On the Occult

And now we have a poem about the occult, and my opinion of it.  Namely, that anyone who practices it out of the ego desire for power is destined to be an utter clown, and possibly a danger to themselves and those around them.

If you know an occultist who is over 40 and still practicing it, they have a) remained in a petulant twilight of teenage rebellion, relishing the false authority that age in the occult community can denote, b) opened a shop and made loads of money on the desires of others to delude themselves, or c) actually gained some wisdom out of it and keep it to themselves as a result, humbly enjoying its manifestation as creativity and personal productivity, as a private conversation between themselves and their higher will.

This poem is about a pathetic woman who managed to combine both the occult and schizophrena with tragic side effects on her children brought on by sickening narcissism.  Even though she ended up being a harassment and liability to me for years afterward, I only slammed up against a corner of her insanity, in comparison to the desolation she visited upon her child through the horrendous associates she had in satanism.  However, I had the good fortune of pressuring her paranoia so badly that her stupidity consumed her business, and she eventually shut down, sparing a neighborhood of further incarnations of her schizophrenic deviancy.  Which was good, because she was selling poisons to college students and I had the misfortune of talking down the parents of one who was institutionalized as a result.

Perhaps I should have given them leave to do what they had come to her shop to do.  But that would have been a moment of moral ambiguity that my own conscience would have forbidden.  And that moment is nearly 17 years gone at this stage.  This is but an echo of an epic battle of wills.

Silly rabbit.  
A poem by A. R. Carter


You gutter-snipe of snide articulation,
gesticulating your magickal manipulation,
raise your demons!  I dare you still;
your blind behest for my false arrest
did well to cement my will.

You burned away the chaff of me,
the favor of an enemy,
cauterizing weakness with your hate.
“Magickal War” you called it.
A mere scuffle to define reality,
shooting blanks of faulty salty hearsay.

And red light glowed as I awoke
morning after morning,
a favor granted by ancient friends
to give old souls fair warning.
So I raised the fell nidstang,
and cheerfully the church-bells rang,
in witness to your burning.

Addict, pervert, scum alike,
their wallets all ran dry,
the good folks left your patch of earth,
with no more than a sigh.
Paranoia left you naked
in concrete exposure
as you dined on insanity
and shat disgraced foreclosure.

And years beyond the ugly sound
of your indigent haranguing,
I fell asleep to shameless singing
and surfed tornadoes in my dreams,
that gently raised me up
to drink vintage wise in mockery
of sour-graped chicanery
from my very own grail cup.
The serpent crushed into the ground,
with friends and favors all around,
I hold feasts in their honor.

So Set has cause to sing the blues
of thwarted and disparaged ruse,
For I stole away your ruby shoes
and tossed them in my closet.
No lie on earth can take me down
I mulched the garbage you had sown,
and now the sun shines on me warm,
meaningless in all but form.

Silly rabbit!  Magic is for tricks.