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Wavy Circles


Some, in their pain born of nescience,

cling to pleasures of the flesh as a numbing salve in vain.

Others, hypocritically repressive, would condemn Life in the enjoyment

of it's own flesh and breath. I teach you:

the oversexual—sexuality gone-beyond.

Many misunderstand the god within them, the One which is shared by All;

Eros embracing Thanatos—cessation nurturing sensation.

Mankind is born with a longing to overcome itself.

In comfort and security the god impulse festers

and rots like an untended wound.

Once, we knew that man came from woman and woman to man.

I tell you now: sex is the pain through which God is born.

Hear this: that God comes from woman and to man.

It is the cloud which bears the lightning;

the thunder which wakes one from slumber.

It is the act of being broken which rouses one to the spirit of overcoming.

It is Life Herself which seduces and entices us;

against what might be our better judgment—death, the only pleasure.

Marble is mined, hacked, hewn, blown from rockbeds and mountainsides.

The mountain does not consider this to be death.

Only the thinking animal has condemned its' own birthing.

We scoff at and harass our champion;

blaspheme our Creator—our Destroyer.

In pain one only seeks oneself, small and pained.

Wrapped in the rapture of the sublime one may claim their death as their crown.

There is a pain which is a pleasure—the recreating force.

The ambrosia of one's own flesh married with one's own mind

and committed to one's own spirit in it's totality—ecstasy.


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