Cleave means embrace and cut through simultaneously.
I, Bane Savage, ancient madman, find missionary zeal to clean mired miracles. Let Blake/Huxley be our guide. "If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern," wrote Blake, which inspired Huxley's title re mescaline-amped heightened realities.
What coin o' the realm shines so brightly there in the mud?
And how does one cleanse narrow chinks in a cavern? Wash the doors?
Hose down Jim Morrison’s ghost after a raucous night of pagan revelry?
If we shift the anagram Clean Mired Miracles (of Crème de la Criminals) to Cleans Mired Miracle, we are closer to a singular injunction. In the former, we felt obliged to discern some series of various miracles, buried in the mud. In the latter, we seem to be dealing with a single consideration, a radically different way of looking at the world, not just glittering phenomenology thereof.
Breathnik cleansing. Tornado powers. Scouring the skull-caves of sleeping simian humans of hysterium culturalis monumentum, the dull savagery of stupid reading allegiances, the rabid howling over crapola scripturalis masquerading as God's inspired Word. Literacy is a long long haul extending into the wilderness where no one knows anything at all, the beginning of clearing, cleansing miracle.
What cleans the mired miracle of self and world is worldless whirlwind enigma. The palpable mystery's embrace is beyond belief, thought, object.
>>>
Jesus checks the crosses for sturdy quality control. The bondage masters intricately rope or chain in positions of eerie shock, the writhing Asian squirters at the appointed hour of dark theatrical presentation.
She was asked her preferred method for confronting and consuming the core pain of egoity: zazen stark breath witness or intricately chained to the cross of matter, penetrated in every orifice by man, beast, machine, god.
That's how she became the iconic celebration of the convergence of Tibetan and Gregorian monk chants with moaning cumsquirt of fucking machine delirium.
Human animal god machine Dom serves the awesome orgasmic orgiastic sub's hardcore epiphanous bliss.
Stripped stripped stripped every waking moment, Shakti thrillcore reflects Shiva's fierce attentive oblivion.
Mona Lisa's smile arrived the morning after molecular thunder.
Soulsex is a primal entry to God's intimate strobe light revolt every blinking moment of man's casual institutionalized inhumanity.
Manipulated not by the starched pretensions of military-religio-edu-infotainment horrorshow complex.
Is not a wo/man better than globalization? paraphrasing Emerson.
Rehumanize Yourself, sang the Police.
>>>
-- Is birth miraculous, or dreadful? I ask the anonymous female on the other side of the firewall.
-- Dreadfully miraculous, she replies, shadows of doubt cast into the virtual void.
-- Hmmm. Some think birth is the tragedy and death the blessing.
-- And in between the meat grinds between pain and pleasure, eh?
-- Yeah, deadly tinker-toy games of politicized insanity.
-- Miracle’s in the marrow of the bones of contention.
-- Wow. Wish I’d said that.
-- Don’t worry, you will, she answers enigmatically.
-- What if massive numbers of texts, media deliveries, etc. from so-called experts turn out to be primarily abuses of language?
-- Then they will have to be rhetorically arrested.
>>>
Oneself is a prime mired miracle to be cleaned. Kosmic Self is the prime cleaner of all mired miracles. Life is miraculous. The mire is the (usually egoic) sense of separation from Source with all its hellzone ramifications.
>>>
But then again Blake’s refrain: “As I walked through Hell, filled with the delights of genius, which to the angels look like torment. . .”
Maybe that was for an instant, maybe that was for aeons.
Maybe Sophia is the fallen Aeon turned Gaia/Earth psi boosted by Aeon Christos, a long way from hack appropriations on the ground, in the semiotic zone of mythic proto-Machiavellianism. Hack the hackdom of historicity. Sophia’s fall not a sin thang, no a wild fling of creative experimentation that weirdly spun off the living abortiveness of Demiurge Jehovah, bully-boy of Old Testament fame. Hence, the eerie half-baked Archon simulation of Aeonic Kosmic archetypes. Which realistically reveal their meanings in the daily news, as well as being projections of the human psyche. Bottom line is living creative experimentation while techno-green, embracing the natural eco-Sophia, soft luminous in pre-Christian Gnostic Pagan performative shamanic rituals, and performing the filigree of post-integral soul-mind embodiment.
Aeon Christos is neither the Jesus of biblical blur, nor the Christ of new age vanillage.
Sophia is the pure wild babe of the planetary ethos, bio-psiosphere of shamanic shining.
She’s the mired miracle cure for criminal intertextuality, the siege of formulated egoic appropriationism as pseudo-sanctity for the ages.
The best crème de la criminal, exemplar of Eros, cleans mired miracle Sophia with love-lust sublime, adamantine.
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