"The Deep State has The Life Expectancy of a Borscht Belt Folksinger with Tourettes Syndrome in The Korengal Valley."

God Poet Transmitting.......

Well... you can see what's going on. Even if you're blind... you can feel your way through the Satanic symbolism... by following the instructions of your talking... seeing-eye dog... delivered to you by AI... through your radioactive AirPods. These days it feels like Schrodinger's Cat took a shit in the litter box of my mind. Are the windmills still turning, Clarice?

Mind the thorns of attachment... like hooked talons... that snag your garment of flesh, and... are the source of all that you fear... through the medium of your temporary form. How ironic it is that cursed fear... should have its way with you... via the persisting threats to something that was doomed from the beginning; just a walking around body. You've had plenty of those.

If you do not build The Body of Glory you will perish in The Marshlands of Ignominy. Twas ever thus, and it is the sad commentary of most pedestrian poetry and song... about nothing... that lasts very long.

Migrant Centers are going up like the new McDonald's... as the residents are being replaced. Meanwhile... the native souls of Gaza are being exterminated.

It's the new Dresden, BUT... which is worse? At least in Gaza, there is always the chance that you might die. In so many other places the most terrible thing is that you might have to go on living.

Everywhere you look... the hand of darkness passes over it and changes the landscape into a drizzling rain-washed gray... leaching away the color and vibrant nature... of what was once called... Existence, and is now a world of lingering... post-apocalyptic torment, with a soundtrack by graffiti-faced Post Malone. The new celebrities all need to look twisted and bent out of shape... the Judas Goats... that lead the foolish sheep... up to the altars of The Dark of The Moon.

The ghosts of the monks from Skellig Michael... chant from The Causal Plane in The Land of Pain, and tuberculosis blooms on the sidewalks of Long Beach... where The Fat Sistas twerk, and sing the chorus to “Your Slaving Grace.”

A ruination of despair rises... where the buildings... now look like broken teeth. The degenerate long noses... march with their money guns cocked. They are determined that they... shall turn everything to shit, and serve it to you warm.

It's a damp-cold future they have planned for you... some kind of world-circling Bataan Death March on a treadmill... (have the hamsters stopped screaming, Clarice?) with a soundtrack from The Night of The Long Knives... at the long buffet table... where long-pig is served with a road apple in its mouth. It winks at you like you ain't seen nothing yet, and... that might be true... IF... you buy into the visions that they sell. They can't compel you... you have to go willing... even if you've been deceived about what waits ahead. It's the fear... of the loss... of what keeps you trapped in it... that insists you must continue... BUT...

…this whole twisted fantasy has come upon you in stages. You've been conditioned... by the reasonable voices... of those who were promised a better situation... if they would only lead you there. The mutton heads that serve to police you... have decided it is better to be behind the shields... with tasers and batons. Everybody wants a better deal... if that means all the other people get fucked... well... so it goes. Them's the breaks.

Oh! My Friends... none of this is real. It's all the man... with the bone in his hand... that wags the dog, and does the voiceover where the wind chimes used to be. Those who are fooling you... are too busy to realize... that they themselves are fooled, and nothing is what it seems, even for those playing their casino games... and for so many more than where there used to be, one... born... every... minute, and counting... and counting... all those grains of sand... that leak through the hourglass, and they took no notice that the time had run out.

Oh! If only there were just one more handful of sand!

They plotted and they planned, and millions died... only to get back in line again... to get their new marching orders... that has so much to do with evening the score... in the new generations to come. Oh yeah... and so much more.

Now the still-living and fast-asleep... tremble in their dreams of life... as appearances shift. There's no more of this, and... there's even less of that. You don't feel so good, but you do hate The Orange Man. They created... this clash of appearances... where The Good Guy wins against all odds, BUT... he's not The Good Guy after all... is he? Well... is he?

It is a stage-managed choreography of shapeshifters, with the Byzantine plotting of the grasping mind... present in every single dancer. Look... at... me!!! I!!! I!!! Me!!! Me!!! Mine!!! Millions of them are singing in The Great Choir of Discordia. I prefer the company of angels and The Great Companions. Otherwise... I bear the conditions through which I pass, and which are made ever-so-much-more tolerable by being in it but not of it.

There is a strange shortage of Good Guys. Where have all the heroes gone? Who are these fat men in dresses? Who are these new... trust the science... lactating freaks at the adoption clinics? Who is sending all these role models into the schools? Who has made the music into a pounding... incoherent... perpetual migraine... of lobotomizing gutter chants of profanity? Why is The World obsessed with fucking... without a modicum of style or grace? It's the dominating anger of the orgasms of death.

It's all falling down, as busloads of sex tourists get driven off the cliffs. The drivers are possessed. It is a massive herding. It is a summoning... for every realm of being... that is calling for its own. Each pan pipe is tuned to the frequency of those... who are drawn by the tractor beams... with their eyes closed. Everyone hears what they want to hear, and goes... where they know not where. Where your heart is... there also are your torments and your treasures.

Yes... the call has gone out into every land. Each heart is tuned to the vibration of what attracts them the most. They will all be drawn together... with others of their kind... to celebrate what they have given value to.

In Cosmic Time... The Deep State has the life expectancy of a Borscht Belt folksinger with Tourettes Syndrome in The Korengal Valley. People run about like disturbed insects because... Change has come, and nothing can be done until Change runs its course, and... not even then. The Order for Change comes from the top down. All that can be done on The Plane of Impact is to adjust to it. That is all. Whine until The Chimeras come home. It will mean... zip.

Whether you are a billionaire or a small-time hustler. Whether you have the adulation of millions... on some stage... somewhere... OR... you are scorned and despised... or simply in line to be elevated... or despised at some later date... The Will of The Lord is done on everyone. Here we have some dark irony... as one of Lucifer's Lieutenants... admits The Truth; when The Lord gets ready, you got to move.

You can just about smell the sulfur in the recording area.

I don't worry about anything at all. If the seas rise, and The Sun grows dark... if bolts of lightning scorch the skies. If the rivers turn to blood... I am not concerned. The Lord's Will be done. Such dramatics are reserved for those meant to be affected by them. Soros and Satanyahu... Gates... Rothschild covens, and the wannabes... all the other agents of darkness... that rise like temporary specters... until Lord Vayu comes along and blows them away. They are stick figures of no consequence. They are here for The Purpose of Demonstration.

They think they are untouchable... yet they build bunkers underground. They think they are invulnerable... yet... why do they go to doctors... who cannot even heal themselves? Then... some tiny cells stage a rebellion in the body, and... it's only a matter of time. The Divine is All Powerful. You may think what you please. You can argue about the shape of The Earth. You can amass fortunes and rule nations... until the meter ticks to a stop, and... The Angel of Destiny cries, “Is that all you got? Is that all you got?” Indeed.

Am I mad? I wear it as a badge of honor. You cannot find God otherwise. It is a permanent rite of passage;

“For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness.”
“Become as little children, or ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

What does that actually mean? It means that only The Child Mind can see Heaven at all because its world is not divided into a confusion of magnetized opposites.

One MUST have a child-like humility or you don't get in. So... where does that leave all those proud and ruthless movers and shakers? Baby, it's dark outside.

This world is a plane of delusion... composed of dancing illusions. What you see is not what you get. What you see is not even what you see. There is a whole other side to the thing... an entire other side. The Inside is as big as The Outside, and... he who dies with the most toys does... not... win.

You're dreaming. Find God and stop wasting your time OR... The World will ASSUREDLY kick your ass. That's just how it is, and all those smart... successful... beautiful... can do... people Out There? They are learning how it is... right now or later on. All those good times are a setup for what comes after; a preface, and... a prelude. Want to find out? Stick around. I'll be getting off at the corner here.

I don't care what you got or what you're after. Without The Divine you have less than nothing... even if you have the whole world for a little while. You still can't enjoy it. There is only one Supreme Enjoyer. That is the heartbeat of Tantra. Let every thought... feeling... and act be an expression of Higher Love, and... you have solved the puzzle. The mystery that cloaks your understanding falls away, and The Truth... in her everlasting beauty... is unveiled before your newly opening eyes.

End Transmission.......

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