The Correction

Hummingbird, green heron and I feed, heed
each other’s chirp, skeow, sliding glass screed.
In the square box, I tuned and cohered, here
my clumsy machinations make it clear

I’m out of sync with my earth mother. Grind
away these toxic thoughts, the viral mind
infested in the genocidal foam
from fervent mindless waves derived by drones

who can’t imagine, so articulate
the programs coded by alien spate.
Prudent silence cannot effectuate
error correction. Grounded now we wake.

Inspired by: Foam, Grind, Articulate and Prudent.

Perspective Change

When we realize we are run by a grand demented myth, we also see that we can correct our errors, choose our premises and most basic beliefs.

Little white bugs cling to screens unmoving
tiny fervent prayers to false light proving
the revelation by the sun. Sigils
inorganic incited this vigil

and now in exhaustion they appeal. Change
focus, clean the lens. Culture’s deranged
and every word is crafted to entrance
concealing Sophia’s emerging dance.

I vow to correct errors, so each wound
I feel intensely, ride the wave. I’ve crooned
too long the soothing song but now it’s clear
the psychopaths’ cachets belong not here.

Grounded, connected intuition flows
past these oblivious and clueless schmos
who I now see clearly, evil exposed.
Intentional I face Sophia’s foes.

Inspired by: Oblivious, Schmo, Cachet and the call to arms issued by the Fallen Goddess Scenario/Sophianic Myth.

Over It

Dissociation from the natural world verges on complete disembodiment, represented in Archontic ploys such as “transhumanism,” cloning, virtual reality, and the uploading of human consciousness into cyberspace.~John Lamb Lash

In the morning, I am empty, ready
to create in enmity’s face, steady
march of automatons proselytize
Derisive promises their coin can buy

proffered. Simply believe and you’ll receive.
They cannot imagine, cannot perceive
the program entrained in their brains, shaping
distortions toxic to humans. Aping,

they leer over curvaceous forms, sedate
while poisons infuse their boxes. Slave state
voluntary, they espouse the memes, dream
in lyrics from pop songs. Living beseems

false images on blue projected screens
so they shun the sun, kaleidoscope greens.
I cannot save a soul. I stand here, strong
cleaning Sophia’s fractal with my song.

Inspired by: Coin, Over and Curvaceous.

Featured image: earthing with a gorgeous seven-week-old baby.