The Serpents dance hypnotically
filling the Void with Thought.
And in their game of wish-fulfillment
the Sons of Man are caught.

Slaves to the Dream Creations,
enflamed by its Hot Desires,
craving ever-new sensations,
singed by the Ancient Fires,
they sink
from brightness into embers
from cinders into dust,
with which they fashion ever new surrenders
for their never cooling Lust.

In their high empyrean mansions,
the Masters watch
and pass down from Perfect Peace –
living, trans-sangsaric ladders
for the burning souls’ release.


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Who among you can bear
to peer
into the Eternal Not;
to disappear
into the Nowhere,
the irretrievably
and absolutely


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It is not Atlas
who carries on his shoulders
the world
with all its teeming life forms,
its cities and citizens
its poets and fools.

It is the breath of life
which fans the vital heat
each time it cools.

Watching the breath
you enter into that empty space
between Life and Death.


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The waves come tumbling, hiss and roar,
the southwest wind begins its blow.
The old grey fisherman on the shore
stares at each billow
and asks once more,

Tell me, which one’s Joe?”

The lettuces stand in rows quite straight,
crinkled and crisp and ready to eat.
The gardener’s wife comes with knife and plate,

I wonder which one’s Pete?”

The autumn gale is sharp but brief;
strips the branches of the tree.
From each dancing, falling leaf,
comes rustling whisper,

This one’s ME!”


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“Empty-handed I come
and lo!
the spade is in my hand.”

In the illimitable Void
All is destroyed
(and Nothing is lost!)

Everything appears anew:
good seeds flourish
(and evil too).

They said to the Poet
at his birth,
“Go! Love!
Without the help
of anything on Earth.”

A naked child eighteen inches long
no teeth, no hair, no speech.
Everything is out of reach!
Yet once his mental powers are uncoiled,
he creates cities, plagues and motorways
to terrorise the world.

So much, so soon, from one so weak!
It should be child’s play to have
a happy


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Every moment
is a fork in the road
and every fork
is always the same,
the choice between right and wrong.

blondin on tightrope for AD B&W SMALL WEB

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When you sell a part of yourself
to the Devil,
you receive
the powers your payment warrants.

He takes
part of yourself as a deposit.
You receive
part of Himself as a witness.

Your part in Him
is his hostage.

His part in you
is your power.
From Him.





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