Bodies don't lie and it was the overwhelming physical immediacy of the feelings that terrified her. As though she'd slipped through a portal in the matrix and was condemned to relive a million years of history alone. It had really all started the morning of the ring. She had been right to have an uneasy feeling about it. They hadn't even asked, just slipped it on her finger with great solemnity. It was her birthday and she decided to be elated about it; not knowing where it came from. The feeling hadn't lasted long, coalescing into lasting doubts of a suspected burden.

The figures in the dream had been distinctive and they began to appear at night with more regularity. She didn't mind, only they were much too serious. They weren't always the same people, they were always the same tribe. Elegant though big, they wore garments from another time and place; medieval flowing robes and tunics. They travelled in our world - that morning there had been four or five gathered around the bed, when they slipped the ring on her finger.

One man in particular seemed to be the leader and he had built a house for her that he would visit her in. It was a rustic wooden house, beautiful in its simplicity; somehow combining high ceilings with a cozy feel. Nestled into the side of a verdant green mountain. There he would sit at the table he had given her and converse morosely about difficult dangers ahead. She just wanted to go out and play; he advised she stay in the house.

He permitted her inner child to go play and told her to stay in the house. One day the child came back all excited about something she'd found. Ignoring the warning, she followed the kid into the catacombs. Before the child could show her what she had found they came upon a horrible demon. A huge contorted face carved into a living rock wall, threatening to consume them both - body and soul. She scooped the kid into her arms and awoke terrified.

Dreams took on new importance. She realized they'd changed the shape of a room. Or weren't bothering to update how she saw things. There were other rooms, she just knew. She was naked. The aching made her remember. They had stood around watching and she could hear their comments; so bizarre, it had increased the strangeness of the memory. Surreal fantasy filled with barbs at nursed and denied insecurities.

How does a single event that never happened cause so much damage. The strange bump, as though a tear had gotten frozen in the transport. Little psychic danders taking root with every mental invasion of imagery and sound. Just take all those years of experience and throw them up into unhinged irrelevant meanings, as though the time stream itself had been ripped. A pet bound by a ring. A viral memes, a stream of hurt. Alien psycho-therapy, bio-chemical short-circuits.



Don't worry kid, you're adorned.


[edit on 10-11-2006 by clearwater]

One night, Chloris saw Zephyrus coming out of a Mac's Milk.
His distorted face enraged;
Hood up, lip curled in a snarl.
Clutching a bag to his chest,
He bored angrily into her eyes.
Chloris looked down, it came naturally.

~

There in the morning
Zephyrus' hooded messenger
Stock-still on the ground
Half in the bushes
His face in the leaves
Not a sound.


**************************************************************

Squinting to read the date, newsprint swam in her trembling hands. He'd put her in a chair by the pool. It was hot and he hadn't dressed her. Lilac hung thick and heavy in the air, a claustrophobic blanket.

His friend's mansion was built on African diamonds, that's all he told her. She tried to remember the day before her stay in his friend's wine-cellar. Their kitchen standing counter came to mind. She saw the pale coal-colored marble slab with blood on one corner. He only demanded his coffee in the morning, ready at the standing counter.

'Was it 3 weeks or 4', she tried to piece together how long she'd been in the wine-cellar. Peering at the date her eyes watered. She shivered in the heat and he ran with a blanket.

He'd examined her like a doctor. Or was it a doctor. Pulsed, poked and prodded; samples taken. Blindfold on for the first half-conscious sponge-bath. After he took it off, she only saw him. He came with the things that made her beg him to stay. He promised to let her out again.

That morning, she had been sick of coffee. Manolo's jacket was thrown on the floor by the couch. She was half asleep, straps askew and skirt wrinkled. He was quiet while his face slowly bloomed red with rage. He stripped her and dragged her to the kitchen. 'Stand at attention', he roared at her shoving her up against the pale cool counter. She tried to become invisible, then she was.

Grief washed over her in spasmodic shudders; confident that if only they'd had a small two-seated table everything would have been different. Wraith-like beside the opulent pool.

[edit on 8-11-2006 by clearwater]

Thank you Masqua.


Leafing through the magazine, a bridle brank had triggered the avalanche. Chloe froze, almost wet herself, ran to the washroom where she now couldn't pee. He had called his version of the brank the scold cap. She'd worn it in the cold dark room, she now found herself in, again.

Henry had been an uncle, the family friend who'd lost a daughter. He'd arrived when she was 4 or 5; when her teenaged brother had begun experimenting with drugs and sibling torture. Distracted, separated or divorced, Chloe's parents were grateful when Henry took her on vacations and took an interest in her.

Inexplicably, Henry disappeared when she was 11; he would send her postcards faithfully for another 13 years.

Chloe reeled and steadied her forehead against the cold tile. She remembered the country house. The frightened angry embarrassment of playing nude hostess to well-dressed adults. They'd brushed it off as nothing, laughing and consoling, or to the scold cap stool. Henry hadn't hurt her. He'd jealously guarded her hymen like a solicitous shrew, while magnanimously boasting of 'training'.

Traveling in Africa after 3.5 years of only postcards from Henry, Chloe's companions got sick on the eggs. 48 hours passed before the bedridden realized Chloe was missing. A few more weeks went by before she turned up again.

Everyone was frantic when Henry calmly arrived. The police had become helplessly disinterested. Everyone greeted Henry and his connections with relief. He'd attained them serving as an officer in the schutzstaffel, in addition to his genteel authority and sophisticated style. Henry assured Chloe her freedom was his penury and Chloe couldn't help it she loved him gratefully.

Love built on lies or other plans, in either case some version of reality prevailed and Chloe hid in a small town serving lunches. After a short time, a strikingly handsome new 'teacher' in town asked her out.

She never made the connection between the assault that night and the next 3 years of disjointed high living, other than misguided defiance. Never made a connection between Henry's training and being sold in Africa. Preposterous that nazi's love astrology and her induced birth resulted with much scorpio in Venus rising.

Fate trumped them all. Chloe became no use for anyone but God, and God was in for a fight. The theft of Choe, she'd hated herself when it was Henry she detested. Success is measured in obstacles overcome and not conquests and treasures.

Chloe shuddered, threw water on her face, stepped outside. 19 years since a post-card; 19 years receiving them in all. Chloe assumes her 'friend' is dead, along with the witches bridle, he left buried in her head.

Two years are entirely missing, the rest is a pastiche of moments. The great green vinyl chair where my mouth braced in metal and latex went limp from gas. Hovering somewhere in that ivory room. All the 'doctor' visits: airports and planes for hours, to be viewed by small armies of white coats. Grim priests in their robes, knowing who had disturbed their pews and sepulchers. A ringleader for peers with firecrackers, cigarettes and water-guns. Straying for hours in parks and fields.

Two years missing. A disinterested but passionately biased observer in a private collage of vignettes. A Timeless mix of fantasy and forgotten events. A collusion of fact and fiction. No tidy progression of milestones culminating nicely into now.

All coincidental - Disneyworld, Vermont, Maine. Colored fork lightening over the Mediterranean; children selling heroin in Morocco. Did I fly in the biplane that missing two years, when I gave trout a christian burial and the men scoffed at the utility of girls. Dusty train rides to Malaga; moonies and queens in Torremolinos.

I have two welts over my right hip. They itch like newly healed scars and scare the rest of my body with the seriousness of their appearance. Not a superficial scratch but one that clutches my whole side with the threat of vertigo.

One night asleep, I went to another dimension where I refused to leave. That night I was given a uniform, the first encouragement. Weeks later, a medal. Time passed and one morning I saw three figures by my bed. They were draped in opulent purple robes. They placed a ring on my finger, slowly dissipating as I woke.

Somewhat startled at the mirror world's choice of finger, I called my channeling friend. - 'A ring is social power, or significant of gifts.' She reassured me, I'd hesitated at the solemnity of the ring. The eerie deja vu feel of inevitable.

Months passed and I woke terrified. Veins like ice-water, I thought of my dream. We had met in a new wood room. In a house built into a hill over cultivated land filled with remote beauty. He was cold and stern. War was in the air and he showed me the darkness it cast in the blue sky. He pointed to a village north-east and showed me the vast maze of ancient catacombs underneath it. He travels dimension there and he warned me of some of its other uses. It had been his ring.

Now he comes and goes in my dreams, sometimes forcing me on some instruction. Last night, I hid with some Berbers. They wanted to keep me and bound me with rings from head to toe. Purple robe came and I went with him reprimanded; scolding me with threats of the catacombs.

He showed me narrow, sharply inclined Spanish streets with large painted metal drums on either side of them. I was to run it like a bull/barrel race without the animals. It was fun and I woke too soon, with two welts over one hip, like I'd careened into a barrel and the ridges marked me. A psycho-somatic collusion of fact and fiction culminating into now.



[edit on 12-12-2006 by clearwater]

Katty spent a year waking up in cold sweats. A dream could be outlandish and surreal and retain an element of truth, true enough to keep her awake. Dreams recur and Katty had them.

There's an Emperor. He believes he's a God-King. Fierce, smart and charismatic, his eyes look like black magnets when they weigh the power of life and death over everyone. He's feared and adored.

He has a palace room where he entertains his court with an annual banquet of virgins. It's a costumed affair. Stage center, his table at the head. Distasteful to our standards. Some people have prepared their daughters for years for a coveted room in the palace. Many of them swoon as soon as he touches them. He has a room behind his table, where his picks wait their turn. Some families are betrayed and heart-broken when their daughter is re-sold

Others are less fortunate, orphaned, fancied or like 'katty', sold to the 'demi-god'. There are dancers and music, a banquet, it goes on for hours. 10 or 20 are brought in at once. The audience din quells for their arrival. The belts are removed by the eunuchs and the bells ring off the high stone ceiling of the room. The audience cheers. The virgins always wear veils, even the odd boy.

They've all been plucked clean and hairless, except for whats left on their heads. Most are between 13 and 17 and are arrayed in gold and silver, painted with mehndi and drugged like their long flowing gauze. Willing or not, they all approach him with applause. Noone knows the number of his harem; who he keeps, sells or lets go. The annual banquet is the time to consolidate alliance and gain favour with the Emperor God-King.

They approach alone, where he proudly parades them to oohs and aahs. Another secret of lovemaking expressed in pantomine on each one. The crowd breathlessly waits to see who he chooses and who he discards. Those chosen are re-belted and sent to wait. The discards divided up among the Emperor's favorites.

Katty is called and she almost faints when he leans in as if to taste her, boasting girls are ready by both fear and anticipation and he can tell the difference. The audience cheers. She's re-belted and sent to the back room. The other world more a dream than a memory, too numb to be afraid.

Heartless commerce? Better than the price of a pig - many girls sold for that every day, justify the Emperor's followers. What is our planet, but the daily auction block for slaves.

[edit on 7-12-2006 by clearwater]

Time was irrelevant when he bought her out. She didn't make the connection between the wait and being spared, too shell-shocked to make many connections. Wasn't much left of what clung to him in gratitude in the back of the car traveling to the airplane. Only the familiar recognition of his clothes, his smell; it reminded her the other world was real.

She barely heard any of it. He spoke on and on with such gravity - the danger, the cost, his risks. She didn't notice his repeated mention of the cost. Didn't notice his intermittent confirmation that her virginity was intact. Didn't notice his salacious interest in the details. Didn't notice the emotional blackmail - as he slowly wove a web around her soul, congratulating himself and tenderly caressing her wasted frame. She didn't notice until later.

He took her beach-front on the Mediterranean. He was suave, attentive and all-knowing. She had tried to break her own hymen after the sale and it now seemed imperative to get rid of it. She thought that she loved him that night. Sometimes she still believes he bought her out for love of her. He always bailed her out of jams, like waking up in the wrong city.

It had all been a set-up; aided by some childhood conditioning. Safer to assume it that way. Her body had betrayed her both times. First, at the auction, she was a slave to someone else's needs; then with her handler, she was a slave to her own. Easier to believe lies. He always said most people were slaves to their lies and delusions.


[edit on 11-1-2007 by clearwater]

That day was cold with the pervasive, wind-swept, dusty snow of deep winter. The building had a fading coat of the institutional green that lent its sinister pretense to so many classrooms and hospital beds in the 60's and 70's. There was a narrow wood staircase that ran the length of the two stories, connecting them. A squat pale rectangular brick building, non-descript. One of hundreds that lined the working class neighbourhood; two-stories with exterior stair-cases. It was at the end of a street a little larger and more solid than the rest. The view from the road revealed the hilly part of lower-town, just beyond the old wall - that drive was made many times.
Part of her was slowly walking up and down, up and down the stairs. 10 steps, 9 steps, 8 steps, all the way to the basement or up into the clouds. This arm is frozen and floats in the air and this arm is on fire and suddenly not there.
Osiris felt it when he was in 14 pieces, the farther they took the pieces away from each other the more it hurt. If the old grind up their bones and drink it, they feel that too. They made Prometheus a demi-god just so he could suffer it.
'Most of them just disappear after a while, little brides of Christ racing for the portals.' He'll be waiting - he made a vow. At the old long covered bridge made with dimly fitted planks of greying ancient wood. Where the 'tube-doll' children all sitting still as statue, glow like picture tubes. The 'capture' is a covered bridge.
'Most will migrate like animals', he droned in an off-hand way.




[edit on 12-12-2006 by clearwater]

She was sleeping in her bed when they took her out of it. Tiny blond hairs wisping around a baby-face, framed by a high collared flannel nightie. Her fisted hands opened with her eyes and she thought it was her teddy-bear, twice her size, who now stared at her. A long unbroken tendril coiled from the bear's eyes and stretched out the window up into the sky; it passed through the eggshell of atmosphere that envelopes the earth and flew on outward forever. Suddenly they were riding on it above the treetops under a yellow moon. They were heading for the round white tent, and she could hear them in her mind urging her to get to the door before she was out of time. Inside the world was made of porcelain, with a porcelain sun. Her brother sat on a 'toadstool' bench staring at rounded smooth walls that seemed more like horizons than something to hang pictures on.
Back in bed, A geometric cornerstone in green lined 3-D, hovered in the air in front of her eyes, trying to say something - cornerstone was all she could glean. She knew there was more to it, just couldn't find something to squeeze, nothing to sink her teeth into.

She knows they're watching. Sometimes she gets glimpses of the quadrants they have mapped out. Everything down to the last inch. With the jumping off points. Nothing gets by them. They keep a tight ship; the old are capricious, in different ways from the young. She knows one of those gruff tall females who looks clothed when she's naked, could grab her up and cage her on that green hill by the stream. One of those bamboo cages that looks like a cartoon gulag from Vietnam. They don't need a strong cage when its the understanding determines the place. They're taking the little bits of soul that create the reality and directing them in temporally controlled distortions. That way, it's from the inside out. A person's intergrity has to be really strong to get past the time-stream. They don't so much get past it as travel on it. There's a natural inertia to integral break-down, they're mining for the mis-directed off-shoots of Gaia's sentience. They're farming for soul and it's the way of the world. I think they want to re-map it. It's not necessarily a bad thing. The world would still be reaping and sowing without thinking about it.


Cornerstone

Temptress

She doesn't notice
the loosely hung incongruence
of the tepid cream colored teddy's
spaghetti strap around her arm;
or the wind-blown clumps of blond mane
that frame her feral face.
Nothing inharmonious
in the dog-eared bodice edges
creasing lotus petal promise
through all chaos and pain.

Cock-Eyed

I once met a cock-eyed man
tall in a black hooded cape he stood.
Odd, like one eye monocled in tatoo.
Solid, though through walls he could
let himself in.

He saw much more of me
than I of him.
A brief look was all it took.

Dark water floods the chair
in Maine's airy and dissembled top room.
Animals ascend from here to there
deep within time's womb.
Devils lie deep in mazes
the soul itself invents.
And words cannot encompass labels
life's mysteries circumvent.

Just as well, just as well -
ages come and go
with prayerful government.

Man walks not with every step
as conscious as intent.

Anka and the Senator's Wives.

Smoking opium and sipping anise
in the sunny courtyard,
Anka was beautiful in Malaga.
Noone ever complained,
when she would suddenly overheat
and undress.

Long black hose unfurled
out of a powdered blue bowed box.
'Spider', she blurted,
rolling them onto her
long slender legs.

'Caligula was right',
she stared,
suddenly serious,
'in what he did to the senator's wives.'


[edit on 12-12-2006 by clearwater]

Property of MKUltra

It seems to have become almost chic to claim to be a victim of mind control. There appear to be many people claiming to be victims of MK Ultra or Project Paperclip or a shadow government's evolution of said programs who, upon further examination, reveal themselves to be very much intact mentally but for a different type of pathology - namely narcissistic preoccupation. This in itself is a type of viral memes, offering a type of glamorous reward for slaves and masters; a type of pornographic escapism. Offering a framework on which to rationalize the deserted integrity of male responsibility.
The experiments did happen and many people were killed or left as good as dead. But the exaggerated focus on MC and Project Monarch detracts from the very real assumptions and dogma that constitute the network of social controls promulgated by the media and the corporacracy.

The CIA found that the programs involving drugs and hypnosis were not effective. Dr. Cameron only shattered minds, he did not make programmable slaves. The most effective type of mind control is the one being practiced at Guantanamo. That of sensory deprivation or overload, self-induced pain and complete invasion of privacy and lack of personal control. Those are guaranteed stimuli for inducing psychosis and insinuating external paradigms into a previously unwilling mind. Even in these cases, the victims are not useful mentally afterwards in any meaningful way. Mental bankruptcy does not a good spy make. They are less or more of a threat politically afterwards. Or just a social threat as a result of the mental damage.

The real threat of mind control is the one taking place in everyone's head everyday. Non-questioning compliance with activities people know are destroying the earth and the species are a good example of mass social psychosis.

Aldous Huxley made it clear years ago that mind control is a tool of the state. Goebbel's was not the first to recognize the power of propaganda. Augustus conquered Rome with some carefully planned art. It is what the powers that be are fighting over right now. The right to define your reality. What will make you feel good and how to define yourself as a person. What you want to buy, where you want to work, etc. etc. There is a pre-historic precedent for mind control. It has always been the same struggle. Either you think for yourself or you don't. Everyone is a product of their conditioning.

The fastest growing private business is now information. Information on your likes and dislikes, your fears and guilts, your needs and desires - They want to know exactly how best to manipulate, criminalize and reward you.

Survivor's of mind control are not the only people suffering from PTSD and low self-esteem. Some are gleaning onto MC as a cathartic expression of their pain or as a way of garnering attention. Unfortunate since it detracts from the real crimes and unnecessary - anyone who has suffered trauma shouldn't have to dramatize it to seek justice or nurturing. It is a consequence of brutality and our world has that in spades. Anyone who realizes that is ahead of the game. We're all programmed with the antecedents of our social history and it's a brutal one. The MC programs are encapsulated examples of how many humans inculcate their children. Timothy McVeigh didn't have to be a victim of a mind control program to do what he did, he is just as easily a product of his environment without conscious attempts at mind control. Look at the KKK, that's mind control. Or the number of people willing to fantasize their lives in order to fit into a message board. It's infantile, escapist and not productive towards addressing any of the issues that literally threaten mankind's survival.

[edit on 17-1-2007 by clearwater]

Black Attacks

People sending black attacks
don't know about wishing for cats
and how strange it is that some might like them.

America - Happy,
with a boot in the mouth,
the pleasure of steel.

On these things three
was and is combine to make shall be
divine right, skill and destiny.



[edit on 12-12-2006 by clearwater]

Conditioning

heard
voiced
acted
I think one of the first thing you find reinforced in conditioning is money.
listen
speak
listen
a sense of physical security and comfort
control
esteem
power
then there are the 7 deadly defects
sloth
lust
pride
envy
gluttony
wrath
despair
Despair if they can't make you fight
that's what they think there
down the stairs
on the hill
Do you want to live or want to die
Do you need sex
or love
money
power
guilty about it
afraid
want something that's not yours
Mine, Mine, Mine

Arrowhead and Stone

Buried in the backyard,
that stone we found,
wading waist deep through the clear river,
glowing next to the green arrowhead.
Stone's angry, so's arrowhead,
that's why they show.
Misbehaving.
Arrowhead's a minstrel
sings the dances
that carry the stone.
Stone's a dancer
carries the arrowhead
who sings the song.
They come from different planets
and fell in love on their travels.
They can't agree on a home.
They'd rather fight on a lost world,
than leave each other alone.Arrowhead discovered jazz
stole stone's three-seater
and danced alone

Stone grew snowflake blotches
moved to Arizona
and baked in the sun

Oh sulky economist
resenting silly poems,
feel free to take your leave,
like arrowhead and stone.



His wicked sense of humour suggests exciting sex. - bjork

[edit on 18-11-2006 by clearwater]

Cats

Her cat had kittens.
Sad for cats these days:
All cats should be neutered or spayed,
buried once to a home
and next to a grave.
When one sparrow falls
God or Kitty,
Sylvester or Tweety,
sparring over spoils.
What secrets earned kitty
with his soft-padded ways
his precarious death-walk
from cradle to grave.
Wild flea-ridden kittens are horrors.
Re-wilded dogs much worse.
Their walk with us, renunciation
from their own deaths, lives, births.
Bolder are the wild beasts:
A big racoon solidly perched
stares too knowing and too intense,
from the top of the fence.
The Green Man slips out from his stem,
to do his own daily bidding, there is also them.
Yellow jackets, wasps and bees
all have the beauty you see in them;
all of creation sings,
in harmony,
even unfortunate kittens,
people prefer to see sleeping.

The Hybrid Loves a Dog

We love constable Groweleth pineapple face Prince Boo
yes we do
he steals tennis balls
tiny people of two
lopes off wild
hides his loot
bushes and reeds
where froggies root
While Eric Satie Trois Gymnopedies with Ryuichi Sakamoto
inside my head
no eyes behind it
daddy his bicycle
lugging his babe
his grief
the thief
lagging guiltily
behind them
We love him

[edit on 11-1-2007 by clearwater]

Red

Richard preferred red.
It was his colour of choice
for pyjamas and bedsheets,
curtains, costumes, boat trim,
couches, armchairs, wallpaint,
table cloths, roses and wine.
Steaks rare to perfection,
red berries fresh off the vine,
red potatoes in red tinted olive oil,
red strawberries with pink champagne.
Top down in his red car
he flew from Frisco to Maine
red-faced from the exertion
of calling out her name.