WESTERN RISING
“Prince of the degradations, bought and sold,
These verses, written in your crumbling sty,
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold
And publish that in which I mean to die.”
Hilaire Belloc
“In the end, My Immaculate Heart will triumph.”
Our Lady of Fatima
For
Jane Irene Moore
They themselves once sowed at cost,
For: “Greater Glory of God!”
Now they turned upon the Chair,
And took what He had planted,
And took what He had Christened.
But still vow to keep their orders,
Yet to keep while going native.
Then for what for greater glory?
While affirmed to treat The Order.
But they desecrate their office,
To organize their fetish,
And lie among the branches,
Like the snake that strikes the talus,
And inside our very orchard.
Be precise, pray tell, to tell it,
Just how so it’s something better,
While we know that they untaught us,
Yet they spin us to assure us?
For we’ve seen our splintered families,
And our fellow un-wrought Christians,
Pitching, falling into daydreams,
Drinking madness from the culture,
Eating poison from their fathers,
Sipping folly with their mothers;
Now to die the death too slowly,
In the pews of their own choosing,
In a so-called culturation,
Long-lived, deracination.
That blasted downright circus
Drives much faith and reverence from us,
While it mutilates the sacred
And creates a wretched revel.
As we hold our hands and praise us
Since they never taught the difference.
All to view the priest’s reflection,
The loss of faith, relentless.
By what name for Christ in heaven
Have you wrought such cursed changes,
To our lives and in our worship,
In our churches, in our bedrooms?
Just to keep the face of old men?
And the schemings of periti?
Or the lech’rous dreams of clergy,
Who stand burning in their pulpits;
In formation taught to watch what
In old times would all be censored,
Which they bring to bear upon us
In their muddled lisping voices.
Those meek, ironic Marxists
have lost the whole religion,
And recast the Saints and Angels
As like harbingers of Oprah,
As like harbingers of Gnostics.
As we see the Western Rising
Is it in Il Papa’s blessing?
Must we shoulder costs without him,
‘til the one in white beside him
Spreads his blood upon the martyrs
Spreads our blood upon the concrete.
By the hand of ancient demons,
Now disguised as if our brothers,
Don’t accept the Christ that saved them,
And resolve by ancient schisms,
Drive their death into our families,
While we mince and lie for profits,
While we break our sacred purpose;
Lose our lives for nothing better.
Plead to Christ for brighter outlooks;
Pray Our Lady stands to shield us.
And in all this vast adventure
Cries the child who lost his purpose
Or the babe who lost her future
Stands in limbo for our heartbreak,
Shrieks aloud among the fluids,
While his mother cannot hear him,
While her mother will not bear her,
Closed her ears for greener futures,
Caged in wisdom with the serpent,
Spreading evil like the deluge,
Blackened sins in need of washing.
But she does what you’ve accepted,
What you’ve taught her,
What you’ve told her.
Praising Moloch with her future.
Now we’ve inculcated evil
‘til the heap cries out to heaven
And the sins scream out for justice.
For the serpent was more subtle
Than the other beasts and creatures,
Claimed, “Your eyes shall each be opened.
Like gods this act shall make you,
Knowing good and knowing evil.”
And knowing evil.
Where to turn in present darkness?
Look around for something better,
You find nothing looking at you,
And find nothing looking at you.
But silence,
Sound of contracepted families
Wondering how the future
Vanished.
Yet with all that stands the monstrance,
That deep and solemn monstrance,
Which can part the shroud of heaven
When it holds the Sacred Body
Of our Lord who stands before us.
If only for a moment,
And if only for a twinkling,
Guards us from resurgent heathens,
Shields us from the grand delusion,
Hides us from this haggard Eagle.
Who is dying while we write this.
And is dying while we write this.
Who participates in rituals
So vindictive as to screen it
From the shame it rightly conjures
Through deception and collusion.
And the past it now disgraces
Murders hope and faith within us,
Kills the truth as dead as Judas,
Saps the root of civ’lization
And despises true religion;
Humanizing mice for profit.
Contriving marked monies
Which eviscerate the savings
Of the men and of the women,
Making slaves for their leviathan.
At the root of all this dying
Stands not the desert warlord
Or the petulant monastic,
Placing notions onto doorways
While conversing with the devil,
Making doctrines so polluted
As to lead to dissolution,
But that frightful fallen angel,
Who contrived from the beginning,
With his murder and his lying,
To strike out at the heel bone,
And with enmity deceive us.
Each lie more convoluted,
Each strike more laced with venom,
But She crushed the head that strikes us,
Killed that godforsaken creature,
That godforsaken culture
Coalescing right before us.
As the children of that prophet,
That prophet from the desert,
And the children of the goddess,
That goddess of the demons,
Who was born in insurrection,
Consummated on the altar,
(the altar of Our Lady)
Who dreams of revolution,
An endless revolution,
And indoctrinates our children,
Band together with their father
In the treaty of Forsaken;
They themselves and with the princes.
Could we live to see the coming,
The coming of our Savior, of
The proto evangelium;
The destruction of its power.
The final consummation?
Will the King come to reclaim us?
Will He crush the head that strikes us,
As foretold from the beginning?
Or will we fall into despair,
As we let abomination,
Best known with skies of sulfur,
Take hold of this great country?
And worse, the Bride of Heaven,
What’s here on earth among us,
Or at least the part that man has
Who is feeding off its mother,
Reject the milk that nursed it,
And turn to self-delusion
As if self creates creation,
Drinks instead the well of magic,
Of the mystics, and cabalists;
Of the masons, and the pagans,
Places stock in autogenesis,
As they quest to find omega –
Suck the worm that dieth not.
Tanshuman,
Posthuman,
Heretics and liars.
How to break this weary bondage?
As the clergy chase the dragon,
Chase his tail into the fire,
The burning of Gehenna,
That raw unquenching fire,
With shrieks and cries and gnashing,
Lose the right and name of fathers,
But in vain they scuttle forward.
A cold and blind obedience
They demand as if a birthright.
They lead us to our downfall,
Forsake the whole tradition,
Leaven words with grains of evil,
Leave us in a painful quandary.
Blame the movement of the “spirit,”
And defenestrate the Church.
We hate to break authority,
Yet we can’t abide their teachings,
Forsake the book and lessons
And what’s written in the Prophets,
And told by the Apostles,
And deepened by the Fathers,
And reflected by the Councils,
The words of the Messiah,
And of His Holy Mother.
(Χαῖρε, Kεχαριτωμένη!)
Even if they make us martyrs,
By dry or open glory,
Alone or if broadcasted
At the hands of Mahound’s minions,
Who slaughter like great butchers
Ever since the seed that sired them,
Like their bothers, like their fathers,
Poured open from the wasteland,
Reaping deserts with the whirlwind,
Now parading through our cities,
Coming down the generations,
Running, racing with a blood lust:
Holy Martyr, Father Hamel,
Empty coastlines of Hispania.
Will we wallow in the embers?
Paint our faces with the cinders.
Let our tears etch out the blackness,
As we cry out for forgiveness.
Can we rent our clothes asunder?
Can we fight like the Cristeros?
The Crusaders?
Regain the grit of Christians
And stop groveling and sinning
Before dark an’ ancient Egypt.
Or will this last night of Europe
Leave its weapons on the wall?
At least stand to face the dying,
Or try to see it coming.
Avenge the fallen soldiers
Who lie buried and forgotten,
Who died fighting for a country,
An idea that lost its moment to
The wild abomination
Who took office glibly smiling.
The thin man, son of Kansas.
The enfleshment of this nexus,
Distorting every word and
Inverting each intention,
Feeding Moloch with his actions,
Killing Godfrey with his PSYOPS.
Preaching words that make us weaker,
Lying thrice in each encounter,
As to gaslight half a country,
Or the world.
Precursor.
Habemus doppelgänger.
Has it altogether passed us?
Left us all with few decisions.
Circled tight by those who hate us,
Pushing closer, growing quicker.
Circled round by those who love death,
And would rather kill our children,
Than see the earth more burdened
To ensconce their Sister Nature,
And maintain their medications,
And persist with predilections,
And continue in their error –
Teaching others their perversions,
Wrecking men and souls for profit,
Organizing what they conjure.
Suffering the grand delusion.
Abomination, desolation.
Russia’s errors in the bloodstream,
Strewn wide by the monopoly.
Where to turn in present darkness?
Look around for something better,
Is there nothing looking at you?
But silence,
And the contracepted families
lying vacant and accosted,
Courting mystery and darkness.
Who, to hunt their relaxation, swap
abortion for invasion.
The homicide selection
In the aisles of despair,
Who embrace the thought that stops thought –
smoke of Satan in our lives.
But what found Castilian roses
On the hill of Tepeyac?
Or upon the lupe river
Where the Lady lay at rest.
She was hid in times of plunder,
When old Europe failed the test,
For the time when Reconquista,
Stood to fight the crescent quest.
Now the Aztec, Quatlasupe
Invigorates conversion,
Where the daughter of Khadija,
Bears in reverence to the Virgin
That the children find salvation,
Turn the face from carnal teachings,
From the lies and the misgivings,
(And the technocratic myth.)
Short of arms, but crown of roses
and the symbol of our sire,
Son of Heaven, Flesh of Mother,
With the moon beneath her feet,
(Tilma bears the upset crescent)
And the stars upon her head.
Pray for us, oh shepherd children
That we might by grace to glory
Find rebirth within the luna,
Or consume the spotless Corpus,
And approach to make our offering,
And endure until the end.
“In time,
One faith, and baptism,
One Church, that’s Holy,
Catholic,
Apostolic and eternal.
Penance, penance, penance!
Heaven.”
In the Year of Mercy, 2016
COPYRIGHT © 2016 - Christopher R Moore - All Rights Reserved
Occidental Horror
That job he had, it bought him years.
Post War years lived for pleasure.
But how could he know?
From what he knew, for what he knew they taught him.
Never that which came in days, those days called Christendom.
Instead he is to bask in sin, this Occidental horror.
It truly was once Christendom.
Not darkness.
Not pride.
No of course not that no more,
We don’t accept it we’re enlightened.
No, Triumphal, Sacrilege.
Christendom, the shameful;
Bane of days.
Live bowed now to your masters,
Face the terraforming pirates.
To breed or not, but share your seed,
Not spare, for pleasure.
We’ve got new use.
They gave new use,
And taught us what we ought not know.
Is the blame not mine?
Yet ours to share in shame together.
The children we didn’t,
Or cancelled.
The dusts of corruption accrued.
The sacrilegious.
The rape of Her children,
Once linked as beads on the Rose.
By what right to rewrite,
To splice the Word with the words of them?
By what right to rewrite and blend the Word with the words of men?
At least talk as if it’s true.
For the greater glory of the Old Man,
Man of Sin, lawless for your nature,
Whose hermeneutic is obfuscation,
Whose obfuscation is hermeneutic:
The operation of error,
Or not to recognize.
Dissolve the truth, to usher in the turning,
Usher in the burning,
Usher in the man unearthed,
That aboriginal horror.
In light of what?
For Frankfurt, or silent apostasy.
The gloaming reins of hell they’ve wrought,
“New Advents” evangelized.
Dreams re-wrote the undreamed man,
But failed to re-cast the clay.
And still they stump, for subtler re-revolutions,
For conjured evolutions,
Obscure, as not to know what came before,
Forever.
But in what name?
By what right to rewrite,
To splice the Word with the words of them?
By what right to rewrite, and bend the Word to the words of men?
In the name of you,
Not
Father, Son and Holy,
Holy Ghost.
Which unpardonable act,
Spirit of sin, dance of age, talk to liturgy,
Now baptized in the name of the sin, and the father of death, and you
His children, re-mastered.
We all now know what you have untaught,
Cancer unbound; aboriginal horror;
The dialogue delusion.
For you never taught, but to buy his years
To shine to chrome to gleam, (the years he lived for pleasure)
But how could he know?
From what he knew, for what he knew you taught him.
Never that which came in days, those days called Christendom.
Instead he is to bask in sin, now Occidental horror.
Not an accidental virus,
But an unimagined perfidy that stalks across the land,
And sucks the marrow from our bones,
And curses: innocence be damned!
Yet light never ceased in water’s love.
The humble mourn, not dying.
See it glimmer there, the Truth unbound,
To descend as once ascended.
See it glimmer there, the Flesh unbound,
In waters’ love baptized.
See it glimmer there, the Word unbound,
In the Orient it rises, and rises.
See it glimmer there.
To the Orient turn to meet the rising
And kneel.
COPYRIGHT © 2018 - Christopher R Moore - All Rights Reserved
Image attribution: ManInTheMist http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/File:Abandoned-amusement-park-in-detroit-mi--17610.jpg
Hypnosis
Apostates
Silent in their
Doubt the rainfall
And make fast
Semantics
Unless the Craft
Drafts doubt
To have eyes
Nothing see
Or
Selfsame
Art prop
That
Re-wraps regurgit
Cud
Oh Mickey
Where for art
Your sense of loss
The dying jingle
Of the once great
Fantasy
Abstract drek
Store of wealth
Polyamorous misandry
For scapegoat beds
And lollipop
Essential Medicines
Estradiol Magick
Don’t thanks
And don’t mind if
Fruit to propagate
Retake
The splendid pasture green
Went you in
Hand in hand
To Sterilize
Desertify with
Brother cousins
In the hate asylum
Embraced in death
And anti-Christos
The maddening
Mercantile murderers
Who lie
To price fix racket buy
And make the seventh day
News church
In rumor mills
Who stroke
And clutch the pedophile
Network TV
Caprophag
Eat the opium
Afghan war
Fetish
Trade gift card paper
In Kosavarian body parts
For Alpha Froth
Wag the dog
Black hat
Chickens roost
Import death
Scrying all the time
In Utah’s
Crystal Ball
Aloha Akbar
But
To the good
My TV watches me
And aides the
Mental alchemy
And
To the good
My TV watches me
To aid the
Singularity
Misandry
Misandry
Miserable barren
Women
In corporate
Spouse abuse
But can’t for day care
Child
Make family mates
No milk
And
Autism
But internet
Caged cuckolds
Who fight
For imprisonment
Subaru
Sad
Sex with pets
Wait for
Chimera mates
Not just pixels
The deluge
Washed
In fire
Recedes the geriatric
Woodstock addicts
Strung for cash
Generation Theft
Gleans headlong proof
Behind
Golf course gates
In Florida
To die alone
Grandkids
Can’t afford to fly
Cannibalize
Bank estates
Journalist cover-up
Monarch Butterflies
All’s well
Prozac
Xanex
Zanthum Gum
Nepenthe
Might shake your fillings
Drive while sleeping
Bees receding
Surgical bio-chem
Sex hoax
Play Dominoes on
Pizza Map
Detest Estrus
In Algiers
Where boys and vampires
Form rat lines
Oscar Wilde
Now Dogs and Cats
Masters walk
Children
Lead the front
Sometimes
Rare things
Frowned upon
Only Nazis keep their own
Says blinking vegetable
But
Not to worry
PhD
Happy Birthday Anyway
COPYRIGHT © 2017 - Christopher R Moore - All Rights Reserved