Geometric Allegory

A MESSAGE (as it appeared, no edits) __________________________________________________________ presence for I am the lord and I speak as the vessel and the instrument in the sinner who I've chosen.  i am the holy ghost and I have touched the man who is chosen to carry the flame. I am the voice that reminds you that for every penny you've proffited, you will pay a thousand times in an eternal debt. i call out the jews and the sages and the alchemists. you are chosen too. for this curse is ours and ours alone, and you are in judgement with the rest.  you, the supposed mother cut from the hand of God who offers trinkets now in this hour of lament, search with your eyes into the despair you have caused and weep bitterly for the harvest that surely is your own.  you jews who profited and made your living off of the word of the father, weap at the place where you have led us. for surely moses will weep for you.  ghosts of the spectre who haunt these realms, marvel in the miracl

I n the Forest is the remainder Of the "left behind"orphan child. You must either let straight be straight , or set the infant child up for a rescue. The rescue itself is settled relief. It is possession flanked in the midsection, And now the tent’s wall throws the moon down into fearfulness. Who is watching over the child That inhabits Fearful fear: It is precious and valuable . On Light fires, And mold pours down; the station goes out. Beautiful! Give advice: Appoint, correct, add, let him find suckle. Deposit right! The right hand  A sea-howl... It walks. You brought Forth a boy. Now be able to convict with wine. Do well and stay together. The daytime dove, trumpet provided, knows the throw of thy hand, a hand dry Out of the stream. _________ This broken in-law Is sealed in thought. Keep silent, engraver. Disgrace taunts The Betrothal. Perforate This Net Of Burning wrath. It Flares up: Tremble Wasteland. Dry

The Children of Kenaz  ____________________________________________  The molds of language formed into shapes,  And the geocentric “to be” said “BE”  And it was.  He is the captain  And he has commanded in the land of history  Every era that is associated  With "has been" and "will be."  The Children of Kenaz formed  A branch of Calebites,  And as a clan  They rendered something as if of thought.  The thought writes the world around us,  And these same thoughts people this little world,  But this has not yet been explained.  The message of reason is already formed and born.  The message and object is recorded  For all who would be concerned.  But brace yourself.  Thunder (like a clap of conversation) will burst,  But they have no choice in that.  They are so asleep…  Completely avoid them.  Before, language was impossible,  So they reached out in social movements  And provided the barest outlines,  But they were simply outlines.  He will resume his natural dignity 

Life was mass-produced;  Vengeance damned by technological progress.  We ushered it in.  The patented shadows  Waited for the Big Bang's retrograde  When all the world's matter  Melted into a single, copyrighted pin-point.  Then, and only then,  Did the clock disconnect .  The son of a gun is the son of The One.  They calculated every moment  And gathered every page  Ever written,  Now scanned  And kept  In an archive  Of information.  When the future archeologists pull you from the grave  You'll be like some mummy in a museum  Taken from his tomb  And put on display.  You will be studied.  You will be analyzed.  The infinite monkeys  Will find a way  To rob your grave  And explore your non-linear waves.  You smell like profit, OK?  Generational slaver¥  Extended beyond the grave.  Here's the thing.  There's a reason you've reached this far:  Connectivity Pulls you In a Circle,  And you're worth something  To them.  The circle  The square  The spirit  The

>->-->->>--->>->-->-> In 1889, a handsome crowd gathered  On a dusty sidewalk in Italy.  They formed into a tight knot  To watch the great commotion:  The horse-drawn cart came to a sudden halt  Right there on the street.  The horse simply refused to move,  And it did so for no good reason.  A scene unfolded quickly.  The driver, now immobile, shouted, cursed,  And jumped down from his cart and onto the street  Where he bellowed and spat  And kicked at the horse  With Dionysian rage.  When the horse still remained unmoved,  When it stood there, stoically frozen,  The man unclasped his whip,  And he lashed into the horse until strips of pink flesh fell  Exposing the ribs and tendons below.  Perhaps the horse would have died  Were it not for the madman  Who bolted from the crowd and ran to it.  The crowd watched as the  Madman charged into the street  Where he clasped the horse's neck  And howled into the chaos  With no dancing stars.  They say the madma