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—
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