According
to legend, Thevetat or Devadatta was the great
‘invisible’
Dragon King who corrupted the initiates of Atlantis,
turning
them into evil sorcerers. H. P. Blavatsky Isis Unveiled,
vol. 1,
p. 594
The women of
that nation run
on
spinning Fortuna wheels,
whirling like St. Michael
and his flaming sword—
both
commissioned to stand
at the
entrance into Paradise
where,
once upon a time,
no one was said to be able to walk—
knowing they were, in
fact, naked,
yet
so damn close
to
knowing both evil and good,
even to knowing how
to tell them apart.
***
Clap clap clap
gyrating against the beast,
horned
like a goat
(who likes to step on toes of the high
places)
and against the eaters of apples,
on their way of “becoming one of
us.”
Why, those wheels and cyclopic eyes—
the wheels of quivering
conceptions—
would hang just below the midriffs,
the midpoints and means
between vicars and wizards,
black sorcerers,
and conjurers and clerics—
full of voids
of towering Babels,
Exodus,
and giant Floods—
and with heavy and
thick hangovers after—
(when not even the good ol guy knew
what he was doing
or with whom—
or whether someone had
planned it all this way).
But now someone, they say, must
always stand guard
by
those rotating gyros and wheels
unless Hell and the Old Nick,
busting all the squalid secrets,
go agog and all
agape again—
Over and over their
“never again.”
Again. Ravenously evermore.
For thousands of
years.
On and on. As always.
And that’s why even
gods have to use now
locks, passwords, and codes
like everyone else.
Verily it’s written
that, at the end of the
world,
she’ll drive the man out,
and that at the east
of the garden of Eden
(where one may expect
to find Russia)
some Egyptian cherubim would be turning
her feathers
and snakelike foil every way,
guarding the way
to Woman, Wisdom, and
Life.
For anyway half of the nation already feeds
no
more on words and bread
but on heroin, fentanyl, mushrooms, LSD, crack—
in training
most of their lives
for Hades’ postmortem
openings
as senseless shades.
And from that circling void of the
shuddering eye,
insane at the raving
wheel,
they keep shelling out this
genesis,
the other plane
of madness,
the spick-and-span
Conception of the perfect Conmen,
able to sell mankind
even their own death,
even dense and dark—
To each—according to the subterranean needs!
the
collective chant titillates the bellies.
For it’s where one makes love
because of lack of
love,
where no corrective
action,
no revision is permitted,
and where
people think
from the bottoms of each
other’s minds.
But no one really knows
how
they manage to breed
the
greatest conmen and hustlers
of
all the times
stacked up against whom Prometheus
himself
would
have blushed in shame
unless there
is—there has to be, indeed—
some Wizard of Oz at
work
behind the curtains
or some strange, “[yet]
practical science
of necromancy or
magic
which
operates on spirit by spirit
or, as in alchemy,
bodies
on bodies
by
making things similar
that are not so in
essence,”
according to Picatrix 1:2,
the Moorish 10th century grimoire
that
keeps on conjuring up
throughout
the ages
the primeval Ghost
of the Dead,
the original “communist” Specter
of the Sickle or harvesting Scythe,
its Lunar Crescent,
shearing off Time:
“O Master
Saturn, the Sterile, the Pernicious…
Thou, the old and cunning, master of
all artifice,
deceitful, wise, and judicious … I
conjure thee!”
(Picatrix 7,
Invocation of Saturn).
For “Saturn is used to ask for needs
that
one desires
from
lords, nobles, presidents, kings,
old
people, dead people, criminals…
slaves,
thieves … and if you are sick
with
a deadly disease and every other
similar
request of the same nature
ask
for it from Saturn…” (Pictarix 7).
And there are, verily,
not that many nations,
so youthful
and new,
that
were invented and planned
along with all
their symbols and seals
so
thoroughly and fully
by the old Atlantean occultists
and black magicians,
the dead souls’ conjuring virtuosos
which, by the way,
is exactly
what the fantastic
Odyssey
was about
that has Odysseus,
sailing the seas
like the survivors
from Atlantis before
him
on his return from the war
and from the dead
and from the beds of Circe,
the Witch,
and Calypso, the Concealed One,
the
Chthonic Queens,
only to exact his revenge
on the living—
For only here this magus’ art
had
been so thoroughly transformed
into an institutional
system of education,
turning ideas, opinions,
news, and minds
into the media—
the
necromancer’s message of the Great Conman
who
floods the earthly ether with its sigils and spells.
This is, indeed, the Deluge via the word
of the smooth-talking sorcerer,
both the end and the new beginning,
when
there was nothing but—darkness and void
over the risen bottomless waters
after the
swarms of angels,
the fallen ones,
lusted
and went
after the wide-eyed
and knowing women of men
in
this perpetual Halloween
where the souls of the dead
keep on coming out
from Hell’s open
gates
to overflow and drown the living,
or
as another Saturnian painted it:
“to put in
the shade
all former Exoduses of nations and
crusades
with
uninterrupted disturbance of all
social conditions,
everlasting
uncertainty and agitation
in which all fixed,
fast-frozen relations,
as the train of ancient and venerable
ideas
are swept away, and all
new-born
quickly grow old
before they can ossify,
and all that is solid
melts,
and all that is holy is profaned.”
Till everyone gets drunk or drugged
and
mates with anyone at will.
Bacchic
Saturnalia thus meets All Hallow’s Eve.
Yes, so deep,
but no longer still,
but
mightily jolting is
Poseidon’s
old Atlantis
submerged,
yet rising
with its richly
watered seeds
from within these people
and their pragmatic women
with
this mighty common sense
that tries so hard to break and overturn
any
Law of Nature.
And all this
just to make and worship
the One and Greatest of All Time Conman—
