Returned mail from the road on the way to K West. Deficient postage.
The Noetic Bau of Ra sails the event horizon of Ocean of Chaos. An object filled with the teeming masses of lower souls and 8 perfect ones called out of the 888 pool of potential. The lower souls are 2 and 7, these being the tessalation game of house agitation and house at rest, see 1776. The 8 perfect ones are delivers of the seed over the liminal state of the day and night of Brahma. He being wakened only after Kali cuts him to pieces and eats him alive in her bikini attired feast of Asar. There are no hot cross buns in the Noetic Bau of Ra. All such things are food below the moon, for the moon, in the Ocean of Chaos.
The measures of the Noetic Bau are a symbolic story of being goaded as a fish, a being below the event horizon, to ascend into the wind that is above the event horizon. This wind is the realm of judgment, i.e. all that measured true against the feather of MAAT. The wind blows where it wishes, birthing what it knows, scrubbing down all that does not shine in the firmament.
Noah is a pun related to the foot as inch. I-nch is IHVH as Noah, the Demiurge in regenesis. Drinking the wine of the River of Styx falling backwards, down below the moon as food. It happens again with Abram taking wine and bread with Melchizedek. He falls into Sarai, she falls for Pharoah; in the end, the sorrows turn to laughter. The circumference of the earth is related to the size of man's feet. In times 90 degrees to now, the feet are different.
Noetic's boat converted to inches reveals 777,600 as flaming, sharp vessel, captained by Demiurgic Ra (777)over the Ocean of Chaos (600). There will always be a fire in the celestial realms that cannot sink, cannot be quenched. No matter how much stormy, chaotic darkness overshrouds the boat, the light of the compass is true. This compass is Zep Tepi, a mirror of the first stirrings that Nuit had of Atum. Its needle is ever magnetic to the Queen of all spinning bodies, all circles, micro-macro ad infinitum. A small dagger this needle, having the innate power, to fructify the darkness.
Seven is a weapon in the lover's hands. Like Paris and Helen they are blind to how all faces, all identities become embroiled in their blood lust. They unknowingly court an adversary to menage-a-troy with them. He enters beastly, swollen and enlarged with cunning of the field, heroic and triumphant, a man of the road. Or was it many men? The alluring face of Helen bewitches heroes far and near to set her free. "Back to her husband!" they cry, each however, sharpens his sword at night dreaming they were the one with her. One day, a great hero amongst them, conjurs and constructs a clever ruse to let the wanting deliver their desires. The fateful night arrives where "fortune" arrives as stealthy hoofprints. The riders carry out their pent up dreams, sacking, raping, pillaging, murdering till their hearts content. Our great hero turns his lust slaked heart to home, remembering the love of his youth, before the great war. Struggling through many a road, many a test, a tryst with a demi-god (life is good on the road), many a curvy suitor, he makes his way home. His long hearts desire cannot see him through the other men, and his own guise. A tongue is caught in its own webs afterall. "I so!" he endlessly repeats, storing the tears inside, he sharpens his will to gain the face of carefree youth, an identity made new, far removed from the endless faces of the road. He cleans his own house and destroys the porn of Troy, the stories of Helen in each magazine, and burns his favorite patriot stories of kings and captains he once wanted to be.
Many years later Fatimah and Mary would mindlessly wrestle over the mass produced dildo, stamped with "made in the temple of Judaism". Each a whore for a missing Daddy like Meriochane of ole. Their many sons, too numerous to count, filled the earth, bastard after bastard. Each a glistening dark drop of near soullessness, if not entirely soulless. Each filled with identities, slogans, advertisement jingles, songs of propped up fathers; all wanting and never filled. The bastards, all claiming true origin, true faith, and a pure mother, went everywhere singing of a fountain that none could show as real. Their zeal, errant on its face, corrupted their minds, their asses and their faces all become bank deposit slots. Each yearning for the dildo to give them a son. Paris, now was a city with tower whose husband was named Erica (she suffering objectum sexualis) was a shiny modern city. Its denizens had once sent a famous statue to a kindred nation, the nations shared revolting heritages. A magazine fragment,from a house previously owned by a famous hero, miraculously drifted and multiplied filling Paris with the need to ride sea horses. All night long. All day long. Their health suffered, they cried to heaven "Give us leavened bread! Afterall we are your sons!" and "Dildos for boys as well as girls!".
One day the faraway kindred nation way way west, had a lightning boy hero. He being the answer to all their prayers. He, like heroes of old, went to war with in the Spring. He called it "Arab Spring". It was followed by Libya, land of lotus eaters; Syria, land of flesh eaters; and Colchis, land of previous road warriors. The Arab Spring ended in abysmal failure, as all cupcake revolts do, advancing the faraway nation to its western telephone end. The play out parody of the King of South vs. the King of the North, slave vs. free, Helen vs. Penelope, Sarai vs. Sarah, Fatimah vs. Mary, was endless. The parody, and every playbill in between, was germinated from the fragment from that ole house of the hero. Like the previous upside down ages of "Back to her husband" and the one that followed it, heralding "take my daughter instead", this one parrots "Pussy Riot" freedom, while the chains clink everywhere, and the pussy fruit is murdered and burned for fuel in hospitals. The cul-de-sac of sacks has arrived, Lilly Leadbetter, will get PE'd. Just as Juicy J meant wet work in the context of $10.10, the single water of all as one is foolfilled as 180 endlessly. Blood red lower waters, Setian sharks. The Noetic fire is ever free and above all such things, no matter how it appears here below.
123
457
789
0
The End.
The Noetic Bau of Ra sails the event horizon of Ocean of Chaos. An object filled with the teeming masses of lower souls and 8 perfect ones called out of the 888 pool of potential. The lower souls are 2 and 7, these being the tessalation game of house agitation and house at rest, see 1776. The 8 perfect ones are delivers of the seed over the liminal state of the day and night of Brahma. He being wakened only after Kali cuts him to pieces and eats him alive in her bikini attired feast of Asar. There are no hot cross buns in the Noetic Bau of Ra. All such things are food below the moon, for the moon, in the Ocean of Chaos.
The measures of the Noetic Bau are a symbolic story of being goaded as a fish, a being below the event horizon, to ascend into the wind that is above the event horizon. This wind is the realm of judgment, i.e. all that measured true against the feather of MAAT. The wind blows where it wishes, birthing what it knows, scrubbing down all that does not shine in the firmament.
Noah is a pun related to the foot as inch. I-nch is IHVH as Noah, the Demiurge in regenesis. Drinking the wine of the River of Styx falling backwards, down below the moon as food. It happens again with Abram taking wine and bread with Melchizedek. He falls into Sarai, she falls for Pharoah; in the end, the sorrows turn to laughter. The circumference of the earth is related to the size of man's feet. In times 90 degrees to now, the feet are different.
Noetic's boat converted to inches reveals 777,600 as flaming, sharp vessel, captained by Demiurgic Ra (777)over the Ocean of Chaos (600). There will always be a fire in the celestial realms that cannot sink, cannot be quenched. No matter how much stormy, chaotic darkness overshrouds the boat, the light of the compass is true. This compass is Zep Tepi, a mirror of the first stirrings that Nuit had of Atum. Its needle is ever magnetic to the Queen of all spinning bodies, all circles, micro-macro ad infinitum. A small dagger this needle, having the innate power, to fructify the darkness.
Seven is a weapon in the lover's hands. Like Paris and Helen they are blind to how all faces, all identities become embroiled in their blood lust. They unknowingly court an adversary to menage-a-troy with them. He enters beastly, swollen and enlarged with cunning of the field, heroic and triumphant, a man of the road. Or was it many men? The alluring face of Helen bewitches heroes far and near to set her free. "Back to her husband!" they cry, each however, sharpens his sword at night dreaming they were the one with her. One day, a great hero amongst them, conjurs and constructs a clever ruse to let the wanting deliver their desires. The fateful night arrives where "fortune" arrives as stealthy hoofprints. The riders carry out their pent up dreams, sacking, raping, pillaging, murdering till their hearts content. Our great hero turns his lust slaked heart to home, remembering the love of his youth, before the great war. Struggling through many a road, many a test, a tryst with a demi-god (life is good on the road), many a curvy suitor, he makes his way home. His long hearts desire cannot see him through the other men, and his own guise. A tongue is caught in its own webs afterall. "I so!" he endlessly repeats, storing the tears inside, he sharpens his will to gain the face of carefree youth, an identity made new, far removed from the endless faces of the road. He cleans his own house and destroys the porn of Troy, the stories of Helen in each magazine, and burns his favorite patriot stories of kings and captains he once wanted to be.
Many years later Fatimah and Mary would mindlessly wrestle over the mass produced dildo, stamped with "made in the temple of Judaism". Each a whore for a missing Daddy like Meriochane of ole. Their many sons, too numerous to count, filled the earth, bastard after bastard. Each a glistening dark drop of near soullessness, if not entirely soulless. Each filled with identities, slogans, advertisement jingles, songs of propped up fathers; all wanting and never filled. The bastards, all claiming true origin, true faith, and a pure mother, went everywhere singing of a fountain that none could show as real. Their zeal, errant on its face, corrupted their minds, their asses and their faces all become bank deposit slots. Each yearning for the dildo to give them a son. Paris, now was a city with tower whose husband was named Erica (she suffering objectum sexualis) was a shiny modern city. Its denizens had once sent a famous statue to a kindred nation, the nations shared revolting heritages. A magazine fragment,from a house previously owned by a famous hero, miraculously drifted and multiplied filling Paris with the need to ride sea horses. All night long. All day long. Their health suffered, they cried to heaven "Give us leavened bread! Afterall we are your sons!" and "Dildos for boys as well as girls!".
One day the faraway kindred nation way way west, had a lightning boy hero. He being the answer to all their prayers. He, like heroes of old, went to war with in the Spring. He called it "Arab Spring". It was followed by Libya, land of lotus eaters; Syria, land of flesh eaters; and Colchis, land of previous road warriors. The Arab Spring ended in abysmal failure, as all cupcake revolts do, advancing the faraway nation to its western telephone end. The play out parody of the King of South vs. the King of the North, slave vs. free, Helen vs. Penelope, Sarai vs. Sarah, Fatimah vs. Mary, was endless. The parody, and every playbill in between, was germinated from the fragment from that ole house of the hero. Like the previous upside down ages of "Back to her husband" and the one that followed it, heralding "take my daughter instead", this one parrots "Pussy Riot" freedom, while the chains clink everywhere, and the pussy fruit is murdered and burned for fuel in hospitals. The cul-de-sac of sacks has arrived, Lilly Leadbetter, will get PE'd. Just as Juicy J meant wet work in the context of $10.10, the single water of all as one is foolfilled as 180 endlessly. Blood red lower waters, Setian sharks. The Noetic fire is ever free and above all such things, no matter how it appears here below.
123
457
789
0
The End.
posted by Eugene at 6:20 PM
2 comments
