From Acerbica, the world on Earth is funny, but no laughing scene. Satyr but tries, to convey – to explain, to enter into logic the vantage, the streaming. It is there to be seen. (Because it is . . .)*1 Like patently, honestly, blatantly obvious, overt clues of behavioural evidence passing through repeatedly. Not necessarily, initially, that she recognises she’s been witness to data that has begun to construe; but, a quizzical attention gradually piques into a sentience that requires her to ride the construct of her technique for wily evasion of ‘mere fancifulness’: she calls for the reflexive arbitration of her critically honed, internalised Satan’s Solicitor and rejects all self credence! Still provoked, finally, she must relent to invoking the fear at revealing pronouncement of her own tediously fought, ceaselessly wrought assessment of thought: the only rational deduction that can correlate conclusion of a niggling conceptual intrusion, is that the ‘O’ Man, if not just a very good mimic of a clone, is one. (And there’s just such a rush of cynicism and scepticism at such ludicrousity) (And then, after smirking at the ludicrousness of that which has been arrived at, there just happen to be giggles glitching in her very wide, gruelling, comprehensive research curriculum, little oddities of substantiation that could add up to there being very good reason to suspect that ‘teleprompter man’, sans birth certificate, who fabricates the story of an uncle who was with the American troops who liberated Auschwitz [sic], is a clone.) (And then there is also a lot of very good reason for the few who are in charge of the current global empire to be wielding from behind a front man who is cloned.) (And then there are those who say, “wake up global population! Open your minds to the very real possibility that the level of technology that has actually been achieved and is actually operating over the Earthly community is actually far beyond the wildest imaginings of the ordinary, common person in the street or on the land.”)
Like the dream she had . . . late for a big memorial service – so many cars she has to park far away down a side street; mother’s huge church is packed, all heads bowed, sombre silence, but the door steward dismissively says ‘they’re’ not dead? so she’s glad she doesn’t have to stay and be sad but, all the cars are gone and hers is not where she left it and she’s out on the roads, looking, looking for it and she’s in a rising panic and she sees it under a lean-to in a yard and the southern drawling, hillbilly characters from the American soap Days of our Lives are there – they say they stole her car, they give her tea and then they’ve got her in her car, driving, they’re at the robot at Settler’s Fountains, turning right to get onto the highway to go to the airport and she can’t get out and she’s screaming and there’s wind, just chaotic wind, and flapping plastic, and flapping metal, and there’s shuddering and she’s screaming, screaming and she wakes wailing into the early hours of eleventh of September, 2001; and she has to stir the him lying next to her, because she has to tell him about the dream right away, because she needs a witness, because she knows she won’t believe herself later on, because she knows the dream is one of those kind, the kind that tell her something, she knows something is really off, she knows something is really urgent; a frantic, woe-hearted interchange ensues -in a portentousness- about the world, the state of things, the children, the future – until bird chorus is well past daybreak into morning song.
By the afternoon she’s inexplicably sickly. Random sores are breaking out on her face. At early evening she sits to rest in front of the soaps. As the little, solar driven, black and white box is switched on, the rays of her dream manifest in a broadcast on the screen. For a conscientious intelligence addicted to the sensation of brain drain relief by viewing TV and stock, syndicated schlock movies, she’s something of an aficionado on the clear markings of cultural branding. So it doesn’t take her long to detect that the two tower, aero show she’s watching is a studio, Hollywood-type production. Then, to her utter dismay, she realises the soaps have been cancelled for the day.
It’s a hard one, to be growing from a little, hugely vibrant self, with the big, special care of a Daddy Being living everywhere in the world and in the whole sky – He can also get very cross like teachers and Mommy, but, that one just gets packed away, (always capable of accommodating the small anomalies of childhood) – and then, well, the years in one incarnation are just too few to repent (turn around) instantly enough, to incorporate, without passage of great private torrent, a pertinently serious homework syllabus of scholastically, scientifically verified likely likelihoods of the actual genesis of it all.
God. (Gods. A race of them. The Anunnaki) Replication. In laboratories. Of a slave race. To serve. (The gods) As labourers. Miners. To go underground. To mine the gold. For them. (The gods) Yeh. It’s a shock. A bloody bold one. Just as well it takes an intensely long time to read, process, (and process and re-process) Zechariah Sitchin’s six,seven,eight? meticulously slow-going, archaeo-astronomical Earth Chronicles volumes*2 on the Sumerian (and other) origins of “it” all. “Us all.”
Bump. Back down to Earth. Shemless. (Sure, Zech and his work are controversial – who, what isn’t, but he’s not the only one working the evidence on this précis of hu-man origins) (So now what you gonna tell the kids? About Adama? Adonai? Jehovah, Yahweh, Elohim, Yeshua?) G(g)od(s). Replication (?!). Replicated beings as slave labour. So that the gods could? Well, apparently, they were all busy madly sexing away with each other much better (the gods were Bonkers) and lots of wars were happening because of who’s offspring came before who’s in the hierarchical line of rulership on the annexed planet. It was no joke! It was a very big deal. Vicious enough to result in nuclear catastrophes which still measure radiation residue readings in middle eastern deserts.
In the laboratory, production costs were soaring and an efficient plan was instituted, to save by outsourcing inhouse. Why not? Select specimen replicant models for reproductive upgrade capacity. Slave certain slave beings into multiplying more slave beings. ‘But something happened then the Almighty did not intend’*3, a likely crux of troubles with which the 21st Century P.C.E.*4 now has to contend. Supreme DNA scientist and 2.I.C. god on the planet, Enki, schemed revenge on his younger brother Enlil*5, because Enlil’s conception was by their father’s sister, which genetic coup gave Enlil prior birthright to Chief god status. As Robert Morning Sky tells it in The Terra Papers,*6 Enki went to his clones in the Agricultural Centre, (laboratory) and, in direct contravention of inviolable law governing the slave species, he ‘introduced the beasts to a simple pleasure. . . of spontaneous, unsupervised, sex’. (Ergo, Cloned Beings that Bonk) A happier rendition of humans as originally supreme, the Sophia Mythos of Agnosticism,*7 in the intricate poetics of its transmitting genre, suggests that the two legged, upright species was conned by the Archon lie into seeing itself as made ‘in the image of god’; hence, conceding to godlikeness, it then forgot to remember that it didn’t need to think itself godlike, since, in fact, it was, before all, from source, by Sophia’s activation of organic matter, the very essence of God; identity misplaced by deception.
Darwin’s been linked to some spurious connections and discredited*8; chronological ineptitudes cavort by the millions on a recalcitrant timeline; trails track sheela-na-gig art to matriarchal societies of the past. Tendency wants to throw blanket reverence over long-lost, wholesome lifestyle structures. But, it’s not the easy out for the desperate, needing to believe in a way practically and theoretically Goddess-like. Lingering her echoes in these purportedly ordered, bountiful phases, and around more recent Yoni based configurations, is the spectre of the India’s region, potent potentate, Ishtar/Inanna, a lower Anunnaki sister, who contrived a rise through ruthless, power-play hierarchies, by formidable wielding of her own interests. Against this background, there has to be rational suspicion of practices that verge on female orifice worship? (Miles and years away to Dublin, 2006, a stand-up session and first introduction, for some, to a psyche of Ireland. Before microphone, audience and women of his nation, the deft comic prostrates an overburdened yearning to understand why Mary’s reject his desire to lie at the altar of their triangular throne. It’s illicit, it’s honest, it’s a compassionate jolt, it elicits significant laughter)
The Chymical Wedding*9 traverses themes of westerners venturing transit through more matriarchally aligned sexuality, through experiences with the temple whores of eastern practices. The story hovers the character Mae, one of those sheela-na-gig ‘Goddess figures [that] emphasised the breasts, belly and vulva’. HerStory*10 interprets these artefacts as symbols of beneficence. ‘Sexual energy was sacred and celebrated as sensual, pleasure giving, erotic and healing’. Valued and worthy, emancipation embraced naturalness in ancient, women-led communities. But her story travels into stigma, into exponentially constraining, oppressive, maiming abuse induced by fear, by a phobia of ‘female’ in an affliction of pathological jealousy. The butt of inferiority projections, woman, with her sexual, procreative attributes, posed threat and had to be put down. She was despised, identified as evil and vilified, a space and time destroyed, records re-conspired, blocking the way across a great divide.
Birth – the life hosts, facilitators and process itself – have been savaged by grotesque torture, often sadistically deliberate Only the truly alert can reel in the brain-berserk seizure of the Gynaeco-story, the first physicians perpetrating well before Nazi biological and psychological experimentations. With healers, herbalists and midwives systematically targeted, harassed, ostracised, declared heretics and witches and extinctified, common clinical practice*11 in woman’s ‘health’ and child delivery refines into metal pronged rape by medical overlords intercepting the virginity of other men’s women, strap down, drugging, perineum slicing, forceps insertion, excruciating humiliation, degradation, agony, slapping, crying, screaming, suppurating anger seething interminably under the convenient coinage, ‘post-partum blues’.
The airport dream she’d had was after she’d escaped. And she did escape. Twice. Partly on account of her homework syllabus, which included Birth Without Violence.*12 Two beauties, born gently, in comfortable safety, sanctity, respectable dignity and privacy. In a time and place of resurgent fashion for homebirth, fortuitously a midwife was available for the first delivery. The second was in a world where only “black people push and squat because they haven’t civiliZed themselves enough” for admittance into the modern, medical industrialisation of hospitalisation for a serious condition. So the he that she woke to hear her dream had been the second wise facilitator then, calming and caring and coaxing, till the tiny body appeared, fully formed.
Round the Eden laboratory a new hybrid race spawned when some in The Anunnaki discovered that sexing amongst the slave species was the greatest sport in their assignment of planetary duty. Enter for real, permanent along the timeline, the progenitate agenda: gods, upper echelons, replicants, slave specimens, sex, genetics, (DNA), purist breeding programmes, societal bloodlines, temples, impregnative intercourse via omnipotent unseens? Magnificent!
Policy controls the throngs, (there’s always been subterfuge policy going on*13). To get at it, to get at its tenets, its dictates and to articulate what it intends to further initiate, one has to get off of it that it’s not straight. It wants to stop the climax of truth and a pendulum swings malevolent destructiveness that means only ultimate harm, if nobody hears the cadences in the alarm that’s sounding loud, near and cleverly veered. Wasn’t there somewhere proposed, wasn’t there supposed, a looking forward to a cherishing, to a joyful denouement developing towards an evolving enlightenment of ‘civiliZed’ transcendence? Hallowed? Good? Like the sweetness of coupling vision that soothingly survived aeons of divisive derision in Jitterbug Perfume?*14 (“Um, er, ah, uhuhrr, erm – . . ., love – ?”.)
A direct looking at posing Pater/Mater makers sees clearly the legacy. With promiscuous gods as the beginnings, manipulating humans in their affairs for the array of their display, and these fickle gods manipulating the role of human sex in their affairs solely for their play . . . should anyone wonder at the waves in contemporary plagues of pornography, paedophilia, and all other manner of sexual distress and depravity in manipulative manoeuvre?
Horrific forbiddenisms? No, not gone, though thought just conceives that they have gone, because they’ve submerged in a glossed netherworld, air-brushed from view by celebrity-couched construal of freedom to go, be and do in abandon on the tinsel-blinking fairgrounds of the well-endowed, chosen few.
‘The K-bomb’, ‘The Sexual Revolution’, clubs, ‘girls’ in for free before a certain time, all lined up at the bar like a string of magnets, waiting for the guys to be sucked in to come and buy them drinks. Beaches, bikinis, flesh, tans, synthetic svelte, sleek and lithe . . . relationships? . . . balance for hearts who want to lift the shadows into authentic, progressing honest days and nights? . . . “don’t have to be part of it!”, but it’s paraded, and that forces put-up-with ick-ily transposed reductions relayed fad deep, in silicone-pert speak peeking at, ‘tits, [snigger], foreplay, [garble], making love, [garble] wank [guffaw]’.
So where there could be the pulse of other beats that nurture self-belonging, there’s this inappropriate, disproportionate, ‘riding crests of self-crave, never a care of wrong’*15, with a whole lot of misery, gloom and heartache, all a void in a void in between the glare of limelight and the blind, stultifying, dankness of reverberating basement mentality; it’s expected of them, the rugger-bugger machos in superficial superiocity, locker room sweat, ever vigilant with feisty fist should the menace of a predatory moffie become apparent, but literal linguistics of the word ‘bugger’ must have meant there was already inference to something inherent?
All these things lying, behind how many of the feigned smiles and stony expressions and self-righteous grunts in every interchange in daily movement through the social and business fascia of community? Like the guy who overcharges, and he’s owed, and he’s getting really heavy about the fact that he thinks those few €’s are his, now, because he always deserves more . . . the ower could just say to his face, “do you have a porn problem?” (Internet search statistics are revealing.*16) Looking at pictures, footage, of other beings in the nude, in the act, the multi-billion dollar profit segment that is now called ‘The Pornography Industry’.
. . how many, just how many are silently locked in a writhing, intimidating anguish, secretly trashing hours, lives, pacing out everything else of every moment of every day, whilst sub-judiciously investing every second to arrange the schedule in such a way as to facilitate the clandestine, uninterrupted, alone gawk-time to get the supply, the never satisfied erototoxin brain chemical addiction high in a severe health hazard that experts deem extremely untreatable, likened to cases of unrehabilitatable dependence on cocaine, heroine . . . freedom and liberty? Crass, clichéd words, except for those in the debilitative state of experiencing that their souls are, really, at the stake.*17
THIS is the Terror that there should be a War on. Hiding and lying don’t solve anything. Moralising isn’t the answer and neither is the act of going into a little box so that a custom listener can overhear encoded, two word tell – all’s. This act must be examined. Has it been established conclusively that it is not, in itself, sexually transgressing regression? At the very least, it’s aural voyeurism.
So how does the shy young boy get through it all, where’s the mentor he will follow – he’s in the car, on the sidewalk groups of girls twitter collusively, he wants to communicate but he doesn’t relate to their stupidity – what have his elders got for him to go by – teen sites that discourse, graphically – the pro’s and con’s of anal and oral? – perhaps there’s merit in the collations of the actual, scientific biological . . .
Abyssal unknowns of a human sexual psyche that motors on in a captivity that travels around it, before it and after it – unexplored – in a binding censorship that lacks the protection of censorship. Simply continue to say, “It’s just hormones”? With Darwin being given the sack, the modern humanoid is known to have been around for . . . much more than millennia, the linguistics need upgrade (they always need upgrade). What with for how long, and how far the human has come, that there’s only now beginning to be talk about how to begin talking wisely about sex -and about the future of human sex -?!
The streaming? A mother in a ten year battle to square away and get on, with justice over and done; an influential clique from on high waging a ruthless retaliate-with-attack-and-deny campaign. Sheltered paedophiles, protected paedophile rings, Vatican, Scotland, Portugal, Hollie Greig, Casa Pia, the McCann’s . . .? Is this going to be seen to be absolutely all over, in every neighbourhood, in every prominent hall? (A pendulum swings malevolent.) While SS agents increasingly swoop to confiscate children, from parents who hug their child too long in the car before school and from parents who explain to their child that they were born by caesarean section.*18 (A pendulum swings malevolent) While authority funded, sex education cohorts exhort to encourage, as preferred, civil, contemporary family behaviour and lifestyle, liberally lascivious treatment of the family’s ‘communal’ genitals . . ..
“and they didn’t think anyone would find out
just thought they could carry on, had no doubt
through every day and pleasurable night
having fun, place in the sun, always travelling to where it’s bright
didn’t care for plight of another man’s blight
just played the cars planes and laughs
played their stars, destiny’s charts
riding crests of self crave
never a care of wrong
but someone turned the heat up
and focused the spotlight right on
just leave him with the nanny all land and love and glory
so ends another’s story
The southern Chip of tilly
The biggest Lip on shiffey
the crooked Gaight of stribby
the highest Reaks of pocky
sugar, cigar, sago, sci-fi, so far
. . . she’d probably already made her escape with the mental note that there was personal homework to be done, when she’d been named a bad, ugly, etc little girl for picking up a sex book lying casually on mother’s bed, when she didn’t get to decipher the pictures, neither read descriptions and instructions, nor store the data in her head.
Long after her escape, when Mother was packing to relocate, the book had finally been offered to her. Instantly, the old childhood smart was fresh but, she was able to deflect, “oh, that book, no, that’s so outdated now, throw it away, people are into Kundalini and Tantra . . .”.
On a municipal dump, behind a beach, a hard cover, black and white dust cover book is decomposing, near breaking waves of the large Indian ocean.*19
The nub, rubbed in, in May:
Sending Leven(11) -”Reichs Or Sex gone – part fin”
*1 Satyre: ‘Satyr’ carries connotations of sexual deviance;
Satire:- A Dictionary of Literary Terms, J A Cuddon, Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, 1982
*2 Earth Chronicles, Zechariah Sitchin, (various titles and publishers)
*3 borrowed from Peter Jackson’s film, The Fellowship of the Ring
*4 P.C.E.: Post Common Era – steering away from the respectfully incorrect terms, BC and AD
*5 Enlil: God, Jehovah, cosmically, a demi-urge
*6 The Terra Papers,
*7 Sophia Mythos, Agnosticism, John Lash, http://www.metahistory.org
*8 ”Forbidden Archaeology” by Michael Cremo and Richard L. Thompson
*9 The Chymical Wedding, Lindsay Clarke, Jonathan Cape Ltd, London, 1989
*11 Gyn/Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism, Mary Daly
*12 Birth Without Violence, Frederic Leboyer
Rufus C. Camphausen – “The Generalized Principle of Human Sexuality
The application of this principle – in one way or another and more or less successful – gives rise to the specific and local psychological ‘climate’ within which any given individual grows up, lives, blossoms and/or withers in varying degrees; and then dies. The principle can be stated in one simple sentence: It is the nature of every group to guide and/or control the sexual development of its members as well as the individual and/or communal expression of their natural, sexual energy.”
*14 Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins
*15 ”sham central”, music and lyrics, eco music factory, 2009, all rights reserved
*16 2006 Search Engine Request Trends – the word ‘porn’, Ireland and South Africa won the trophy!
*17 http://www.henrymakow.com/confessions_of_a_porn_addict.html I’m a Prisoner of Porn
*18 http://www.ukcolumn.org Scotland, Hollie Greig, Common Purpose, SS
Ratzinger knew priest was paedophile but allowed him to continue with ministry
http://tvnewslies.org/tvnl/index.php/news/of-special-interest/13325-tvnl-reminder-pope-led-cover-up-of-child-abuse-by-priests.html Ratzinger ‘led cover-up of child abuse by priests’
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1257904/Irelands-Catholic-leader-Sean-Brady-paedophile-priest-cover-up.html Brady urged to quit over abuse victims’ silence vow
*19 see “Reichs Or Sex gone – part I” : http://www.mutantspace.com/sex-and-love
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