I was born an old goat,

the Sun was chasing me out,

Diana, Venus, and Mercury riding the waves behind.

Jupiter riding the beast,

ahead of our procession,

and Saturn backing down from lavi.

Old Goats do lousy meat make,

and fields of tunes

of Pan’s pipes in the winds,

ruffled my destiny with birth.

The Age of the Sun,

Lucifer lost in wisdom’s door,

a cosmic union of explosive forces,

nevermore from the Penis of Pan, nevermore.

but from the pineal and pituitary gland;

Mother-father’s land.

The clockmaker’s language,

the architect’s plan, the marble of handsong;

things to become so easy to make,

the wisdom is the loaves and the cakes.

Heal the sick, feed the hungry,

be good to one another once we were told;

Noah trusted with an ark,

longer boats are coming to get us.

The story is so very old.

The True Age of the Sun Lord is here.

Cool your passions with wisdom’s spring,

wisdom’s eternal spring.

This entry was posted in Hamlet's Mill, Lucifer, poetry, Star Stories. Bookmark the permalink.

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