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Three seekers blog thoughts, stories, humor, poetry, science, technology, music, artwork and the esoteric.

Filtering by Tag: poetry


Schizophrenic vibrate and awake.

Weirdo translations of sound waves, course in a disaster across the mediocre membranes and forgiven lobes.

Eyes in their being are vivid video screens, depicting scenes of animal mutilation and maggots turned to gods, in the pink bellies of the color purple.

Playing with runes writ on the cancerous stones and murdered eyeballs of a Dodo bird. It's beak being used for other magical happenings performed by a flash of sorcerer's wit.

This yellow morning seems, and in it, that feeling is cursed to little scrutiny and no more thought than the feather gives the flesh.

Trek as a god journeys faith.

My hair is foul and breathes of nicotine and radioactive ozone like the fallen earths of a Martian's history bible.

Laugh in the face of hollow psycho facelifts, intended for a child's birthing ceremony.

I walk outside and gas has lit the air.

I walk through red clouds in red altars of sky.

I summon a gesture which is incantation.

I make the moon folklore and cherish the poison winds.

Downstairs the gnomes have gotten all the apple cores, and the feast is discarded. The party remains to pray to misunderstood deities who favor greater Gods which worship the fabric of water.


Here's another assemblage of words. They could mean something, if they find something in you. If not, words are cool anyways.

The hymn song rang dastardly in my ears and hollered across the torso belly and pubic forest, which belongs to a titan rhinoceros god.

Horus of the Son and the daughters of this Harmony Warlock arrived and made a home of the cursed fog, which hung like a dead political vigilante's bloated techni-color corpse.

I bend to pluck the marrow from the black fevered grass, the field is brimming with the coarse angel growths, like a rib cage from the fleshy mounds yet under the charcoal and neon gas of the longsword heavens.

The Daughters are waving in sways which mimic the grasses laughter movements. They splinter stare and Horus claps in laser blasts over the mourning daybreak.

My helmet is lifted, as if to see my sights covered in the dusts of purple Legion and the wingtips of butterfly martians, come to seek their fortunes to folly.

A blade is heavy here and the wine walk, which brings fruit, was a moon ago. It yielded the black grateful vine one last taste.

I am want to laugh as the scepter of the death troll strikes down a turbulent breeze, just an ache of breath. It had been living in lungs grown from gnarled, thick fleshed, trees.

The dance of the warlock's daughters catches the light and old juxtaposed Sun is pleased. I seat myself before the power held in each crooked movement flowing as the undercurrent of baptized holy oceans.

The lung tree riddled me once and I answered where words are meaningless, unless spoken in spells and loving whispers to the graves of fallen centaur power lords.

The war was friendly to the blood soaked ground and the splinter grass craves one more morsel of blue flesh.

Embrace the air and become dust, which is all things concerning a wind's struggle towards it's other end.

The trail embarks and concludes at a single point, between the suns of a thousand years beyond a single bigot moment.

The Titan god we live on breathes. If that happens the message written in blood on a shard of sky will crumble back and back, until underground pixie-sprites laugh at it's humility.


This is a poem I wrote, which is something I don't do often. In fact, I haven't really written this kind of thing in years. Here it is, though; inspiration made me do it, and I hope you enjoy it. This poem is about whatever you want it to be about.

Of a dense thicket of average trees, a sleepy road, and the Neon Cherubim dance above.

Curious gestures, movement over movement, with the meaning of a sunrise whisper's cascade across the swirl of grassland.

Their pigmented skin desire diseases of gold and blue hue glowing, stripes and spots like thunder over a weightless moon's glowing sky.

Their bristle of hair is thick and pubic, innocent however, as if the locks of some angelic faun prince, innocent in his pleasant wanderings

One called Faith walks the roadsides slender edge in defiance of the flying circus spectacle.

A crisp dull and senseless morning awakens and the cherubim seek slumber comforts.

Faith heals the daylight and its Super Buddhist sentry spectacle.

His haunts are dangerous, as if by the miracle of the Christmas Pimp's rough handed caress.

Faith and Buddhist worship at the creamy center of glowing acid tombs and the honorary icons within.

Barbara, the statue of an abomination ogre bitch, all horns and ribcage flesh.

Hands are held, and the prayer to the mid-day god goes answered.

Dusty dusk fills their nostrils in the wake of atoms swirling in cocktails of swamp water, like a fine strong hallucinogen.

Lick the salt of the sun and crunch the crust of the clouds, because it's coming.

Super Buddhist rain dances awaken the holy machines, breathing and exhaling visionary oils.

Backwoods mongoloids along awkward forests, and the icons of Barbara and Tito (the miracle of science) worshiped by the few who dare to fathom their distant ideologies.

If time's Christ Horse ran this way we could notice that all equal things under and above were touching in pornographic detail and the horrible pain of myth.

Touch the way miracles touch and the sun will crash through to a whirlwind satanic substance, like a god's flesh, all goosebumps and pinprick decay.

The Neon Cherubim dance, and again they dance, to each sacred myth curdled in the hollow minds of every inch of gnarled forest.

The gentle concrete of a slumbering road's course whispers throughout.

neon baby.png


An oracle cyclops, you abandoned tool for deeper alignments.

That curse of yours died Friday.

The totem animal house that belonged to your father and that blue and gold whisper of a mother.

The womb werewolves gnashing at the tender meat of their puss sack night times.

The myth of voodoo knowledge plagues and has plagued and a curse was born in the dusk.

The macro god of a child Christ.

The micro god of a DNA follicle, something from a Plutonian Roman myth.

Nonsense is forbidden in the kingdom of seven frogs.

Long lipped spoken enchantments belched from the thunder of a miscreant breath of storm.

The longing child courage to ask for another birth.

Another murdered day, shrinking my skull like a tribal enchantment

The lusts of a scrotum full of Buddhist wisdom.

Don't worry, if that home you saw in a dystopian dream was real, that wandering god would tell you.

The curses of childhood and the ghost matriarchy failed.

Courage is kept in a jar next to the robotic brains of vegetable jellies.

Brilliant surrender, show me that mighty Christ, naked as a hero, on a martyred nighttime cure of a nuclear city skyline.




When hearts are redistributed according to the Fates
There is no hour one can choose since destiny awaits
No ratio of risk reward upon the justice plates
Nor consequence of exposition one half intimates
Or fear of retribution passing through the sphinxes' gates
When hearts are redistributed according to the Fates



Of nomenclature demon in the eyes of Pharisees
Some fallen angel possibly, if fallen on his knees
Come breezes and come sailing winds, where our abundance lacks
The little one from Artemis, we speak of Lix Tetrax
Now Mab and Avis summon you anon into the fray
To wrest this place from death in intercession, let us play
The bow will bend and will not break in water clear and blue
Seek fire with us, Lix Tetrax, and see what three may do