Revenant Ash by Mike Kay


The power was out. In the darkness the street seemed to glow ever so slightly in contrast to the buildings. Above me thick clouds barred any heavenly illumination. I watched as the darkness became a safe zone for humanity. With nothing observable beyond touch, the wafting of the voice, with no schedule set to satisfy the endless demands of society, with nothing for the grasping ego to attach to, all that was left was the murmur seeking connection.

I was here, alone with the darkness when she found me. A lone car made its way down the road, and in that moment when the headlights touched me I ceased being the darkness and became a man once more. She must have seen me then, her desire for interaction driving her to the next event in her life. The car passed slowly, and on she came, her feet making quick sounds across the pavement. The flame of her lighter suddenly revealed her face, no longer young, and her brown eyes reflected that flame, searching.

In that moment of the flame she had convinced herself that I was real. Her lighter extinguished and she moved closer, the afterglow somehow intensifying the darkness, the exhausting press of identity. “Quite a night”, she began.

She had thrown those words out casually, yet so much was riding on them. Suddenly my heart sank, and was crushed by a powerful sense of loss. I felt, in that simple, world weary phrase the defiance and resignation of one who never won at life. I understood her then, her desperation, and I knew in a moment where it would lead. She spoke in a slight Spanish accent, where the vowels are extended.

“I don’t mind it”, came my reply.” It’s very much like a dream”.

The lighter ignited once more as she lit her cigarette. “Do you smoke?”

“No,” I replied matter of factly.”I already have too many addictions.”

She laughed then, a sort of hoarse and low sound of genuine humor. Her dark eyes always seemed to catch a reflection of the flame, as if they hungered for something within it.

“I’m like that”, she admitted with a long exhalation of smoke.

She began her story then. It was a familiar story of being lost, of sleeping on hard concrete never knowing tomorrow. It was a story of hunger and desire and the cost of failure, of being held captive by forces too strong to resist. Her words filled the darkness with longing for what could not be given a price, after she had sold everything, even that which wasn’t hers. She spoke of a dream she had, or a vision, one night in a strange decrepit hotel room with the traffic roaring outside. Perhaps I should have shared with her my vision of the flaming rafters, that I knew when the US government burnt my home to ash, and that there is in this life the sting of death, and something in me died then. Yet these words would have somehow trivialized her story, so instead I only listened.

I understood her, when she said in so many words how she missed her previous life, but cruel fate had locked her into this unhappy place. She knew where she belonged, but was barred from ever returning.

Then I finally did speak up, and I told her that this place isn’t home, that I have memories of a world where the snow glows white as if ignited with rainbows, and the blue of the sky is no blue that anyone in this concrete palace has ever beheld with their own eyes.

She turned to me fully then, and in the light of her glowing cigarette made a quick gesture so that it streaked across my vision, leaving a trail. She seemed to be looking at me, as if to judge what to say next.

“Are you cold?”

“I am the cold”.

She told me then of all her missteps, of the grip heroin had upon her, of the lives she saw snuffed out that could never be retrieved, and that she was one. She whispered hoarsely of the lump of stuff she could hold in her fingers that had so much power over her, over everyone who fell. She spoke of that perfect high that changed the earth and sky, and her desperate love for that state. She spoke of her fear of the cops, and how she was under a spell. Then she told me of things I could never repeat, for it wasn’t about what she had done, but how something within her had vanished, and she wondered if she ever had it at all. With each sentence the desolation of her heart grew and grew. I was so close to her agony that it burned like a storm, and I saw then the terrible truth of replacing one’s soul for the torment of the high, and the addiction became its own blazing path. I was consumed by a terror of that ruin and cast into a shadow where hope was not even an idea. And when she finished her story and vanished into the dark that devoured her, a lingering odor of cigarette smoke and collapse, I was grateful to be free of the downward racing destiny so eager to plumb the depths of oblivion.

She has hid

Herself so far away.

Because of pain

And the escape.

She don’t know

What to do about it

She only hears

The whisper of a promise.

And the voices sing


And the voices sing


And she walks away.

I thought then, for a very long time, grateful for the clouds and the failed electricity that only further embraced the dark, a darkness that made it possible to feel that loss of the familiar yet wordless self, the loss of that directive energy, that wordless self all the abrahamics condemn.

It is probably very few who know that ‘Demon’ is derived from the classical Greek Daemon, a word perhaps best understood as genius, and that in the abrahamic mind all aspects of the self not suitable to their control were to be sacrificed on the altar of political power. Few understand today that who they are includes an essence beyond the physical, even as words fail to express this directly. The raw desire of the urge to step beyond, the ecstasy of escape is that base self crying out for the transcendence and participation with the forgotten genius, the divine love of the Daemon.

Modern man lives as much as he can in an embodied state. From a young age, the self is reinforced as a fact of physical existence. The open, dreaming child mind is imprinted through barely conscious methods to develop identification with the physical form as the establishment of boundaries of existence. Yet this developing self is not truly located anywhere. Modern thought establishes the brain as seat of self, a sort of default position, yet the best behavioral psychologists cannot find a biological basis to this assumption.

The tyranny of embodiment must reduce the person to a simple core, and indeed it does. The error here is the assumption that this reduction is complete. The severing of the non-physical self is a recurrent theme produced by those who see themselves at the top, with the latest example produced by the World Economic Forum, the W.E.F., all the billionaires, and dead empty black holes who see themselves as the irreplaceable ones.

The W. E. F. defines you in viciously denigrating terms. It claims that you are simply a series of electrical impulses, that your agency is an illusion, and they, your new masters have a plan for you; The mind, the self become words of no real meaning, no substance to the very idea that a self appointed group of power hungry psychopaths has some right or some authority to assert their control. They are actually quite funny to watch, their assumed sense of superiority becomes a kind of cosmic joke.

And she walks away.

Yet we can understand that the subtle communication of dreams exists, that destiny is an odd fact of life, that paranormal experience has long been proven to be a genuine phenomenon. We have for too long now been at the mercy of the merciless, those whose lust for power is so consuming that they will use any means available to secure it, and one of the primary methods for securing power over others is to steal their genuine heritage, and deliver to their victims a vision of the self that is without potential, without dignity, without grace.

The way of understanding the self must be based upon truth and reality to escape from the clutches of those shuffling dead who want you dead too, and deliver back to mankind the birthright of who they are.

In times of yore it was understood that the self was fashioned from diverse source and that the You, the I, are only centers that we learn to work from, the fire of personality that develops with the melding of the cosmic self.  For those with the sight have always beheld inexplicable things, the many colours that dance and radiate around the human form, and that the ladder of wheels always bespoke of something beyond simple comprehension. We are not one wheel, and we are not one body, and we are not one energy.

Now that we are here, arrived at the moment of change where the ways of the world are about to end, some violently, some with great upheaval, and the mourning for what was will include the loss of hope for what could have been, now is the time where it would be well to remember the essential explanation for who we are.

The first and most common aspect of self is that which dominates the daily life of the adult person. We will call this our near self, because always it is nearest as we make our way through our day. It is here, in the near self that we erroneously think “we” reside, that true “us” that thinks the familiar thoughts and feels the familiar emotions, the “us” that likes hot dogs, and movies, and tries to make sense of its journey through this life. Modern man lives as much as possible in the arms of the near self, but even so everyone secretly realizes that the near self floats restlessly upon a far larger, and far less understood second aspect of the self, which we will call the deep self.

The deep self is the unknown origin for the forces the near self constructs into a working personality. Yes, we are all miracles. The deep self holds the darkest, unrealized terrors and the strongest, insatiable desires. The deep self has no need for time, and so refuses to be limited by it. The deep self can talk to the dead, which the near self can never do. It knows things simply by contacting them. It doesn’t particularly care for standard explanations of why things work, it has its own explanations, and knows what they do. The deep self has no boundaries, as they are understood. It knows no morality, and it is consumed by the fire of transcendence.

Near self and deep self make up an essential duality. If the near self is the angel upon one shoulder, then the deep self is the devil on the opposite. The abrahamics divided this essential duality into two externalized entities, setting forth for thousands of years a way of thought and belief that ensured a civil war within the self, a war which splits the heart mind, and ails the self. The Fisher King suffers a great wound, and the salve will only partially make his life livable.

Modern psychology has only further enshrined this war, creating a set of expectations and beliefs that directly echoe abrahamic thought. There is no real healing in psychology, no dignity or honour or spirituality. Modern psychologists oversee torture, and create television commercials. Freud turned to Jung as their ship steamed to harbor in New York, and told his protégé that America believed he was bringing to them a great gift, while in truth it was a great plague.

If we are honest, we know that the deep self is the true power of the person. The motivations that move the person all derive from the deep self. Likes and dislikes, attractions and aversions, bent of character, and the residue of previous incarnations all are alive and active within the deep self. It is from here that the near self emerges to take the helm, and protect the person throughout their life journey.

Thus the deep self is the first person, and if life is kind, the near self arises as the second person from the timeless ocean of the deep self to attain a working rationality, a linear concept of a world of things and essential facts of life, but what of the third facet of the self? What of that aspect that modern life ignores, or even completely denies, that incorporeal ethereal self that is so easily lost, our elder brother?

She has hid

From herself far away.

And so she runs

To the needle every day.

It’s an empty thing

When she feels about it.

It makes her hate

The world she’s living in.

But she don’t know

What to do about it.

She thinks she lost

Something precious

She once knew.

She wants it back.

So she keeps fighting through

All the pain.

And the voices sing


And the voices sing


And she listens well.

Elder brother hovers over who we believe we are. It’s a strange kind of thing, to be aware during the day. Is he above the Sun? Is he below the clouds? You cannot see him, with your physical eyes, it’s only the heart, who knows where he lies.

We are told by the Christians who hated him that Basillides wrote of this mystery of the self. He told those who would listen that the near self could never leave its world. It could never reach above to the greater mystery of who we are, only entertain that it might be possible. He instructed that the longing the near self shaped into a recognizable image was the essence of the deep self all along. Thus it is, that only the current far below can reach up to know the Daemon, Elder Brother.

Well, one says, if this is so natural, then why is it so hidden? Why is it so easily lost? Why are we told that it’s only a dream, and we need to get real in the concrete palace? I want to know!

When we came here, from the darkness so far away, and our real parents wished us well on our way. We just didn’t know what we were getting into, and in this world we forgot ourselves through and through. The burning tears, reminded us that we knew it, but we just can’t grasp that spirit in our hands.

We need a new way, which is the old way.

The stain of incarnation, that split of everything into so many parts, is not due to itself a source of shame. Our failures are not because we lived a certain way. Mistakes we made, are not counted on our clothes. We were meant to fall, and to get up every time. The wounds we bear, we won’t ever get around them. It’s just enough to know through and through that the current runs deep, no matter what we do.

No matter what we do.

The ancient Gnostics knew no sin. The Cathari men delighted in the Cathari women who delighted in them. The bright eyed children were simply loved through and through. There was no sin.

In a world where the true wealth was in high places there were no items of value to steal. There was no sin. The books they wrote, were all burned to finest ash. The deaths they rode, are marked by disdain to this very day. Yet it was not them, who forgot the Elder Brother. It was not they who forgot him.

The deepest current, through longing flows up and away. It touches the wheel of the heart, which shines in every way. The path is clear, when there ain’t no doubt about it. The joining with him, releases the finest dew. The dew is light, falling upon your very aura, and you become complete. You are now the Tree.

She just fell in love

With something she always knew.

Her shame she left

Behind her in the dew.

She knew herself.

There was no doubt about it.

She walked the earth

Her feet were bare and brand new.

And the voices sang


And the voices sang


And she went with them.


The three part person is a very old realization. Some say it is woven from our own Wheels of Light. You can see them yourself sometimes, like pools of essential life, focused at the hips, the heart, the head, and least known, above us. It helps if one wishes to see them to rest in the darkness, and to never use the physical eyes.

This modern world, and those who think they run it, is going through a huge transformation right now. The lever pullers want you to think it is they who are calling the shots, and it is they who are making the change. Do not be fooled by their deception. They are desperately trying to ride the wave to cling to what they have, and doing so through taking everything away from you.

So they want to take from you your knowledge of yourself, which is so beautiful that they must make it ugly. Yet you can see the beauty in this life, and the wonder of existence if you stop for a moment and just live.


  1. Perhaps a little explanation is in order for why I chose this particular piece of music for this piece.
    First off, it is simply great music. Those who say that rock and roll isn’t capable of greatness have no ear for it, for the best of rock is both evocative and inexplicable. This piece is both.
    Secondly, as someone who actually, literally fell into the void with rock, I can attest that it can take you to undreamed of places.
    Finally, I chose The Cult because I just love these guys.

      • Truthfully, I can listen to Dylan, and all his stuff does for me is sound dated. Now, thats not necessarily a terrible thing, but it is limiting.
        You don’t have to share my fondness for the music of The Cult, but this song is about the genuine human condition regardless. I make no apologies for my perspective, and The Cult never apologized for their music. I doubt that either of us ever will.

        • Well Mike it all sounds dated to me now that we are moving to finish this. This is my favorite now (outside of Take a Load off Fanny), sentimental fool that I am:

          All I get out of VT about your draft is this AI retard speak, if you can interpret it let me know.

          Thank you On Tuesday, April 2, 2024 at 11:18:20 PM MDT, George Esposito (VT Support) wrote:

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          You are registered as a CC on this support request (100228). Reply to this email to add a comment to the request.
          This email is a service from VT Support. Delivered by Zendesk [PGYR2K-6PR7N]

          • Your other option is I post it on my VT author’s space. Let me know what you want. You’re better off on my authors page anyway, I have banned hasbara trolls like POC.

          • LOL!!!
            Effing VT.
            Y’know Jack, I am increasingly convinced that this entire society has already moved into a phase of such complexity that it is no longer able to be navigated by anyone. What to do? Well, if you honestly believe someone other than my favorite trolls would like to read it, go ahead and post it however-it works. If you don’t think anyone would care, then save yourself the hassel.
            Well, I liked Witchy Woman, but you know thats just me.

          • Thanks for posting on VT, maybe some day Nine will forgive me.
            I knew this piece was going to shake those of more delicate sensibilities, especially Americans who can’t have their fragile beliefs about their country challenged in any way.
            You will enjoy this Jack, I’ve had a bunch of followers and subscribers bail. What did they think they were going to get? Not what they got, thats for sure.
            Well, they never sent me a penny for my efforts, so I am simply going to write what I have to, and let it be.

      • Thank you Seraphim for finding something polite to say, I do appreciate that you found it worthy of your time.
        America is a profoundly sick place on every level, Seraphim. Living here, I almost can’t believe how bad it is, or how blind a people can be to promote deranged psychopathic beasts as the luminaries. Words fail.
        There was more dignity and humanity in the homeless woman of this piece, who refused to be crushed by this piece of shit place, than there is in any of the success stories celebrated here.

        • My pleasure Mike, and you’re spot on about America… Although I have to say Europe isn’t far behind, and other so called western countries like Australia and new Zealand have also completely lost the plot…
          Dignity and even basic humanity seem to be bygone traits these days, along with common sense and the ability to empathise. I struggle these days speaking to most people, your better off talking to a wall, you’ll get more sense back…
          They say the light is found in the darkness, and I have found that to be true, but the so called light shinning across this world is artificial and scorching what little true flame remains, and now all I see in the sea of humanity are burnt out candles devoid of wick and flame, reduced to nothing more than parodies of the bright candles they could be… But nothing lasts forever. And I’m hopeful that as the wheels turn, something can be saved of humanity, time will tell…

          • I’ve meditated on this and similar considerations for what seems to be an inordinate amount of time. Certainly, the scope and depth of this condition is beyond ken, which to me points to an individualization of the human experience.
            This is pretty tough for a social creature, yet I can find no way around this requirement.
            We’re going to have to choose between the maladaption of the masses and the sanity of the self.
            I laugh as I write this, because my neighbors’ car was just stolen, and the whole area shook due to an earthquake, but there actually a vast space and silence available if we choose it.
            Best, Seraphim!

    • This piece is extraordinary in its power, pulchritude and veracity, thank you, Mike. A bit of rock trivia here. If I’m not mistaken, the Cult’s original name was, “The Southern Death Cult” before it was shortened to just, “The Cult”. I doubt the decision to do this was theirs, most likely it came from their handlers in the music business. Also, according to the tranny 1960s Canadian pop singer, Joni Mitchell, who was friends with both of them, all of Bob Zimmerman’s (Dylan’s) songs were ghostwritten by the Canadian Jew Leonard Cohen. I quote “her” verbatim: “Everything about Bob Dylan is fake.” We can extrapolate that to, everything in this Demiurgic Jew realm is fake. Hail Kristos Lucifer the Liberator and the Gods of the Uncreated Light.

      • Thank you HD.
        I follow no convention, devise no plan for the work. My job is to order without destruction, to explain enough without obscuring the path, while being true to the inspiration. For myself what is truly is real has nothing in common with what we are told.
        I never really found Dylan to be all that interesting, whether he or some other wrote the stuff. I knew some people who really idolized him, and it seems he was baisically their signpost for a time that was significant to them, rather than any kind of prophet.
        There is a state of mind, a bent of character and a way of evaluation with the society that Jewish thought harmonizes intimately with. For myself, that is Dylan.
        In terms of The Cult, they are actual musicians, not media creations. I’ve known a few who had the great misfortune to have to navigate it. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single industry representative who I trusted-ever, but then, I regularly seem to get those warning flags with the well connected.
        My genuine take on things is that we are moving into an age of the individual, out of the age of worn out over centralized structures. We are surrounded by chaos and upheaval, because that dead structure won’t let go.
        We can align with the change, and remember ourselves. This piece is an ode to find oneself in spite of the ruthless evil of the dead society.

        • Yes, Mike, dead and ruthless it is. I really was a drummer from the age of 15 to 50 (minus 4 years in the Red, White, and Blue Murder Machine) and I played all of the hot clubs in NYC and NJ in the 60s, 70s, 80s, and well into the 90s. I was in several bands that were outstanding with great original material and came close to getting signed and “making it” but when the dust settled, it all turned out to be smoke and mirrors. Along the way, I learned just how corrupt and fake the music business is, the talent of those struggling in the trenches notwithstanding. Concerning Dylan, he was playing as a solo folksinger at coffee houses in Greenwich Village, NYC, doing cover songs and drawing apathetic audiences of maybe 15 people at a clip when CBS Columbia, the largest record label along with RCA, signed him to a multi-album contract. This just does not happen in this world. The fix was in and he was networked and obviously connected to the Matrix. Also, he freely admitted in an interview with Ed Bradley that he sold his soul to the, “Chief Commander” for success and fame. That is called, “Going to the crossroads”, a very common practice. Keep writing, Mike, you possess a rare gift.

          • Well the powers that be love their evil, HD. Part of this apparently involves creating a world of talentless hacks to punish true artists.
            It might seem like a platitude, but isn’t-any participation in excellence is worthy unto itself. The vampires never offered their contract, but such is no measure of that excellence you knew.
            I will write as long as that conduit reemains open, and I can call upon the strength and energy to continue.
            Thank you HD.

    • I had to wtite this. There is a huge secret about America, and it is called Heroin. I wrote this as another life, helpless before addiction ended abruptly. That one was a close shot, grazing my cheek.
      I could blame the lump of stuff one can hold in their fingers. I could blame the crime lords that run this evil place. I could blame society, or weakness, or whatever, but its really about the turning away from love.
      There is a time in everyone’s life where a single step of genuine love changes all direction.
      For this to work it has to be freely given and freely received.
      This is so hard to do in this broken world.
      Thank you for reading.

      • I remember seeing a historical drawing of the old British East / West India Company’s warehouse, which had long selves extending all the away across the walls. These selves were one above the other all the way to the ceiling. They were all filled with individual bowling ball size quantities of opium. 1 gram good opium should have around 10% morphine, 100 mg.

        • Stan,
          I just look at the whole thing from a certain point of view, one that is never employed by those with power and profit as their advisors.
          I see this vegetable spirit as a great power that has never been given its due, that it arose because of the flow that was aborted by a mankind that eagerly took to the easy path to prominence, and so its power is far too much for simple folk who don’t know love, and transformative in a soulless way for they who think they weild this power.

  2. Glad your up

    What to post, oh yes I am posting poetry upon a new site

    A site that sees the beast

    In visions

    So accurate to what’s on this site

    The fuck do I know

    He sees visions


    Way I talked to my boss

    Got results,

    I digress, a new poem:

    THE beast

    Resides not deep in the earth

    But in the Heart

    The level that human enemy

    Has infiltrated earth

    Said this

    Must love an enemy so vast

    Invades Heart’s

    Can’t win

    Said follow me

    Everyone’s a follower

    We lost the war

    He is above it

    • Nine,
      A big part of the mystery of this life is what dwells within and without, but thats just because we have spent the last few thousands of years doing our best to forget ourselves, telling ourselves that we can entrust the worst of us with the sacred.
      This condition is now changing, and its about time.

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