The Ages, Part XI

whose son would slander
the serpent-god Ilda-Baoth
whom the Jews to this day
venerate in replacement of
the unnamable and eternal One
looked at the blood shed by
the serpent races, their
bold error, their art with human
entrails, blessed God, blessed Him
entrusting his prayers from plains
of white cracked earth, dry clay,
black fire stones now wet with
the rising mist to ascend, uninterrupted
climbing ventils, valves, ventricles,
hidden passages to the upper chamber,
and he taking auspices,
dust in hand beholding a Christ
appearing with the sins of a gigantic
new race of priests and rulers,
not Aaron, modelled after
another one whom Israel,
wise prince, enduring saint,
encountered and won
the favour of forever.
This he saw and ceased not
declaiming until his death at the hands
of Satanists—loving blindness and
offended by the light of truth, addicted
to their high and operose manners of
self-worship and slavish, obsequious
tribute to the Sophias, to the inanimate
shapes said to be the eternal turnkeys
of higher truths, actually found immeasurably
in Christ’s central principle, Love, which
hated by them became not scented wood
but smoke, black ash, slag spitting across
their alchemical achievements, their
gross and intumescent “I am”s, “I have”s,
“I see”’s.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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