You’ve got the wrong idea, It ain’t the world I hate, My love of this planet is so big, For it my own grave I would dig, Really it’s just all the people crawling around on it!
We’re reaping what we’ve sewn, The biggest blunder ever produced, Deserving of being cast into the dark unknown, Forget our hopes, forget our dreams, Empty out those empty heads And get ready to congregate with the dead!
Chasing what we fear the most, Shaken to the core that we won’t infinitely go on, But it’s gonna happen; it’s we’re made for, No one will cry when our species is long gone!
Taking everything for granted, Even our very selves, All we touch turns into a nightmare, Five digits are corrosive to all that breathes!
Even ourselves, It’s unavoidable, What are we to do…?
Wound up in a body bag All so you wouldn’t get Called a little fag, Riddled with holes like Swiss cheese, Bodies piled high As you beg, plead, and cry, Never again to see that home Who’s dick you were told to give a little dome, And here you are, dead from your desire to please…
Is this what you wanted?
Is this what you needed?
I guess not…
Destined from day one, Another doomed fuckin son, Told to be a slave And send some to the grave, Building up that hate, Fellating away (what’s so fucking great?), Yet couldn’t explain why They should all just die…
Because you knew nothin else…
Because they sold you into Hell…
This is what it’s like…
This they couldn’t hide…
Come on out here, boy, Go and get you some ol’ joy, Since this is your fight, Joining up, you know it’s right, Forget the things you’ll do And how they’ll ruin you, How you are not yourself, Compelled to feed an appetite that won’t Ever come close to being quelled…
Because the pressure was all too much…
Because your hopes and dreams they crushed…
Now you’re lying on the ground…
No one you loved is anywhere around…
Quench that never-ending thirst, To satisfy it, you are cursed, Except it will not leave, You’re granted no reprieve, Now your soul will go and burn Just like those kids (a death is what they earned)…
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.
Forever.
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.
This…
Ah, this…
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…
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?
Something…recognizable.
That’s it.
Recognizable.
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.
Hmm…
Oh…
There it was.
Familiar territory.
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.
A World In Flames 