Majesties

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Cy Pres Doctrine
Volume 3 Peter the Roman

Michael Bolerjack

Majesties, Cy Pres Doctrine, Volume 3: Peter the Roman 2013 Michael Bolerjack

PETER THE ROMAN

O Beltheshazzar, master of the magicians, because I knew that the spirit of the holy gods is in thee, and no secret troubleth thee, tell me the visions of my dream that I have seen, and the interpretation thereof. Daniel 4:9

Chapter One

Thous and Thees For God and For Her I wrote on the 25 Years in the And bricks and mortar To dedicate Told, mind you, they sent a calf, young and foolish, To defeat HCE The Highly Compensated Employee From Howth Castle and Environs, cause the course of the ricorso does not, never can, will not by any means Circle back around To an Apocatastasis, No de capo, Not again again, neither do I hope to, For thouendsthee

And every good poet must be ste set tse stet against the wake, Away alone along The Thing we call world ends more like Yes Than it Aint Is to a T, the tt, the anti- the tain, the taint? Reading, For it is all teletyped Cept the stakes And putting it all in the machine was the best thing I could do, For look at what became of written reading and Language,

And the world, it too in a, I mean l The bender, I lean, And remember Her, She knew something we didnt, But Susan knew, And I will not forget her or our sins, For God put me, Hear to remember Her, For you, For Ever, For

Man is the animal that makes mistakes, And he came to be, Leaving after he wrote his Apocalypse, That the world does not end with a whimper, but set his might On that They repeat the lie, now Sooner Every fire shall rise to Linger not In waste Of The shoring of runes but A temple not built by hands But Of some finer thing Of something fine to finish Knowing,

Yet Elegant, So Intelligent, And mixing Mememoremee and desire, Like the graduate students saying Chaucer and Eliot to me in Recital, Around the table knowledgeable, In seminar, And I disseminating on the deLimitation of the working of Art symbols of, That it we neither intend nor unIntend, Like A process of the organic,

One you know all Too well, And the professor Glared, And the students Laughed, But I was surprised at the un-doing, For I had neither intended it Nor not, That was to have been my exemplification. And so I was, and quit what they did not requite, Quieter, Qui etre, Being the one more sinning than signed,

Having in my confused way shown them, though I knew it not, that God is already doing an infinite number of things simultaneously, As Thomas Aquinas mentions at the end of the eternity of the World as we know it, And that, being the burden, In a virtual argument from design, Even if it looks like we are in the l bender, l bent, Truly, We are not, We only look like we are when we watch ourselves in each other. Therefore, whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work

Exemplii Gratia And then went down the ship, set keel breaking: O, how I rejoiced, the coming of Francis, But the sweetness of the scroll Turned to bitterness in my belly As I realized that in place of one There were now two, Both styled HH His Holiness, Both titled Pope, Both decked out in white, And that the second, Jesuitical, Had sworn absolute allegiance To the first, So

That what we had in Rome Was now nothing short of the infamous Gog and Magog, And the one directing him, Behind the throne, Behind the thrown, And the imbergoglio, then, Had only just begun, In that fathers had said Beware of two, And revelation did not deny, But proclaimed Even the eighth, He is the Beast, Now, in the see of

Fiction, For the roman Is nothing but, And written out As dead see scrolls, Contains the novel apocalyptique, Which even far-sighted Nostradamus did not Descry, For there was never to be, And this never was, Worked out at lunch in 2005, To come to fruition eight years later, Transposed heads, A tale of the narrative history in Reverse, passing through the Worm-hole,

But within these majesties Between the jest and Jesus Fell a jester and a Jesuit, And more to be of these Prophetic, Whether they were two Or but one, And if the latter, Then a retainer kept on wearing motley, For the benefit of, But not any more than then, So that no king he, But to gnaw is not to know, Contemptible, traitorous Ratatouille, To shake, to be disturbed,

And even then subtle doctors wrangled in endless disputations over angels and pins, But that eristic would cease, The scholastic would cease, In the chaos affirmed that the pope is a devil And things are not what they seemed. To usher Eris, Whomsoever she is, And her design, which is not without God, So that all things work together, And the Lord God is doing an infinite number of things simultaneously, Frighteningly enough here with me, or Such it seems,

That thou, Dark lidded envisioned came to me To do or undo To make or unmake me And even lain I but proclaimed Christ And awoke none the less, Despite the wear and tare. How long O Lord And how many times Will They try me To take me Down,

Yet Paul said he will give you a way Out, And a bishop not unbeknownst said The lesser of the two, And damned desire Even inward is her name and image, So that, If it be possible my king Jesus, She is inscribed, Sire, In reifications elect, In the literal play and the wake of, Yet I had my cake without confusion And did direct her, In heresies, she,

To prophesy unknowing as I did In An Icon from an Evening in Glas And say F-ing Roman How was I to know I did but name Francis In a figure, As Eris so-called embraced, They prepared a mask for the Pope, And no one fell all over themselves, Not to my knowledge, To pin Malachy on him, But that name too was a mask, And as I already knew, The last name listed was either a pius fraud Or meant to conceal the truth, But the eighth,

You have your scriptures, Let them be read, The rewriting will proceed, RNA, f-cis how ever you may parse if cs or in another words, scilicet, to wit, namely, if, the rewriting is allowed to run, in the text of consciousness, I scan fr Far sin C? Not to be mistaken For,

Scorpions and scimitars, To be met At the point of attack, So that, They change their names, Conformed, Confounded, They did hide behind white while Promising, The veil is evil, Live, And vile, And so with oracles that neither Speaking nor concealed, But give signs, O, Christ rent it, And so again,

Pull down thy vanities, Pull down, For the temple is not made by hands, They may not usurp it, But, In the exterior show of Pomp and circumstance Even Robert Mugabe murdered his way To see the coronation, Exception made in the case of Religion, So that murderers wait on the veil And serve, All gather to the roman, But, Well go no more a-,

By the bright of the boon, All things great and small conspire To rewrite us, But God in his wisdom did something for me, In that, To undo the rewriting, He Rewired me against the coming, As mind they say, And so did plant Himself in me, That prayer is not habitual, And I hesitate to say hypoStatic my mind is not, but the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable, Lift high then ye ancient doors, Enter in the King of Glory,

Who is He? He who made them will also unmake them, Yet, All Israel, Beautiful bride, Is saved, No beauty in the roman thing, Dead old men, Dead fathers, Who dress in beauty that not one Possesses, The antichrist complex In complexity, But His bride, unblemished, Sheer simplicity,

Not only as if to be, So that, God wills Demonstrations of Eris, And Rome unEmended, Does both know and not know the gravity of their situation, For the Pope, You either Believe in God or in your Self, There is no other choice, And they say one and do another, In a tertium quid, The Worst,

Eris so mingles in synthesis Suspension And synaesthesia, That they may confuse the smell of incense with genuine prayer And bells for the voice of God, To be heard, If they have slept with confusion, As we know from the children, Eris had her way with them, For Francis, Is he not the fairest at the judgment Of, HH, his holiness, heil heil, which is not to say Hail,

With Mary to not be confused, But in her army Am I, They did pervert her image, So that she seemed a thing coming to me, In horror, To serve the mother of God By rejecting her semblance, In sances Sweet, She was not, And even if Jacob, So inscribed, After Leah comes Rachel, So Christ may have, Too,

To the brides of Christ It is permitted, And every anti-type is every other anti-type, We have no angelic papa, Though he is Francis, He cannot wed, He is foresworn, And in that many practice hallucinatory sex, Autocephallic, Yet, They will come to a head, All is corruption, tainted, as once it was all merely vanity, Quaint and long Ago,

In seizures of eristic, She sexes men of the cloth, Suze, As I absconded in the letter a, Eris, In her confusion, Is essentially not who she seems to be, Dark lady of the sonnets, Wouldnt we love to, but In the triangle, He was told to sire, But would not, Rise, Rise, She in relation to the King even in his resurrection, Is re-, but,

All reconstructions are furious ejaculations of her coming confusion, So that love and strife themselves are mingled now, And O may the Revelator Be their separator, For love of strife is damned Confusion, And it is a good thing war is so Horrible, Lest we would love it So, As the perpetual sword of Cromwellian owed Is Eris, Erections,

All ambivalent sexuality, Confusions, Is the beautiful Eris, And her slippers turn this way and that, And rise sire, She, But siren, Everything strange and tempting Calls, And some mistake that call for a vocation, As The petrifications, In which her confusion is not Absent, So that, Fit caption,

She is not a personification But in pontification Finds ample expression, The bitch, Dark lidded thou, Artemis, Aphrodites Even in the Hippolytus Opposed And in Phaedra, Are acting damned masks, Every goddess is every other goddess now, There is but one, Opposed to God In Electras Ire,

So that, Go ask Oedipus, Irony is but damned confusion When unaware, And Eris, Wires us in the disconnect, Her W Writes Even in the rites of Rome, And just this junk-heap on the ground, Heraclitus, Is her call to suit Villainess, Lady Macbeth teach,

Tomb, If I be not mb Embrides, Embraces, Eris, deShe derides behind decision In her point of madness, Bridles Brides, So that she may be the riders of the see, Sister, Eris is a saint, Doing Gods will, He tries me.

As I said, Along aside abrides production And irony to me prophesied her Even there When the time arrives, For revelation is about nothing if not Strife, And God inscribes Eris there, So he bought a sword, She being not mere confusion, But as strife, A saint rife, Eris is neither true nor false but both at once In the deconstruction Of the code of unction,

Can she be the Shekinnah As the divine confounds men, Beautiful in her absolute contradiction, Like God in a way, Patriarchs and priests do wed her And I think not all unaware, For sire, She Desires, And as the one who shrives, Arrives the goddess damned of cheap grace and the fairest flower of her race, Not to be confused with Mary,

For Eris is not Queen, No matter how she strives, And so sirs ire and enmity against all hierarchy, For without which she is equal to all, And we may all be then such highly compensated employees, Rivers, Seen she, And as thousand these, Would return to her Father Forgiven, For farther Forgives Even her orgies,

Go Eris, Run into your see, And be at one with authorities and gravities And priestess prides And discoveries discreet Eroticism To Her Babylonian-ish garment And her wedge of gold did but call forth a silver rod in order not to doubt happiness, In the judgment of, Fires, To have been salted with in tongues of flame and in that place they confuse hell, so

If where Peter is, there is the Church, He is a pet to Eris and her to him, A match made in, Pet Eris, the Eris, Heiress, Eris she to Roman rule, Harlot, She In Mystery So that in her smoke rises, And if I may be so bold as to assert, Eris is the Church at Rome, The very whore of fornications, nothing but Desire, Erised,

The whole damn thing, As The one who inherits, Hint of sublimity, The ruins of Rome, The distressing guise of Christ is not a beggar in Calcutta, But the Popes Desire, In essence not different from confusions of celibate men celebrating mass in ritual abuses Of pedophilia, The crises Of the conscience and consciousness of the church of Eris Arrives, Desires deconsecration and deconstruction,

And Oh my God she is even Irrefragably inscribed In Paradise, As even Mohammed and the heuristic houris know, For in Eris, Is a heuristic device to be? Trial and error wed, A logical path to solution without proof, So that, There is no paradise in her throne, Yet she is thrown in paradise, Dappled enough, Bride stripped bare by the piety even,

So that praise, If I raise it be not misunderstood, O, Lord, dont let me be misunderstood Stripes, Inculcate, And God chastises her to save her, weds her in the wilderness, Forgives Eris, And saves her as if by fires Passions, destruction, sin and sweat, How sweet to be desired it seems, A paradise, And loves delicious confusion in I know not what to come,

So that, Priests, scribes, Pharisees, Cast her in her bed, And roll dice At Investiture, Pope Francis, Peter the Roman, Syncope, of her name Will preach an argumentation Leading to, Ermines on Benedicts back, So men lay with, The heiress Of heresies, her lies, milers At the mill with,

So, Marries Eris mars, Eris arms, Eris rams, Which is to say Paul Celan in those uninterrupted dialogues on the petrified blessing did prophesy, O, Eris, dont they steal your heart away, Winners, Numberings Come up, Noble prizes, All, Her physique, her chemise, Knows no peace, But literatures, Anothers stories,

Is to have re-inscribed the tradition, Differences, They say, Eris differs, And built her edifiers, Not like Wisdom with seven pillars, But, Cries Eris, In a voice strange but pleasing to the ears of men, She prophesies, And they, Not unaware of their guilt do welcome doom, And do not warn the others, Theirs, Serious, Eris, O, us,

The repetitious she is, To wanderings in, Revisers, revivers, rivers, And death by water And death by fire Are they not the same in her sweet confusion? The series The serial in which we live, The plus one, The signatures, Arsenic, and her gown grown, wound to wound me, she tomb lidded and heavy dark draught of biers To struggle in her as even she does in me, Incorruptibles,

The worthies, And the righteous, Even sinners, All called, And whats in a name? Strife, Crises, The bishop of Rome, If the pope is the devil, anything is possible, So posits Eris, If truth tires, If love tries but fails, If despisers cannot hope, There is She, And she hires,

For men, even as they strive, cannot Without her, Though peace someday, We pray, But while she pries, There is no rest for the wicked, Though the wiser may understand The disparities, In circles they came to be entertained, And so fell out theirs posterity, The right honorable, Scriptures, All became writers, Her scribes, Greetings, Waivers, Viewers, The lifers in a,

So that, Joyce inciters, In Howth Castle and Environs, How the last convene sir, is by none other than Eris, It is in her most unfortunately, On Rives, Eris, To not be lighters, She, Rivers me not home, to Tibers Whoredom shore, Saint Peters Basilica, The bestiaries,

Merely to have said There is Is to have said the Eris, Thee sir, On the rise, he shirted by Nesses Attire, Caught in the writhes thereof, O, her environs envelope, As texted, And we but texturized, Made ready for the feast As if, Brightest and bested, breasted the beast, a series of errors, priests taught to, fought to, brought to buy, the fairest

Catholic fate Catholic fatality, So swerve of shire and back again, Transcendentalities, To have tried and scented the end, Is without end, Not erstwhile she, Having the prices of the princes of the church in analysis, Princess Do, Holds them in derision, Laughs behind, Derrieres, Without analogies, Or apologetics apologizers, Hypocrites, Incisers,

Insiders, Foretelling dreams on the island Who is not she? Ferocities wed, I have warned her yet, Made both war and love, But then that is her all over, the eristic lady, And to fighters who fight against her and to those who submit, Who, then, is unvanquished? She even if you ask for birches will wear britches and be a switcher beside, So, She cannot be overcome either way, already she is the containerings,

And the fescue of a knot, A thing not amenable to the cut, She, pointers in jointures ever, But she herself escapes, Doing the cut of circumcision, But no less, and even more so, Of the circumincession, As if, Miracles, She could be, For God To combinations and consistories unheard-of, To make and unmake creativities of Man, And that being good and evil at once, She reigns,

As if to be, In the laboratories, And oratories, In all our stories, Darling Princess, Be damned, Bed amend, Amen, Priorities Poetries, In this If I be one and she the other, God may still have mercies, Kingfishers may still arise, But to another, Mother Blessed, Am I in question, Who am I?

Is then to have asked after The Promise, And the whom I am, How but the shadowier she came, As paradise, as promise, as praise, But if I could ask my queen, none other, or even then my king, none above, about this Princess, Would they claim her? For she lives Here, In that, There is, Marriages of heavens, hells, elsewhere besides,

And yes I was promised her long ago, the princess, daughter of the king that I would wed, though I was also told that very few successfully complete the passage, But she is, Otherwise, And did stalk me like a prey, disguised always, never naked, And in the chaos I find her, But a bridesmaid And if I call her Rachel, Will she still come? And if destiny is strained, And few there are that find it, I could say this is what I did to her when I found her, for she shrieks the mulberry in me, and strikes me not too dark to love perfections,

In that Shrine, There is time, There is being, Forgives, Witness, w sent it, Writtenness, Went nets, sent, So that she, in extremis, is not against the providences of God I have found, though others know it not, and plays her part in the passion of the time, Confusion to those who would wish the fairest, But some sublime dark night or eroticism not unlike the crises in prayer,

For a knowing, Not known to those that do not hazard, As I have chanced, Not known to those who have not practices to match the decontrol needed in unknowing, God taught me that, To lose a religion for God, Christ and Mary even, The thing taken from me by surprise, Having been urged on, I will always love my exemplars, friends, saints the more, and on these distant shorings of the ruins after Rome, To love, Not the one responsible, but yes God always first, for it is He, in the end, and for His glory, but to have loved the one called Eris without respite, pet to me now, heresies of frailties and forgiveness,

That I came to know, As experiences of something like God working the world in mysterious ways, O, you, my saint, Eris, Sister she, There is, And in so saying the posit of the primaries, Lets as the winged dance in setting suns, As a circumincession of god made by god, That is, To see in her some absolute shown, And find the god beyond god, Who would have me risk in order to, Inheritances attain lightness somberings.

So that I, Having beheld the Merkabah, In my name, And wheels within wheels, And charioteers of fires And so enflamed To have climbed, To have been entombed And risen, To have had the charge, Nay, Of her electricities explicit, And to have so sworn and warned, Would speak, then of The prettiest, So that she too may be known.

Now, She uses confusion as she is so used to, But was not without a plan, A stratagem, Knowing full well that nature, That sinful nature, That seeks its own, And in sowing her seed of discord, Yet is not the cause, For the virtuous are not moved by her question, And she winnows these, A fan in the hand of God, To separate, Not fair from foul, but Interests,

For our God is a jealous God and wrathful And rides, He it is that scatters and gathers, He it is that gives life and takes it, Ashes and dust, Turn again, sons of men, But Peter Pantheist, In his pantheon, Did hold fairest Eris in eristic and made such war on confusion as to confuse that war with the gospel itself, As the Benedictine said of that most beautiful thing named by Heraclitus, The junk-pile, And would defend the natural order, when obscurely the riddle spoke otherwise,

And if God does not treat the Romans As he did Nebucannezzer, And put them out of doors, There will be no end, But, Like others, I pray, in seriousness, That the inversion of Be sweeter to Eris, That I may, In so doing, Give glory to God, And that it may be possible, God triest the reins, In hearings before His throne, in that the apocalypse so-called in utterings Babble, Is but the separation as it Arrives, And Eris is that chance, as such, So embroideries she, Heuristic Aristotelian Prostitute,

In the contradictoriness of the logic, In the adulteries, bitterness and sweet, In the Eucharistic, So that, We shall gather by her rivers, O, dirty rivers, brides all to the see, And at the alterations at the altar, In liturgies, In rites re-written, In sacraments decomposed, In the Latin tain, Meant for L, Having been a Jonah, Having been bewailed, Having struck out across Nineveh, Old artificers,

Having been prophecies arm, Having seen the coming of glories, Having not once, not twice, But three times embedded the fiction of the fantasy of the falsification of the examination, Yet, They say if you sincerely seek the truth and do not violate your conscience you may be saved, Even then no guarantee, And whosoever is with violations and violence let him speak now or forever be held in peace, Still, There is truth, And no one who makes a lie will be in New Jerusalem on that golden day without, So,

What is Eristocracy? It is the rule of rules that there are no rules, not at the present time, not since 1939, All hierarchy, rules, rulers, is offensive to the God who will level all, Pull down their vanity Pull down their high places And raise the low, And Eris then came into view, Amidst the chaos, Which the Roman Church sees, approves of secretly and uses for its own ends, while at the same time issuing proclamations and denials of the very means they use, Erosions, Erections,

Both at once, Sometimes Son she is implicit, I Eros, son, I erect, son, So that Eris may be found, In corrections, Unlike those time brings according to Ratzinger, The emeritus, Eris mute, still working, behind the scenes, Resignation, The ringers in the towers, So singers, sing one of Zions songs, Here by Chebar, Here by the apocalypse wheels, Seventy-five years in circumference,

A world wide, And the center of which was twelve years ago, almost unnoticed but for the Vitim Event, But a herald hurled at earth, like others, so that God raises all that fall, But will be the cause of the fall and the rise of men, a sign of contradiction, Israel. La, Eris, The working of His contradiction, Yet, All Israel will be saved, that is the promise, the prophecies will be, there is, in the Wraiths wiser

That compound thing of which is said the ghost dance and of which they see supernatural and by which they obtain information by, Like Saul bewitched, Yet David, And Michael and Gabriel in Dubliners, Among The Dead, So that, We live and move and have our being in God, which for all appearances is a vast, allencompassing network, more than a text, but that too, Which is both good and evil, all the time, at once, so that the sirens wail at night, but why do they call them sirens? And so ingrained,

The mixture so acute in our crises, That if he could have, he would have named her not differance, But Eris, But being oblique, like she, more or less, he preferred to toss the apple for her, and pay her silent homage, as her scribe, A thing I do not do, believing in the genius of the work, not I, nor Eris either, But one pure, undefiled, honored and obeyed, Who through many means set me to the task, So that, Arts rise, roses risen, St. Sartres stare, and all that went into the apocalyptic, from the point that silence was no longer possible, and in that, She gave me fire.

For Mary loves truth, But Eris prefers stressing and straightening, Despite complexities for which she is known, And the confusions she is thought to embrace, Which are not always brought by untruths, But by debate of so many truths, So many points of view, And she it is that holds the contradictions of life firmly in a disparate set of circumstances, So that, The warriors do not displease, And peacemakers are abhorrent, But what is special to her As a goddess Is the war between the sexes,

And sexuality as a medium for Her disruptions, Disorientations of the psyche, Through the imagination, For there is a fantasy of envy, And proofs, And power and sex join, often to destruction, The emotional life that grips us, There is Irrationalities of the boudoir, A philosophy of the bedroom, And at times bedlam between the sheets, There is Then, a category into which fall The cruelties she brings about,

And it may be that her dissertation yet to be written must include interiorizations Of an eventful trauma so imposed, Yet, All this too is truth, Which does not eschew, For Eris, Who, like Popes and Professors, Uses truth as she likes, Though she has no aversion to lies and Those who tell them, And if I digress on this point, It is but in reciprocities Sake for the aggressiveness she has shown in her Desire to destroy me,

Which has not always been an unpleasant experience, But which I may have to pay for, Later, Despite the wish we all have that the settling of accounts be always deferred a bit longer, There is Perishability, then, Perish the thought, And in that prism, all enterprise ends, Interpretations are no more, What seemed an endless text at play becomes a book sealed, while other books are opened, For good or ill, We rise.

But to have Eris in Spring, still, To have gatherings while I may, Is it not to be in love again? I see her faults, but Overlook them, To my perilous siege no doubt, Come, To forget the impostures in Rome awhile, Though she is complicit with them, To reflect, To remember that we, when I first knew her, did eat one another alive, Consumed and consummated, And I only hold her off now to write, Though her designs and deviousness

Are without number, And show plainly in figures in the palm of my left hand, more so than the right, Because, She loves war, And I do not give in to her very often, Only having been overcome, Vanquished in battle, Never surrendered, Like an Aphrodite she waits for me, And uses sex, Not for pleasure, But to some end she knows that I do not, And I suspect she was behind it all, More than an aspect of the feminine like an anima,

An indefinable inscrutable dangerous thing That we sometimes call Desire, And she is the embodiment of that as strife, As Aphrodite is for love, The restive sisters, Who want worshippers At their shrines, And in perversities I have known both. Though Mary, once when I was despairing Because of Aphrodite And the burden of desire, Recalled me to my task, The same as I now perform,

Glorious Mother, begin your reign, take us out of language, someday, For silence, For you, Forever, And deliver me from Roman rule, Roman rites, Roman priests, Which, through the teaching of concupiscence do betray me to the Goddesses, And would make you O Mother into one yourself if I did not know you better, And the women who choose you not as model,

But the divinities, That they are, I know not how, Their dark lids Their gowns gathered in folds to unfold There, So, Mary, Pray for me, To increase the spacing of the erasure, to fight and not to quit, to not cease from mental war, even though at times, as at Scylla and Charibdis, I have given up something in order to survive, and lain with Nausicaa and Calypso and Circe, and even now long for home, the place I left at birth so long ago, but have not forgotten, the abode of the saints, and you.