A GOD ON SILVER WINGS

A god on wings,

A god on wings,

Hither comes a god on silver wings.

 

Fear thee,

Fear thee,

The god on wings ariveth fear thee.

 

Run yonder the hills,

Run yonder the hills,

Flee thee the god on silver wings.

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EL CULTO QUE AME`

 

I always wondered at a man who had utter contempt of his mortality,

Until I met him that preached by the river.

He was ever in the company of his little goblins,

Kind creatures and slaves to his whim.

When I met him, he looked at me as if I was a burst of air,

Nothing more than a passing wind.

His eyes scraped at my skin,

Made me feel like unrefined Kapok straight from the rainforest.

He welcomed me into his arms,

I ran to him seeking meaning and a cause to be remembered by.

Long did I serve him, for a long time I fell in love with him;

He was everything a girl could want and everything a man could ever be.

I persisted in my obsession and took him like a drug every other time I felt sick.

I have seen on the telly many like me, mad, obsessed, in love and unaware,

I loathed them.

Soon I forgot about them,

Soon I felt no pity for them for they were the enemy.

With their foreign gods and foreign cultures and foreign filth.

The preacher assured me that they were all very necessary

He told me that I should not think of ways of getting rid of them.

Singularity is not natural, complacency is degeneration.

Focus on not being like them, focus on hating them, he urged.

I fought their spirit and out of my spirit became the spirit of hate.

Not to kill the ideal but to kill the poor souls attached to it.

To make them afraid.

To make them suffer and whimper at my sight with dread.

To make them die and wish for death more than the starved wish for food.

One day he had a meeting to attend that he said would change everything.

He left me in charge of the river and the goblins.

‘What is this meeting?’ I asked.

‘A conclave.’

‘Are they making you Pope?’

‘Sweet Child, no…not that kind of conclave, but do stay here. Things will be much different afterwards.’

I took care of the goblins and the lukewarm worshippers of the Preacher as they came in trickles.

Soon, they started coming in floods that I had to stand on a rock to address them.

‘Mend your ways,’ I pleaded with them

‘Can’t you see that you have been misled.’

Some listened and came back week after week. I parried on, spewing hate

At times I was overcome with emotion and,

Out of my little mouth came outbursts of affection for the damned souls not there with us.

At night I would roll back in my cave and wait for the Preacher.

I would pray to him for a miracle,

That he would be there in the morning when I woke up.

He was never there, ever, but I did not feel the slightest loss of faith in him.

I waited,

I grew up.

I wrote books and,

I made love to a few people.

I was getting used to be Lord and Master of my surrounding.

I was stepping into the shoes I once worshipped and kissed,

When one cloudy morning during the rainy season,

When the river banks had burst and,

The Goblins and I were sheltering in a cave together with a few of my followers,

The Preacher, fatter than before came back.

‘It has been too long.’ I cried when I ran to embrace him.

GOBLIN NAMED GOBE:

The Preacher stood there motionless as our Mother embraced him.

He looked around coldly that you could feel the warmth run out of your body.

He sighed loudly and wrapped his arms around Mother.

Mother feeling relieved, held him even tighter and we all sighed loudly.

The Preacher in return squeezed even harder,

But nothing could prepare us for the symphony of bones cracking and the escape of the soul.

DUST TO DUST

death comes to all.jpg

I cannot bring my battles to you,

So I lie here and wait for your peeping death.

I cannot raise my sword against you,

So I wait for death to unsheath.

 

Have you ever watched a raven peck at Eagle?

If you have my dear one, You have a lived a thousand ages,

I am but a child,

As a child I eat, like a child I drink,

Like a child I think and just as children fight- so do I.

I will wait for you to die.

Death is your master.

 

 

DEMIGOD

index

I have an easier inclination to the dullness of the subconscious and a vibrancy to the conscious

Call me a normal human being, because that is all i am

The fruits of being i find are not in memory, not in dreams but in the lines woven by each reflex in our mortal physical forms

Our bodies responding to our thoughts and desires,

If our bodies can respond at all.

Some are not very lucky in that end but luckier than we all are in other senses.

Praise the gods for their diverse thinking.

It is only purer when it is not,

It is only holier when it is not.

We are demigods in a demigodly sort of way,

Bless us Father for we are all in all and in ourselves perfection.

The ecstasy of St. Theresa

bernini2the ecstasy st. Theresa

This is one of my favourite pieces on religious matters. As a practicing Christian and a self-proclaimed renaissance woman, i think Gian Lorenzo Bernini perfectly captured the romanticism of Christianity and combined it well with the hedonism and movement of the Renaissance during the time of Counter Reformation (history and stuff). It evokes the sensuality of true worship and does not ignore the impulses of Theresa of Avila, she’s only human, neither does it stress on it. Let us all look for the hymn Veni Creator Spiritus and experience the rapture she did here.
The sculpture is the central sculptural group in white marble set in an elevated aedicule in the Cornaro Chapel, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome.

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