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Ghost Lodge

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posted on Aug, 17 2005 @ 04:31 PM
The thirteenth dream of Dr Sardonicus
began with the vision of a hairy butt,
delicately divided by a perpendicular thong
and falling sand, from wet parts, as it plodded
coarsely along our line of sight.

Shore and sea - immaculately seperated.
The edge of what's known;
between a hirsute moon
and the submarine unknown.

But here we spit upon picket fences peeling whitewash,
expunging gobbits of vernacularities through fluted lips.
Scraping our agonized skulls with shattered seashells,
annointing our heads with ashes of burning beds, and
images of crack vials decorating the concrete south of Houston.

Frowning at sand castles, we are stolid in our mortality,
biting our tongues to add colour to bile,
waving rapiers of poisoned wit,
rinsing canyons of spiritual erosion,
with the outflow of twelve passed pints.
Taking pleasure in watching the dance
of an empty Skittles wrapper
caught in the steaming flow.

[edit on 17-8-2005 by masqua]

posted on Aug, 18 2005 @ 06:04 PM
Questing West, we went so far
that East became a Mystery.
Waves of humanity washing new shores...
eddies coiling widdershins in the lowlands
became towns. Sultry in the vales, slumbering
sleepy towns. The storms of War far away
in the Old World.

Again, facing West
we see our pasts.
The Phoenix rising from occult;
a new sun to bejewel dawn.

posted on Aug, 19 2005 @ 06:09 AM
pickle me when i die
to stare blankly through the ages
from the confines of a clear jar
like jeremy benthams head

turning to and fro

amazing all the strollers
silent in the glow
of my dreadful corpse
silent in the flow

in a shady graveyard

so ladies aren't offended
i want a little speedo
to match my staring eyes
and confine my drifting doodads

hidden in a bower

through the clarity of sloe gin
to be a mortal specimen
reminder to arrogant men
of what awaits us all

ever turning to and fro

posted on Aug, 21 2005 @ 06:14 PM
Clicking on the SOHO
has got me saying; "Oh, no!"
Don't tell me that you don't know...
our sun's about to go blow!

Old Vinnie Van Gogh, (you know?)
He was a young man then.
He also saw the sun blow-
fried his brains way back when.

Screwed up his mind-
it began to unwind,
seeing flames in the trees
and on farmers fields in the breeze.

Sliced off his left ear
for a girlie so very dear
and it soon became darn clear
Vinnie's time had about drawn near.

So stay 'way from SOHO.
It's best that you don't know
when the suns' about to go blow
and your mind's gonna 'a go go'.

posted on Aug, 25 2005 @ 07:49 PM
The Soul is a Spirit,
of that I'm quite certain.
From lead to gold, change it
by drawing the curtain.

Closing our vision to all that we see,
opening the Minds' Eye-
really seeing a tree...
as a flame to the Heavens
and a binding to the Earth,
the whole like an hourglass,
a true symbol of worth.

The Tree and the Hourglass,
where mortal time flies,
to drink from the soils
and feed from the skies.

posted on Sep, 5 2005 @ 06:14 PM
Suckers and buskers
cluttered the Quarter
chuckling and jivin'
Around and around
The horn of Coltrane.

Mirrored galaxies
Spiralled and glitterballed
Here in Nawlins...
Jewelbox dancing and a
Tip in the hat.

Monks Trinkle Tinkle
Tarried out on the swing,
Borne upon an orange evening
Of jazz and incense
Spreading to the river.

Behind the Green Door
Where Brigit did the binding,
Kneading pink playdough,
Toying with life,
Namasting everyone and
flashing sequins in our eyes.

Kornbluths Marching Morons
Beat...beat...beat it senseless
I can hear it...
In the bayou-
In the jewelbox-
Where the music lingers still.

posted on Sep, 15 2005 @ 10:25 AM
Mint squares of grass luminesce amid
concrete rectangles in the halogen lamps.
A dark chocolate thoroughfare bears
chariots the colours and hues of candy.
Syrupy red and white streams flow, deliniating
the deep canyon of Bloor Street
far below the windows.

My head is pressed against the cool glass.

White noise, a blanket over the scene,
is punctuated with staccato thumpings
of vehicular audio, mimicking
the heartbeat of Toronto.
Swirling dust devil winds waltz cheek to cheek
with yesterdays discarded newspapers;
a macabre dance,
drawing down a gibbous moon.

Blessed Luna, bring me home...

Eyes reflected in the thermopane
gleam yellow as the scene blurs.
Leonine embers staring back,
feral in the tinted soup of moonglow,
streetlamps and Royal Bank logo.

Amid the hum I hear
the eerie call of the wild loon,
and remember, with a sigh;
soft days of distant summers,
and the lost innocence of youth.

posted on Sep, 23 2005 @ 02:18 PM
A video stream vies for
an askance glance from
the groaning boredom
of sated satanists.

World weary wanderers,
convicts of the conundrum
of pleasure, snicker privately
in smug security at the news.

Reflected infections
abound throughout
the Akashic of this,
unfolding New age.

Orange blossom
growing voluminous in the Gulf,
riven with soul striations
cool blue in the pedals
of terrors flower.

Firmly convicted fundamentalists
nod in self-satisfied foreknowledge,
seeing Gods hand at work
as they raise a beer in salute.


Bearded fanatics gloat,
praising Allah
in the flickering TV light,
staring enraptured,
as their lips sneer
around betel stained teeth.

posted on Sep, 26 2005 @ 01:12 PM
Afloat...amid the
silence of the bell jar,
suspended weightlessly,
drowsingly aware,
I am.

Twisting hallucinatory visions,
never resting, taunt me.
Distortions in the pewter light of dawn
caper through smooth glass walls.

My mind is pinned then...
lightning flash sudden while
splayed upon the cross,
and within the loneliness
of common sensibilities
is driven the stake of enlightenment.

It lies within.

posted on Oct, 5 2005 @ 04:33 PM
You are an admirable poet. I very much enjoy your writings; they have an honest, natural feel to their flow.

posted on Oct, 7 2005 @ 03:38 PM
A waxing moon lit silver birches
among fiddlehead fields and
moss covered deadfalls.
A still night air redolant with
damp loam and rotting leaves,
permeating tent and sleeping bag.

Cold indifferent stars reign
within their kingdom of silence
as I peer through darkness
with sudden dread, startling keen.

In the near distance they passed,
floating like a dream,
undulating upon the forest floor;
electric eyes and needled fur
in endless motion,
streaming on hushed pads.

In moments they are gone,
leaving only awe to bruise the night,
and the urge to follow
in the purpose of the pack;
the scent of prey, its fear
and their unbridled joy.

[edit on 7-10-2005 by masqua]

posted on Oct, 10 2005 @ 04:58 PM
October night whirlwind
Plucks warmth from my soul
Worming unstoppable
Through Spirit threads.

The scented darkness
Amplifies dank, black bark
Shining in the sleet
Stinking of decay
And summers passing.

Devil winds, leaf laden
Deposit pungent shoals
In lees of hedges as
Branches dance in the cold gale
Tossing a kaleidoscope of shadows
Onto wet pavements.

My lonely footsteps
echo hollowly
between the houses-
knell to the fragility
of proud civilizations.

posted on Oct, 11 2005 @ 09:19 PM
Seven ancient insane sibyls
echoeing incessantly could not,
within deep caverns,
trembling mountain roots,
stalactites shattering upon a basalt floor,
nor sibilant whispering skeins'
nor occulted sight,
nor spittle-flecked ravenings
could not, did not
foretell dooms pending this day,
this age- so discoloured.

Jaded, once removed-
Precision machined
coin slotting slavery,
detached in death dealing,
entertainment agents,
Blitzer blitzkriegs
and overhead cams

'Til the Oracle spoke;

"to memories of gulls,
bleached bones, and
profound silence."

posted on Oct, 19 2005 @ 10:42 AM
I'm not afraid
of the sound of hammers
above the earth movers drone.
Nor do I fear
the thumping of pumps
draining ponds and wetlands.

I do not quake
as deep cuts gouge
through hill and dale,
laying pavements,
dividing field and forest
with a grid of highways.

I, too, am caught in this tide
of rampant development,
driven to consume, wanting an iPod,
wracking my brains to conform
to standards of living and
the presumed goals of happiness.

Plinking these keys,
conveying my complicity
to others of like means,
sipping my Screech, oblivious
to the white noise
of suburban traffic and lawnmowers.

No, I'm not fearful...
today it's all fine,
so peaceful and warm
for October, and geese
no longer flee winters' blasts
quite as early as before.

I finish these lines,
hit enter and close
my favourite site: ATS.
Lifting my glass
I turn on the TV
to hear Fred Flintstone yell;
"Wilma...! Oh, Wi-i-ilma!!!!"

[edit on 19-10-2005 by masqua]

posted on Oct, 30 2005 @ 06:26 PM
Where resides truth?
Seeking through Apollo,
as above, so below?
-In movements of stars
and the wheel of precession,
marking Aeons in the predawn,
Taurus to Pisces to Aquarius?
-Or the cycling planets and
venerable Venus tracing
a pentacle for Pythagoras?
-Or the smell of sulphur,
and the workings of alchemists,
transmutations of science,
chaos in the prison of Law?

Where hides truth?
Bidden through Dionysus,
as within, so without?
-In the bloodlust of the hunt,
wildfaced in the forests?
-In abandonment of self,
drunk on wines,
lost in dance
and the heaving seas of desire?
-Alive in death,
drugged and senseless,
mute in wonderments
of our dissolution?

posted on Oct, 31 2005 @ 06:25 AM
Dear Wordsmith

I wanted to say how much I am enjoying your work. You have a way with words my poetic friend. In turns humorous, observant, witty and touching, I like how you are inspired by so many things and yet always bring the same sense of wonderment to your writing. It leaps out at us through your words. Excellent stuff. This morning I read The Elusive Truth and particularly loved it. Much talent abounds and as always, a joy to read - so thank you for sharing your work.

Where hides truth?
Bidden through Dionysus,
as within, so without?
-In the bloodlust of the hunt,
wildfaced in the forests?
-In abandonment of self,
drunk on wines,
lost in dance
and the heaving seas of desire?

[edit on 31-10-2005 by nikelbee]

posted on Oct, 31 2005 @ 07:05 AM
Thank You for the kind words, nikelbee.
The Elusive Truth was inspired by The Bacchea of Euripides and Valhalls intriguing Rennes-le-Chateau thread in Skunk Works.

Thanks in particular for the 'wordsmith' designation, no higher praise exists for poets and writers alike.

posted on Nov, 4 2005 @ 09:08 AM

Return to us from ancient time, oh
Son of Saturn;
Aritron the alchemist, who
squeezed coal into diamond eyes
to set into the grey sockets
of his stone children.


Regard our plight, oh
Son of Jupiter;
Bethor the medium, who
bartered among the spirits
to bestow longivity and power
to the worthy.


Strengthen our arms, oh
Son of Mars;
Phaleg the warrior, who
hardened the resolve of soldiers
through the battle madness
and on to honour.


Weigh down our treasury, oh
Solar Son;
Och the wise, who
brought gold to the world
establishing value in the scales
and to our eyes.


Drop the veil so we may see, oh
Child of Beauty;
Hagith the lover, who
enchanted men and women
with spirit servants guiding
our fingers entwining.


Teach us so we may learn, oh
Son of Mercury;
Ophiel the messenger, who,
as holder of the philosophers stone,
created grand artistic wonders
through our crafty fingers.


Never leave us, oh
Son of Luna;
Phul the gatekeeper, who
whispers to the Goddesses.
Giver of silver and water spirits
to heal our aching minds.

[edit on 23-11-2005 by masqua]

posted on Nov, 10 2005 @ 06:34 PM
We met in chat,
mostly goofing around
'bout this or that,
nothing really profound.

Just another man
(we knew by his name)
saying what he felt
and staying in the game.

A military career
gave him worldly perspectives
About Bush or Rumsfeld
and global incentives.

I read most of his entries
he wrote quite a few
he was an American sentry,
a guardian we knew.

I'm going to miss him,
he had a heart of gold,
he loved his family,
no greater truth can be told.

posted on Nov, 22 2005 @ 03:31 PM
Hypatia, be my muse.
You of the clam shells,
bright star of Alexandria,
keeper of the lantern
lighting the path
through ruination.

Hypatia, we refuse,
proud in the sun light,
out of the shadows
and standing for truth!
Torment those wretches
with your lasting beauty.

Hypatia, can you excuse
the murder of innocence
by the wicked,
twisting histories and
the burning of books,
slaughtering wisdom itself?

Hypatia, be my muse
suffering as you suffer
the scorn of closed minds
bent on destruction-
apocalyptic dreams
under a Roman heel.

Hypatia, my beauty,
though torn limb from limb,
though burnt and scattered-
You live yet.
You live yet.
You live yet.

[edit on 22-11-2005 by masqua]

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