and beingness- very un-meow. Ridiculous, I know. My cat is cracking up right now.

When “straight” men are denied this essential life force by a woman who represents the only socially acceptable way to receive meow-ness and love, they often lose their cool. They go out of their way to try to show their power in other areas of life. In response to a woman’s non-receptivity to some outward display of his power, he will often pull a patriarchal one-up-manship by knocking her down a few notches. If they can’t get your sex, they at least want a piece of your mind. No, not all men. Ultimately, women have the sexual power in this society. Let us not forget this important fact.

The other instance of erotic cat vomit which fuels mens’ rejection complex and denial of The Meow Factor occurs when men make unwelcome passes at women who have had their shirtsleeves saturated with enough etheric semen to fuel a sperm bank. One more cum-on is like a rotting fish whose smell makes you gag and puke, and not in the good way. There is something to be said for “knowing your league” to avoid the unwelcome rejection of stepping outside your sexual caste. If you want to know who is in your league, just ask a friend with an objective eye.

The same paradigm of meow un-meow holds true for women and man-hating, except that they represent the polarity of erotic cat vomit being barfed up from their feline mouths while having control of the Meow Factor. We all know women are allowed to complain more about their emotional woes in relationship, often castrating their men in the process.

If you’re a smart woman, you can hold space for your man to share his feelings after you’ve chopped off his balls or false ego (what’s the difference really?). A good man is a man that can take a hard talk from an empowered woman and come back a better man for it. But it is a dire mistake to martyr your own integrity just to try and hold onto a man expecting that he will change if he’s already getting sex from you. In the end, you will be an unhappy victim.

Word from the wise- if he’s not up to par in some crucial area, try and change him before you start fucking and you will have a lot more luck and better results. At that point he knows who you are and has accepted the terms of the relationship. There is astounding value in taking things slowly. We are not born knowing how to love each other in this world. We have to teach each other so we remember. Trust takes time.

Men often experience profound gratitude when being gently probed and prodded by The Goddess (in female or male form) to share more innerformation, and don’t even realize the joy of the intimacy they were missing until after having shared and been received by their women. It is the Goddess’s delight to lovingly motivate more closed men towards the monumental task of emotional sharing as strong women and sensitive men do.

We Goddesses and Gods are the great protectors of innocence, vulnerability, and all that would inspire a little kitten to realize he is an ancient sphinx as he meows out to her alien kin from atop a pyramid in Egypt. From her kitty third eye is a psychic lighthouse that catches kindred spirits in the light he casts on the desert floor.

A Hathor- 5th dimensional extraterrestrial residing in the etheric realm of Venus- possessed my body during my DMT trip. I wondered what spirit had entered me as my body shook to let the entity in. That’s when I saw this powerful little kitten meowing as if to find his Mother God while calling out to all lifeforms of a similar artistic and spiritual persuasion who were caught in the light his third eye blared. The Hathors taught the Egyptians about tantra, the key to immortality through orgasm, and the 4th and 5th dimensional phenomena for which Egyptians are well-reknowned. I am a Hathor soul incarnated in a human body, so I have an especially close relationship to other Hathors.

I know you’ve heard by now about the 100th Monkey Effect. What I speak of is the space monkey that landed on the kitty’s back right before Loki stole the key to eternity. The Mystery subsumed me and I remembered the value of forgetting.

That’s when the Norse trickster made his presence known in the room, showing me that everything and everyone I encounter possesses the spirit of the trickster as it is reflected back to my trickster noodle. You think you know? Think again!

Alas, Loki is the God of Mischief, Strife, Fire, and a tricky little shape-shifter. He is capable of changing forms at a moment’s notice as the situation requires. I relate to his powers of identity shifting in the vast plasma pool of creaturic identities I take in and through myself, animals, imagined phantasms, aliens, and ghosts included. Loki’s curse is that whatever creature he turns into is still confronted by the limitations of the real world in which that creature lives. His godliness is deflated by the limitations of a body. Boy, can I relate!

To realize the divinity in strife that Loki holds sacred made me re-evaluate the last two hellish years. Is not hell godly as well? Do not we burn our ego’s concerns in the purging fires of Lucifer’s greatest so-called dualistic trick?

There is a fool’s card in identifying divinity with only light, love, and all the typical things with which we associate divine providence. DMT shows us that everything is divine. If that’s the case, then invite darkness to dinner and find out what he has to say. If he flips his bowl of mash potatoes over and rubs his butt slime all over your three-course meal in hell, ask him how to make a better mash of it next time! Loki only became more sinister as time went on….

Loki destroyed the world by stopping time. The trick was this: time was an illusion as was the destruction of the end of the world. To all those whose world ended, the microcosmic wheel of their own internal clock remained permanently stuck in the mechanistic Clogged Clock Syndrome. There was a vaccine to this most fatal illness, but to get it, you had to welcome benevolent aliens into your life as your colleagues and mentors. You had to become time travellers and masters of inner space. It mattered not whether you ascribed this consciousness to aliens or dildos. The point is, you had to do it.

All who were ready for the 4th dimensional shift and had done their spiritual homework welcomed the so-called “End of the World,” which actually signaled the End of the Erotic Nightmare of History.

The sexual novelty that would come at the climax of The Eschaton was a complex and elaborate tantric tongue spoken by the most robust intergalactic lovers. They saw the divine in everyone they sacredly screwed, the erotic prose as individual as the creatures’ rose unfurled whose plasma bottles mixed. Through their love, a third eye sprouted, a third eye that could see more than what either one of them could as individuals see with a single set of eyes.

This third eye belonged to the little kitten on top of the pyramid who could see that the ultimate goal of human existence was to live in the The Meow Factor. If we do not learn the art of sexual loving, Loki will chop off cocks and nail cunts to Lucifer’s coffin as it orbits Earth and the Gods laugh.

The gaseous erotic farse field surrounding the globe will gain too many holes to heal, and all the weeping vaginas of the world will forget how to love. Assholes will become cryogenitally sealed containers for shame. I shudder at the thought of an Erotic Ice Age after the hellfire of humanity’s karmic payback has seen its completion.

Let’s help each other brothers and sisters before it’s too late, and eros has lost its magistrate. I would say let’s go politico and smash the state, but there are more pressing matters of how to relate.

We the Walmartial Artists

Here ye Here ye!!! Calling all FAIRIES! ALIENS! ELVES! GALACTIC-HUMANS! CLOWNARCHISTS! SHAMANIACS! CUNNILINGUISTS! METAPROGRAMMERS! MUSICIANS! SEAMSTRESSES! THE FAKE REVOLUTION HAS UNOFFICIALLY BEGUN!

We will wait no longer for some "HERO” or preZident to liberate US. We hereby TRANSFORM OURSELVES into our own superheros and heroines, liberating ourselves NOW from government, religion, and the Arts Institutions, those track lit tombs where our vibrant creativity is left to languish.

Time to smash the safe, smug prisons of culture, where art is kept segregated from the community at large. Break open those numbing, dumbing, institutions and reclaim art as our birthright and an improvisatory expression of the authentic child’s voice within us all.

Art is more than a colorful rectangle that hangs in a rich lady’s home. Art is the matrix creation of all life. Artistic awareness in high time is like a synchronistic soup where the alphabet letters all spell a poem written by the universe specifically for you. Time is not money. Time is Art!!!

On behalf of the Mighty Zorlock- Improvisational God of the present self, children, and retards- Joan o’ fART is enlisting ALL free-thinking refugees of a crumbling paradigm to bring in the new fake paradigm with a BANG! A Bang of Silly String Theory and Chocolate Worm Donut Holes of a complexified and recockulous future made manifest through costumed temporary autonomous zones, psychadelic protest, magick activism, crimes against monotony, and fake revolution!

As par for our fake constitutional rights, we will be armed with the puniest weapons of ass destruction this country has ever seen: deep long kisses in public, erotic love for inanimate objects, costume parties at Wal-Mart, and clowns shooting blow darts at mannequins in storefront windows. These of course may have no bearing on your own personal form of fake revolution.

Let us not forget that the easiest way to control or enslave any populace is to control the way they think. We want to help the populace break open the shackles of their minds.

We social deprogrammers in ontological and artistic crime have unconvered a few field studies from the Accrappic Records for your inspiration to participate on all absurd fronts.

Dr. P-nut and Joan o’ fArt are both Sirian starseed agents. They discovered the secret of the socially programmed robot in the good-hearted eyes of Howard and Margot who all want microchip implants for their families.

“Howard, honey- IBM is coming out with this thingy called the Verichip, a microchip that will store our family’s medical records and has a global positioning system so our children never get lost!”

“How weird,” says Howard, and then hears on the news that it might even protect his family from terrorists. “Let’s chip the whole family!” exclaims Howard.

Dr. P-Nut and Joan were made privy to Howard and Margot’s plans to willingly forego their freewill to Big Brother in favor of some small security that might quell the noxious toxicity of their unconscious fear. Why? Because they don’t know they’re giving away their freewill to mind control technology. What difference does it when their whole lives have been based on a lie? Just another day in the life of a socially programmed robot.

Dr. P-Nut and Joan both realized that if Howard and Margot never saw any other way of life other than the mechanized slots of existence doled out to them by media, social, and economic controls, they might never smell the ripe armpit of liberty. With no prior knowledge of what each other was doing (Dr. P-Nut in New Mexico, Joan in Arizona), they both started throwing parties at Wal-Mart with their costumed friends. They turned shower squeegees into juggling balls, stuffed monkies into dancing partners, the Christmas music section into a dance floor, customers into audience members, and trashcans into toilets. In an undisclosed New Mexico locale, Professor P-Nut peed on a Wal-Mart delivery truck outside of the store in broad daylight. Way to mark your territory professor.

When told that these social deprogramming archives of anarchistic acts in America needed to be archived, the Enigma spit out the following poem:

All the Post Brand Apocalyptic Cereal Enboxment you could never even ask for

Self-Enriched-mentality pre-packaged in the form of your Family-based identity

Jesus-flavoured weekends and workdaze dressed like Satan

And yay, as thee passeth through the sliding gates of Walmart

Thou shalt fear no evil

For that, my friends, is all that remains in this place

No amount of the generic brand religion you’ve been sporting on your sleeve

Will prepare you to look in the mirror at your reflection-

A hologram of putrid bodies and useless demon meat

Lying behind and around and inside you

So just go ahead and grow what you already got:

A discount bloody-eyed thought-plant

I’m sure if it doesn’t sell well we can put it on mark-down

The new brand of children love that shit!

According to Source, neither Prof. P-Nut nor General O’ fArt feel that it is wise to fight against corporate America or anything that one wants to destroy. Fighting something only makes it stronger as proven by history time and time again. The dominator paradigm must be subverted, not dualistically battled and unintentionally given more power. This is an important lesson for all activists who seek positive change.

On a more nationalistic front, Agents Roxy, O’ fArt, and Reverend Aaron clowned their ways to the polls on Election Day to vote for Bubbles the Clown, Myself, and the Monkey, respectively. Though neither Bubbles, myself, nor the monkey won- Joan informed some of the voters about the New World Order and the swastika shaped runways at the Denver International airport where there is an 8 layer underground complex of secret government affairs.

Bubbles is said to have been banned from the airport after spitting on the mural depicting Darth Vader with three dead international babies under his scythe and a rainbow shooting through his head. This- unfortunately- is not a joke, at least not the part about the mural with Darth Vader, the dead children and rainbow.

Two warriors of the Luftkissen (hovercraft) art army were seen carrying psychadelic protest signs straight from their home-spun art class. One of the signs brazenly declared: “Illuminaughty Approved” and just for the fun of it, “PoopLoveMonkeyF*ck.” On the back of the sign was an unhappy sun and an angry dinosaur saying, “Vote for Me!” hinting at the Draconian and American military alliance. Another sign read: “Puppets for President,” with chaos magic symbols on the back invoking the Galactic Federation. What a wonderful world it would be if Earthly governments made alliance with the Galactic Federation instead of the New World Order.

But enough of that real talk if real is what dreams forget. Why FAKE revolution? REAL REVOLUTION is possible only against a REAL GOVERNMENT. Unfortunately, we have only SPIN, WAR and PUPPET GOVERNMENTS that head up corporate oligarchies and fascistic police states. China is a blueprint for the New World Order that the secret government in America is actively seeking to emulate. Part of the censorship involved in the New World Order was revealed to me through the process of promoting the Election Day project.

After having sent out a tagged word email to hundreds of people, I was banned from my hotmail and yahoo accounts, and opened some kind of demonic zobot portal whenever I went on google and gmail. The proliferation of demons in my midst after Election Day turned me into a warring Kali in my very own apartment. Google is now partnered with the CIA and had tagged my email, triggering some kind of cybernetic demon portal which I don’t fully understand but could psychically and clarisentiently feel whenever I used google or gmail. My computer was tagged.

The Chinese government actually went to google and asked google to search for everyone that was associated in the fight for democracy. The Chinese government threw every one of these people in jail without a trial. When you consider that American tax dollars are being used to fund the Red Army in China and that almost every product in Wal-Mart is made in China, the New World Order economic conspiracy begins to be unveiled.

There is no point to traditional forms of protest. At best we are confined to institutionally designated "FREE SPEECH" or shot down in the barricades for trying to fight a “real” revolution. Romantic, yes but MARTYRDUMB. As well, it's time to stop PREACHING to the converted! Burning Man used to be great, but is quickly becoming another Disney-friendly American holiday bound by a linear sense of time in which people look forward to those moments when they might have the TIME and SPACE to enjoy an altered reality not allowed to infiltrate their normal lives in the city. We do not believe you can put any price tag on freedom or art. We live it, breathe it, screw it, love it, and demand that America pays attention. ART IS OUR BIRTH RIGHT!!!!!

Agents of the fake revolution will be employing a strict regime of psychadelic fascism and costumed anti-camouflage as far as the I can see. Costume is your PSYCHIC ARMOR and is an INDISPENSABLE part of the social deprogramming endeavor. Cops might not love law-breaking humans, but somehow they find a soft spot in their hearts for men dressed in bunny suits.

Freedom doesn’t come in quart size containers or plastic presidential elections but in the eyes of the children we once were and whose innocence we would be lucky to regain. Resistance is feudal. Join the art army of evil bunny dictators and self-elected space pharaohs today!