New Age Sewage: Your Sinner Self
I sing the Self—that mystic fable.
Lie to Truth as Cain to Abel.
Inner blight of fallen man,
enemy of Heaven’s master-plan:
your inner SELF! The guiding light
of Luciferian deception.
Mystic wisdom’s blinding sight;
purveyed as truth: obscene confection.
Listen well—please spare your soul
and sidestep this, the blackest hole.
The Self is sewage! Look within:
then dive down deep into your sin
behold that putrid old abyss
the fallen source of carnal bliss.
Inspire. Inhale in full the stench
from deep within the septic trench
unsounded depths, a cesspool’s source
depravity released in force.
Apart from mercy undeserved
on those whom Heaven has reserved.
Apart from Christ, your sordid purpose;
jewel whose bright refracted surface
glistens, beckoning to the feast
yet never can appease the beast.
I hail your lie, oh Inner Self
you silted continental shelf
(or are you more a surge oceanic:
roiling undertow satanic)?
New Age myth, and Hindu idol
fallen god whose pull is tidal…
Brahman, Atman, Buddha, babble
lies repackaged for the rabble…
How deep do you intend to go
into our post-Edenic show?
How far the bottom? Whence the end?
Explore ! You’ll never comprehend.
You’ll find still worse—and yet descend.
It was early spring in southern Maine; rivulets of snow-melt were already swelling the brooks running by the side of the forest road. My wife and I were walking along the primaveral path, enraptured by sunshine warming the air with scents of pine and birdsong. We rounded the curve and walked up the hill, past a moldering storage shed, and then past the granite foundations of an ancient homestead farm, overgrown and abandoned in the eldritch shadows like some remnant of an H.P. Lovecraft yarn. We crested the ridge, from which Mt. Washington can be seen on a clear day towering above the White Mountains in the distance, then turned around and went back down the hill
I suddenly glimpsed something in the clear rivulet by the roadside: a flash of silver in limpid running water and sandy silt. Was it just the spring sun reflected on a wet rock? As I approached the object it was winking and flashing while my angle of approach changed toward the reflecting light. It seemed to be a semicircle of metallic plastic. We came closer and I walked over to examine it. It was a DVD half-buried in the stream bed. I carefully pulled it out and read: Girls Gone Wild XXX: Spring Break Mexico Edition.
We took it home, washed it off and popped it in the player. Not a scratch. It played perfectly. My wife found it mildly interesting. I explored it, adored it, reviled it, fast-forwarded it, slowed it down, hid it from my children. There was one young lady in particular I found myself returning to time after time until I came to my senses. I finally had to cut the damn thing in half with scissors (the DVD that is).
Finding porn has happened at certain crucial points in my life. Interestingly, others have had the same experience regarding sylvan seduction. Someday I will tell the story of the red box my 10-year old friends and I found on the street. An old man was throwing out the contents of his house and we stumbled upon the scarlet stash while walking home from school in the early 70’s. But that is a true-life story for another day of de-pornification.
Trump could have been a massively popular president and won reelection comfortably, if only he’d kept faith with his voters. Even people who abhorred him would have had to say, I thought he was a coarse vulgarian, but he was right about China ripping us off, he was right about the border, and he was right about standing up to crazy woke culture.
The 2020 election should have been like Ronald Reagan’s 1984 reelection (49-state landslide). Like Trump, Reagan ran on popular issues left on the ground by other candidates — primarily his vow to destroy the Soviet Union and reignite the economy by slashing government.