the magician

Love is lusting
and the God of Love does lust.
Fearing its maker, fearing even,
the things it creates.
There is war in outer space.
You humans must comprehend
how high
you can really get.
Now, the sky. Now,
be in movement.
Hereditary mental deficiency.
The blind norm is consuming
in action, but courageously,
the mind is thumped upon.
Humanly pure humanly thoughts
and emotions are
raging and forcing exit.

I beg my body to let go of my mind.
I would be me, again.
I'd be of no identity, and beatific.
I think of myself in ecstatic joy like this
though I remain trapped
in this consciousness.
This is the escape I search for--not
city-to-city dwellship
begging for the tangible rockload
being at the point to conquer
then flustering away.
It's thrilling.

I think of the worship my human self has
for the higher Thing of soul.
I know, truly,
that creation is creation.

I'm speaking to you from the box.
Once you get outside
you understand you've only moved
to a larger box.
I think to myself, I think: what of
this existence?
This numbing stream, green trip,
there are worlds
and there are livelihoods.
I am living an era of one of them now:
I watch myself.
I don't
like
myself.
I have ideals. I do not function.
I am without euphoria.
I want this place, okay?
You must learn love. Keep from suffering,
though that is life.
But, what is peace
but boredom?
It is pleasant though vulgar.

War inspires art.
It's wrong.

We are within a twist of existence.
We are hesitating from enlightenment,
we are mischievous
and limitless by story.
Do you understand why Earth is called Mother?
She has birthed us, we are her every feature.
The sky is bold. It is the expansion.
Boxes.

I wish I could tattoo my aura:
the infinity sign over my head.