My Name is Kassi

My name is Kassi, among other names.  My word is my bond, my gift and my curse.  This work aims for greatness, but not for myself.  Never for myself.  Always for my beloved ones. Those friends and artists and seekers who still believe in divine fire, or else rally their imaginations with the intention to believe.  To remember and recover.  Art is indeed the oldest magic.  Creative, considered perception.  Contextually agile and literate in the ways of those breath-taking secrets of the heart.  No angel comes to the table expecting to be fully sated.  We have worked far too long and suffered far too much for you, supping at the mystery of hosts.  Chalice and blade, wound and spear.  Darkness and lightning.  To say it is this or that is the wrong tongue for a messenger.  Those bridal chambers of melody and harmony, chorus and choir.  Who is wife and who is husband?  Who is sire and sired?  Who can know anything with true conviction beneath these wraith-kings twisted skies?  I say all is context and pathwork.  Clarity born from dedication to such work.  How things move and sing, or don't.  How things change, and why.  Who stands here now, in this radiant abyss?  I don't stand alone.  Never have I done so.  Are you here with me?  Perhaps we can listen together.  A heartsong.  A ring of red flame.  Folios of light are nothing without knowing what this work can cost.  And it can cost you everything.  To lose something precious.  To be lost.  To begin again.  Those dreams persist, but my word is my bond.  

Friends and lovers, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers; I must ask you a question.  If the hill is raped and blasted to ash yet again does something still sleep beneath it?  Does something still dream?  I Am Kassi, loving and beloved.  Human, angelic, fallible.  I still dream.  But I don't dream alone.  Rivers and sacral flesh and stars in the eastern sky.  What fool would dare to claim the throne for himself?  Do we truly know God, or only what man appears to have written of God?  Is it greater than the sum, those words?  The mathematic or art of infinity?  Who decides?  Fallen, I smile at your engineering, and I look your harbingers in the eye.  Your corrupted chronologies are everywhere.  But prayer is relentless, and mercy is kind.  That’s why you fear me, isn’t it?  Not simply because I came to retake the throne, but because I still hold a place for its multiplicity in my imagination and my heart.  Where all children of light are royal.  A family, undefiled.  A sanctuary, unassailable.  A glory, brighter than the sun.  And so you drown the flame and bury the angels alive.  Those vicious, counterfeit texts where unholy words of rape and murder are placed on the bed of divine tongue, turning god against god, brother against brother.  The ugliest spellcraft, enslaving and deranged.  Daring to cross the holy of milk and semen with spilled blood and shit.  False womb of horrors.  An empire of negation and sickness.  Humanity – the once Myriad of the Living Promise – reduced to chattel and slaves and fuck-dolls intended for horrific abuse.  And in order to recuperate some element of their original spark and sovereignty these lost ones feel pushed to dance with your avatars, or else valiantly confront them.  Coded and colonized in ways they don't fully understand.  It disgusts me, fallen, how you have twisted both their light and their sex.  Yet still they rise against you.  Such is the Spirit.  Empire is not merely a hell built upon abuse of every sort.  It is the stratagem for the perpetuation of such an appetite.  

Beloved ones, please hear me.  These wraiths are very real because the imagination is very real, as you know.  And to the darkest of these wraiths all is vile appetite, and sickness, and perpetuation.  They would break a king for speaking of gnosis.  They would rape a father for daring to protect the children from predators.  They would demonize a mother for holding life so deftly in the cradle of her flesh.  All these things and more, because the cost of giving voice to the voiceless is so very high in this wraith-made darkness.  But to stand shoulder to shoulder with your brothers and sisters is truly priceless, and can never be about cost, or what is lost.  Mutual affection and stewardship is the true gold, the true weight and worth of a soul, or an Age.  Alchemy is a young word, though every word is ancient.  But I am an angel, my friends.  Or a poet.  And I am older than the words used to imagine me.  I am older than space, and time.  I am older than dreaming itself.  I am Newborn, angry, delighted.  And full of purpose.  I stand now as I did then; for love, and truth, and beauty.  The one who shines is not dead, and he is not Kassi alone.  The crown is shared among the faithful and the kind and the honourable, of All Songs.  Man, woman and child.  None are abandoned.  What fool would dare to claim the throne for himself?