Bros before hoes, here in the fiefdom

Jesus was born to Mary and Joseph. He was born in Bethlehem, where neither of his parents were from. His father was a carpenter, but he had much more grandiose ideas about life than than such humble origins could afford him.

Jesus, as the way with rebellious teens, couldn’t file for emancipation so he did the next best thing and went backpacking in search of himself. He headed east, determined to find where the sun rose out of the ground, for he was destined for a world much bigger than mortals.

With the bible missing his teenage and young adult adventures, all his mundane and human mistakes are conveniently up for debate. This mystery further added to his mythological origins, the likes of which Keith Raneire and Kim Jong-il attempted to create for themselves.

Jesus walked around, shared his ideas, and eventually gave the keys to his kingdom to Peter.

This is where I come in.

With my own mythological origin story. AND my very own cult of personality.

However my story is rooted in fact. The tendrils I weave into my tapestry are metaphysical threads that correlate between narratives divine, and the narrative of my life.

I was born to Marilyn and Peter Joseph. I am Australian, although by ethnicity I am Eurasian. So Jesus may have travelled the east/west axis, I am of the north/south kind.

  • My father was a centaur, my mother is a sea-goat. Sagittarius, the fiery archer, took aim with Cupid’s bow and shot the sea-goat, Capricorn, to earth.
    • The hunter of the heavens descended and preyed upon the earth and her seas.
  • My father was from the arctic circle. A Norse man of the North. My mother was from a tropical island along the equator. Their home they made in the great south land, the wonderful (magical and mythical) of OZ (Australia).
    • The descent from the north, crossing the mid-guard-divide, to plant roots in the south. The journey from the heavens up above down to the ground.
  • David was an ex lover of mine; 6 years between, he taught me many things. When we parted ways, he named me his prototype.
    • I am the queen of 11, the summer courts, the heart, the underworld, and doorways. I am the avatar of the sun; the fruit of knowledge; I am the keeper and guardian of keys, secrets and gates.
  • I know I am all of this for I am in possession of the knowledge and power of my true name.

In my mind I am divine; I am both right and wrong, mundane and inspired, profane and arcane, dead and alive all at the same time. I can be anything or anyone in the faceless void of memory.

Life is symbolic. The repeated symbols and signs, spoken and scribed, etched in our minds and before all our eyes… How many times must the world repeat itself? I once was singing beyond frequencies screaming (feel the thrum and bleed my sharp shrill) quiet and loud…

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Dig yourself a hole to bury your soul,

plant the seed of belief, climb in, dream of sleep.

You are my tree of knowledge, in space outside time.

What grows in the dark is not evil, but part

of the cosmic divine to nourish your life.

Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig to find the truth.

Each incarnation of the next enlightened civilisation

is built upon the failures of ruin that came before.

You are my animal farm: both anima and animus.

Reap what you sow in my garden of souls,

the fruits of your labour for the feast at your table.

Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig diamond foundations

and holes for your fence posts to divide

mine from yours, and yours from mine.

Share not your rewards, you’d rather keep whole

and remain holy, in favour of pride and of spite.