Abramelin on the Disco Floor (After The Trammps)

Jason Preu, , , , , , 3 Comments

Burn, burn, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn, burning

Oh how the disco ball flickers when night descends,
Everybody’s drawin’ circles on the dance floor.
Incantations spoken low – the rite begins,
Something waits behind the backstage door.

Frankincense to cleanse, myrrh to sanctify,
Cinnamon and oil mark your brow.
Stars above bear witness as you hope to fly,
Every single funky step a sacred vow.

Burn, baby, burn — let the ego fall,
Burn, baby, burn — hear your angel’s call!
Burn, baby, burn — no self at all,
Burn, baby, burn — ’til the walls dissolve!

Symbols expand – wide and deep,
Every type of ‘gram is cast around.
Dancing for secrets that the angels keep,
They’re right above you in their disco gowns.

{Super funky bass groove right hurr}

Chalk and ash laid down to help the spirits move,
Holy names invoked to dance possessed.
In this sacred space using dance hall groove,
Every drop of sweat building a world so blessed. OW!

Burn, baby, burn — let the ego fall,
Burn, baby, burn — hear your angel’s call!
Burn, baby, burn — no self at all,
Burn, baby, burn — ’til the walls dissolve!

{To the bridge:}

Look within, nothing’s hidden,
The only time you got to see is now.
Serpent rising here, as if bidden,
Let the holy fire burn, burn it – burn it down!

Burn, baby, burn — let the ego fall,
Burn, baby, burn — hear your angel’s call!
Burn, baby, burn — no self at all,
Burn, baby, burn — ’til the walls dissolve!

{Guitar solo, then to bass and drums before guitar comes back gently like a consolation}

In the silence you can hear all that’s been told,
Your angel’s voice so confident, so soft and bold.
The ashes cool to embers while we grow old,
But then the flame kicks up to keep away the cold and

Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn, burning burning
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Burn, baby, burn, burning burning burning {Fade}

Abramelin on the Disco Floor (After The Trammps)

The Ballad of Johnny Dee (After Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee’)

Jason Preu, , , , , 2 Comments

It was many and many a year ago,
On an island in the sea,
That a scholar named Johnny Dee did seek
A language so heavenly.

While traveling Central Europe free—
Johnny Dee and Ed Kelley and black mirror key,
Wrought by angels’ hands, not for the meek,
A script that evoked divine glee.

And this was the reason that, long, long ago,
On that island in the sea,
The airs grew cold by some degrees
As the angels spoke to Johnny Dee.

He learned the language, dense, arcane,
Of Enochian tables, destiny gained,
And inscribed each letter upon earthy plane,
He and old Sir Edward Kelley.

And love for hidden wisdom by far did grow,
Stronger than fears of what it did show
Of mysteries far wiser than he—
And neither did library ruined by foes,
Nor the shadows deep under cold, salty sea,
Ever dissever the angels from speaking
Through the mystical tablets of Johnny Dee.

For the moon can not beam, without bringing me dreams
Of the tablets of Johnny Dee;
And the stars can not rise for these tightly-shut eyes
Until the angels respond back to me;
And so, every night-tide, I lie down to recite
These forty-eight keys, my life and my guide,
Zirdo! Zirdo! by this boundless sea—
Ipamis! Ipamis! by this pounding sea.

The Ballad of Johnny Dee (After Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee’)

The Fool Steps Out

Jason Preu, , , , 3 Comments

The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins,
A Magician’s tools lay spread, their power grows,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

The Empress’ bounty, life anew she spins,
The Emperor’s rules an order firmly shows,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

The Hierophant’s traditions: faith and proper grins,
Lovers’ choice of paths where all love flows,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

The Chariot’s conquest, a discipline that spins,
Strength reveals the force that gentleness bestows,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

The Hermit seeks the light from societal chagrin,
Wheel of Fortune turns where fate unknowingly goes,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

Justice wields the scales of a balance pinned,
The Hanged Man’s new perspective of understanding slow,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

Death transforms, ends and starts again and again,
Temperance’s stream, where inner melding flows,
High Priestess whispers of a secret, present win.

The Devil’s chains of material lust in sin,
The Tower’s fall, upheaval, overthrow,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins.

The Star’s hope, the Moon’s dreams, the Sun’s light within,
Judgment calls a past toward a future to bestow,
The World’s dance circles back from there to here knows when,
The Fool steps out, the journey thus begins,
The path spread out before us by a tale that’s always been.

The Fool Steps Out

The Ascent of Horus (A Myth in Limericks)

Jason Preu, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Osiris’s Fate
There once ruled a god named Osiris,
Whose brother, Sett, was desirous.
Sett’s jealous black heart,
Made him rip O. apart
And sent Egypt veering toward crisis.

Isis’s Mission
O. left Isis with grief so profound,
So she gathered up all of O. that she found.
With Anubis and care,
They brought life to O. there.
And zombie O. was then ready to pound.

Horus is Born
Soon after, Isis birthed her sweet son,
Lil’ Horus, god second to none.
With an eye sharp and keen,
On revenge, he was keen,
To battle Sett underwater ’til he’d won.

Mother’s Intervention
Beneath mighty waves, uppercuts,
While Isis feared all was for nut.
She threw harpoons with might,
But her aim wasn’t right,
And struck her own son in the butt.

The Confusion of Battle
As Horus cried out in rear pain,
Isis’s efforts to help seemed in vain.
Yet resolve didn’t break,
She’d fix her mistake,
To ensure that Lil’ Horus would reign.

The Final Judgment
Seth tried to oust Horus, indeed,
But his own words highlighted misdeeds.
At the council’s behest,
They found Sett failed the test.
He was banished, and Horus took lead!

The Ascent of Horus (A Myth in Limericks)

The Last Bigfoot of Clackamas County

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Why were you here, O stinky giant never gleaned?
Wandering mostly silent, rare the scene,
Through tangled undergrowths of evergreen.
Now no more to bathe in rivers clean.

Why were you here, O hairball calling in the night?
Only to cry when the moon burned bright,
Oh your face so furry and so light.
Now only memories may we hold tight.

Why were you here, O friend of ancient trees?
Telling stench oft-carried on the breeze,
Wild-hearted secrets kept with ease.
Now grunting echoes have all but ceased.

No more footsteps on the old forest floor,
No solved mystery, only retold lore,
All vanished now forevermore.
Gone and gone, wanderer of yore.

The Last Bigfoot of Clackamas County

Unveiled

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A half-lit realm, where whispers fast swell,
The gossamer shimmers with faded, blue light.
Half truths and myths contrast and compel,
and giant, bald babies eat all that’s in sight.
The black forest spells a lore misconstrued;
its every sharp leaf stripping flesh from the bone.
In this grey world, sick spring waters spew
a foul flood of miasma no mortal can hold.

Yet seekers still saunter, bumbling and blind,
drawn by silent knowing calling them fast,
despite every glade threatening to muddle the mind,
despite all roads leading to a rational wrath.
Here in sweet Mystery’s arms, balanced on a line
between that which is known and what must be divine.

Unveiled

Dumpster Diving For Your Love – Canto XVII (Unfinished)

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In Sandy Palms, Ocean's whispers blend,
The blur of posts and tweets find wry way.
Let's discuss three user types, though they may oft blend:
The first seeks validation for the things they say,
Hungry for likes, much on others they depend.
The second type will argue, come what may,
While third attempts, in all forms, to connect,
Their earnest hopes by platforms' designs deflected.

This world, vast and varied, must embrace,
A free exchange where ideas can dance.
Yet not all thoughts deserve public space,
Already sealed as rubbish, no need for second glance.
Nazism, flat earth—foolish, out of place,
No truths to know, so no need to give chance.
Others still need criticism to pick apart,
For argument is growth, and growth a vital art.

John's guise after ghostly visit, wan and worn,
At breakfast beside him, Fitzie, miffed by unrest.
Their looks exchanged, a silent war,
What passed between last night kept close to chest.
"I'm having a hard time believing anything at all,"
John sighed, the weight of doubt confessed.
His statement hung, a cloud above the feast,
A hint of turmoil, not yet ceased.

Did Fitzie's guise as ghost provoke a scare,
Or deeper discussions of their online masques?
The morning light revealed the pair,
Each bearing signs of some nocturnal ask.
Was it a confrontation laid bare,
Or shared confessions while under moonlight bask?
Their tired eyes more than fatigue show,
A night of hard truths, where feelings did flow.

Aura's presence, like a recluse rare,
Untouched by online footprints, pure and stark,
Stood contrast to all the influencers' flair,
A model for John amidst infinite, digital dark.
Her lack of site presence, online unawares,
Offered John a different mark.
Could he, like her, eschew the hollow fame,
Or would he keep at the attention-getting game?

As breakfast lingered, thoughts unspoken,
The table's chatter could not disguise
The inner doubts that had been awoken,
John's mind conflicted shown in heavy eyes.
Which path led fair? Which merely token?
Fitzie's irritation, her own conscience sighs.
A choice lay ahead, a road unsure,
To continue the faking or a one-way detour?

Yet let us not assume John's conflict resolved,
_______________________________________
His struggles are ours deep within, unsolved,
_______________________________________
_______________________________________
_______________________________________
_______________________________________
If from tech giants' chains we broke free.

_______________________________________
_______________________________________
Ponder here at the end, reach beyond chosen veils,
_______________________________________
_______________________________________
_______________________________________
_______________________when all's on display,
T'will be sanity's cost as price we must pay.

Dumpster Diving For Your Love – Canto XVII (Unfinished)