NOW THAT WE UNDERSTAND MAGIC
as just an old name, for science.
We may enter the realms of the occult,
in contemptuous defiance.
We may smirk at the wailing Incantor.
We may scoff, the be-robed, incense reeker.
And tell them that gravitational waves
are now the trek lands, of the seeker.
And that since all is mere pulsation,
quantified, categorical clutter.
We may measure, define; reshape, realign,
without prayer or blessing to mutter.
Now that we have means to measure;
the method, and the math.
To plot all machinations of matter
in a holomorphic graph:
What price the old Seer's prediction,
when from greatest unto least,
we may track each slight vibration,
in the information feast?
For now we weave patterns of light.
And now we dance energy fields.
So we re-polarise, and deftly devise,
new claws, to expand our yields.
We may call forth entire Universes,
at the stroke of a violin string.
We may harmonise chords of star sound,
with our very own song to sing.
For ages the Sages did ponder,
as to how to turn lead into gold.
But with quantum mechanics,
and dimension dynamics, we may reach,
for something more bold.
Now that the screens are parting;
revealing form altering tricks.
We may re-heat the cranial Cauldron,
and gather fruits for the mix.
And seem to unravel the mystery,
of old allegorical Alchemy.
Mutative elements, transforming the whole.
The Earth, the body; and the soul.
Atoms and molecules all realign.
Ingredients, in our Cauldron design.
But for effect and to impress,
let us play with ... 'esoteric ness.'
Adorning science's driven wedge,
with an eebie-jeebie, cutting edge.
And seek by stealth to forge the fusion
of illusory myth, and mythical illusion.
Preserving idea's of mystery,
which science has damned to history.
So let us be seen, collecting things;
The DNA of long dead Kings.
Mushrooms and ergots
to dance in the dreams,
and rusting swords
from old sacrifice streams.
Flickering glints from Fairy wings
and waves of wandering devotions.
Policies for policing parks;
the throats of nightingales and larks,
theories on wheel less carts,
and essences of ancient potions.
Time zones to be turned about,
atomic structure inside out.
Mislaid apothecary tools,
pale reflections from shallow pools.
And universal lightless stuff,
without denomination.
For all can change, from out of the blue.
We hold this knowledge as totally true;
in infinite, imagination.
In a mind storming Cauldron of energies,
let the bubbles and billows blow.
To where streams of unseen waves deliver,
the sets and scripts for the show.
Into the brain pan, go fables and stories,
lies and versions, fiction and facts.
Plots of play for entertainment,
ponderous prologues and stark final acts.
Stir in a sumptuous future.
Stir in a past that is frugal.
Stir them all in a gravity wash
of forces centrifugal.
Let us add everything to the blend
so we may wander worlds without end,
stirring into the pot that steams
the meta programmed spices of dreams.
Elements of spatial time,
discrete, replete and introspective.
Pottages of preferment, eclectic and selective.
Mimic old wars against patterns of stars,
on painted sets and awnings.
All the dancing faeries.
All the screeching scaries.
Shadows of mind, that are shifting shapes,
Moulded into mummery japes.
Images, all of the play makers art.
As emotional contusions
mark the fading of delusions,
And plot the emotive charts,
that resonate the hearts.
For here is a Prince in a state of duress.
Here is a Damsel, in distress.
Yearning for love and a tender caress,
when the dew beads the rose in the morning.
Let sleight of hand and crass deception
settle the sceptics shallow perception.
And don the robes of starry weave,
but hide a Rabbit in the sleeve.
So costume the canting clerics
to lend to their performance,
the creepiness of dainty dress;
and delicate adornance.
And hail their 'spiritual' hysterics
in vaulted halls festooned with relics.
Rhythmically rattle the appellant prattle,
bleat with the sheep and low with the cattle.
Resonate the repetitions.
Bombard the minds with guilt.
List the failures and attrition's,
then gather in the Gelt.
You'll be forgiven, ain't that nice?
And enter heaven, at a price.
Praise the mythical old stories
with enlightened calm respect.
Just hint', that we know them from study,
of the old Sumerian texts.
For blessed are they that lack vision
into the patterns of mind.
And accept that myth delivered as fact
will serve to keep them in line.
For as that which blooms in shade
is protected by the cover;
minds sensitive to light
live to grow as sense of other.
Magic is that which we do not know,
and what we know not of; we fear.
Few are adventuring Hereticals
who would wipe the mysteries clear.
True magic is a dazzling dance
of seven drifting veils.
Each veil has seven Dragon forms.
Each Dragon seven tails.
For 'All' is Magic in Hermetic law.
No thing is wasted in energy flow.
All that is Magic is of the Mind,
the engine of mentation.
For nought is believed or even perceived
without small deliberation.
The ingredients of the conjure broth,
the defined apportionate list;
needs be known by Mind, in image or kind
in order to exist.
As above so below,
as is near, is as far.
How vast or how minute
is yonder, twinkling star?
An amoeba spiral in the sand,
a Galactic whirl in the sky.
Evince the Correspondence law
in witness to the eye.
Syntropical invaders
plundering through pasts.
Reforming by reflection
to ensure that nothing lasts.
Though seeming static nought is still,
and peace is a fond illusion.
A snapshot for the memory
from the Vibrant God's profusion.
And beyond any line, drawn in sand,
or axial point in disposition.
We may step into the looking glass
and reverse the polar condition.
Our happy place in time and space.
Where the monkey makes it's face.
Our fifty, fifty: One Inverse.
Our glass half emptyful.
A Qu bit opening many gates.
Determining infinite forms and fates.
Where all is still yet nothing rests.
Yet in the higher hidden planes;
the chargeless stringless broken branes,
the multifarious manifests.
So we roll with the rhythm,
in a midnight Mambo mood.
And we dance about the fire
in the mask of Bou Jaloud.
For we are as one
great beating heart.
Ever bound to never part.
If we sadly embrace a situation,
of scratchy scrapes, and sorry shapes;
in a banal cacophony, of background radiation.
Who would be of the neutral elect,
unfettered by cause or bound by effect?
Or nurture envy in rebellious wombs.
Carving the courses from cradles to tombs.
Mothering the mangy cur,
that dares to think;
that thinks to dare.
Fathering imperial process.
Gathering in the treasure.
To fuel the entropic Desire's
insatiable grasping of pleasure.
The worlds of stuff, real and imaged,
are the fields in which Magics play.
The signal waves of Nature,
lead us where they may.
To cast a spell, to manifest;
To prepare a magical potion .
We delve from a well of energies
in Nature's mighty ocean.
There we find, that human kind,
has writ, defined and recorded,
the patterns ;
that sweet Nature paints,
which hold the wisdom She has hoarded.
Let us then go with what we know,
to see what is earned
from what we have learned,
and boil up a fusion, of total inclusion.
The wisdom of the ages reveals no surprise,
that what we sought in youth,
in age we oft' despise.
The wisdom that set lightning rods
to channel the energies of the Gods.
Were magical means in their erection,
to organise demonic deflection.
And in fear we curdle our Cauldron stew
To discover an whole, world healing brew.
For on pondering the vastness
of infinite form,
how tiny we feel. Minuscule and forlorn.
Since with all our designs and devices deployed,
we barely are noticed out there in the void.
A non speaking part without personal art,
No name on the Bill! Won't be there at the kill.
For all we'll discover to boast to a lover,
is all our exploring gets tedious and boring.
We cover the ground but so little is found,
as we stumblingly bumblingly
reach stretch and grow,
just to discover how much we don't know.
Yet blessings of Aquinal angels,
are archetypal gifts we crave.
Diefically determining miracles,
And binding us as a slave.
To the grasping hope that there is after all,
a measure of infinity, we somehow can control.
Only hope spurs the drama, that by turns
is both glorious and tragic.
To light the path to the mysteries.
Now, that we understand Magic.
