Wednesday, July 13, 2016

The Continuing Dissolution of all that is Fine and Honorable Within Us.

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

I'd heard for some time that over 50% of the internet traffic was porn. Upon further checking, I have found otherwise. As you continue to probe, you find this debunked. I don't know what the truth is. I know there are a lot of opinions on it. Still, I think it is more than they say because I look at the daily downloads at all of the torrent sites and every day it is mostly porn that is available. Of course, porn is more than badly performed trampoline sex, accomplished by clumsy acrobats.; porn is also the usual fare from the worlds of art, music and movies. It is the transparent lies of talking heads and illiterate reporters giving us the regurgitated offal delivered to them by those who create the news as they want it to read in the minds of those who no longer have a mind.

This seems to be what I notice most in the trends that come and go and which, in some cases, continue on in the process of constant change. The only reason they can continue, is due to the continuous change; proving that. “the more things change, the more they remain the same.” Porn is the daily dependable state of politics and religion. Pornography is anything that has been perverted beyond the boundaries of normal practice. Abnormal is the new normal. A high ranking judge once said something to the effect that, “I couldn't define pornography to you but I know it when I see it.” I see pornography everywhere every day. One might imply that this is a projection of my own inner perversity. I see it as an extension of my objective reasoning abilities.

The Holocaust is pornography; a real dog and pony show, a festival of Mexican hookers shooting ping pong balls out into the audience, while freaks on vacation laugh and chortle at the depressing circumstances of those herded into these behaviors. In clubs in Cambodia, foreign sex tourists bounce prepubescent children on their knees and pass them back and forth to each other. This I know to be true. All pornography, as it is traditionally understood, pales by comparison to The Holocaust which also has a profit margin far, far above the usual pornography.

One should fear the pursuit of the truth like one would fear being pursued by The Jabberwock. The image of the Phoenix rising from it's ashes says little about the pain of bursting into flames beforehand and answering The Sphinx incorrectly comes with it's own unfortunate ends. What one should take away from that particular tale is that the true answer has to do with the passage of any one of us here in the mortal byways of ordinary movement; 'what goes on four feet in the morning, two feet at mid day and three feet in the evening?' This is shown in the four paintings of Thomas Cole; The Voyage of Life. We are the answer to that which we seek. We are both the mystery and the revelation. Of course, we have heard this expressed and explained in myriad ways. We hear but we do not understand. Our intellectual grasp is unfortunately, seldom attended by visceral awareness. This is what happens when vanity obscures objective clarity.

I did not want to go where the truth led me. Of course, I thought I did. I thought there was nothing finer in all the world than to see without a filter; existence as it is. What I saw, inescapably, from whatever the direction, left me in a state of something considerably less than general approbation. True knowledge is a curse when false knowledge holds sway. Few things make people more angry than a perspective that challenges the comfort zone of fools, who have made accommodation to what is not so. We have been round and round this over and over. It doesn't change. Those are not angels dancing on the head of a pin.

There are programs at work to specific ends. If the rise of the Kundalini is the pathway to godhead, then the reversal of it achieves the opposite end and that is the intent. Everything we see in the cultural insanities of these times is geared to the subjugation and enslavement of the human soul and to the dissolution of all that is fine and honorable in us. We are bucking the winds of a calculated effort to unleash the beast within;

The heavy bear who goes with me,
A manifold honey to smear his face,
Clumsy and lumbering here and there,
The central ton of every place,
The hungry beating brutish one
In love with candy, anger, and sleep,
Crazy factotum, dishevelling all,
Climbs the building, kicks the football,
Boxes his brother in the hate-ridden city.

Breathing at my side, that heavy animal,
That heavy bear who sleeps with me,
Howls in his sleep for a world of sugar,
A sweetness intimate as the water’s clasp,
Howls in his sleep because the tight-rope
Trembles and shows the darkness beneath.
The strutting show-off is terrified,
Dressed in his dress-suit, bulging his pants,
Trembles to think that his quivering meat
Must finally wince to nothing at all.

That inescapable animal walks with me,
Has followed me since the black womb held,
Moves where I move, distorting my gesture,
A caricature, a swollen shadow,
A stupid clown of the spirit’s motive,
Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness,
The secret life of belly and bone,
Opaque, too near, my private, yet unknown,
Stretches to embrace the very dear
With whom I would walk without him near,
Touches her grossly, although a word
Would bare my heart and make me clear,
Stumbles, flounders, and strives to be fed
Dragging me with him in his mouthing care,
Amid the hundred million of his kind,
The scrimmage of appetite everywhere.”

'The scrimmage of appetite everywhere'; when specious argument pursues itself in winding and ever tighter circles, until, like the Wiffenpoof, it disappears up its own asshole. We shift and dissemble and relentlessly chase ourselves into the vale of ignominy. We prance and strut and preen before the twisted fellowship of our deluded fellows, embarrassing ourselves before the gaze of the timeless and liberated but satisfied enough by the applause of those who see through the lens of distorted dreams, reflected in fun-house mirrors. Until awakening comes, we simply turn too and fro in a nightmare of progressive enfeeblement; on four legs in the morning, two legs at mid day and three legs in the evening.

Our lives are not defined by a collection of greater acts that give some enduring significance to the whole of our days, born out of mystery and returning into the same. Our lives are defined by countless smaller moments that collectively proclaim that this is what we were and this is what we are. No sound or image ever dies, they continue in an unending echo; not unlike the tiny ripples on the face of a lake. Our idea of what we are is only a ripple and what we really are is the lake upon which the ripples occur. This is what the Akashic Records are; a history of ripples. A pattern of ongoing insignificance.

I remember certain moments where I saw angels circling out of the sun into wider and wider expansions of the same, as they flew out of the sun every morning to the tasks that lay ahead. It was something like the work of Gustave Dore. You would think with all the things I have seen, getting from wherever that was to wherever this is that my faith would be unshakable. At times it is but not always. That is the cross of being here. You possess nothing you have not earned or which has not been conferred. This is true in the manifest as it is in the invisible. It is who and what rewards you that counts because that determines the nature, quality and longevity of the reward. The more you get hammered here the more you are tenderized for the company of that softer and gentler company of beings that are the product and environment of what we have endured and which is the totality of what our intentions made out of us.

In a world of material excess, it is to be expected that the greater portion of us would be deceived into some form of perdition, masquerading as whatever we have determined the glitter promises and never delivers, which it does not and never will. It is the pedestrian tinsel, reflecting the false light of this world and accompanied by the sounds of chaos and bombast, as fools parade across the stage, pushing one another out of the way in search of some temporary limelight, that serves to illuminate and isolate them as the fools they are. It is far better to endure the censure of the world than to be denied entry into the company of kindred souls, in a world far brighter and more beautiful than anything you will see down here. Here it is just shit airbrushed with iron pyrite that glows in the ghost light of a neon nightmare. You have this upon my soul and everything that I hold dear. The least of what lies beyond is significantly greater than anything you will find here, unless you are going the wrong way.

We hold these truths to be self evident.”

We hold these truths to be self evident.”

We hold these truths to be self evident.”

Self evidence is the evidence of self.

End Transmission......

This Sunday's radio transmission should be up shortly.


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