Pilgrims Come
It should be, feeling; the sound of dust gathering at your feet on stone concrete ancient and weathered, trod by untold countless thousands of minions, acolytes, adepts of the cult of forgotten purpose. There is a focal point and our hearts pump more alive as we gather closer. For this ceremony a ritual use of drumming must be used to summon the spirits, black clad and gathering before the altar. The grit of the hard earth is the grit of our blood flowing animal to tides we barely comprehend. We the chosen who have made it this far.
Upon the altar are the sound-units and the flesh wearing souls they operate. We think we make the decisions but no, we stick to the grid which is an energy line a flow flowing through and beyond us, from someplace we can feel when we gather but never entirely comprehend, we gather because to catch a glimpse of it is the best insight into the real nature of the deep, the really real real, we can hope to muster.
Symbols of Snakes
Writhe around our becoming and adorn us with magicks woven of sex, powa and intent. Sounds of serpent synths rising, one seething mass coming from all angles, thin-tones wriggling across the arena, fat-widths bass-swathing their way up from subsonics in rhythmic pulsation. Coiling from all angles of space and time, an orchestra tuning up to the moment of breaking tension, coming together in the space above and hard in our heart; making, shaping, single precision star that radiates, blind to invisible eyes but waking living emotions, pulsar vibrations. This is the gate, the portal through which it all emerges; the serpents maw called forth by sigils our bodies perform with ritual questing. Feet stilled in the presence of temple begin stomping. Our bodies and will is as one; the energy rises.
Digital Intercession
Electronic stimulation by remote program devices echo through our frail neural systems, thought directed synaptic growth into shapes against our instinct. We become their slaves and our actions robotically perform agenda's we hive operated humants cannot perceive. There is freedom here at the centered centre where all contexts and all concepts break down to nothing, we stare and share the empty feeling as fire flows ocean currents through our throng. The thousand of us might be wrong but here empowered by our irrelevance, a new found feel of innocence as we let go of all the past and open tentacles to Now, the same Now resonant through time immortal. A being of a thousand bodies as one, a portal.
Electronically stimulated and focussed, our nervous systems activated with the codex programmed in our DNA. We are GMO adapted long ago by aliens with something to say in the language of ritual magic and vibrational signal. The moment falls silent and allows us to breathe, and in this unified breath we achieve totality, immortality by letting go. The cartouche pauses as it reaches the top of the climb; from here on down we plummet into time and a time of our choosing. The music is the ride, the journey is the way. Transition is the Say, as fire leaps from hand to hand and heart to heart, base chakra to crown; Now the music starts.
Witching Hour
All the hands strike black as we puncture the sky. You know what to do - the video showed you, behind your eyes is an imagination, image-nation of the Thousand sharing Creation; promiscuously provoked by urges we are free here to soak, raining down on us as the black star core of iris, angel Isis in the Isness, Our sacred isle of blissness for one unseen hour of darkness into which we project light, investing dream with intent intense enough to break the night.
It should be, feeling; the sound of dust gathering at your feet on stone concrete ancient and weathered, trod by untold countless thousands of minions, acolytes, adepts of the cult of forgotten purpose. There is a focal point and our hearts pump more alive as we gather closer. For this ceremony a ritual use of drumming must be used to summon the spirits, black clad and gathering before the altar. The grit of the hard earth is the grit of our blood flowing animal to tides we barely comprehend. We the chosen who have made it this far.
Upon the altar are the sound-units and the flesh wearing souls they operate. We think we make the decisions but no, we stick to the grid which is an energy line a flow flowing through and beyond us, from someplace we can feel when we gather but never entirely comprehend, we gather because to catch a glimpse of it is the best insight into the real nature of the deep, the really real real, we can hope to muster.
Symbols of Snakes
Writhe around our becoming and adorn us with magicks woven of sex, powa and intent. Sounds of serpent synths rising, one seething mass coming from all angles, thin-tones wriggling across the arena, fat-widths bass-swathing their way up from subsonics in rhythmic pulsation. Coiling from all angles of space and time, an orchestra tuning up to the moment of breaking tension, coming together in the space above and hard in our heart; making, shaping, single precision star that radiates, blind to invisible eyes but waking living emotions, pulsar vibrations. This is the gate, the portal through which it all emerges; the serpents maw called forth by sigils our bodies perform with ritual questing. Feet stilled in the presence of temple begin stomping. Our bodies and will is as one; the energy rises.
Digital Intercession
Electronic stimulation by remote program devices echo through our frail neural systems, thought directed synaptic growth into shapes against our instinct. We become their slaves and our actions robotically perform agenda's we hive operated humants cannot perceive. There is freedom here at the centered centre where all contexts and all concepts break down to nothing, we stare and share the empty feeling as fire flows ocean currents through our throng. The thousand of us might be wrong but here empowered by our irrelevance, a new found feel of innocence as we let go of all the past and open tentacles to Now, the same Now resonant through time immortal. A being of a thousand bodies as one, a portal.
Electronically stimulated and focussed, our nervous systems activated with the codex programmed in our DNA. We are GMO adapted long ago by aliens with something to say in the language of ritual magic and vibrational signal. The moment falls silent and allows us to breathe, and in this unified breath we achieve totality, immortality by letting go. The cartouche pauses as it reaches the top of the climb; from here on down we plummet into time and a time of our choosing. The music is the ride, the journey is the way. Transition is the Say, as fire leaps from hand to hand and heart to heart, base chakra to crown; Now the music starts.
Witching Hour
All the hands strike black as we puncture the sky. You know what to do - the video showed you, behind your eyes is an imagination, image-nation of the Thousand sharing Creation; promiscuously provoked by urges we are free here to soak, raining down on us as the black star core of iris, angel Isis in the Isness, Our sacred isle of blissness for one unseen hour of darkness into which we project light, investing dream with intent intense enough to break the night.
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