Abandoned church.jpg


“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


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



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.



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.

(Χαρε, Kεχαριτωμνη!)


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.


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,


Apostolic and eternal.

Penance, penance, penance!



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,



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,


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







Silent in their

Doubt the rainfall

And make fast



Unless the Craft

Drafts doubt

To have eyes

Nothing see




Art prop


Re-wraps regurgit



Oh Mickey

Where for art

Your sense of loss


The dying jingle

Of the once great



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


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



Eat the opium

Afghan war



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



To the good

My TV watches me

And aides the

Mental alchemy




To the good

My TV watches me

To aid the






Miserable barren


In corporate

Spouse abuse

But can’t for day care


Make family mates


No milk




But internet

Caged cuckolds

Who fight

For imprisonment





Sex with pets

Wait for

Chimera mates


Not just pixels


The deluge


In fire

Recedes the geriatric

Woodstock addicts

Strung for cash


Generation Theft

Gleans headlong proof


Golf course gates

In Florida


To die alone



Can’t afford to fly


Bank estates


Journalist cover-up

Monarch Butterflies


All’s well




Zanthum Gum


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


Lead the front


Rare things

Frowned upon


Only Nazis keep their own

Says blinking vegetable



Not to worry


Happy Birthday Anyway

COPYRIGHT © 2017 - Christopher R Moore - All Rights Reserved