“Prince of the degradations, bought and sold, 
These verses, written in your crumbling sty, 
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold
And publish that in which I mean to die.”   

 Hilaire Belloc

“In the end, My Immaculate Heart will triumph.”

Our Lady of Fatima

For

Jane Irene Moore

WESTERN RISING

They themselves once sowed at cost,

For “Greater Glory of God!”

Now they turned upon the Chair,

And took what He had planted,

And took what He had Christened.

But still vow to keep their orders,

Yet to keep while going native.

Then for what for greater glory?

While affirmed to treat The Order.

But they desecrate their office,

To organize their fetish,

And lie among the branches,

Like the snake that strikes the talus,

And inside our very orchard.

Be precise, pray tell, to tell it,

Just how so it’s something better,

While we know that they untaught us,

Yet they spin us to assure us?

For we’ve seen our splintered families,

And our fellow un-wrought Christians,

Pitching, falling into daydreams,

Drinking madness from the culture,

Eating poison from their fathers,

Sipping folly with their mothers;

Now to die the death too slowly,

In the pews of their own choosing,

In a so-called culturation,

Long-lived, deracination.

That blasted downright circus

Drives much faith and reverence from us,

While it mutilates the sacred

And creates a wretched revel.

As we hold our hands and praise us

Since they never taught the difference.

All to view the priest’s reflection,

The loss of faith, relentless.

By what name for Christ in heaven

Have you wrought such cursed changes,

To our lives and in our worship,

In our churches, in our bedrooms?

Just to keep the face of old men?

And the schemings of periti?

Or the lech’rous dreams of clergy,

Who stand burning in their pulpits;

In formation taught to watch what

In old times would all be censored,

Which they bring to bear upon us

In their muddled lisping voices.

Those meek, ironic Marxists

have lost the whole religion,

And recast the Saints and Angels

As like harbingers of Oprah,

As like harbingers of Gnostics.

As we see the Western Rising

Is it in Il Papa’s blessing?

Must we shoulder costs without him,

‘til the one in white beside him

Spreads his blood upon the martyrs

Spreads our blood upon the concrete.

By the hand of ancient demons,

Now disguised as if our brothers,

Don’t accept the Christ that saved them,

And resolve by ancient schisms,

Drive their death into our families,

While we mince and lie for profits,

While we break our sacred purpose;

Lose our lives for nothing better.

Plead to Christ for brighter outlooks;

Pray Our Lady stands to shield us.

And in all this vast adventure

Cries the child who lost his purpose

Or the babe who lost her future

Stands in limbo for our heartbreak,

Shrieks aloud among the fluids,

While his mother cannot hear him,

While her mother will not bear her,

Closed her ears for greener futures,

Caged in wisdom with the serpent,

Spreading evil like the deluge,

Blackened sins in need of washing.

But she does what you’ve accepted,

What you’ve taught her,

What you’ve told her.

Praising Moloch with her future.

Now we’ve inculcated evil

‘til the heap cries out to heaven

And the sins scream out for justice.

For the serpent was more subtle

Than the other beasts and creatures,

Claimed, “Your eyes shall each be opened.

Like gods this act shall make you,

Knowing good and knowing evil.”

And knowing evil.

Where to turn in present darkness?

Look around for something better,

You find nothing looking at you,

And find nothing looking at you.

But silence,

Sound of contracepted families

Wondering how the future

Vanished.

Yet with all that stands the monstrance,

That deep and solemn monstrance,

Which can part the shroud of heaven

When it holds the Sacred Body

Of our Lord who stands before us.

If only for a moment,

And if only for a twinkling,

Guards us from resurgent heathens,

Shields us from the grand delusion,

Hides us from this haggard Eagle.

Who is dying while we write this.

And is dying while we write this.

Who participates in rituals

So vindictive as to screen it

From the shame it rightly conjures

Through deception and collusion.

And the past it now disgraces

Murders hope and faith within us,

Kills the truth as dead as Judas,

Saps the root of civ’lization

And despises true religion;

Humanizing mice for profit.

Contriving marked monies

Which eviscerate the savings

Of the men and of the women,

Making slaves for their leviathan.

At the root of all this dying

Stands not the desert warlord

Or the petulant monastic,

Placing notions onto doorways

While conversing with the devil,

Making doctrines so polluted

As to lead to dissolution,

But that frightful fallen angel,

Who contrived from the beginning,

With his murder and his lying,

To strike out at the heel bone,

And with enmity deceive us.

Each lie more convoluted,

Each strike more laced with venom,

But She crushed the head that strikes us,

Killed that godforsaken creature,

That godforsaken culture

Coalescing right before us.

As the children of that prophet,

That prophet from the desert,

And the children of the goddess,

That goddess of the demons,

Who was born in insurrection,

Consummated on the altar,

(the altar of Our Lady)

Who dreams of revolution,

An endless revolution,

And indoctrinates our children,

Band together with their father

In the treaty of Forsaken;

They themselves and with the princes.

Could we live to see the coming,

The coming of our Savior, of

The proto evangelium;

The destruction of its power.

The final consummation?

Will the King come to reclaim us?

Will He crush the head that strikes us,

As foretold from the beginning?

Or will we fall into despair,

As we let abomination,

Best known with skies of sulfur,

Take hold of this great country?

And worse, the Bride of Heaven,

What’s here on earth among us,

Or at least the part that man has

Who is feeding off its mother,

Reject the milk that nursed it,

And turn to self-delusion

As if self creates creation,

Drinks instead the well of magic,

Of the mystics, and cabalists;

Of the masons, and the pagans,

Places stock in autogenesis,

As they quest to find omega –

Suck the worm that dieth not.

Tanshuman,

Posthuman,

Heretics and liars.

How to break this weary bondage?

As the clergy chase the dragon,

Chase his tail into the fire,

The burning of Gehenna,

That raw unquenching fire,

With shrieks and cries and gnashing,

Lose the right and name of fathers,

But in vain they scuttle forward.

A cold and blind obedience

They demand as if a birthright.

They lead us to our downfall,

Forsake the whole tradition,

Leaven words with grains of evil,

Leave us in a painful quandary.

Blame the movement of the “spirit,”

And defenestrate the Church.

We hate to break authority,

Yet we can’t abide their teachings,

Forsake the book and lessons

And what’s written in the Prophets,

And told by the Apostles,

And deepened by the Fathers,

And reflected by the Councils,

The words of the Messiah,

And of His Holy Mother.

(Χαῖρε, Kεχαριτωμένη!)

Even if they make us martyrs,

By dry or open glory,

Alone or if broadcasted

At the hands of Mahound’s minions,

Who slaughter like great butchers

Ever since the seed that sired them,

Like their bothers, like their fathers,

Poured open from the wasteland,

Reaping deserts with the whirlwind,

Now parading through our cities,

Coming down the generations,

Running, racing with a blood lust:

Holy Martyr, Father Hamel,

Empty coastlines of Hispania.

Will we wallow in the embers?

Paint our faces with the cinders.

Let our tears etch out the blackness,

As we cry out for forgiveness.

Can we rent our clothes asunder?

Can we fight like the Cristeros?

The Crusaders?

Regain the grit of Christians

And stop groveling and sinning

Before dark an’ ancient Egypt.

Or will this last night of Europe

Leave its weapons on the wall?

At least stand to face the dying,

Or try to see it coming.

Avenge the fallen soldiers

Who lie buried and forgotten,

Who died fighting for a country,

An idea that lost its moment to

The wild abomination

Who took office glibly smiling.

The thin man, son of Kansas.

The enfleshment of this nexus,

Distorting every word and

Inverting each intention,

Feeding Moloch with his actions,

Killing Godfrey with his PSYOPS.

Preaching words that make us weaker,

Lying thrice in each encounter,

As to gaslight half a country,

Or the world.

Precursor.

Habemus doppelgänger.

Has it altogether passed us?

Left us all with few decisions.

Circled tight by those who hate us,

Pushing closer, growing quicker.

Circled round by those who love death,

And would rather kill our children,

Than see the earth more burdened

To ensconce their Sister Nature,

And maintain their medications,

And persist with predilections,

And continue in their error –

Teaching others their perversions,

Wrecking men and souls for profit,

Organizing what they conjure.

Suffering the grand delusion.

Abomination, desolation.

Russia’s errors in the bloodstream,

Strewn wide by the monopoly.

Where to turn in present darkness?

Look around for something better,

Is there nothing looking at you?

But silence,

And the contracepted families

lying vacant and accosted,

Courting mystery and darkness.

Who, to hunt their relaxation, swap

abortion for invasion.

The homicide selection

In the aisles of despair,

Who embrace the thought that stops thought –

smoke of Satan in our lives.

But what found Castilian roses

On the hill of Tepeyac?

Or upon the lupe river

Where the Lady lay at rest.

She was hid in times of plunder,

When old Europe failed the test,

For the time when Reconquista,

Stood to fight the crescent quest.

Now the Aztec, Quatlasupe

Invigorates conversion,

Where the daughter of Khadija,

Bears in reverence to the Virgin

That the children find salvation,

Turn the face from carnal teachings,

From the lies and the misgivings,

(And the technocratic myth.)

Short of arms, but crown of roses

and the symbol of our sire,

Son of Heaven, Flesh of Mother,

With the moon beneath her feet,

(Tilma bears the upset crescent)

And the stars upon her head.

Pray for us, oh shepherd children

That we might by grace to glory

Find rebirth within the luna,

Or consume the spotless Corpus,

And approach to make our offering,

And endure until the end.

“In time,

One faith, and baptism,

One Church, that’s Holy,

Catholic,

Apostolic and eternal.

Penance, penance, penance!

Heaven.”

In the Year of Mercy, 2016

COPYRIGHT © 2016 - Christopher R Moore - All Rights Reserved