World on Fire (Lost Boys)

We part the veil on a killing sun. Stray from the straight line on this short run. The more we take, the less we become.” – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny……Still the “world was on fire and it was more than I could handle.” *

The phantoms accompanied me through the real forest to the line of demarcation, that which divides the body from the craving. They were muses, if not daemons, and at times they settled upon my skin as if to travel there.  They thought my soul a rest from the long smoke-filled pathway. We walked on to find the shroud. That veil which separates life from the world on fire, and hurls the soul into the blue forest. They whispered that they had been “Lost Boys” too. Unbound in other creations, their worlds scorched by the burdens of fallen men. So, I listened to them, as we passed by the seared headstones near the trail. Those graves of grandfathers, and pioneers, missionaries filled with evil and good will alike. Males of authority, bastards without a story of where or when. Rich and poor men. Those men known to a world on fire, without their boyhood name. Cut in two by lack of identity. A timidity of soul before the vale. Afraid to jump, or believe, and I walked hurriedly by, for I did not wish to know them, or be as them.

The apparitions with me, poked me with memories, as I stumbled through the ash filled undergrowth, reminding me that the delineation boundary was hidden at times, as if G_D wears a mask. I felt myself humbled, bruised, and I did not wish to be hurt or lost anymore. I quickened my pace, as if in doing so I might eliminate those questions that look for hidden responses, when the answers reside in the question itself. As the burning trees consumed the oxygen around me, and in a state of desperation I begged the specters which gave me haunt to know their names. I wished to know them, and with that acquaintance, I alluded myself to think that there was magic. A quickened as it might be. A mirror with a reflection to know whom I was supposed to be. It was then that I stumbled upon an uplifted root and found myself falling. And, as I fell, I heard ten thousand whispers repeating, “We are Legion“, and I knew they did not know their names, as I did not know mine. For I had become them.

I was dropping, falling as the morning star. A burning orb within me, plummeting within and without the world on fire. Plunging as David after the fall. Moving through lives and beyond burning shadows. Failed dreams, and an eternity of futile desire for knowing not my name, or what it meant. For the world was on fire, and every something appeared in a negative sum. A dwindling cool spot under an uncontrollable flame. A crisis that goes without repent. For the night had become the day, and the day the night.

……And I cried out to G_D to judge me, to know me as I am, to amplify my reasons for living under the calmness of her hand. To kiss me, to fill my soul and feel my face. To become me. To believe in me, as I bless the treasure, the mystery that is his hand. To be like Moses, and know it face to face. To be it face to face. For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny, to be one with the sum.

……And above me was the sound of pleasure, the movement of airborne wings, and what was separated from me, was in me once more. Kissing me in shadows, knowing me in light. For it was eternity beyond the curtain, and I was a child unbroken. I was in the calling, summoned out of a world on fire. I was a man. I was a man. – 10.15.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

* World on Fire lyrics – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

The Harlot of Rotterdam (Nehalennia)


“Ocean of time, eternal law, to ashes, to dust, to ashes, but not just yet. To ashes, to dust, taken away from the light, but not just yet. Miracles wait until the end.” – Zu Asche zu Staub

The shrouded figures watch the gale move in from the vaulted ruins of the abbey. South by Southwest the dark clouds roll out across the hidden heavens casting hail, then wind. The cloaked figures appear to melt into the rock-filled shell of the abbey. From there whispers come unto whispers, sighs unto sighs. Sweet undertones summoning. Wet lips moving, bringing forth that which comes from the sea. That which comes forth from moving hips, from fecundity. She who is eternity from the sea. Bringing her home to Whitby.

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say.

Some say how the tempests sigh. Exhale thee spirit against a Rotterdam sky. She says what a perfect night, to sail under his poison eye, to walk away and not say goodbye. In streets that pass her by, she moves much quicker than to fly. To reach the darker waters of foam and spray, no more man, a creature between her legs. Forgetting about how and when, she begged abstinence from the house of sin. To sail a dinghy into the host of spray, a single passage to where witches play. In stars well-hidden where eternity stays and taste the life, that’s time.

She sails in ashes on a shadowed sea, with deep dark seams that sometimes do not meet. In a cold, where there is no end, somewhere in truth to begin again. Sounds and pictures within, pieces of scripture, from her Opa’s thin voice. Simmering rejection from the church with no choice. She pictures astronomies in degrees, her gift to elevate and bring forth relief. To heal from thoughts within, the harlot of Rotterdam commands each wind. Each elevation a structure within. A stroke a brush with a hand she sends.

The gale the screaming din, the driftwood from the sea with its upside-down grin, to capture all time in a thimble within. Sixes and sixes in upside down triangular twins.  The force that never ends. The strength that forever begins.

She sails alone in cold English seas, a longing a hunger for more than believed. Beyond the nightlights of bars and skin, the mainland is dying from its rot within. To escape the poison, to really be free, to master cold waters toward a home, in Whitby.

Born forth by ash is she, not that of dust, she circles herself in eternity. Deeper than deep, the divers depths call “Nehalennia“, “sing to our dead souls in need.” “Cross yourself forward, the ashes and dust, calls from a time beneath.” “Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes indeed.” Ashes to dust, and dust to ashes, let all these waters recede.”

“Nehalennia” the storm whispers. “Ashes” she murmurs in return. “To fall”, the wind cries. “Dust”, she replies. “The end”, the water sprays. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. “Eternity”, she is heard to say. – 10-07-2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Angels of Gath and Bloody Jack


It’s a place where your wish will be granted
Come, you’ll see I’m right
It’s a force that will live on within you
Dark as day is night
It’s a place where your dreams will be sanctioned
And will always be
It’s a force that was sent out to win you
Just you wait and see” – Epica

The angels of Gath they came from the sea, on a March night when the ice broke free. Came they to a wooden dock down from a wooden gate that is often not seen, hidden by hedgerows and a lock without a key. Stood they by so silently could they be children who do not breathe, led they were by one so tall, a bloody Jack who sired them all you see. Came they from a land so dark before the tower of babel, before the ark, knew they each man’s own sin and even women her thoughts within. Landed all these phantoms upon a dock near Whitby’s harbor at three A.M., saw they above them cliffs of white, the harbormaster saw them and died of fright. For they came to fight and maim, to destroy, the world, that women made they came to make it void. There above the sea so cold, those ancient witches with hearts so bold. And no matter what providence or lack of foresight or evidence, knew they once, all the same. This night would come a fire would come a flame. For it was by bloody Jack the Lord bereaved. The angels would strike by air and by sea. Their eyes rolling red, their souls bruised by need. For somewhere ahead on this cold springtime eve rested a fortune in magic of deeds.

And what of the women that rose from their beds, unwrapping their bodies from sated desire unsaid. The scent of their bodies mixed of oil, of spices and musk; with pleasure their toil, so spent from their lust. The manor still sleeping from parties at dusk, Lucy’s gardens outside hiding all that it must. Not seeming aware that so far below, bloody Jack waited to claim what he owed.

For it seemed once in Yorkshire upon such a day, a bloody thief had stolen away, the book of all shadows of an abbess that strayed. In a tavern off Pickering, on Whitby Way, in drunken debauchery, beneath the table they say. A floorboard was loosened, and a treasure displayed. Of writings of secrets, of magic enflamed, of women of Whitby who receive what they say.

So it was that this man darkened his face, with envy of what he had read of this place, and at night he cut on his arms with a knife, and bled bloody circles to end inner strife, and called he up fallen, the angels of Gath. They came from the highlands their purpose in store. To follow from Yorkshire and take witches down, to learn all their secrets, while in blood they did drown.

We come back to three that hour early morn, when witches are rising to praise their light Lord, and thunder it greets them from high in the sky, and somewhere below them, they hear a strange cry. Resa sweet lady looks startled at best, dear “Mina” my mistress have you seen “Poussee Seth”. He stands by the gate, Carlotta says with a sigh, dragging a boa across her own naked thigh. The coven looks wary, as a second sound is heard, and then there is another, of which moves the earth.

The Shilling it twist and it falls to the earth, before the gate closes a dragon is heard, the summoned the called for, the guardian of Din, the judgment of angels of bloody Jacks end. The witch’s familiar, the tide that rolls in. A talon left grasping a book owned by all, the shadows returning to eternity’s call.

And what of the women who rose from their beds, looking on westward to a dawn now that is red. In coven, they call down the light from above, and bless their familiar who returns to their love. The circle unbroken by angels or man, the manor alive now, its rooms all aglow, the spring has arrived now, with sunlight in tow. The angels of Gath have returned whence they came, and bloody Jack vanquished, and all is the same, as we go onward as we go. – 03.22.2018 – דניאל

Where Pictures Go


Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of forever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

The picture is still wet from its birth, hanging by a paperclip on a string by my shirt. I know I shouldn’t be staring, for what glares back at me, are the eyes of an empty child that’s lost in time and infamy. There’s voices all around my room, an icy cold, wet touch. An unbearable force of desperateness that ask me now, “how much”? Now it screams, “HOW MUCH”?

Beyond the settlement of time and space, so far beyond these years. Further than my experience in a world that knows no tears. A calling is entered in, to come forth now this day. To bring the phantom of a child to the second window on the right, to show in vague display. It was not by choice I walked too far, or selection to go that way. It was by not, my guiding hand, that brought this camera to take.  The doorway to a million Daemons, that travel around our place. That shriek in silence inside my mind, “let us out to play”. “LET US OUT TO PLAY”!

So, it was in this determination, of other earthly spheres, that I became called upon to see the shadow by no use of smoke or mirrors. The barren holds the farmhouse, of tales of by gone days, of the daughter of the household, that came not home from play. The search of all ridge lines, nothing held her way.  Pray tell, pray tell of simple pennies on the road, that faded away.  Voices calling, saying, “Lilith’s chosen, look away”. With much more capacity now, the dark band crying “LOOK AWAY”!

The picture sits in story, it might soon drift away, out beyond my recognition to simply turn to gray. I stare into the distant forms, that reach from in their day, to complete the puzzle now, I think I know a way. To find out why those pennies led to the road, beyond the day. Why do voices call in vacuum, to take me back to that strange place. Where pictures go, the voices say, “to know, to know”, they say “TO KNOW”!

I stray from my good sense of fortune, to a darker place. In moonlight given there I stand and look at a black iron gate. From all around me summons come, the lights and something wicked runs. The picture comes from rooms above, and shadows fall beyond the child’s face. Oh, death you are not justice sworn, you come to some in uneven sums, and now I think that balance demands a pay. If it will bring the end to come, I will assist this child, this one, I bring my hand a pennies sum, a cry goes up, sings, “redemption won”. From stars above comes a deeper sound, that reigns! “Go out and play”, my child, “GO OUT AND PLAY”!

I sit alone, with the picture there, the moon shines bright right through her white blonde hair, the empty eyes turn copper in their stare, as free she fades away. She fades away.

Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of ever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

Dream from 10/09/77 before all went black. – 10.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Elisheba (1911)


Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds.

A soft touch of air lights down on her shadowed nose, in the coldest of winter, in best of her dreams, she climbs through the storm, and counts as she goes. The seams of her thoughts the daemons take hold. Blonde locks of her hair freeze to her cheeks, a character flaw, when she’s not pretty and neat. The gentleman waiting, her husband some said, cares not for her soul, like the one enclosed, in memories of light that she’s had. One hundred and ninety-nine steps, steady not led, a shiny eyed specter, a past that’s not dead. Her eyes on the goal, somewhere, she knows, another world it waits, so different, then Whitby. There beyond the reach of her still living breath it flows. She’s still not a princess, a lady of class, yet now all those whispers tell her instead, she’s the queen that’s unbridled to ghost in her head. A wanton fire in need of the king’s bed. The whisper’s say, he’s just ahead.

An unmoving light in darkness, reflecting on the snow, the empty still, still darkness, not empty that, she knows. The Abbey a high place, a graveyard for the mass, the place her grandmother Lucy taught her of the pact. The contract in the shadows, the moving of the blessed, the points that part the curtains, when there’s nothing to hold her back. She thinks herself, an angel now, no broken wings, from her past now, no memory how he dragged her cross the floor, and beat her till she cried, the blood it ran, to something outside. They came those specters how they replied. Tore his thickened bones, with a curse they moaned. In your coven’s name, a culture oh, our sweet Beth your designation we claim.

She moves past stones her face now clearer, the whirling snow of judgment with her. The clouds they break, and all things are with her, now. And through it all her history heard her, she thought them lost, but how they drew her to this final place.

And Beth she calls the Daemon down, from this lost Abbey, the howling sounds, and from across the space of time and grace, her life of bruises becomes replaced. Elisheba, come and be my bride.

Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds. – 05.23.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Babel


“Cause Jesus don’t save the guys
in the tower of Babel” (Elton John/Bernie Taupin)

Monday, May 3, 1971 (A Child’s Dream)

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well!

Inside me is a story, how the tower of babel fell, a dream I had from childhood, while the flowers of May they swelled. And all around me sandstorms sailed, while above me snowdrops played. Babylon, a voice is spoken, a child in nightscapes looking towards a different day. All around me stars did glimmer, cotton on wet skin, so detailed. A grove of trees by the river, where the “San Juan” wove her spell. And everywhere on each river bluff, the sandstone reached the sky, while by high places, ghost grew dimmer, the spirit screamed and cried. It was then that I stood taller in a dream I’m able too, and my small arms reached for heaven, through a maze how they grew. And an angel came beside me, oh it’s metal skin so light, and said illusion fails, said he there is no issue with building to reach what’s right. For the spirit is a spindle that always wants to climb, information of the heavens, what is, can give you sight.

In babel, I grew so silent in the dream that fell the night, watching wings of living airplanes.  “Their breathing phantoms learning to fly”, said the daemon, who is of balance.  He appears to my left, calm and cold in his pure fury, eyes of gray, a lust filled nest. Can you give your heart to Jesus the one they crucified? For that faith is not of babel, though it too seeks raptures high. Can you abandon an old story with what is across your mind, seek a place at G_D’s table, feeling forgiven in a sinner’s lie? Still a blue spot holding in me, where voices come and play. Words meaning things, in canyons surrounding. Where the soul, is never delayed. Not a token to be prayed for, covered by further blight, a rare instance, I see the throne room sapphire blazing throughout the night. Oh, this dream it covers the night.

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well! – 05-03-2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Mina


Mina’s back from America, sitting alone, in the dawn of the gray, her features are sharper than ever, her lips drawn back, with nothing to say. The steamer that brought her to Whitby arrived as quiet as a ghost, a gentleman’s folly for asking, what part of the journey the lady liked most. There’s changes of noticeable character, figures of dress that one should note, a spot of dried mud on satin, also her bust lines much tighter than most. Oh Mina, a matron has mentioned, your eyes have such devilish gay, says Mina, while she is still moving, at night down your body they’ll stray. A gentleman who stops by for calling, who eyed her while she was still in school, makes his visit much shorter, not sure of the discomfort, her sharp wit makes his lust a fool. He arrives his hair salt and pepper, and leaves with it so gray. His steps stumble throughout the garden, he’s heard to mumble, the woman is not so chaste.

Lucy stops by for biscuits, her flowers and dress in taste, what new fun did you find in America she whisper’s, and do I look okay? Mina plucks at an orchid, that sits tendering a tray. She brings it up to her red lips, and murmurs, tonight by the cliffs will that be okay, and oh by the way! He mentions your more than the cost of a fine gem, a singular sin in taste. He said it all in a moment, translucent as always, the case. Mina laughs as if she’s uttered a dark joke, her eyes dash down her friend’s waist. I’ll offer you more of the rest of his wants tonight, by the cliffs I can’t wait.

A shadow filled mist comes to Whitby, a steamer it moves back to sea, four glistening eyes watch from cliffs overhead, aghast at what they can’t leave. A Baphomet moment around them, immortal a spirit treatise. Mina’s back from America, the visit has sealed a found creed. – 04.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

From Gallup to Shiprock (Turn the Page, 1980)


I’ve been traveling from Gallup to Shiprock, not really alone in my dreams, learning to turn the page, it still means what it means. And just like yesterday, all those witches and those ghost. Are telling me to turn the page, and learn from my highway’s ghost.

So, she watches lonely highways, just a ghost that most don’t know, and she looks to test her mettle, to prove to others she’s not flesh and bone. In the desert, lonely places near the empty Coors bottles, where wild dogs roam. I turn the page. It is four minutes before midnight on the 5th of a November day, and I just left Gallup headed up Shiprock way. Yes, there’s songs about lonely highways, old Bob Seger has him one, and I’ve danced along lonely highways with this ghost or maybe none. It’s a highway of the devil, it’s named 666 to no one, for that nameless is the devil, known from first boy to the one, and of all my many stories this one should know you like none. For along this very highway from Sheep Springs there is someone. Turn the page.

I’m not special or a whisperer, I’m just meant to see someone. Well the familiar brought me something when, I was oh so young. Along this highway up to Shiprock where, old Bob Seger sings, is a ghost who makes sweet music, bring her loneliness to something. All the legends of Cibola, all the spirits of the Chee’, all the things that make my memory, from the past to modern creed. Nothing beats the lonely story, when I drove out on my own, from Gallup on to Shiprock, where the other side does roam. Oh, she sings just like a siren, from a sweet old melody, takes me to upper places, where Lilith wishes she were free. To take this lonely boy to rapture, take him from his highway, hissing in this dark valley roam. But I can’t travel, for you see this highway guides me. Takes me to a different home. Turn the page.

Well it is from Gallup to Shiprock, that there are some strange things, just fourteen miles out of Gallup there are octaves from essence keys. I am driving on a highway as a young man on my own. 1981 a highway, all the ghost that fill my home. And Bob Seger sends a memory, from his vocal chords they sing. Bringing that young wisp, a harlot as a long, lost spirit she sings. And from Gallup up to Shiprock, on old 666 let’s sing, “Turn the Page”.

I’ve been traveling from Gallup to Shiprock, not alone in my dreams, learning to turn the page, it still means what it means. And just like yesterday, all those witches and those ghost. Are telling me to turn the page, and learn from my highway’s ghost. – 11.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Gethsemane (1867)

It could be I saw her, or maybe, I just wanted too.  It might be I whispered her name, a time or two, and that’s the way she rose, like a young lady, with “lace in her soul”.

“Gethsemane”

She rises in swaddling cotton from reeds, with lace in her soul she follows the river, and somewhere close by she senses the bay, the place wicked boys come to play wicked games.  For what she remembers so cloudy in mind, the syllables of her name seem to rhyme.  It could be under the bridge, or maybe only due south through the gate in the mist, but somehow she only knows.  Her whispered name on a rose.  The one her daddy gave her in play, a garden for Christ he always would say.  For unto who is given so much, here by the swamp, now fare thee by luck.  The preacher would laugh, as he stayed, inside her forever, his large belly naked and grey, oh he played with a wicked game.  He taunted with a wicked game.

“Gethsemane”

Her body fills wet from the surge of the bay, the suns almost up, and she must go away, but in her mind she prays.  The places at sixteen a girl could go, riding her horse with her bonnet to show.  Through Bagdad to Milton, the county boys know, she is a lovely tow, with the garden of Christ, on your arm. There you go, a smile upon your face.  The dear farmer’s daughter, with lace in her soul.  The humid hot sunshine, the streets all aglow.  Please make a way, her thoughts from the past begging how to know.  The place that she entered and what sin did sew, in all a wicked game.  In all it was a wicked game.

“Gethsemane”

As she slips through the dawn, the mud cools her toes, her restless spirit, makes her a ghost.  She died under the waning Gibbous his hands on her throat, her nakedness displayed, white under the moon, she strayed.  And over and over the water it flows, a Sunday night missing, while they seek her by boat.  The preacher looking, the scratches hidden under his cloak.  He’s laid her all away.  In swaddling cotton, in reeds by the bay.  The garden of Christ, with lace in her soul, she gathered herself, refusing to play, those wicked, wicked games.  Those wicked games.

“Gethsemane”

Gethsemane Simmons, was murdered, and hidden away near the East Bay, close to Bagdad, Florida, on Sunday, August 18, 1867.  There was a waning gibbous moon. – 08.18.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Dante’s Ruse (Baby Blue)

At seven you approached me familiar of the light, baby blue, falling incandescent light, the alfalfa in that field by Nenahnezad, so purple, it became blue, my flame of spirit, possessed by wild winds beautiful, that took my soul. Light as a child, I become interweaved with you, forever in your breath I’m cured by inner sight. Grandma Blackhorse she told me, near Shiprock she told me, while other children played in her sight…. “Look at what you see, say what you trust, nothing about you is new, and yesterday, you came to light, do you remember, baby white boy, born your mind so blue”. “Everything from here on out is not you, it’s what controls you, yes, yes it becomes what you do”.

At sixteen I reached a place I thought I should not go, light near Durango, driving deep into the night, and I forgot where I was going, near midnight I couldn’t remember my very name. Outside of Hesperus, things become overwhelming, in your baby blue, and then ghost came into my sight. Then light came, like a cure, something like skin, that nothing, and nobody should touch, my baby blue. And what I can remember, is something is worth having, something that I’ll never touch, esoterically illusional true. Better than reality, sometimes fiction you can’t touch, can make you cry. Better than reality on that Colorado highway, neurological daemon, from my little boy clues. From my little boy clues.

Dante he comes, sometimes he knows, that every word, from his flimsy touch, is a rhetorical verb, that is light. “It’s light,” he says, he grins against the blue ray, that sprinkles gloom and glitter against the dark Fort Collins sky. He says, “Are you ready, to write, baby blue, I possess you, can we get high”? I think it’s a ruse, but I remember, when I was new. Before I was seven, without you, baby blue. And so I deliver, and these lines, these words that are you, bring me something I’ll never touch. No I’ll never touch.

At seven you approached me! – 07.15.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Another one for my damn muse!