Poetry K-Hole 5: Hypnos Lost.

Hypnos Lost.

Visions slit our lids and peel
them open to pass the hours,

festooned over the rungs
as supernal sentries,
we are denied entry.

When preludes of a day,
strained
through the stray notes,

hitch in
on a fleet of wings,

they shiver
through the vertebrae of repose –

rousing to a sick revival,
every other function.

But we – wreathed – linger
and perfect the art of existence

by expanding into the full fury
of our innovation,

and without breaking our shape,
we strike at the horizon –

while the departed lie still
in apery of dying.

– Sommer Cullingford

Poetry K-Hole 4: Carpentry of Bone

Carpentry of Bone

I am here and maunder
in bright anxiety, a moon
across the stricken brow
of restless exits;

scaling sands
in swollen faith –
my feet, broken
as bones.

Hopeless toes – let go.

Let go those ossein keys
for trees;
roots sunk as ships
in a sea of sod.

Like limbs,
I strive and share
this verdant lust
for ascension –

an approximation of heaven
in the cosmos I cast
with shadows
below.

– Sommer Cullingford

Poetry K-Hole 3: Apotheosis of Lucifer

Breathe in deeply this Luminous Light.
This Light is from the highest part of the Self.
It is the LVX of Illumination and Apotheosis,
And the guidance that propels
The unconscious into consciousness.
It motivates and drives the Luciferian Self,
To manifest itself from the deepest part of our being,
To awaken the potential for all of us to be gods.
Thou are gods.
Thou are children of the gods.
See thyself as gods.
Look to the Stars and see,
The inherent wisdom in the Stars and in thy eyes.
The vision and the potential to truly see,
Thyself immortal, eternal, and infinity.

+Tau Jnana.’.)o(~

*

This is an excerpt from the upcoming The Chronicles of Lucifer, by +Tau Jnana.’.)o(~.

Poetry K-Hole 2: Oi, God

Big old poof, sittin’ in the sky

Bossin’ us ’round,

Dunno why.

I guess He doesn’t have enough to do,

Can’t sort His own shit out

So He has to give us arseholes

About feeding skinny kids

In Africa.

Why doesn’t He feel bad?

He’s the one who made them,

Racist, too, since he made all the poor ones black.

Or did he make all the black ones poor?

*

Simon P. Murphy is the author of His Master’s Wretched Organ.

Poetry K-Hole 1: Down And Out in Nelson and Stoke

Down And Out in Nelson and Stoke

Hermes Trismestigus,

On the fuckin’ benefit.

His case manager Te Aroha gives him arseholes.

A right fuckin’ rark up.

Doesn’t want to thin apples,

Doesn’t want to fillet Hoki.

Just wants to write about the psychic elements

And the topography of impinging dimensions

Not much good being a smart cunt if he’s sitting at home on the dole

Not working for his money.

Te Aroha’s had a bloody gutsful

And so has Raelene

No more going to the drags,

No more car shows at Rangoon,

No more midget stock car racing

Til he gets his fuckin’ act together.

He thinks he a smart cunt,

Says he can invert mental polarities

And formulate a geometric model for translating

The operations of higher dimensions into the lower,

But he can’t even remember his 9-digit client number

Or where he last saw his community services card.

Te Aroha has just about lost all hope,

Raelene is sick of Hell’s Angels knocking on the door

Looking for Hermes after selling them a bad batch.

Maybe what he needs is to sort his shit out,

Go on an Outward Bound course,

Might get his foot in the door with the army,

Maybe even an apprenticeship.

Maybe he could do his fork-lift licence,

Or maybe go back and finish his School Certificate,

Instead of poring through the Necronomicon

Or scrying alien constellations.

*

Simon P. Murphy is the author of His Master’s Wretched Organ.