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Sunday, September 18, 2016

Eye on the Throne 3: Mothers of the Flame

The words “Knight” and “Night” are phonetically linked because they both share a central commonality  of blackness.

Just as carbon—which is ecclesiastically known as “The Mark of the Beast”—is carved into your skin by a solar blade of light, a noble warrior who valiantly serves a celestial aristocracy is ritualistically transformed by a metal blade forged in the light of flames. To be knighted is to participate in the symbolic reenactment of being kissed by a burning star. As above, so below.

When you are  kissed by a burning star you turn pitch black as night from the heat you've come into contact with. People then start to address you as “Sir” which is a title of nobility solely designated for an “ELder.” An elder is one who literally holds the power of an El. The prefix “El” is Kena Anu (Phoenician) in origin and alludes to the movement, or observable effects, of an assortment of stellar rays that are traveling through our sky.

One of these powers were personified as a sexy  bare-breasted queen who loves to fuck and slay enemies. She rides a conquering lion while holding a lily in one hand and a serpent in the other. The Kena Anu deity “Anath” may ring a bell for those who recognize her sensuously provocative imagery. With the onset of Christianity, Anath became “Anathema” to the Catholic facade of sexual conservatism.

Europe is named  Europa after another Kena Anu queen from Greek mythology, which was in large part, plagiarized from the Kena Anu.

Europe’s medieval tale about the noble knight who slays the dragon to rescue a beautiful princess is an allegorical reference to a man who has the temperament needed to love a woman through her sometimes vile emotional outbursts. The dragon represents the invisible spirit that periodically coils  around the beautiful princess to enflame her most turbulent emotions.

The magical sword that slays the dragon is the knight’s steely emotional metal that is able to withstand the dragon’s flame.   This blade is forged in a fire that is much higher in temperature than the dragon’s flame. The fiery ore smelted and hammered into permanent form by the blacksmith must COOL before it can become a magical sword.  This sword is also a phallic symbol denoting the emotional firmness of masculinity.

Only the man who remains COOL in the grotesque face of anger can conquer the dragon. This coolness is attributed  to the fact that his  spiritual tool was forged in a fiery furnace that is hotter than anything that the angry dragon can spit at him. When that extraordinary woman whom you love uncharacteristically looses her temper with you, you are not dealing directly with her. You are dealing with a foreign intelligence, a malefic spirit, that coils around her and holds her body as a hostage. 

Your princess is not the dragon. You slay the dragon by loving your princess and starving the dragon that surrounds her into submission. Men who seriously contemplate the words in these last four paragraphs are on the path to experiencing great wealth.

When a woman knights a man, or crowns him as king, before he has consistently demonstrated that he vibrates on a solar frequency, she corrupts them both. She is sending the message that mediocrity is tolerable. This cheapens the quality of her experiences with men, because a lot of men aren't striving towards excellence, they're just looking to get by.

When a male is set to pass through his mother’s ring of fire at birth before he has accumulated an adequate amount of solar force, then his mother is at high risk for a miscarriage. Her “Son” is a little “Sun” and therefore requires a powerful solar charge to cultivate his ultralight beam over nine months of gestation.  This enlivens his natural spark, his innate desire for excellence.

Liberal feminists who do not have a scientific mind firmly rooted in spiritual intelligence will insist that infant mortality is higher for boys than it is for girls because boys are inherently weaker than girls. This is the doodoo that comes out of the mouths of those with bowels for brains.

A piece of black coal would be monetarily worthless to many of us, but with enough pressure that coal can be transformed into a shimmering diamond worth lots of money. Those who lack the personal power to exert this kind of pressure on the black coal may project their own weakness and internal deficits onto it.

Without us even considering the widely varied and unique set of circumstances that may potentially contribute to individual miscarriages, it is worth exploring whether or not there is a particular variable at play that is not being critically examined by the liberal feminist regime. If a woman does not have enough love for herself and/or is not receiving enough love and emotional support from the man that she has conceived her male child with during pregnancy, it is conceivable, that she may not possess the minimum amount of internal force needed to bring the masculine life that she is carrying to full term.

Men and women will stress the need for guys to “man up” and responsibly take charge of their communities by being its definitive leaders, as they should. However, I wonder if these critics are really aware of what their critique actually implies.  It suggests that there is a high expectation of social responsibility that is unique to the masculine gender. It crosses racial and ethnic boundaries across the globe. Men are generally expected to lead and give some type of structure to their homes and communities. They are the  social architects like the Kemetic god Ptah, from whose name we get the English word “Father.”

There is an old saying that rings true to this day: to whom much is given, much is expected. It is equally true that for whom much is expected, much has already been received. In other words, if our expectations for a person are high, it is only because there is a general consensus that this person has received something distinct and powerful to warrant high expectations from us.

It is nature’s intent that men are endowed with distinct qualities that make them the ideal catalysts for collective growth and individual development. Man's assigned roles are to inspire, explore, innovate and offer direction. However cultural upheaval has compromised his ability to achieve these things.

Today we live in a world with so many abused and broken women. You might be wondering why this is such a highly significant dilemma within the context of this post. I'll help you out by explaining.

It's extremely difficult for a broken woman to give birth to a boy who  can inherit her genetic Patent of Nobility. This patent is the very thing that empowers the boy  to grow and live up to the expectations of leadership inherent to his gender. How many men today have received Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake? That lake being the amniotic fluid of his mothers womb, the sword being  the designated tool of power that is his natural birthright. Crown.

I would say that at least eight out of ten women that you will meet over the course of your life have been sexually molested by a man, traumatically verbally abused by one, or both. At some point in the pregnancy the abused woman, depending on the severity of her trauma, may pre-consciously abort the very masculine energy that has emotionally scarred her.

This emotionally-inflicted abortion, often diagnosed as a miscarriage, actually began in the restless heart of an abused woman in deep need of spiritual healing. The woman doesn’t hate her unborn son. She loves him dearly, but hasn’t been given the tools to effectively address the rabid abuse that she has suffered at the hands of men over the course of her life. This may play out in the genetic compromising or miscarriage of her Sun.

One of the reasons why there is so much misery in the world today is because women are being violently abused and a lot of men are not directly addressing this problem by introducing a new cultural dynamic. As a result, a lot of traumatized women are giving birth to males who are born psycho-spiritually disabled when we compare what a man was intended to be, to what he has actually become.

You may see a tall, muscular man who appears to be the epitome of masculinity walking down the street  with his tight muscle shirt on, not even realizing that he was born missing a lot of components that would make him a thoughtful, loving, and responsible leader to a community.

He has the form and appearance of a man, but he was born with  critical pieces to his puzzle missing. He's not really a giant. He's an imploded  star. A Red Dwarf. When we embrace a high standard for the treatment of women then our world is biochemically redeemed. Only then will we realize that our human notions of “GOD” are purely philosophical constructs we've assembled by observing great men nurtured by mentally healthy women over the course of millenia.

For thousands of years we've taken all of these wonderful qualities we admire in great MEN, and we graft them onto some nebulous figure in the clouds, because it has been so long since we walked and talked with the god on land. Even then, gods aren't just born they are self-cultivated through a radical dedication to greatness that magnetizes higher inspiration. Crown.

If you don’t personally know any great men then you can’t possibly KNOW God. A day is coming where there won’t be any need for all of these beautiful women to flock to church, because the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords will be in their beds every night and helping them to raise healthy and whole families. When all fuck boys and bums on Earth are dead and gone, then  Jesus Christ will return. Hallelujaaaah!!! Can I get an Amen?

Like I said, a woman’s son is a sun. A mother’s love is an invisible force field that preserves the Light of this World. The undeniable evidence of love’s presence is in how it illuminates your immediate environment. Love is the defiant drive and desire to sustain unity in the horrific face of division, which is made uglier by the entropic forces of dispersion.

The crushing pressure that love defiantly exerts upon molecular mass in order to hold it together  is what jump-started the Hydrogen-Fusion  Cycle that gave birth to our sun in outer space billions of years ago. All real women know that the most transformative, most penetrating love is conveyed through the pressure and the power that brings the diamond out of the coal. Crown.

Feigned humility is the height of arrogance. No human intelligence on the planet Earth can oppose me concerning the general circumstances that gave birth to the sun because I have witnessed the process of creation firsthand through my Third Eye. I look forward to sharing my vivid visions with you all.

Saturday, September 10, 2016

The Bamboo Slave Miracle Cave God

The Spring-time allergy has Renee rubbing her itchy eye as if her clitoris were deep inside. Her head is ever-so-slightly bowed, as frenzied fingers obstruct her view. Although she doesn’t see it coming, intuition sweeps over her like a broom.

Renee raises her head high. She’s greeted by a big black dick. Its oosing a single web of pre-cum, confessing desire for her lips.

The translucent beaded thread dangles into the pit of infinity as heat rises within the room. The moaning stone stares  at Renée like a slum lord when rent is overdue.

The caramel brown apple head, bulges with kegs of honey for tasty cakes. If only the bare-backed baby boo bear would decide to have a little taste.

Without saying a word, Renee buries the dense milk bone in her throat. “Damn bitch, you could at least say good evening to a nigga, sheiiiiit.”  She ignores Devon.

Renee grips the steely hot fudge, like a bitter-sweet grudge, brutally battering the night stick, from its base, to the tip, exploding with rivers of lush  pearls, that blast her tongue in thick swirls. 

Her esophagus is a gentrified neighborhood, rapidly flooding with extra white. Crack rocks and Travel Fox. Her star is burning up the night.

Renee swallows her tangy puree. Her flavor is strawberry pineapple ginger. Her pleasure peach is hot and wet. She pops her pool with her middle finger.

“You just ate all my yogurt, but can’t say a single word to nooobodeh?” says Devon imitating Martin Lawrence’s raspy-voiced gold-toothed character Jerome. “Hoe, you just awful. I feel so used and objectified! I should make you pay, for my creamy YoPlait, which got yo sexeh bodeh electrified.” 

Renee giggles.

“Nigga, you stupid,” she says with a smile. “Fuckin’ Kat Williams, Kevin Hart wannabe muthafucka. Why don’t you shut ya face and come eat this good pussy.”

Devon spreads Renée’s luscious legs until they read 9:15, mirroring the arms on his Swiss chrono. He plunges his tongue deep into her waters, where he goes fishing for the Nommo. Renée wants to beat Devon’s Hadith into the buttery folds of her crescent moon. His lightning rod is at its apex, like the flaming sun at high noon.

Belgian chocolate thighs. Eyes wide. Cum and saliva inside the Godiva. Emancipation through masturbation. No pogo sticks in the vagina. All’s work, in a day’s hard. Dragon punanny gets slayed with a blade in the shade by the bamboo slave miracle cave god.