The Age of Aquarius

Started on 15th November 2016
An Apocalyptic Poem by Daniel Blackmore


Dark nights and hallowed winds are moaning.

Foetal shaped are the faithless sleeping.

Sleeping in the watery dark under illuminations of the sky.

Habitats of the Unawoken,

The beguiled keepers of dumbness,

Sleeping below a doom-filled heaven, the theatre of forces,

Above something gathered at the edge of silent villages.

A pack of beasts has come

From the wildlands, from the marshlands, from the darkest ocean.

Beside the village, there the thickets grow,

Where in a hovel lurks the moon watcher, eyes aglow.

And eyes are all around, red with malignant waiting;

Nostrils twitching at the scent of babes,

Slipping plump and wet from wombs.

They are the monoculture of the fields,

The blown chaff of the wilted heads;

Weeping, crowding, scattered,

Rotting under tread.

Have you caught the message vaunted from the heights?

The last scream of a dying soul, tortured,

The riddle in the dancing, the symbols in the eye,

A pale skull jittering upon the lively mask,

And death the vestments of a living corpse.

Oh, the piper plays to the ringing yelps of little ones,

And giddy are his jaunts, their innocence it taunts

Into madness and evisceration of their unspoken self.

Oh, the piper plays his tunes to slay their dreams,

Before they flower into lily purity,

And set them ready for the coming sordity.

The truth is coming on the wing of angels,

Written on the bronze forehead of the king,

The crown of knowledge shining the glory

Of the Word that brought forth the light.

Yet into this long dark night we go,

Having not friend as friend but only foe as foe.


The widow, hulked and clawed; smeared, stained lips,

Hair like strands of moonlight and shadow,

Teeth that rattle in their sockets

And a tongue of viper’s muscle.

She is there, beckoning in the Age of Aquarius.

The house of the woman shall rise,

And in her teeth shall be the torn appendage of man.

She rises in the debauchery of her lust;

She strikes against the child and cuts his eye,

And drinks the blood of her children’s fornications,

And burns the homes of mothers

That they be childless slaves of bonds of money,

And perpetual boys hot with lust will be never-fathers,

And their reverie begets alone empty pleasures,

Not sons nor daughters.

The widow calls all nations as her own.

She has made her seat among them.

In the tower of her licentious power

She has brought the kings to their knees.

Where her sacrifice is to her assumed deity

Through the beast that comes upon the altar,

Seeking fire and astral light, shunning the Son.

The widow has eaten all her children and consumed her husband.

The effluence of her bowels streams out in the sea that overwhelms her.

Her claws are grasping sand in the waves that count her days,

And even the fish are knowing of her disaster as they die of her poison.

See by the shore the brother of man has kindled a fire,

And he smiles at the sea, the waves,

That count out the number

Of the end of days.


I go by the brook that speaks of goodness deep and free.

I go by the gardens, lit by morning effervescence through a silken shroud.

I go by the sound of birds that call me to the inner sanctum.

I go to see the child they keep there in her cage.

The one they call the Unspoken Self.

The one that knows not her sin nor sainthood,

But makes old men cry to look upon her.

For her face is both love and sadness bound as one,

And her smile is the beginning and end of all first hopes,

Of all good things that are born, or borrowed from,

The blessed light.

I have seen the bird there,

The one that flew from Africa to India,

From China to the Brazil coast.

The messenger of peoples,

The song of suffering shrill from her beak.

And she had flit from twig to reed,

And barely bit a nut or seed but gone to flight,

To faster winds that drove her up,

And onwards to the never-ending night,

To learn an ever sadder song.

Go down you elect of Eden, down to the original spring.

In your ardour you will be safe behind the flaming sword,

And the wine of gladness in the glade shall sparkle ruby red.

The laughter shall echo in the woods.

We shall bring a choir of children dressed in white,

And you, my love, shall bring your goodness enrobed.

You shall bring our firstborn to the celebration of us who dwell in the simple ways.

The prayerful people that in their weakness are made strong.

For a time, in the pause of long drawn summer evenings,

We shall collect a harvest made of solemn vows:

Of God to bring the rain, of the farmer to bare the arm,

And to the store houses we shall gather in the loads.

We shall have our short days of peace,

And kindle love in tears, knowing that these days shall cease.

Then we will give up our firstborn in obedience.

For sacrifice alone can dredge deep the human heart,

And reach the height of Godhead.

But this sacrifice that has eternal generations,

Not the feast and orgy of the damned.

The darkness is coming fast and thick,

And a super moon of gory light leers at the sight

Of the storm that starts to ravage the places we spent

Our days of gladness.

What shelter can we go to?

The land is riven and the mountains rent.

The floods are overwhelming and the skies torment.


There stands the weathered stone of Sinai.

The highway goes up from it.

But in these days there no one treads,

And all the byways are congested.

The mists in Beth Peor are still;

No voice of rebuke rings out.

The unknown grave of the one who saw,

Is dust undisturbed near the land he hoped for.

The brother of man is on the Ancient Road alone.

The seeds are cast about him on the rocks.

No rain comes from the darkened skies.

All that starts for the light, withers and dies.

Look to the barren heights and see.

They perform their acts by the roadside.

In the light of day they ravish and are ravished.

By the Ancient Road they pay for defilement,

And any that step up on that oldest path,

They strike their heel and stone them,

And leave their bodies for the crows.

“We shall not walk in it,

We shall not walk in it.

For we have made a way upon the heights

Where we can see beyond the ancient road.

Our way leads the world to the place of peace,

To the consciousness of the Age of Aquarius.”


From the darkness come the howling beasts of hell,

But from the darkness comes the figure of God.

From the fire come the fighting hordes of Hades,

But out of smoke and fire are carried the tablet stones.

Oh, Synagogue of Satan this is your time.

This is your thirty three years, your age renewed.

The outer plane is cleared for your crowning edifice;

Your Babel reconstructed.

The Christs are coming on the winds of power.

They are the twins of one mystic womb.

They are the harbingers of the approaching doom.

But one is made of man’s deceit,

And there are no holes of suffering

In his gilded feet.

But one is a potent headship,

A brother: a traitor,

In their hidden ring.

But one is an empire of compliance,

Not a kingdom forged by the choice

Of each willing heart.

The world was moulded like a ball of clay

In the vice of the Christ of Man,

As he engineered by the tricks of his hand

The deadened consciousness of the Age.


The Age of Aquarius rose like a mountain,

By logic and vice, with power and might,

With control in the guise of compassion.

Lies shouted day and night to numb the ears

So that ears can nought discern but lies as truth.

With amoral charity shaping division,

By the longing for a saviour in wounded hearts

That makes the victim aid their masters to hide

The horror and terror of all their designs.

The mountain rose to the heavens and filled the earth,

And a lamb came alone, small and unchallenged,

And its bleat sounded out so all could behold,

And know the end of the Age has begun,

The profanity of Aquarius is done.


The Root of Jesse shall come up.

His resting place shall be glorious.

His grave will be all-conquering.

Jealousy and hostility shall cease.

Ephraim and Judah shall be as one.

The new heaven and earth is waiting

For the Servant Christ of God,

Who can call it forth as the old spins to ruin,

Who can bring the willing hearers of revelation

To the Father’s Age never ending.

The Root of Jesse shall arise to the light.


To the limits, in the shadows, in the cold,

A stealthy beggar tracks the road at night.

The villages are black, the trees are gaunt,

Children sleep in warmth behind the veil

Of love and health in heart and home.

Awake, my people, awake and bear your new doom,

Your awful vision filled with death and hate in bloom.

They are lost, my people, married to another groom:

The bewitcher man of poisoned mercy from an open tomb.

I wept and wept for who is worthy?

Not one is fit for the task of God.

Each is like a rabid dog at the mercy

Of their terminal moral disease.

Barking and bounding into the wilderness,

Scarred by fears their jailers drugged them with,

Straying between calamity and crisis.

Never to lie at the hearth in comfort,

But chased in fright along the alley ways of night.


Yet see there, in the upper rooms.

A gathering is keeping watch in the small hours

Waiting for the brilliant dawn of God.

The Age has come and the Age has gone,

For the Way and the Truth and the Life has won.