The Doors of Deception

Six long weeks
roaming the dry crust
of a sun burnt wilderness.
Nothing but rocks and red dust,
The hot desert winds
that flay the skin
… now murmuring,
with words broken
of souls lost and forsaken.
Best I finally surrender
upon this alien terrain
the haunted trauma
of a time I’ve tried in vain
. . . to never remember.

For once upon
a most mercurial night
I had a strange encounter
with an angel of light.
Whether or not
it was Lucifer,
or some other pretender,
I can not rightly answer.
He appeared, uninvited,
on some mission of spite.
To fright, blight, and smite,
with more than a touch
of subterranean delight
. . . no doubt.

By grace, not so much
a face to face,
yet I beheld the reflection
of a most malevolent embrace.
As the essence of pure malice
came to life,
within the dank fetid air
of despair,
in a room drained to death.
Where just me,
and my old friend Jimmy,
were chilling the top shelf
of our riverside apartment.
Two lords of entitlement,
laying waste,
with the fashionably bent.
Two white slices,
cut from the one loaf,
spreading the processed spice.
Always seeking
something more thrilling
out of the dump bin
of a basement burning,

I was off my feet.
Jim was low and down,
in some quantum of entanglement,
vibing in a paranoid
void of defeat,
when this flood lit entity
from a mosh pit deep
came rising up from the ground.
The ceiling disappeared,
as the floor began shifting
with a bone scraping sound.
Concrete and stone
in revulsion
started convulsing
with the vibration
of a bullet train
fast approaching.
I could feel
a really bad deal,
and a cold wind, behind me.
like wings of steel unfurling,
with the buzz of charged particles
frantically colliding.
All drenched in unholy light,
the walls before me
began to blister
as in the presence
of something most sinister.
The portrait hanging there,
of a gracefully ageing rock star,
that only moments earlier
had appeared ruggedly handsome,
now became horribly distorted
with a countenance most gruesome.
Eyes of candescent red,
and a turgid green complexion,
with hideous sores weeping.
Seeping slime and drool,
this repulsively fiendish ghoul,
was well beyond my
fevered imagination.
It must be
an outside transmission!?
Possibly of some alien origin?

That room had known
both untimely death
and miraculous resurrection.
Usually in the one session.
But this …
this was something different.
A grotesque apparition
of old time superstition.
In my seventeen years
I had seen many things
…with eyes half open.
But this near brush,
with the infernal
high priest of disruption,
threatening imminent death
by deceptive stealth,
left a lingering question;
~ If all that is seen
is only temporary,
then all that is unseen
must surely be eternal?
Could the spirit world
really be a possibility?
That’s not what Richard
the Dawkins had told me?

I am forever grateful
to have only glanced a reflection!
Through the pulsating gloom
I could see that Jimmy
had withdrawn to his room.
Was it my turn to pay this non-corporeal pied piper?
Or was it time for flight ,
being a lover, not a fighter?
(“If you wish to excel, grasshopper,
you must choose one or the other.”)

How to resist this manifestation
that I simply, previously,
didn’t believe in?
That by all my worldly doctrine,
shouldn’t even exist?
What purpose this dire visitation?
Had this entity come for me?
Could it be simply
a case of mistaken identity?
By chance, a diabolical coincidence,
us both at the same address?
Or is this an overdue attack monkey
looking to hop on the back
of poor pitiful me . . . or Jimmy?

From under the cover
of the Hotel California,
my treasured vinyl copy,
came the disembodied voice
of Aleister Crowley
(English occultist, and cheerleader
for the Organ Grinder of Deception
. . . now deceased),
rebuking me,
“Hey … Skunk the Skin,
you show some respect!
Behold the manifestly manifold,
and prophetically foretold,
by none other than me,
gloriously nefarious bird of prey,
doing what comes supernaturally.
Tormenting, then slowly devouring,
whosoever comes his way.
Or, if you prefer, quickly.
Your naive friend is
higher than Bob Marley,
shootin’ up the Sheriff,
and smokin’ the Deputy.
He has swallowed whole
the sacrement
and is now taking part
in the Luciferian initiation
of a grand hallucination.
He doesn’t stand a chance
against the mighty Anvil of Chaos.
Day and night he must deal
with these walking apes!
Always talking, and thinking
themselves higher than the angels.
So at least have some sympathy!
Sight unseen, it would seem,
you have some
fine feathered companion,
who is cramping the style,
and jamming the party plan,
so go scram!”
(Yes, the irony was not lost on me.
For was not Aleister, himself,
spawned from the pond of humanity?)

Amid all this devilish locomotion,
like a slow motion terror explosion,
my Guardian from La Capella
whispered within my ear,
“Don’t turn around”.

[Translation; “Fear not!
Your space in this place,
I have encircled for you.
A strong tower of love power
awaits all those who
hear and heed the call,
and in truth make it through.
Do not be overcome by evil,
but overcome evil with good
… as you know you should.
This unprincipled prince,
of least resistance, is opening
a multidimensional paranormal
portal of the soul,
with much turmoil.
For he hates, with pure venom,
the creative self expression
of the frail, the flawed, and the mortal.
That about sums you up
… without question.
I can provide only so much
mother loving protection.
Your friend, Jim … well,
he’s four sheets to the wind,
to use a nautical expression.
Time to brush the dust,
raise the storm anchor,
and sail off fast
In some fairer direction.
And in future, I’ll thank you
not to keelhaul me into this
chaotic type of situation.
It really drags me down!
Tis only for the prayers
of your sainted mother
that I’m even here.
I should be hanging out
at the Sagrada Família
for some angelic decoration.
So stop acting the psycho clown!”

As always, the language of angels,
with all it’s reverb and amplification,
open to some interpretation.]

Through the pulsating gloom
I could see that Jimmy
had withdrawn to his room.
Was he trying to zone out
this flood of unearthly white light?
From directly behind me,
with a hellishly guttural tone,
came one word, “Leave!”

“Piss Off Quickly!
I find the company
you’re keeping
disturbing to me.
One fine day
You’ll be all alone,
face down and prone,
with no guardian drone
to guide you home
after a rollicking stone.
Sooner, rather than later,
you lowly worm
I’m bound to catch up with thee.
Just another fool
riding the storm.
But for now I have
an appointment to torment
your not so good friend,
young Jimmy.
His brain is already
squirming like a toad.
So leave him to me Jack,
and go hit the road.”

Note: This is best guess.
Not easy to translate
from the Fallen Angelic dialect.
Plagiarism, guilt tripping, bullying,
proud boasting like roller coasting,
body shaming, falsehoods of all kinds,
hollow flattery, fulsome curses within
empty blessings, erroneous predictions,
and downright unpleasant rudeness …
all ingredients of a demonic discourse.]

Who was I to argue
with this floodlit Uber-Spirit?
So, with some reluctance,
and foreboding sorrow,
I picked up my books of the dead,
blew out the candle in the window,
and promptly fled.

To a cosmos rent and spent,
along the Great Scenic Rim,
I was duly sent.
Through a hole in the floor,
down a winding corridor
of fast flowing water.
A mere human being transported
on a wild night of flight
to the heights of Mount Macedonia.
And there,
in the morning light,
a bright towering sight,
the white marble cross
of the unknown soldier.

Jim once talked of going to Vietnam,
to fight alongside Comrade Ho Chi Minh,
for the glory of the worker’s revolution.
This was too cute, since Jimmy
had never worked a day in his life,
and came from a very rich family.
But it showed that he had a heart,
caring so for the downtrodden proletariat.
I then informed him how Joseph Stalin
had murdered, persecuted,
imprisoned, and executed, millions.
A rival in true evil to Adolf Hitler.
Like the outpouring
from a blacksmith’s furnace,
worked with human hands,
fuelled by hatred, greed, and avarice,
weapons forged
from the deepest darkness.
For all of this world’s chaos,
can you always blame the anvil?
Yes, I guess, I do have
some sympathy for the devil.

Jim never spoke again
of joining the Viet Cong.
But, after that blighted night,
he gave the impression
of a traumatised war veteran,
gone strangely wrong.
Self piercing with many pangs,
as one unsaddled
in the collapsing wormhole
of the soul.
And in that swirling storm
of dark sorcery born
. . . swallowed whole.

If I had taken that spin,
from somewhere within,
would I have been capable,
to have somehow reached him?
Me, at all of seventeen,
being a T.Z.P.
of the highest degree
(Transcendental Zen Padawan),
and a bonafide handbook shaman.
Could I have thrown Jim
an astral chord,
like a lifeline
of silver string?
Perhaps even given him
a mantra to sing?
But this had been no fair fight.
No schoolyard rough & tumble.
Yet, it all left me
feeling somewhat culpable.

It was Scotty,
another old school friend,
who informed me
of Jimmy’s passing.
In Scotty’s back room
we would listen to ‘L.A.Woman’,
and read beat poems.
Jimmy would always play
the Grateful Dead … with
Casey Jones driving that train.
After canning the heat
with a whole lotta Zepplin,
we’d strum some Dylan.
And then … on the road again.

Like so many vets,
for forty years long,
Jimmy got on with the job
… of just hanging on.
Till at the age of 57
he put it all to a final end.
I hope he found peace,
if not that stairway to heaven.

In finality, all I can say,
is take a tip
from one who took the trip.
Best to abide
with the Angels of God,
we’ll and truly,
on your side.

~ by david redpath © 2018

“Finally, brothers and sisters,
whatever is true, whatever is noble,
whatever is right, whatever is pure,
whatever is lovely, whatever is
admirable, if anything is excellent,
or praiseworthy,
think about such things,
and the God of peace
will be with you.” ~ Paul of Tarsus

L. & D. Redpath

43 thoughts on “The Doors of Deception”

    1. Thanks Bojana.
      I’ve been using
      a new spirit level.
      As Aristotle once said,
      “I know nothing!”
      Or was that Sergeant Shultz,
      from Hogan’s Heroes?
      Anyway, I only have
      one true superhero,
      and he has the key 🔑
      to all that’s good, spirituality.

      Liked by 3 people

  1. How in the world can one man have so many words to write on a subject? I usually let Lola run around 800, because that seems to be my limit, but what of DR, I wonder? This is to bow to your many words, and your fantastic colored photos, and last but not least to thank you for following my girl, Lola. She started out a bit more difficult, and hard to handle, than she is today, but there is always give and take in relationships, isn’t there? We never really know what lurks around the next corner, or what words might just jump out of our imaginations and onto these virtual sheets of paper…….

    Liked by 3 people

  2. David, what a wild ride this is, a trip of a lifetime, a PLUS-SIZE trip, where the non-corporeal meets and greets the corporeal. It’s definitely a frightmare whenever Crowley appears, cough to wake yourself up, save yourself from the clutches of the undeserving. All kidding aside, this writing is brilliant and pushed all the right/rite and holy emotional buttons. ~ Mia

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you very much, Mia.
      My cautionary tale did seem
      to take on a life of it’s own.
      I meant not to prevail on any
      poor unsuspecting soul to trevail with a writing so long.
      But, between you and me, Mia,
      I left out far more than I pit in.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Muchos Aparición, Mia.
        As this one was launched,
        from Davy Jones’ locker,
        ( the pirate, not the Monkee)
        with much fear & trepidation.
        And a ratio of corporeal transportatio thrown in.
        ( that spanish spell check ✔
        keeps clicking in ?)

        Liked by 2 people

      2. Dear David, I hope you’ve put those fears behind you, as they say and I’m paraphrasing, “Keep your eyes on where you’re going and not where you’ve been.” Hey, Hey, what’s up with the Spanish Spell Check, is that a new craft I don’t know about?

        Liked by 1 person

      3. And never count your money 💰
        while yout sitting at the table.
        Don’t know what’s with
        my android phone, amigo.
        It keeps switching to Spanish
        ever since going to Mexico.
        I think my smartphone must want to go back.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Wow! That was original and amazing, a modern-day Paradise Lost. Jimmy’s story is a way-too-sad, way-too-often tragedy we simply must do better with in awareness, action, and hopefully prevention.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. The call of the wild is hard
      to resist when you’re a curious
      young cat.
      In the meantime, our leaders
      and legislators, continue to hand
      our children over to criminal
      enterprises, and/ or the legal
      pharmaceutical industry.
      Thanks Tektite for dropping in.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Your poem shows the truth of the Greek word for sorcery in Saint John’s Book of Revelation being Pharmakeia (from which we get our English word “pharmacy”) for in the ancient world drug taking and communing with the spirits of the other realm usually amounted to one and the same thing.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Nothing new under the Sun.
      As back then, the pharmacy
      industry, legal and otherwise,
      are big time financial backers
      of all major political parties.
      As the marginalised are duly
      criminalised, mental health
      issues are handed over to
      unadulterated criminals,
      pushing their adulterated

      Liked by 1 person

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