To Kill A Crooked Raven

Posted: January 8, 2013 in Uncategorized
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Aphrodite’s Child (1972) The mystery name of the child who narrates this song is unknown. (Flight Instructions: Press arrow, and listen to song while proceeding to read the following story.)

By Tess Doberville

The last attack was the very worst. There had been several attempted home invasions, and at least one man was abducted and taken to the bank to draw cash out. The prayer demons hard at work this time made sure they envoked the other spirits from the time they woke up until the time they went to bed for the loud sound of the machines to fill the alley and the street. The armies filled the streets of the city looking for them. No one knew where they had come from. No one knew where they had gone. Yet, it was at this time that the protectors chose to file an unannounced vacancy. The soldier simply disappeared. The thin air of the absence spoke volumes which only the scientist discerned. Of course, she reasoned, it was very bad for this covering troupe to leave. This very wicked act was extensively noted in the book and with great detail, along with exact journal entry date complete with the time they did it.

On the other hand, the evil troupe, actually allowed to advance for reasons not understood ~ They loved to torment the abused and the already mad they drove there. Cackling late into the night, they lit fires that God  extinguished. They persisted while the angels told them to stop. They lied. They caroused. They tried to brush what they did away by pushing false joy to cover up the true evil they really were. They ignored the warnings of God, and did anything to torment where rivers of torment had already long since flooded to overflow the precipices of the body of the thing. Went past the days and days and days of the undercurrent of the hoodwink ~ Where only ravens licked her raw bones. This felt good. At least something came that cleansed like blood and although the ravens secretly prayed the witchcraft to cause an underlying evil of black rain and to persuade evil judges to place children in the homes of criminals to get their sick revenge ~ For it was they, the crooked raven that sucked the energy of the strong passion fire of good out and while crept through alley ways of a windy marzipan desert of a darker depth, only thought they hid themselves, and chanted at nothing. For their dull words and cold serial killer slow cunning, the mighty spirit whisked in at times and then at times again to see and note them in the book for worshipping darkness. And even not knowing, they can pray all this they want to pray, but it is going to remain there as a thick darkness to mark them as they already know, as planetary criminals forever.

But like some antagonist scathe artist eventually trumped and hung by the king husband of Queen Esther, the bald man failed to even temporarily hide the identity of his own soon noosed neck. And just like that man who falsely accused her poor uncle who he did not know was her uncle of a crime he did not commit, others rode on the crest of their own sharp crimes too, unchecked, as yet. The wrecking crews would be here soon. They bragged. They threatened the prophet. They built a gallows. In secret, they tapped Choice Buyers Ministries, a more socialistic government function of these latter 2050 days. They had all the big bucks. They knew exactly what to do. They would chant and say they were the white witch. While all the while, her numbers were only one on one facet and legion on another. They loosed them you know, this army of demons against the lambs. How else could they buy big space suits with outer spikes so big that rusty nails going in deep to the bottom soul of the foot felt sweet and cool compared to these plowing crusaders. And then the glorified desert vacation stretched on.

In the meantime, the suffering lay gagged and dying in hothouses just like the rock-n-roll con artist at the night club who often sang, Somebodie’s Gonna Get Hurt Tonight. Somebody really did have to get hurt or heartbroke that night. And they would be forced to go to work the following week and sit at their office desk all week long, hurting. Jilted. Because he or she left and went home that night with someone else. The painful week always led the hurting one back to the techno nightclub the following week for a drink and a new fresh face to solve the pain. This is how the revolving door of the nightclub businesses kept making their money, as they would fast be out of business if they did not do whatever they had to do to break a heart with disappointment. This is what the fake tent ministry of the new socialist agenda did. They made sure somebody died in every town. No, really died. No pain. No selfish gain for money or fame.

One used the witchcraft. And the other who made the problem for the person in the first place said, now you must come to us. Depend on us. As we and not God are your only answer. In doing this, they became God. In doing this, the great God of the planetary realms they made to bow down to the cult group advantage. Anyone who tried to leave after that was always promised, death, poverty and a great and lasting destruction. If it did not happen, they would enforce it. Entering only the bodies of the dumbest of the others through astral soul projection, they worked against the scripture of the old book to use the words to their own advantage ~ They knew that there are many sleepers who refuse to awake and see what is really going on.

Not like her schizophrenic friend who even with multiple personalities and who often lost patches of time and disabled her from reading or writing at times, still she struggled through it and kept her feet moving as a nomad Jesus slowly progressing through the tundra. These burlap robes flapping behind her. She felt close to the friend, and at times felt as the two as one or more. God, how the cloth of the beast of burden felt like such a trapping at times. She knew she was not born this way. “Asimov, I up your Asimov.” She said. But, only to herself. And while one and one don’t make two, I’m looking for that free ride to me. I’m looking for you. The lone, sick record player sitting atop a white, Greek, stone houseplant stand droned on constantly. As she walked forward through the moving sand on her journey to this place. Pink hair.

Why would anyone fall in love with a man with pink hair who actually showed his raw chest on the stage of the desert here? The singer did things the teacher at the national government military school would have sent you to the principal’s office for. But that was light years hence, and neither here nor there. “So, let’s get back to the book,” with enough said. And without leaving her own body, her mind consulted Jeannie. “Magic Jeannie,” she said. “You are the one who is sharp and always takes care of all of the business. What is your assessment of the current desert stay?” Jeannie spoke forthright and never lied. Her meat was logic and she always saw the heart of a matter and a person.

“Have you fallen in the last twelve months due to a lack of immobility?” Inquired Jeannie. She rarely falled these days. But all around her, the fallen had verily crumbled at many and a thousand times. Hearts failed, and it was also written daily for lack of sustenation. She turned to face her inner Buddha, actually the concrete veil of the soul within her. He surfaced every time the troupe of tricky dicks showed up to fool her into saying or doing something distant from her natural self, as truly this was her sacred outer ego. So far, the only people these actually truly mad entities had tricked had been themselves and themselves alone. “Inner Buddha,” she addressed him. “How far have we gotten with exploring the amount of black leather the treacherous ones have stored in their rain warehouses at the desert base?” “It is hard to tell,” said he. “After all, the rain falls there constantly.” “It never rains in California. But boy, don’t let em warn ya,” I said. “They don’t live in California anymore?” He queried. “Their church in San Fran Disco has collapsed?” “Some time ago,” the voice inside of my head assured. He always led and guided righteously. At times, he felt the need to travel to foreign lands. And when he did this, Miracle Girl, stepped in. When this personality was called upon, she was capable of being used for incredible feats. Inner Buddha never had time to write letters. But while she was in this mode, Miracle Girl never had time to read them.

They laughed when she was herself. Of course, they never opened their mouths when they prayed. But where did the power come from? The secret is, there is no secret. They had none. “Spatial Preacher!” Screamed the opposing wiry woman with cat eye glasses. “She spoke above a whisper during the prayer service.” She remarked. Prophet woman had only warned the saddening few who attended The Magnolia Arena to “wake up.” She felt she had to shout it as everyone there was fast asleep. She only wanted to stop the snoring of the Ministerial Cabinet of the antebellum. An emotion which greatly troubled her, still, the wiry eyeglass girl made fun of the woman prophet behind her back, mocked the prophetic warning, and her only erring thought? That she pleased the God man through and through with such evil. She felt as if she did God a favor. But soon he would get very sick. Soon things would spill. But too late. The headship of this particular planetary dome would someday find out that wiry girl worked as a secret spy to deliver a negative assignment to them on behalf of Choice Buyer Ministries, who also wisely tricked and hoped to someday destroy the antebellum, who it seemed had blindly helped them to sabotage their own selves. Key, they wrongly surmised, to the banishment of the good woman.  Along with the fight of the support team of the Ministerial Cabinet of the antebellum to find a more droning and lazy rest, little did they know, someday they would walk in her very own space shoes.

And everyone else, glad beyond all measure to have the Jeremiah annoyance gone, fell quickly back to sleep and shortly lost out mightily. “Jesus said this.” Boomed the two inch high intergallactic space speaker, with dimensions of mega watts many, and perched atop a rock: If they will not welcome and listen, to dust your small feet off and move on. The group had missed a true visitation. Spatial Preacher, who belonged to the social government network infra trac of Who Are You and the rock-and-roll new aged other Galatia system geared more toward future moon condos, always hid in walls. On Sunday, and once during the week, he floated out on thin air, perfectly levitated seven exact feet above floor level, in accordance with the perfecting of the written word and wearing a fresh pressed pair of blue Levis and with bare chest said many things of no account, which all of the drugged listened faithfully to.

Miracle Girl never did a thing when people hurt her. The Great Spirit Man always protected her sooner or later. Sometimes she prayed against later. Tumbling and turning, inside of the lottery ticket cage, she was a lottery ticket. Although she was not at all getting seasick, she prayed hard for God to unlock the cage and stop the mad movement. As a child with her father, she considered this fun. However, now these erratic and busy adventures insulted her. Time, a non reality, still she kept some tabs. She needed every moment to solve the mystery of the day. The scientific concept of endless time did not contrast with her desire to live like the dull and cuddled ones. She pinched herself. Had she become like them yet? Had her personality faded? She must return to the drawing board, or as was her case to the chalkboard to accomplish this. She scribbled the remembered formulae there and immediately began working a mathematical solution to explain the mind of a such a one.

This could very likely answer the question resulting from the scientific theory that, can a person be brain-dead and still function? This she knew, was explored in other areas of scientific study. The experiment of exploring men on beaches and how they seemed to mirror a dead man on a beach with perfect concision. Molecules spoke endless theories. Automatic functions describe going through the motions with no thought of an afterlife of the thing. “I will never talk to him again,” she thought carefully. Making her mark she knew, she had drawn the definitive line in the sand and marked her kingdom boundary. “He abandoned me at the height of my study on adverse human behavior.” Oh well, ner’ the mind. She turned back to her work, and steadied her body against the blast of the desert winds all around. A work desk in the middle of a desert bush was not necessarily the greatest scenario. The wind did feel good though, and this gave her a perfect seat for observing her new formula. The start of the exploration began with some that looked at more life than death at the beginning:


The trigonometric formulae for harmonic frequency, the sum of two harmonic functions of the same frequency. The method works finely for the multiple persons. Her crew of scientists within her soul sprung up to go to work immediately to solve the mystery. And while it is true that the formulae must as a scientific surety work to satisfy both expressions ~ The duality is to singularity as a good and opposing troupe is to the positive formulae of the one that gives power to the good woman scientist to bring down The Troupe of The Crooked Raven.

Ephesians 5:  It is a shame euen to speake of those things which are done of them in secret. 13But all things that are reprooued, are made manifest by the light: for whatsoever doth make manifest, is light. 14Wherfore hee saith: Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall giue thee light. 15See then that yee walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, 16Redeming the time, because the dayes are euill.


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