Swallowed

 

Lunarterial

Darkness never secedes.

Under the cowl of the moons ominous light he conjured forth his deepest known terrors. Those that were summoned from the treachery of the night, bore no compassion nor sympathy. One of them speaks to me now, the one with the blackest of eyes. The putrid air of his breath sticking to my neck. Like a serpent his words slither into mind, poisoning my thoughts, conjuring serpentine emotions.

Even in broad daylight, is his power ever potent. Like a sniff of lingering marijuana, blowing from out his nostrils; snuffing out anything that defies his law. He comes to me in a haze. From out the shadows of a smoky room to speak to me. Never a deadly demeanor, nor ever are his actions obscene. They are simply malevolent. By nature. 

His actions ignore the pleas of self reflection and logical continuity. His movements create sputtering waves, blocking out worthless feelings and emotions. Ones that emit out from every petty human. They are givers, they are takers, mistaken, untruthful fools. Weak minded and with no purpose. Crush their will he tells me.

Like a cold tenebrous wind I blot them out from under the wintery midnight sky.

But come to me now if you wish to speak with the devil. For I hold venom on my tongue. Anger burns in my hand. Hold on to me, for I hold deceit in my heart. 

Unmask the veil that you hide behind. And unlock the truth that binds on to you. Like a parasite created by society.

Take action in the cruelest manner. Create ideas. 

Rise forth from a legacy forged in blood.

Take from this cup of wine and drink to your fulfillment. Let the thirst for darkness be unquenchable. Have those that peer upon you with willing eyes, scorched out of their sockets. For they do not know what you truly are. Nor of the iron that flows through your veins. Of the blasphemy upheld within the highest forms of government. Nor of other things....

A tinkering in the machinations of ones own mind is a sport. Feel the power surge up into your temples, let it emanate from out your hands, your body a vessel of true power. Your spirit, a whispering banshee of distorted malefic proportions. Let hunger overtake you. The hunger for something unknown, feed yourself into the void and lurk within the walls of Dante's Inferno. Become what you once would never become. 

And forge out of it a legacy of blood.

Let your presence be a thunderous boom. And your actions dictate the outcome of your petty life. For that is what it is when nothing is done. It is pathetic. You become a worthless animal. Captivated by unfulfillment and false fears. Give in to your thirst. Quench your fears and sate your yearning for something profoundly sinister. Let the blood spill on the floor. Let your fears overtake you and consume you, and release you. Caress the permanent darkness, live within its aura...

For this is of what a Legacy of Blood is carved from.

The night is dark... shadows caress me between the twisted trees that surround me. I look down at my trembling hands and I see blooding dripping down my arm, collecting at my feet. And all I can hope now is to leave this treacherous place. Even now I can hear their screams; echoing out of the darkness that consumes me. Their wretched whispers cackle out of the finishing of my one footstep, into the next. And I can feel them now. Crawling behind me, feeding on my unquenchable fears. But I look back and all I see are trees and darkness. 

Only the moon offers me light of passage. Finally I see the opening. Nothing but frozen land lies before me, I enter the clearing and look back at the woods. Hoping to never see the place again. And in the corner of my eye I see her hiding behind a tree, looking at me. Her illuminated visage scorching its unforgettable phantom figurine into my memory.

AFX

Syro

Waves will crash upon themselves. They are crafted from the same substance and it fills the oceans with a similar eerie sound. A similarity between each human being, crashing within each others boundaries. Like elusive bugs buzzing around each other, wondering and gasping and gawking.... gawking. 

Oh! 

How different we so are. Thoughts bouncing up and down within the confines of these walls. Smashing within the picture frames and tables-chairs, I sit squarely between her, over here and there. How could she read me? Did she? My shadows are vaporous but she knows where my enlightened being flies. 

Across nations and statutes, frisky like a frenzied lurker. Deserter. I move in the deserted lands where no one dares to look. Searching for some type of mirage, one that I know surely exists within my mind. Oh how I hope to make it come true. Like some mirage it is, in a dry arid land of customs and trivialities. Manners, how they encroach on me! When all I wish is to move likes waves, crashing into her over there. Hoping for something between us to coalesce, but how the stress eats away at her very curt dress ...

And in defense, I never dispense tense words that lend to an airy sense of immense drenching stress. Hence why I look here and there, for where I find knowledge I bare only to hold you there.

And you there, thine heir of some golden goddess whose hair flows like a rivers unkept self. Flowing out yonder, into the trees of translucence, how your words move in cadence with the fracturing edges of water crackling at your commence...

How I wish to know you more. But there are things in this world that I know. For I must conceal them, congeal! Reveal! For I am holding on to them now! Like important things that must be hidden from public.

Truths that I have come across that bear no true meaning. Or do they? A man of age holds on to these truths with assertion and confidence that he has earned them from the world. As if he learned them from the harshest of events. But is anything truly static? If not death that comes upon is like a divine light... so bright... and cold as winters night. I do not believe it. For the warmth that the sun brings to us , is my arbiter. 

And you still sit there, looking here and there once more. Oh how I should implore to you, with your decorative galore how you're eyes must be sore, mine never at your pretty lips moving once more.

And how they look at me, waiting to see my next improvised movement, living as if I had never done so before! As if humans were something new, a creed whom I just now knew.

Everybody is new. Maybe its curiosity that strangles me, in its tenebrous tentacles. Knowing that I do not know. But that even though, I know something about you, that you dont. How I feel like this for everyone sadly, nothing is extraordinary in the realization that we all live in the same fashion.

With extremities being part of the dilemma, but extremities are fun! 

Its like tangling with a certain death.

Who, are you. I ask with eyes open only to you. I see you in this class room of fewer than few, but when I look at you I ask you, whom are you now? Crowned with your knowledge at hand, how shall you handle chaos? Chaos of manners. Words of apprehension. Fingers fidgety to understand everything, consuming it all like a void within the middle of class. I am bound by my own egotistical crass, I fall face first into the bludgeoning thunder made by others.

And how laughter alone will suffice. How that very action, will suffice. But it could now or never   ever be harder to capture. In this slipping moment, drooling of sifting emotions and words of quick paced devotion, will I see you once more with my own feelings as they are? 

I want this, I want that. I want to see you, and you there, also you, and you too. We all would like so, maybe, in time, slowly and slowly it could occur. But we could all share it at once, like an enveloping hive of sharing information that is forgotten, no I will not forget it.

And even when it is forgotten will I not forget it. For a face like yours, is hard to forget.

Prurient

Death Consortium

These days were known for their coldness.

The sky emitted nothing. In fact, clouds that once floated aimlessly about the planet were now products of industrial parks. These new man made clouds were made of smoldering ash and dust, which coated the nearest coast in a perpetual state or irrevocable darkness and malignance.

These industrial complexes were the root and leaf of mankind. With the elimination of 99% of natural resources a new genius had emerged with a design that had left our technological golden age in its predetermined grave. After all, the market of cellular devices and touchscreen monitors had reached its peak in innovation. No more quicker could messages be received nor information derived. Every persons voice had been heard and every yell had been recorded down in humanities archive. Our entire species had usurped itself of its one and only precious thing. Its voice.

Far too long had words been spoken. For generations too many, had ignorance and deceit been duplicated. Perpetuated into a putrid display of a collective human degeneration. Your definition of discovery? Was merely hypocrisy. Their choices for peace? Were simply code for destruction. Your fight for a better life? a joke. A mockery of human potential. For it was all drunk away. The youth? Pissed into the wind for a day of precluded popularity.

And it was in this age, the age of Extinction that he came.

They say that MorvaCorp was created before his feet.

Upon his thought had it been instituted as its own private corporation. The steel foundations, pushed into firm earth where no human had walked  before. The colossal parks of metallic bridges and mirrored complexes, created on a whim. The designs for its complex AI software, unbridled and unmatched by the worlds current state of technology. He had managed to intertwine blood and steel. To create material out of space and time.

They say he was born in the depths of Morva's fiery cauldron.

Out of the heat, had his heart escaped scrutiny, under the prejudice of human error, had his limbs been forgotten. His body macerated and delegated only by the minds eye, which had centered beneath Morva's heavy ooze of liquid fire.

A hand emerged out of the exhaust. From the roars of the unsleeping machines, the screams of the dying workers, from the sound of smashing of steel and hammer had his voice been heard. And his glorious energy! Felt across this nation of futile hate mongers. He came out of the death of humanity, pure and eliminated of its petty flaws.

Like a god of light and bone he arose from the ashes, and went on forth in the world searching for nothing and offering his precious design as a testament of true human ambition. And rarely did he speak. For words were meaningless, and at most, intrepid points on a plot.

"For what is ambition in a world where ambition has been met? "

"Set in stone like a flaccid idea. Only I wait for its death."

"Second is life, only to death. And death, second only to me."

"For I am creator."

"I am design."

"Resonating like a re surging sound from oust our space and time. I am not defined."

"For I am design."

18 Carat Affair

Adventures in New Urbia

"Ah, what a wonderful day it is.", he said walking through central park where the birds weren't afraid of getting close to humans, where the sky was characterized by light pastel colors that soothed the eye when gazed upon. The same of which reflected into this mans pasty red eyes. He was happy to see everyone occupying the park. The businessman walking his dog,  the mothers watching over their kids as they play, the street dancers working for a buck. There were also the young couples that seemed to be the most interesting to look at. Or at least the most envied. There they went, careless of lifes encroachments, happier than a man with glowing eyes.

He walked past them all. The man blowing bubbles for money, the talented pianist, the man sleeping on the bench. The strings that held him to social normativity soon became chains. As if the growing darkness of the afternoon had concentrated itself into the one blind spot on his back and out of it emerged a plethora of chains. 

Walking down the busy streets he felt welcomed into a world of structured isolation. So much information passed him by . . . the perky black heels of a business woman, the discrete laughter of someone a hundred yards away, or was that a car horn? He pursued himself on that street, diving into the abtraction of his surroundings. A methodical pulse comes from New York's sewers, each passing step a clap into a soundless void. So much desire and meaning for things that truly have no meaning. 

I met him at the bar, he gives me a definition and an assertion, then lights a cigarette and walks away. As if his point affirmed was static in all life.

She found me down the street, and she cried anarchy. She showed me her tattoos and her submission. She shows me nothing.

And He who orders coffee one space in front of me, was well balanced! With a chip on his shoulder about something I knew too well. A man who thrives in clubs, with people. Only a few points on his license and a thing for Teena. He is accepted by his friends, and despises the fiscal snare of the college system. He gives me well thought premises that holistically avoid the eternal excuses of a fractured man. And there he will stay. 

Down the street I go, and their eyes thirst for a consensus. Like beams that intersect , staring into a void as they pull in their prey. Savage and delirious, their bodies cry desperation and their intent is carved by the dirty path they carry themselves on.

Rain pours as I walk down the streets of New York. Each drop is a set of coordinated points on a grid. And like them we fall from the heavens in our little cubicle of space. Simply falling with no awareness. 

Our descent only counts if it can be recounted. Vanity has usurped itself into technology, giving our lives a flashy glean of utter uselessness. A gluttonic performance of self agrandation that really just deteriorates into the image of a sovereign pest. 

A generational and cultural ineptitude that desires stardom, unearned respect and a primitive form of power. But they dont know true power. The power of silence, of experience that slips between your fingers like a liquid wind.

The power to remain a singular mind amongst a collection, a collage of minds. To let go of worthless social constructs that weaken the universe within a mind. To look at all experience in the blinding light as it twists and turns, and realize all the information you seek is only yours to know.

It is the power to hear words as they are written and expose the pointlessness of so much noise that is made in the world.
To live in a naked, oily consciousness that preserves oneself.
 Is that not the true doctrine of elitism?
Slicing away at uselessness, piercing nonsense that is emitted.
And my thoughts are tyrannical and egotistical.
 My movements are destructive and maniacal.

I walk down the streets of New York in a crystal prism, preserving humanities most wanton beliefs.
 I am a twisted demon smashing down cities of thought and emotion. Frenzied in the necessity of a spontaneous idea constructed out of pure imagination. Efficiency is the rule of thumb, quickness and exactitude are motions of the elite.
Precision rules the slow and thwarted minds.
Because all options and outcomes are already known.
The only unknown is which outcome will be selected.
Therefore your one action to become reality, the undetermined one, must be swift, unrelenting.
It must drive down all nonbelievers.
Pierce those unready for the tides of tenacity and turmoil that equivocate total domination.

In this dominion, there is nobody.
There are shadows of yourself that you meet everyday. A certain possibility of who you may become. Shadows that walk into the blinding light of reality, and are lost to it.
There is only information, confrontation, and the clash for domination.

https://fortune500.bandcamp.com/album/adventures-in-schizophrenia 

Terra Incognito

Terror Cognitivo

Before I start writing this I just want to say that, im allowing myself to write this. That these walls above us are encroaching, encaging vessels. And we are here, beneath them, submerged in the flesh. 

The coldness that snow brings is refreshing. Before it commences, the bleak winds are unbearable and if anything less, signify a colder near future. But during the snowfall, the blistering ice that builds up on everything is nice. It mends and attempts to amend what we all do everyday. And much more than a physical layer of frost, it is a pulsing heart beat, melting away our blacktar city. But in that same night, its all gone and converted, melted, wasted away. 

I see you.

Filling up your homes and protruding within the world. Like tiny ants wanting to live in the lions den. But you don't see me. I am outside your window, becoming one with the cold. Letting it decay on my body, letting it wash itself into my skin. I am the world tonight, dying in a smoldering heat, anxious for more energy, energy which shall be infused and converted into nothing. Because what you live for is less than nothing. And your family is worthless. 

These feelings push up inside me, confiding in the falling snow. These seeds are pressed into the ground, and stomped in for comforting. And even though I was born a bastard, I still became something worthy. But that definition is always elusive and is always reduced to nothing, to its negative state. And what are you?

I ask, as an orphan child.

 Who was born to beckon only pain and death. And worse yet, the ceaseless, mockery of remorse that drools out of your mouths. Blast you. Blasted flicks, flickering in the wind, waiting for the coldest of winds to wipe you away.

I ask what are you. WHEN EVERYTHING IS GONE.

How strong are you. When everything is gone and only the earth is there to comfort you. When the coldest winds bring you warmth. When you are the only one left alive. You are the harbinger, the convertor, the mother, the son, the breeder, the reducer, the tempest. 

I am the tempest. Swift in motion, above the flying sky. Like a black decaying breeze in 1912. 

Like a mortar bomb striking down a thousand fold. Pushing into the ground with such a force as to push even further within the skins of men and forcing even more, as to collapse them. As to disconnect them. And end them. As to leave some alive, as if at random it was.

What are you when there is only dirt. 

When everything is stripped of you. What are you when you face the universe. When you challenge a supreme deity that cackles your way, that see's you in serpentine eyes. What are you when there is no thought. 

Who do you become? Will you survive?

How trivial it is, to even flirt with the idea. A stroke of egotism that has no boundaries or limitations.

But mans ferocity is unlimited, it is unbridled. Cast me god's ultimate curse, cast my way your wishes. For they are under the ground. Under. They are no where. 

Will you survive? Are you even alive? Are there anymore days?

  In the storm of this life, there is peace. Everyday could be peaceful. I can be everything I want to be, and everything you want me to be. Happiness is a golden coin, a token you give a man to bring you to the other side of the river. It is crossing the river, in the small ferry on a warm spring day, looking down into the stretches of murky water and noticing a fish jump through the air. But happiness and its supremacy. And hatred with its negativity. Is as relative and disgusting as everything you stand for.

 

 Man's will to evolve is a beautiful thing. It's a matrimony to the unknown, a deep connection to nature and the sciences. To God. And in today's world, that is a beautiful thing to still have hold of.

Burial

The Future Beckons

He shuts his creaking car door looking past the parking lot towards the gray buildings meshed with the surrounding trees. The wind blows cold in his face, pushing itself unto the crowded pathway, where walkers and workers trudge along their predestined path. But the wind is cold, and he looks into it, he looks at the institution, is this what I was destined for? All around him there are lies told to oneself, ignorance founded in oneself, delusions blessed by each other, dreams dreamt by another. 

The cruelty of the institution saps itself into what we wish to believe. He walks, with the sounds of others footsteps guiding him, like beacons flaring in a darkening sound scape. beaming lights, screeching at a halt in the presence of a perceived ill motion. They are all walking in the same direction, going to the same class, taking the same courses. Directionless, bearing the fruits never, pushing into a wet clay wall, walking into the grips of White Death.

Death, is the failure of your course. Your ineptitude, naturally taking control of your life, guiding you to where you will eventually be, to what you will become.

And I look into to the cold winds, into the sun hidden in the clouds, shining arbiter. Destined hero of my dreams,who pursues the ineffable, the transient beam of hope that holds true in the gripes of reality. I look at these buildings, the grayness that chains me and becomes of me; the steel vibrating within the edges of my bones.

I am chosen, chosen to die chosen to buy chosen to fly. Chosen to continue forth, forthwith, wittingly and willing to take hold of the future. The future is in my hands, it is there. 

I see the numbers, between the impulses that surge in and out of my brain. The impulse to conquer what I cannot see, to collapse that which does not concede. Because I am greater, I am future. Brazen in these cold winds, unshakeable in the coldest winds, corruptible only of my own willingness. For these numbers they sprawl and possess. They fall down and realign into something new, an interjection within the stagnant.

I will die at the mercy of the cement that holds these walls up. The relentless protuberance that extends this space. Standing taller than me and more known. Standing colder winds and beaming sun rays, standing years, and human eyes. I will become more than what is thought to be possible. The future beckons me, with one hand in front and the other reaching towards my mine. 

We will do this together, traversing the coldest of landscapes, highest peaks of wintery revocation, a patroon of earned privilege. 

I am future. Breaking what is known and thought. What should be correct. The status quo is interject able and illusory. It is malleable and definable. It is in my hands. And as I walk into the blackraven building, with its one eye focused on me, I present the future, in everything. Shining illustriously in the face of adversity, considering every possibility, processing immediately, and giving out my hand in help. For thees buildings will only define me temporarily. and they will become of me. I am the archetype of the world, constructing what has been built. I am possessive of my knowledge and my degree. 

I can make it. and I will. 

Zomby

With Love

I remember as a child my large box of lego pieces. There were thousands of them, all from different sets that my father had bought me. After I finished building the structure on the box I would break it down and make so many other things. Grande cities stacked on colorful bricks, racetracks that zoomed from under bed into the living room. At that age I found the possibilities to be infinite, that there was one city unlike the others, the slick and oozing yoke of boredem was beyond my atmosphere.

Grandiosity in uncontrollable curiosity is a force that escapes most. It's a certain twitch that is undefined in its necessity to find something in the environment, something unknown. To look for a certain deviation or error of some sort and hopefully find a way if not to correct it, to implement it. Here is where I lurked, in the moldy basement of my mothers house, searching in the heaps of luggage and junk for something. I found a crevice between a large black plastic that had odd protrusions stretching it out along side a large dusty leather duffel bag. There was a darkness within these items that lured me into a spiders web and along with it its deceased and liquidized prey. In that time I wailed my arms aggressively to rid of the cobwebs but all that came of it was a piece of broken glass deeply inserted into my thigh. I stood there looking at what had just fallen into me, this sullied glass covered in dirt and blood. I was stunned by it, and it hurt very much but I stood there for a very long time just staring at what had just entered my body, the effects of it. And if it was not enough, I walked out the basement and up the porch steps to look for help.

It was in this same house that I grew close to the natural inhabitants of the earth. All my days I would spend them discovering new bugs, studying their actions and natures. After all, each distinct bug has its own distinct personality, a certain movement that separates them from the rest of the creatures. In mornings I would spend my time killing off those wretched red hundred legged critters that littered the basement and most corners. Hours passed when I looked within one of the garbage cans to find it completely infested by a hive of maggots. I stared deep into the terrifying abyss of the swarming larvae, the putrid smell was intoxicating and the twisted idea of me falling into the garbage can came to the forefront of my mind.

At midday I would spend most of my time watching bees fly in and out of their hives. I would see them travel from flowers to their hive or I would see other bees scout the environment, patrolling the area. Some of them would spot me and pester me at my porch steps. I greeted them with a handshake. And when I opened my hand, the dying bee laid there, right under the spot it had stung me. I did this many times, not for cynical purposes but to see which bees survived. Generally, the worker bees that came to sting me would die after one sting. But there were scarce few that survived the impact and those that did I did not kill. I understood that some bees were stronger than others even if there innate task was the same. That there is a small percentage that are indeed stronger in the most exclusive ways, despite their position.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
At night the galaxy swirls in mysterious ways.
 Chaotic shifts in the sky cause rifts to ripple open,
 nauseating darkness spreads outwards...

A cloud appears
suffocating the world in its overwhelming black distinction
Under it tenebrous waves it lays...
Colossal towers of teal steel

They are quickly realized
and established
under everyone's perdition

Beneath their mountainous bodies people are crushed
firmly between the face and the soot
 of what they'd all created

As these structures rest on the earth they release a seething gas,
and an alienating beam
that carves its way across the planet
towards other towers

I and others look up high into the green decaying sky
 and I cry
WHY?
And a hidden man looks out of the his tall tower and down at me and screams manically,
 with happiness and zeal in his lungs,
You Know Why!
 Human Do You Know

It is when the winds begin absolving into their final forces,
when the sky shatters into falling pylons
like stalagmites
bursting into the soft belly of the earth

 It is when from the very center of vibrating melted metals
that ice presents itself
as the glacial essence of the universe
to form a frozen kiss of death

And amidst the swarm of chaos that clutches so at my heart
 I feel within the fissures that curse the land
a ghostly exhale
 that pushes me off the edge...

And I fall...
into the caverns of the earth
Into the blast of frigid air that only dares at my deathbed
to bring me back up forth
into this tortured world

And I dare to ascend
to reach the finite heights of these nefarious towers
to pass by Death itself
and find myself at the window of the hidden God

And when I walk into the tower from its highest peak
I enter his room of horned ridges
and dripping black steel
of illustrious mirrors that reflect me
from a thousand angles

I look ahead and I see a flight of stairs
and as if nothing had ever occured on earth
a serene silence envelopes the tower

and from deep under the thousands of floors
I hear a periodic hammering on an anvil
the sound is chilling and reveberating
as it echoes up the tower

It sounds like a heavy hammer of unbreakable ice
slamming away at something made in a blazing heat
as if the smith has a tremendous force
that is unyielding like time itself

As I delve deeper into the tower
the sound becomes impenetrable
the intervals between each hammering
become nightmarish in the controlled silence

And out of the darkness that covers my eyes
I see from the flight of stairs
an open door with a blue ghostly light pouring out

And each time the hammer drops
the light shines ever so harder
just for an instance

I make my way down the last step
and approach the door
I peer into it and I see
 A cloaked man smithing an object
lost in the glowing sparks

Finally he slams one more time down on the anvil
and picks up the newly constructed item
 a crown

He looks into my direction and says...
You Have Come a Great Way To Find Me Here
He looks down at the bony crown
that sparkles with a dense gleam
I Have Made This For You

For me?
Yes. You Were the One Who Ascended
You Will Be the Only One Left Alive
Shall You Die With Your Kind?

And for a second I try to look at his face
to see his eyes or his cheek bones
but there is nothing there
nothing human.

I take the crown into my hands
and I place it upon my head
its metallic touch felt so chilling
and morbose

Above my eyes
a slow bending blueness oozes its way downwards
My hairs begins falling off
and my skin loses its pigmentation
My bones solidify in the merciless frost
that consumes me whole

While my home slowly burns away
I am alive and immortal
in the glacial towers that rule the sky.