1
In the wreckage of middle-age
A red Goddess
Sings her Titanic songs
In the coral-dark
Her rotating hips
A swarm of midnight
Her silence deeper than War
Her tangled hair of all meanings
With her poison thigh and daggers
She assassinates the protestant humbug
Kills the shy glances
Tramples the half-born dreamers
She pulls Jesus from the Cross
Makes Mohamed blush and Moses stutter
Rips off the limbs of the priests of post-modernity
Overcomes the armies of concepts
With her thunderous silence
The lady with a butcher knife and garlands
With thumos and eros
To subvert the human machine
She is the clear light and the swoon
The shape of all desires
2
You are not a woman
Woman is a subset of your totality
You are not a woman
You are the Supernal abundant
You are not a woman
Superior empirical reasoning included
Irreducible divine moods and sudden storms
Ordinary logic is quite impotent in your world
Equations in the ears of nuclear physicists are yours
You are the wildflower and the mushroom cloud
The uncanny embrace in the human desert
No, You are not a woman
You are the longing itself
The pagan spark rectified
The defeated legions of self
You teach pacifists war
and warriors the gentle arts
You erase all the doomers
With your Wurlitzer hips
People who look for solutions to the metacrisis
Should look for your high-leather boots
3
Because I’ve seen The Red Goddess and her bright wheel
I don’t trust the axial revolutions of the world
Even less the philosophers of plus or minus or zero
Let me be an eternal stranger to
all but thee, Red Goddess
Let me be friendly, but never believe in their laws
I am tearing pages out of the books in my heart
Undoing the contemporary scripts of nothingness
Fucking the general concepts
Give me the ‘the meaning saturated field.’
The quantum and paradoxical
Like a woman’s thigh or an apple orchard
Not ‘man in quotation marks.’
Unschool me of everything.
It may take a thousand years
Or happen in an instant
The unlearning of time
Of opinions/discotomies/newsreels
Give me that bright red apple
The apple of truth
Where the seed and the core and the flesh are one
The dark in the light, the light in the dark
4
Fuck the general intelligence
The robot gods and talking heads
Not a ‘thing’ can ever be in her realm
The black square is a house of rainbows
And Fuck the academy
The big nurses of reasons why
The giant skinner’s box
Samsara’s meat-hole
The ernest technologists
who have never touched a woman
And women who are chained to the bottom of the sea
Rescue us, oh Red Goddess, with your flame
With your libraries of loving kindness
With your boats of true desire
Fill my heart with longing and breath
Empty my mind of egregores
Give me a sharp arrow pointed in both directions
Inwards towards your twilight
Outwards towards your dawn
Free me from the mechanism
The platonic sunshine
The spotless dark
The dead ideals
Give me the pagan sparks
Give me the transparent technology
The ornaments and shells
That sing of your glory
5
Your Love is only in falling, not in climbing
In unmaking, not in building
There is no ladder to reach you
Let the curtains fall, and the bright syllables enter
Let the mind be overcome
And let the heart be master
Dear red Goddess, interrupt our cocktail parties with your shocking being
Give us your Wild and baroque nature
Show us your camouflage and your war dance
Your sun dagger and the moon elixir
Am I to read your bone scripts, your silken forest
Your sky house.
Am I to understand your triple gaze
Your ankle and your sea foam
I can only glace shyly as all the buffalo rush backward up the cliff
And America becomes virgin again
And the men fall from the moon
And world wars are unmade
For in your world, time flows backward toward origin
Towards unity, towards wholeness, before Adam and Eve
Before Genesis
The red flower sexing on Her eternal throne
6
I, and the minions who are truly lost
Supplicate The Red Goddess
Destroy the ennui of me and mine
Overturn opinion, proposition, and plan
Be the crown of flowers in the gutter of middle age
In the bitterness of ordinary time
That doesn’t exist in your world
I supplicate you as a memory of the future
As a memory of the real
As a memory of the bright Eden
That we never left
That we never forget
That was never broken
That was never lost
That was never any piece of dirt
Called a country
It is your country that I remember
In empty pages of a child’s story
In the wisdom of twilight philosophy
In the ornaments of beauty
Like a blind man’s vision
Like a dead man’s springtime
Like a corpse's joy
In the beauty of decay
In the fallen nuptial veil
And all the tears of mourning
Fallen back to the red earth
In the dance
Become flesh
Become memory
Become time
Become the primal paradox
7
Balconies and palm breezes
In my Siberian wastes
Poisons as antidotes
Because of You
How do I explain?
Whatever I think is not
Flowers bloom from dead eyeballs
Skulls are flower pots
Nothing really is anything
Whenever I listen to you
Love is a poppy field
Desire is rectified
Pleasure has no object
The 10 Sefirot fold like a house of cards
The Tsimtsum explodes
The Torah falls at the feet
Of the Empress
At the end of self-concern
To be unstitched
The magical act
The silent jazz prayer
The only regret:
All that time I could have spent
with the mistress instead
8
A great No
A great Yes:
No to newsreels
Yes to strong liquer
No to ‘the suicidal bitching.’
Yes to gazing deeply into midnight
No to self-pity and loathing
Yes to innocent pleasure
No to rancid potato salad samsara
Yes to skull cups and magical instruments
You get the idea
We ache to touch what can’t be touched
A divine duality
A broken song
It is in the ache I find you
The ache longing
A box of wild perfumes and midnight
Romance this automated world
With its dull socialism and its bling-bling capitalism
With its occasional violent revolution
And television peace
With fake wars and fake peace and
Other forms of pseudo-eros
Step out onto the iron balcony
With bare feet at dawn
With the air full of heavy Russian novels
And snowflake continents
And prehistoric birds
Our younger bodies
Prostrate and impaled
Lovemaking in the dust
9
As we eat the beast and pray to the mute God
And sing carols with iron lungs this Christmas
And sit laughing under the Guiletteen of a rational God
The glimmer of the red goddess
Comes to the high feast
When will we eat at Her table?
When will we dance in Her Bordel?
When will we overturn the lending tables and whorehouse
Called modern civilization
She is underneath it all
In the deepest cave
In the highest ether
In Burkowski and Jesus
If we have a soul
Our job is to worship and make offerings to Her
There is nothing less utilitarian
And yet, nothing more useful
If only people knew Her fishnet stockings
And gave up their protestant soup
And analytical philosophy
And humanistic arrogance
Let us partake of the sciences and philosophies of Her Embrace
And learn what worship really means
With sex and soul
Together again, like drunken old lovers
10
Dear Monsieur G
The Red Goddess lives
In every atom, in every reflection, in every moon
Where Man is not a machine
Beloved Monsieur G
The Red Goddess is awake in us Now
As every pear on every table, every daisy, and every skull
Yet, when we live from
Similacrum not sacrifice
Fantom not body
When we forget and start to imitate our machines
We play this pretend game called man/machine
In the end, the Terminator army
Is defeated by her bloodshot gaze
Her Polish vodka and peacock feather
Her insomnia and tenderness
Even the ‘man with quotation marks.’
Has fallen, at least once, into her arms
It was never ‘The work.’
Or ‘Self-remembrance’
And other misnomers of the 4th Way
It was all about Her
Without the red Goddess
We’ll never have a soul
No matter how much we try to train this monkey
It’s all her doing, not ours
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