Millions of warm bodies surround me, Yet I feel so distant and cold, It doesn’t get better than this, Or at least that’s what I’m told!
But in my time spent out there, T’would appear I’ve come to disagree, Day by day, night by night, I’m Shocked by how unhinged they prove to be!
Can I really count myself As another one of you, Would I, embracing the so-called reality Of my existence, feel it to be true?
Love; it’s what I’m told to Meet you with, as one of my theoretical “own”, Freely give it out and dole, However, I find it difficult to love those Who so clearly lack a soul!
It hurts to breathe, Very well may suffocate, Damned to live and die as one of them, Bitter tears roll as a result of my bitter fate!
Condemned from birth, I feel like a walking hearse, Getting shoved into this species is a curse, “Neigh!”, screams my heart to these destroyers of Earth, So I’ll just walk away and leave you to burn, Even as you roast, I doubt you’ll learn!
It’s something humanity has conditioned itself into believing for aeons.
That we are all alone, in this universe, which was concocted solely for us to inhabit, by forces that are simultaneously all-encompassing and extremely personal. Able to be grasped by the frail human mind and be touched, communicated with, whilst occupying a vast, unknowable territory far beyond our existence.
Perhaps to make our chance appearance on Earth seem more important than it truly was. Blow out of proportion what was likely one of the many dice-rolls of the perpetual chaos that is the cosmos. Give us that sense of grandiose pride that told us, “we, in fact, do matter”. Mankind seems to be the only terrestrial being who has a pathological obsession with what their existence means, why it means that, where it comes from, and who could’ve caused it. As far as anyone is aware, no other creature seems to be too concerned with these matters. Maybe that’s for the best. They seem freer and happier as a result.
What does one do when they’re confronted with the fact that…maybe we are not alone, when it comes to…out there? How is an individual supposed to react in the presence of unknown factors which reveal to us that the yawning abyss, the endless depths of incalculable infinity, the gaping maw of that which we don’t know, cannot ever know, and, most controversially, shouldn’t know…we are, indeed, in the presence of something else?
Apparently, all you can do is grip the knuckles of one’s steering wheel and slam one’s foot to the gas pedal, in pure shock, absolute terror, eyes gazing at everything you did not know. Teeth clenched as the…the…thing…appeared to be actively pursuing you.
But before that, you notice the peculiar shape in the sky. So bizarre, so otherworldly, so out of place is it…that all you can do is try to block out its existence from one’s mind, in a desperate attempt to say, “that wasn’t there”. But it was. That was no dream. And it knows that you know it was there.
Suddenly, you’re not where you were before. It looks similar. Not the same, but similar. However, details are off. The scenery you were used to driving past in your car for countless months was now foreign, alien, in ways that it shouldn’t have been, for it had not changed ever since you’d come to know it.
Your heart had never pounded this hard before, and probably never since you saw that mobile, dark mass of what-the-fuck-is-that coasting over the field, hovering idly atop what you had always known to be an empty patch of desolate grass and dirt. No doubt a harsh reminder that you and your bipedal kin were not masters of reality, and did not know all, did not perceive all, did not experience or even come close to understanding all.
In those moments, aeons of belief are shattered like fine china, reduced to little else but past comforts.
Your boot is eager to come down Upon my windpipe, To crush and stomp out and Server me from my connection to life, Eager to dig in your heel, Grind it into my chest, Malice in your cold, dead eyes As you lay me to rest!
Come and see our newest king, O’ supreme overlord of all that exists, No more room for us to breathe For our continued existence makes him pissed, Hands drenched in the blood of our kin, Mouth tainted with the stench of death, Proudly wearing us upon his skin, Billions fall with a single breath!
Fists were smashed right into my face As the insults were screamed over and over, Kicking and flailing with all of my strength But it’s no use; I’m only guaranteed a demise so much slower, And they wonder why I cannot sleep at night, Looking over my shoulder as I cross a path, I’m haunted by him, the strangler of life’s light, Doomed to flee from my home to escape his wrath!
Rivers of red have flooded the streets, Tidal waves of crimson borne from pure deceit, Burning carcasses are seared into my brain, Hammering appendages upon soft surfaces drives me slowly insane!
A plaything for the master, Or at least that’s what I’m told, Can I be blamed for thinking they’re bastards When their god cursed me to not fit their mold?
Perhaps some day it won’t be this way, Yet I highly doubt I’m anyone’s priority, Left in the dust after being torn and flayed, At the mercy of a ravenous majority!
Hell is real, I see it every time I open my eyes, Don’t tell me about your problems; from birth I’m despised, Concoctions aplenty made just to bleed me dry, It hurts so much, I’m no longer strong enough to cry!
Sentenced once I exited the womb…
Before I could walk, constructed for me was a tomb…
Antlers covered in the blood of another Who thought they could just slaughter In this holy place the beast and their own Have always known to be home, Entrails decorating sharpened bone like a crown, Hooves trudging through the blood That drips upon the ground, Eager to bring back another trophy So it could be mounted on the wall, But now their insides are mounted Upon a cervid’s head, the would-be killer forced to crawl…
Teeth clasp around the throat, On the blood, the bastard chokes, Several pairs of jaws from the pack Dismembering while the trespasser’s on their back Claws digging through the chest As the fucker’s laid to rest, Spilling guts while they eat, Life’s liquid leaves the body and slowly depletes, Dirt stained red, A potential killer dead, Jugular is leaking, Blood junkie no longer fiending…
Beaks peck at the sockets Of a scumbag with shells Nestled in their pockets, Slumped up against a trunk With the roots growing ‘round their ankles, Body long since having long been slumped, Food for the little ones that nibble at the flesh, Delighted to have food so fresh, Flora and fauna nourished by the dripping crimson, Having foiled another scumbag’s mission, Branches and bark having made their incisions, And those who don’t partake Gaze on appreciatively, for this specimen that tried to Walk among them was never, to them, ever great…
It suffers from the type of hunger which never goes away. A ceaseless, agonizing, relentless, unbearable hunger that can never, ever be satiated, no matter much is shoveled into its bottomless gullet. Each hour, of each day, it roars with a horrific roar that demands an unbearable amount of material be fed to it. Sacrificed, if you will. Those who do not meet its demands are…well, never heard from again. Perhaps they became outlaws, plotting to wage war against it, hiding either in plain sight or on the outskirts beyond the reach of the monster. Maybe…maybe they just…disappeared.
What does it hunger for? Any and all things. The soil, the water, the minerals, the air, the sky itself. And it shits out distorted, warped, twisted, mangled versions of these things. Water as black as the air it breathes out from its lungs once it has begun digesting soil and what was contained in the soil, or the rock, obscuring the blue shield of our home in the process. Does the hunger cease? Don’t be silly. The hunger…never…ceases. Even if those who work for the damned thing wanted the hunger to cease, the accursed beast would still compel them to provide nutrients, sustenance. Its influence is all-consuming, ever-expanding, never-ending. Beckoning all whoever come into contact with it to serve its tyrannical interests with a demented, insane sort of selflessness. For it considers service towards its sickening ends to be virtuous. To be one of its subjects, is to be duty-bound to it…for life. A blood pact is made with it once you join up with it. You can never leave…ever.
You think it stops there, don’t you? You think that’s the end of the line?
Oh…oh you poor thing.
We’ve only just begun.
Subjects become the prey. Whoever greases the machine, is eventually bound to become swallowed by it. Churned up and crushed, grinded into bits of meat for it to enjoy, and, maybe, make something new out of it. After all, it’s always on the cutting edge. Innovation. Progress. Always inventing. Just don’t question where all this comes from. Don’t think about it. Blind yourself to the pools of blood on your hands, my dear. Forget about the maddening screams of the wailing ghosts of all the dead that float all around and grab at your ankles from below the ground. Anyway, if it doesn’t steal your flesh, then…then it’ll just steal your soul instead. If it can’t make you dead on the outside, it’ll make you dead inside. Young, old, it does not matter. Upper, lower, you become a slave to it all the same. Fucker or breeder (because those are the only two distinctions it makes between its subjects; those who fuck, and those who breed…those who make, and those who deliver), the hammer pounds upon you all the same. The gears whir their cackling, maddening whir whether you like it or not. No consent required om your end. It’d be silly to think it ever needed it…
Not to mention, all of the…victims, subjected to its insatiable whims. Packed in dozens deep. Cramped into conditions so squalid and miserable, that it makes those of the subjects seem like paradise. Never seeing the sun. Never seeing the sky. But, wait, the sun is blocked out by thick clouds of hateful, acrid smoke, and the sky is now tinged with a dingy, decrepit, dull color that makes one’s nose bleed and eyes burn. Whole families. Fathers conditioned to force themselves on what could’ve been mates, lovers, all for the sake of creating children who will later be turned into meals for the subjects, who know not where all of this comes from, and how it got onto their plates. Cut up, beaten, burned, tortured, flogged, raped…eaten. And those who partake in all this, well…they are the dead flesh walking. Zombies that talk and breathe. Their hearts stopped beating long ago…and the blood is now in their veins. Frosty, like fresh snow during a blizzard. The pupils of their eyes disappearing as they brutalize the victims in ways that are simply too tragic to describe. And…and those with roots…who come from the ground…just slaughtered en masse. Gotten rid of. Later repurposed, stoically and precisely, with chilling precision, into…into…well, useless things that will eventually be gotten rid of immediately. Their lives worth about minutes, perhaps even seconds, of attention, at most. Deprived of lives, of a chance to exist. Trampled underfoot by the marching of the iron heel. So rhythmic, so perfect…so, so disturbing…
The world becomes warped to how it desires existence itself to be. All shall be constructed as a large, concrete rectangle. This shall be the template of the future. Built upon the holy shape of the square, with constantly observed innards kept up with by frightened, starving, weary wastrels who see no other alternative to this den of putridity and nastiness. All hail the grid, all hail the foreman and the cameras he employs to make sure you keep his god alive (it is a god, it is a god, and we must kill the god…but how can we kill the god; is it even able to be killed…can we?). But the god doesn’t need us, does it? Even without our help, it’ll never be a broken god. It won’t allow itself to fall into disrepair, allow itself to go unmaintained and lose its power. See, the god is slowly gaining more and more of a foothold, and soon, the god will be here to stay. It won’t need us, or anything made of flesh, bone, blood, chlorophyll, wood, or leaves anymore. Not to keep it going. Feast? Oh, it shall definitely still feast. But it’ll invent new ways of making sure it survives, and thrives. Becoming autonomous in the process. A free machine. An unbound deity of nightmarish proportions.
Escape? Is that an option? Maybe now. Here and now, potentially. Hopefully (gah, hope, such a funny…funny thing…heh…). While it’s not entirely too late. But the window is closing, fast. Evade, outwit, distract. Get out while you still can. Or fight, fight however possible. No matter how small, no matter how fruitless. Buck against it, swing your fist, scream at it, damage it. Just do it, in whichever way you come across or think about, even. You will weaken the grip it has on you, loosen the mental and maybe even physical chains that bind you. Refuse, resist. Nothing will change, but freedom, liberation, will start to become known to you. Do what thou wilt, because that is the opposite of its law. Not its law. Never was. Do what it wills, yes.
It’s all thanks to you.
What? This is what you wanted…right?
Pay your dues to the devil you have created.
Yes, penance is not cheap…is it?
Can you hear it groaning for more? Aching for more? More, more it needs…
In the background, She stands Tall, shadowed And silhouetted, Robed, concealed, Beautiful and grotesque, Wonderful and wretched, All at once Whenever the veil covering her, The thin veneer that hides her away, Is, away, peeled.
Bony, pale, and gaunt, Clearly looking the Part of an exhumed cadaver, Eyes as dark as voids, Minds She cannot help but haunt.
Taciturn, aloof, Born from the Most High, Our Mother herself, Without need or want.
Yet peculiarly splendid and striking, Endlessly charming and beautiful Despite the uncanny image Which meets thine eyes, Mixing the most gorgeous and ghastly visage, Demanding the undivided Attention of one’s gaze, Mystifying and alluring, seductive, even, As She draws you into a kind of daze.
Terrifying, but also a Strange sense of comfort and Even warmth is drawn From Her aura; you cannot Quite place it, but you know It’s there, and you feel compelled Towards it, drawn to it, For it always lurks, in all that Lays claim to this thing called “life”.
You know Her, and yet you Do not; both distinctly foreign And oddly familiar.
Marked upon Her brow Is a curious brand. A warning sign To the clay-born Offspring of wretched man.
In the grip of Her left hand Standeth the eldest of deadly Tools meant for the slaying Of man. Sower of seeds, tiller of Ground, harvester of the fruit Bared by the forbidden gardens, Cause of the first blood to be shed Upon the fresh, newborn land.
Hire instrument, Faithful and stinging, To Her, always clinging, Is this tilling thing, by the tip, Dripping with blood. Eternally Spilling from the blade And nestling into the soil, Feebly crying out Whilst descending into the mud.
Auras of a chilliest kind Surround Her essence, Curses falling upon the land Thanks to Her looming presence.
Deep in the crimson river, She stands and wades.
Behind riseth the mountain Of men, young and old, rich and poor, alike, Souls stripped from their flesh By both bullets and blades.
On Earth She was first known When She gave way To a most fearsome son.
From Her, His mark was received, And by His hands, the first Of the holy murders was done.
Oh, how I envy you, bourgeois man. Mass-man. Mr. Satisfied.
Yes, it is true. I feel a pang of jealousy when I see you. I’m sure such a remark would just send that infinite self-assuredness soaring into great depths, wouldn’t it? Fill your wretched face with the most smug of grins, wouldn’t it?
But it is all for the reasons you would not consider.
You are not troubled by…anything. Because you do not think. A philistine, you are. I would contend you are incapable. And because of this, you are not disturbed by anything. You live in an idyllic bubble, pretending as if the world starts and ends with your little, perfectly manicured front lawn, surrounded by a white picket fence. As a result, you go about your day merrily, thoroughly unaware of the horror lurking beyond your gated communities.
Of course, whenever something shatters that stifling dogma of yours, breaches the containment of your perfect world, with its perfect system of bile-producing nausea, sends it crashing into oblivion, then the madness sets in. And you retreat even harder back into that shell, don’t you? Otherwise, the psychosis would set in. You would go mad from the revelation.
And since you do not think, you therefore, do not feel. You may play at emotion, yes. Imitate it, wear some sort of mask that resembles the words we’ve prescribed to various feelings. But I don’t think you really…experience true joy, or sadness, or fear, or love. It may either be beyond your capabilities, or it is something you won’t allow for yourself. Either way, you don’t really feel.
Since you are not prone to either thinking or feeling, you are able to blend in. Be perceived as what the mobocracy calls…normal. Perfectly indistinguishable from the assembly line of persons that the death machine that is our current mode of existence manufactures day in and day out. The matrix is something you’re perfectly content to live within. You never unplugged from it, so you never know the utter wrongness of it. Nay, you don’t even come close to the edges of it, you vulgar beast.
Everything which you champion is a thorough rejection of the real.
Due to your love of mobocracy, your propagation of it, you have a want, nay, a need, to strangle the life of a heretic, an individual, a blasphemer. You, you assailing robots, reprogrammable and able to be switched out, one for the other, want to reduce everything to your level. Drag everything down into that swirling vortex where all light goes dark, and all becomes one with the crushing weight of a thousand suns, burning out whatever life came into contact with your world.
Therefore, the individual is rendered null and void. A stifling conformity is put in place, where anything different, anything that doesn’t fit into the narrow doctrine, is destroyed, snuffed out. Heretical, it is deemed, and heresy, it is treated as. Blasphemy of the highest, most absolute variety. Either extinguish your Self totally and definitively, or simply…face death.
Of course, since there are no individuals, all are one. Not composed of the same essence, flowing from the same wellspring. No, no, that is not what you mean. You mean, in the most literal sense, a degrading sort of sameness. Exactly alike, in all respects. Maybe, perhaps, superficially different. But, at the core, carbon copies of each other. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so sickened, so thoroughly, by variety. It wouldn’t cause bile to rise in your throat.
Epitomize modernity, you do. With its wretched equality, its boorish plutocracy, its meandering dullness, its absolute negativity and contempt, unable to put forth positive values, only blindly negate, saying no to any and all things. You claim to loathe postmodernism, but you embody it to a frightening degree. Naturally, since creations always rebel against their creators. It is only the way of things.
Individuality, because it was negated, mysticism, spirituality, that most individual of things, is burned away, consumed in flames, and therefore, despite your pompous posturing about your nauseous traditions, you are soulless heathens, atheists of a fervent variety.
Because you do not think, or feel…you are not.
Protest it all you may like, you are not real. You are…a fake.
As a result, I envy you. To a staggering degree. A part of me wishes I could be a bourgeois beast like you. Another face in the crowd, who engages in the same mundane thoughts, actions, feelings, worries, likes and dislikes, as you. Sadly, I cannot. I simply cannot. I can’t compel myself to become one with your life, your weltanschauung. And thus, a certain poisonous jealousy sometimes arises within my heart, possessed by a silly want to be like you.
It would surely be very convenient, wouldn’t it? To float through life, as a mass-man. Never rise above the multitude. How easy and carefree it would all be.
Then again…who says I want an easy life? Who says I want a carefree one?
Once more, I am reminded of why I make no effort to join your ranks. I exist among you, but I do not mingle, unless it be necessary for me to do so. I try not to let your vicious taint ruin my soul. I cannot afford to be consumed and eaten away at by your hateful corruption.
I observe, and I interact, but I do not feel for you, or your world. Not genuinely. I wear a mask. Put on a coat and a hat to endure the bitter coldness that surrounds me when I step foot into your domain. Like a chameleon, I blend in when I must. But it is not infinite. I cannot do it indefinitely. After all, I need to breathe. You, who were born without lungs, wouldn’t know of that, would you?
While I may envy you, I also loathe you, and my loathing tempers my envy. Sure, I wish I could simply sink into your venomous waters, swept away by the currents and bashed against the rocks and riverbed, so that I may finally become normal and “sane”. But I am constantly shown the horrific banality and dreadfulness of that existence. How it would be the equivalent of descending into the dark, damp doldrums, and that, while I may have thrived in it, had I remained plugged in, so to speak, once unplugged, to go back in would be the equivalent of murderous torture. I’d be screaming in agony, desperately craving release from the nightmare. My soul would maim itself, and everything else, to crawl out of the malevolent prison it would find itself in.
Do not mistake my envy for a form of respect or admiration. I thoroughly hate you. Despise you. Never, ever, shall I bow to your altar. The lowest form of life is to be found in you, if you could even call yourself…life, at all.
Thanks to my hate, neither of us shall have to endure each other’s company.
The uniformity. It’s maddening. It’s all one can see for miles upon miles. Rectangular cuts that form rectangular shapes. Followed by rectangular cuts that form rectangular shapes. Straight, geometrically precise lines, and nothing else. Perfectly rigid, exceedingly…proper. Mathematically, it’s all so delightfully accurate. But your mind…your mind craves something else. Makes your very soul nauseous and sick. You’re afraid to look anywhere. Everywhere is just that stoic, stern, impersonal regimentation.
Goodness, it all sends a shiver down your spine. Your blood turns into ice in your veins, goosebumps forming along your arms. Eyes darting nervously in all directions. Palms moistened by sweat. Is no one else seeing this? The corridors upon corridors of clinical exactness. All blurring together. Which street is that? What building did you pass? You can’t tell. It all runs together in your vision. All so cut and dry, cut and dry. Did humans even make this?
Looming ever so large, everything around serves to remind you of your infinitesimal existence. The utter insignificance of you. To the people around you, and even to yourself. Swallowed into a kind of…void. A black hole, where any sort of light is ruthlessly drawn in and torn apart, before being gulped down, like a gluttonous man chewing ravenously on steak. Brutalist, so vulgarly brutalist. Possessed with a kind of haunting cleanliness. Yet, it’s all so dirty. Christ, what is that awful smell? It reeks of rot and decay. Perhaps it is humanity’s soul, trapped and dying in this maze of square paths and a hate for all that once was.
Desolation and despair seems to be the order of the day. It teems with human life, yet if it weren’t for that, it’d be a concrete desert. A jungle without an ecosystem. Uninhabited. Inanimate. The very construction of this place seems antithetical to life itself. Quite in opposition to fostering the flourishing of any life. One could argue, indeed, that it does, given the plethora of humans locked within its grid, its four walls, which we never seem quite free from, but while it may breed more of the killers, it also kills the killers themselves. Mortality rates through the roof for infants. Gunshots aimed at either the heads of others or their own heads. Starvation and dehydration. Let it be known, this is a giant factory of death, a concentration camp.
The deeper you go into it, the more you immerse yourself in its levels, the more nightmarish it becomes. Possessed by some sort of devilish character that no one else will admit to. Rotten, you shall become. Dirtier and dirtier, the foul stench clinging to you like the jaws of a wolf to a lone bison. Its taint spreads like wildfire, or a virus, and burrows deep into the depths of anyone brought into its fray. Poisoning them, wrecking their insides. Gnawing away at their innards, scooping out whatever sense of life they might’ve had. A vampire, draining the life of everyone in its vicinity, in order to feed itself. And it is always, always hungry, ravenous, gluttonous, in its endless appetite. Most of them unaware that the venom has seeped in, poisoned their veins.
Emotion? You dare speak or think of emotion here? Nay, you shake your head in dismay. There is none. You can see it in the faces of the passerbys. Blank expressions, with hollow eyes and exposed lines. Reanimated by the false stimuli that the is constantly pumped into their bodies and minds. Jolted by electrifying impulses, to bring about a rush of serotonin and dopamine. Force a smile, even though they’re all empty inside. Whatever they feel, isn’t real.
It can all be boiled down to simple chemical reactions. That’s it. Jolts of the flesh and mind, when reacting to something it’s been trained to salivate at. Pursuing the lotus, whatever form it takes. Wealth, wealth, the sacred cow of our age. Always reminded of it at every turn.
Let it be known, this is not wealth.
The monster knows this.
All the faces blur together. Who is who? What is their name? Don’t know, and you don’t even really care. You see so many of them. Your ability to feel for them dwindles into nothing. Especially since whenever they acknowledge your existence, it’s always a pale imitation of some kind of feeling. It disgusts you, how much you talk like them. Look like them. Feel like them. Act like them. But you haven’t a choice. Well, you do. A slow death, or a quick one.
Complaints arise that people are lost. The morale and the psychological condition of all those around are falling by the wayside. The loss of customs and traditions. The decay of various manufactured values and needs and wants. Descending into the pits of Hell. Various people are scapegoated. For good reason, since there are quite a few to blame. But they’re symptoms of the bigger problem, naturally. Yet, no one wants to address the underlying issue.
Watched, watched all the time. Watchers everywhere. Eyes on every street corner. No privacy, none. Private space? What private space? You’re not safe. Subconsciously, you know you aren’t. It panics you sometimes. Drives you into anxious fits and tumultuous slumbers. Unable to sleep, tossing and turning as everything seems to be closing in on you. Where does it stop? Where does it end? How long can it go on?
It’s enough to make you scream in agony and fear.
Peace and quiet. That’s all you want. Peace and quiet. But you don’t get it. There’s ceaseless noise. An unending stream of loud, invasive volumes. Every piece of wretched machinery belches pure hate out of its throat. Constantly interrupting your train of thought. What were you even thinking about? Oh, nothing. It’s not important. The blueprint for Auschwitz and Dachau said it wasn’t, so, you shrug your shoulders in a dejected manner, shake your head, sighing heavily.
As a result, rest never truly comes. You wondered if you’ve ever really slept. Or been awake, for that matter. Just drifting, floating in the empty void. Are you even real? Is any of this even real? Silly question. Of course it isn’t. It’s all a bad joke. A terrible ruse. Some devious prank played by some foolish men in bygone times.
You want to give in to all the methods that make you want to forget.
But you don’t want to lose yourself.
On the other hand, what is your “self?”?
Could you even know?
Do you even want to?
So, you crave rest. Naturally. You crave the absence of noise. But, ironically, the absence of noise affords you no relief, either, does it? You’ve been conditioned to find a strange comfort in the constant churning of the always present hallways you find yourself stuck within. In the absence of it, you grow anxious. Antsy. Disturbed. In a certain sense, you associate it with death. Insomnia takes you either way.
On the other hand, who’s to say you aren’t already dead? Were you ever really alive?
Your body moves along like a machine, but inside, you’re aware that something is deeply wrong with the very soul you possess.
Packed like sardines in a can. Best way to describe this situation, isn’t it? How utterly trapped you are, being pressed upon by all sides, thanks to the ever-increasing mass. It terrifies you. Frightens you. Surrounded by strangers as sick and loathsome as yourself. Can’t breathe. You feel as if you might choke. Always the lingering sensation of some invisible hand pressing against your throat, squeezing and gripping, crushing your windpipe. And you see shadows that aren’t really there. Yet, who’s to say they aren’t? There’s always a pale look about you. A nervous gleam in your eyes. An ache in your chest that sometimes cripples you.
It’s all a powder keg. Waiting to blow. Sooner or later, it’s going to shatter into pieces. A glass house, trembling as the breezes of time swiftly blow by.
On the map, it says it’s home. By all accounts, the unease stirring in his gullet shouldn’t make sense. Signs point in various direction, all saying they lead here. A most sacred patch, near and dear to his heart. This is where he belongs, his sanctuary. This is his, wholly his. Isn’t it?
But…it’s changed. A lot. Too much. Much too much. Not by its own volition, in the ways it is prone to; through artificial means. The kind that “doomsayers”, as the ignorant deem them, liked to warn about. Vicious, cruel, savage things he’d been cautioned to keep at bay, even dismantle, in various enlightening texts he’s absorbed.
Eyes peeled wide open, face steeped deep in concentration, searching, gazing, for something, arms folded, he peers, straining himself to find…something.
What was he looking for?
But, hmm, where was it?
He…he could’ve sworn it had been right here.
No, instead, it was a truly grotesque sight. A small plaza, fitted with everything a modern man and woman needs. Shops decked with neon lights, conjoined together like Siamese twins, until all of them merged into one giant monument of concrete, windows plastered with papers advertising this or that, saying the food was fresh (liars), or that you couldn’t get this cheaper than anywhere else (everyone says that), maybe a for-hire sign (debase myself? Ha, you were wrong). Mounted atop a huge asphalt slab, packed with motor vehicles, faceless and soulless decadents clamoring out of them. Why? Who knows. Who cares. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth noting. Hardly anything anyone ever does is so. Billboards erected, like giant, permanently erect phalluses, the eternal hard-on that draws in the lustful stragglers, always eager and needy for…something. What are they searching for? It’s unknown, both by them, and those who are not them. The top, the head, ever climaxing, so bright in comparison to the dullness of the shaft. Always trying to assuage each other. Unfortunately, both pits are so deep, so bottomless. How long have they been there, those pits? Ever since the lurking biped started roaming the landscape.
Surely, he must look so odd.
Given the stares and gazes of uncertainty, perhaps even scorn, his suspicions are concerned.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a strong urge to decimate them wells up within his gullet. A bestial, animalistic need to rend them apart. Tear them to pieces. Tear “their property” to pieces. Come to think of it, they’d probably be worried more about the latter, than the former. And this is the free world. So free, it can’t even picture the ball-and-chain attached to its neck. Clench and unclench, clench and unclench. Hands balling into tight fists, then unfurling again like frightened armadillos. Or geysers struck with pitch black gold. The only outward expression of that rage. Otherwise, his fury was tranquil. Well-hidden. Stuffed deep down inside. We are civilized, better than that dingy, mangy world. Don’t give in to the impulses, nay, for then you shall rediscover yourself. What you are. And what you are, we cannot leash. Or cloak.
Oh, the stench. The stench. It was awful. Reeked of foul waste and industrial dross. Discarded material from choking, dark, unholy mills. Dens of depravity spewing forth garbage.
Ugly, too. Absolutely offensive to his sight. Corrupt beyond repair. They twisted and mangled perfectly fine land for this? For this? This…this is their monument of greatness? Aye, it is true. So accomplished, they think themselves to be. Why? Because of this. This…thing.
Would such an outburst change much? Hell no.
Yet, would it bring him much satisfaction? Absolutely.
Perhaps a lifetime’s worth. So, so invigorating.
The man had to wonder, did that old hero that stayed out in Montana…did he feel the same fire, the same embers licking at his soul, sparking a rush of primal excitement to course through his veins, as he made his stand?
A sane Satan against a gibbering Jehova.
Rejoicing in turning these churches into heaping husks.
That poor old German fellow. Yahweh, Christ, was sadly not dead.
Some kind of diabolical shapeshifting had occurred, that’s all.
God’s a sorry excuse for a deity if He lets this slide. Then again, this is God. Transferred into them, via the wretched Luther (thank you, o wise German spirits). The talking, breathing, blood-and-bone machines, that, from what he hears, is God. And, also, though not as explicitly proclaimed, the…eyesores, as he designates these constructions that hefty, cigar-chomping, genetic failures call upon drunken philistines to manifest, via a green hypnotism…these are also known to be God. Even if it is not outright said…
Fools, all of them. In all of their stupidity, what would they know of God? In all of their idolatry, all of their massacring of God itself (herself, actually), quite literally…raping her (proudly, angrily, arrogantly, they got off on it, lived for it, in the most literal manner)…how could they know?
Aha, see, there it was. Yes, they knew not God, but their concocted demiurge. Foul, fiendish creature that is known as Marduk.
He knew God intimately.
God was encountered whenever he laid in the grass, gazed at the stars, leaned against an old, sturdy tree, saw a coyote chasing a rabbit, a duck raising its young, witnessing the sprouting of roses, getting lost in the clear waters of a pristine lake, as well as the fish swimming around in it, basking in the flow of the sun, and feeling and tasting the pitter-patter of rain drops upon his skin. He knew God to be beautiful, sublime, a grand artist with a taste for beauty, creator of a colorful, vibrant, lush world, filled with wondrous beings, and places where these beings dwelled.
God…God didn’t have a hand in this drab, dull, nightmarish, conformist shit heap. She couldn’t have. Nay, this was not her handiwork. Square monoliths, with rotting interiors, a sterilized, soulless den, that nevertheless, was always dirty. You walk in, and feel the need to shower once you’ve gotten out.
It’d be perfectly fair, he thought.
Desecration for desecration.
Ruin their god. Ruin the god that they have been told they are.
Blood for blood, Ruth for Ruth, Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.
Sighing, he realized he’d been here for too long. Made himself more of a stranger than he’d already felt. Stepping forth, across the street, past the plaza, resisting the urge to look at the other human beings, ducking and lowering his eyes or head whenever an individual’s field of vision fixated on him. Barely anything came out of his mouth. If a greeting came his way, he merely nodded, gave an awkward smile, and kept on his way. Plodding along the highway. One foot after the other, making continuous contact with the concrete.
Voices speak of things he couldn’t even care to remember. He wished, oh he wished, to grasp their throats. Shut them up. T’was hardly worthy of recollection. Half-baked humorous remarks told amidst testosterone-riddled youths. Mates trying to woo one another. Conversations on devices, a beggar or two lingering, hoping for reprieve, brats annoying their tired mothers, and tired mothers annoying insolent, petulant brats. Silly, inane arguments. Some of them spoke fondly, in relation to the words of the…preachers, who gladly enslaved themselves and brought to life this new god. Others prattled on about their lives. The chit-chat blurred together into one singular story. Indistinguishable. Lost in a sea of perfect sameness. Who were they? He didn’t know. And neither did they, for that matter. Eyes vacant, devoid of emotion. Breathe, talk, walk, yes, they did all that…well enough. Yet, did they truly live? Were they even capable?
Of course, the peace wouldn’t come, even if their windpipes were shut. Oh no.
Because there was another menace, hurtling right past him, multiples every second. Practically blinding his eyes as the sun began to set (what little he could see of it, anyway; blot out the sun, why don’t ya!). Did the roads ever rest? Did the pavement ever sleep? It certainly should. For his sake, not for the pavement’s. Fuck the pavement.
Hurtling towards death, he liked to think of this travel. Humanity loved death, craved it. Mankind wanted to die. Wanted to kill itself. Come on; what was all this for, if not to satisfy that suicidal drive? In a literal sense, they were hurtling towards death, yes. Or, at least, the risk of it. On the other hand, there was a subtler meaning to such a statement. Faster and faster, towards their own demise, at the hands of progress, of wanting, no, needing…to go forward, always. Ceaselessly. Endlessly.
Well, if they wanted bloodshed and carnage, bloodshed and carnage they could have. Pleading, begging, crying, for their blood to be spilled, flowing out of their veins, onto the ground. Someday, their wishes would be granted. Thy death they demanded? Thy death they’d receive, in full. No questions asked. Might take some time, but soon, the end, their dream, their ideal, on a silver platter, fresh and steaming hot, would it be served.
Besides, they hated the Mother? Good, the mother hated them back. Soon, they’d know it. Maybe not now (although a sizeable chunk are starting to suspect this may be the case; and the children, the brave outlaws that are still authentically connected to her, and wish to be, revolt, as best as they can, every day), but in the near future, it’d be burned into their skulls. Stamped with the label: “HATED”. Rejected, because they chose to reject first. Abandoned, because they chose to abandon first. Sever the connection, and you shall no longer be a child of the Mother. You decided you didn’t want her. It should be unsurprising she no longer wants you.
Treading along the way, his eyes would focus on a corpse. Animal, not human. Humans are worth more, he’s always been told. Yeah? Worth more than what? The creatures they senselessly murder, so they can get to their jobs they hate, or their homes they spend more time out of, than inside? Feed their ever-growing numbers, and ever-growing bodies? Rape the Mother, God, more and more? Tie her up? Drill her real good, over and over? Be blind to Truth, intoxicated instead by lies? Kill each other, for reasons so baffling, he wanted to laugh in their faces? Prostrate at the alter of an Israeli communist agitator, who, if he were around today, should deserve to be strapped to the hood of a truck, and paraded around like a war trophy, whilst lashed endlessly? Did that prove their worth? What were they worth more than? Shit, they weren’t the bullets spent every day in their never ending quest to kill themselves.
A sigh left his throat, though it wasn’t heard. Stopping for a moment, tilting his head as his eyes fixated on it. Splayed out, tongue lolling out, eyes bulging, limbs flung in every which way, maggots digging around in what was no doubt a fresh body.
Sweet thing, you didn’t deserve this. You deserved better.
Time to get a move on. Don’t mourn the dead, or you’ll be deemed crazy. Sent to an asylum, locked away, shocked, beaten, poked, prodded, mentally rearranged to their liking.
He wasn’t crazy. All of them were. Not him. He was sane. A sane Satan.
Fuck. It was hard to think. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t. Needed to hear his own thoughts. Too many distractions. All this noise. Noise, noise, noise. That’s all there was. Just noise. Goddamnit, he’d need some sort of Zen-like concentration to tune out, to turn it into blank, white static. Or someplace like home. That reminded him of home.
There it was.
Snarling, growling, like some kind enraged beast, he ran deep into a large patch of woods. A dense, thick forest on the side of the highway.
Tears blinded his vision, but not tears of pain. Jagged edges and thorns and other such things tore at him, made his skin bleed. Lesser folks would’ve been annoyed, angered. Him? Never. He took this as a welcoming back. Yes, he cried tears of joy. He was home. Hurrah, hurrah. He was home, free at last.
Collapsing to the ground in a heap, having founded a large, open patch, breathing and shaking from all of the adrenaline, a smile finally began to creep onto his face.
What could one Desire more than This, glorious splendor?
Vast, ever stretching, without end, A man could travel for hours, and Still, would the grand much of it Be unexplored. Beacons everywhere Call out, promising new adventures, Surely not to be ignored.
Tranquility, one wants? Here, tranquility, one hast.
Step forth, savoring soul.
Ocular organs peering into lush corridors, head turning About to survey all that makes itself known to you.
So soft, is the ground underneath.
Palpable under your bare heel and toes, calloused Due to all of the rewilding they Have had to endure.
Moist, damp, fresh.
Peculiar scents meet your nostrils, Undoubtedly rising up from the soil, Concocting pleasant vapors that Filled your lungs.
Molding, it seemed, to your feet, Not unlike a shoe, or a glove, but It felt…better. Realer. Purer.
A shiver runs up your spine as The cooler moisture nestles Betwixt thy toes, coating All around. It would seem, If one could imagine it, That the Earth itself Were applying gentle kisses Upon your trotters. A gentle greeting Amidst a new morning, as if to say, “Welcome back, love”.
Verdurous growth mischievously Tickles the skin underneath, Dainty growths of floral life Encompassing the appendage. One could Be inclined to think it were…dragging You deeper into its fold. And yes, It, too, is pleasantly full of Wetness. Tempting, isn’t it? To Simply…join it, on the forest bed, Relax into its hold. An enticing prospect, to be sure.
Yes, it had rained the previous night. You Heard the drops pitter-patter Against the walls and roof Of your home. Lulling you into Slumber with their comforting, Yet disjointed, rhythm.
Light breezes blow by, Caressing your skin So delicately and tenderly, Much akin to the arms Of a doting mother Pulling her child lovingly Into her warm embrace on A frigid night, Blowing faint whispers Laced with the promises You’ve come to expect Out of this sanctuary. Promises kept, a Word that never is given Deceptively. Lies, She tells not. For that is Not of her way.
Drink in the sights, Sounds, touches, scents, tastes, As well as all other profound, delectable delights.
Warmth surges through gatherings of leaves, Bathing you in a glow of Golden glory, the eye of Life gazing Upon thee, offering a contrast to the Chill of the playful wind. Not harsh, Not biting, at is sometimes wont to Do. Nay, merely teasing, Occasionally raising goosebumps as the Body is tricked into believing it is colder than is true.
Speaking of both the canopy and undergrowth of Emerald coloration sprouting forth From the outstretched arms, Both large and small soaking In the radiant beams emanating Eternally from high on, you are Surrounded. Engulfed in immense beauty. All rooted deep Within the ground, tendrils Buried into the dirt, drinking Happily. Up and out, is its way. A myriad of shapes Greets your curious gaze, Pupils tracing along every curve. No Artists of the species homo sapiens Could ever hope to Replicate something like them. It’d be An impossible undertaking. Those who Are arrogant enough to proclaim Themselves worthy, are foolish. Laugh at them, Laugh in their faces.
Oh, those sounds. You can hear them, Can’t you? Clear as day. They cannot Be missed, not for a moment.
Seems that thou are not alone here.
Older, wiser, tougher, stranger Emanations from Being, shaped Through its essence, descended Down from the immaterial (as all that lives is), Nestling and settling into Its new home, through which it Reaches out, expressing the Nature of that acausal mysteriousness, Keeping it safe, sheltering it, invigorating it, that which it is animated by, A mysteriousness they are intimately connected with, And you still are trying every day To understand more and more.
Songs and sentences passing from Magical throats, Enchanting And unknowable Words Filling thy ears.
Hear the pitter-patter Of killer and victim on The loose. An eternal Game of chase and be chased.
Fur and feathers of all Shapes, sizes, and colors Loom into sight. Somewhat Similar to witnessing Objects scurrying along A canvas.
So unlike you, they are, And yet, you feel connected To them, in a way Words cannot accurately describe.
A kind of knowing Of a most inherent variety, Not cultivated, not strived for, Simply there from the start. All that was Needed was to rediscover it.
Close by, the peering eye Of her, gazing from inside, Into the outside, seeing all Reflected in her vision. Her creations Lapping up what they need, Drinking her in, always carrying A part of her, wherever they go (although, They are already of her, and joined With her in harmony), always bowing their Heads in reverence when they approach.
Bouncing off of the surface of The clear orb of our Great Mother, able to gaze back Into her, as she is us, Above is seen below. Clear, Blue acres suspended, always Present, never gone. Undisturbed, Untouched, unmolested, it is allowed its Own recourse, left to its own devices.
Primordial, perennial, Everlasting, eternal.
Heaven sent you here, Guided you back home.
Of course, you came to find out…this was Heaven.
What could be a more perfect setting?
This place, it looks And even feels the Same is it did yesterday.
Alas, it also doesn’t.
Little changes, subtle rearrangements. Small to the Undiscerning eye, but to those who can Truly make use of their vision, they’re Unmistakable.
This is not your first encounter With this realm.
Nay, I think it not; rather, This be all that you now know. Yes, Intimately you know thy region of dwelling, Thoroughly intertwined with it, body and essence, Like the hands of two young lovers.
Daily, every cycle of Sun and moon Grazing along the protective cover Which allows us To peer into the depths, And become lost In the stars, you Find yourself Coming into contact with it, More and more immersed in its mysteries, Delving deep, always, Into the arms of the One.
This, this is your home now.
O, what of that Lesser home, you once Belonged to, so long ago?
Perish the thought.
Tis nothing else but Mere distant memories, Recollections from a time Now bygone, in your eyes.
Poorly reflecting on you, as you are now.
Despicable ways you have cast To the wayside, Shedding the superficialities of A world wrong and wretched.
Chains and shackles long since Ripped from your wrists, Left in the dust of your wake.
Soul no longer clouded, Overwhelmed with fog, Trapped in a daze, Confused and wandering, ever searching, Lost in an abyss.
Do you miss it?
Could you miss it?
Nay, you think it impossible.
After all, only a fool could.
Fools pine over the most detrimental of things.
Something stirs on the periphery of The otherwise serene, near silent setting
Nay, not a sound of here.
She didn’t give way to whatever this might be.
Again, there it is again. Sharp, grating, Distracting, unlike anything you’ve Heard in recent times, Ears unaccustomed to this racket.
The sound, the sound.
Your footsteps plod in the direction Of the offending crashing and banging, a Jackhammering pace Igniting within Thy chest.
Hypotheses and predictions born From an immense worry, Ideas of the worst hurtling Right into the forefront Of your mind.
It cannot be.
O Gods, do not let it be so…
Louder, and louder…
Clearer, and clearer…
Backing up, moving forth, Grinding of gears, Flapping of lips and tongues and throats, Whirring of engines, Valves opening and closing, Noxious breath bellowing from the belching lungs of the titans, Rushing veins pumping scalding hot, toxic blood, The feast of rape and murder, O, can you hear the screams? Aye, if only thy Ears were open, able to hear the screams…
Soil ruined for generations.
A floor trampled and torn asunder.
Flora and fauna crushed under metal teeth, digging greedily into Her breast.
O, the horror…
Something ignites deep within, a kind of Bursting forth, as if a bulkhead Within that wasteful, demonic Monument to modernity, now Plunged into the barren, aquatic desert, Hath broken from the immense pressure.
“Good morning, everyone. Today’s top story…a rather tragic one. Harrowing, shocking; the product of a deranged terrorist, perhaps? Goodness, what is our world coming to. A crew, part of a local logging company, who wish to remain nameless, was found viciously mutilated outside of town, in a historic piece of land that, after being declared to be under preservation and untouched for virtually decades, had been bought out. From what we could gather, it was supposed to be an extension of the town. A new plaza, a new strip mall, a highway, something along those lines. They kept everything tight-lipped, fearing an uproar, if the news were to get out…although, the town has expressed positive sentiments towards growing in size. Guess they wouldn’t want to upset the greens, eh? The company has been working with the local authorities, and vows to find whoever perpetrated this terrible, loathsome act…to justice. And they shall be punished to the fullest extent of the law. If you know anything, see anything, please…contact this number. We have a dangerous killer on our hands.”