a momentary streak of light
then its gone
as life quickens
and years pass
in solitary splendor
days and nights blur
with a whirlwind’s fury
as lightyears come
and go
the elemental brew
mixes quasars and quarks
outside of time
in subjective meanderings
reality perceived
reflects ignorance of
the true state of life
beyond mind and experience
ages become eons
suns rise and fall
consciousness continues
infusing flesh and bone
in consumation of light
I am a technician of the new world order. My face is legion. I am soul-lost. My heart beats with the cold, mechanical precision of a computer chip. I am digitized. I see in stereo-vision and hear in surround-sound. Currency is the lubrication for my joints and multi-media driven information overload comprises the detritus of my mind. I have no original thoughts. I am vapid and void of creativity. My life has no redeeming social value or portentous, cosmic meaning. Rather, I am an automaton. A scion of the future. A creature of the new millennium.
I dream of violet and azure seas, capped by frothy, pirouetting waves. The mirrored reflection of midnight skies – awash with the sparkling flames of the great, white, milky way – confound my vision, splashed across the dark formlessness of the watery void. I dream of sands, brilliantly white, and coconut-laden palm trees that rustle gently in the salt-tinged breeze. My dreams mock my reality. My days are spent in endless repetition. The fruit of my labor is redundant. My skills and expertise are negotiable. Daily, I recreate myself as a simulacrum of myself. My true state of being is unknown. Illusion is my reality and reality my dream.
There exist in this world others like me. Our work is endlessly opposed to that of the archetypal Other, the eternal. The dark, muddy formlessness of primal creation drives our hatred, our lust, our fear. We are charged with the implementation of the future by the extrapolation of the present and the obfuscation of the past. Now is my only reality. We toil within small, gray cubicles; teh maze-like cells of a vast, tetragonal matrix. Each engaged in the same task, each working towards the same goal.
Our goal is the total annihilation of independent thought and action. Our way is the way of the future. The way of linear, time-driven progression. Only through technology shall my personality be saved. Only through technology shall I reach the utopia of my own creation. Only through technology shall I behold the face of my God.
Blackness is everywhere that I look. Engulfing me, overwhelming me. Oozing with psychic potentiality, within and without. The ebony shades of darkness – drifting, haunting – of sleep. Of dreamless slumber that threatens to consume the whiteness of my consciousness, of illumination. Only by courting sleeplessness shall I persevere. Only by denying my essential being shall I achieve true knowledge of self. Only by denying my past will I know my future. Only by embracing the material shall I approximate the spiritual. Only by becoming the white will I sublimate the black.
I am a technician of the new world order. My fear approximates totality. Clammy sweat nourishes my body and the viscera-encrusted talons of gibbonous madness tear at the essence of my being. I am afraid of the creature I believe myself to be. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I am. I am afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I can be.
Within my mind lurk phantasmagoric vistas of panoramic delight, wonders to engage the senses and engorge the carnal appetite. The pleasures of the flesh beckon me. Tender tragedy. Painful ecstasy proffered with heartless abandon. Tempting, physical delights exemplified by the myriad full, creamy thighs and deep, moist caverns of lust filled by colonnades of primal passion. Open pores, sweat blinded movement pinioned by sighs and the sound of wet flesh slapping, sliding, fingers groping, grasping, caressing, holding.
My need is all that is real. Infinite eyes, receding into whiteness, lust-filled, heavy-lidded, somnolent and hypnotic. They bat provocatively, possessing feather-like lashes stolen from the carcass of a maggot-eaten bird of paradise that tickle me shamelessly. I suckle upon the earth’s nipple, vast and bloated grotesquely with the blood of the unborn, the milk of malignant narcissistic existence. The flesh is everlasting, saturated with satiation and perverted compulsiveness. Nothing outside of myself is real. All else is illusion. Only my need is undeniable.
The world we create by our very existence reinforces the unreality of true being. The paradox is inescapable. For if my life has no meaning, then the meaning of all life is in question. The cell within which my reality is bounded is representative of the collective grid within which we, the technicians of the new world order, lie fallow, awaiting the fertilization of a spiritual seed. The futility of independent or creative thought follows naturally from this original conception.
My life is without intrinsic purpose or ultimate goal. Therefore, identifying exterior purpose has become my goal. With that realization, my purpose is clear. To obscure the purposefulness of life from those who would seek and embrace it. To reinforce the reality of my perceived surroundings in empathetic resonation with the beat of my own soul-lost heart.
I am a technician of the new world order. My mask is that of a clone. My soul is unknown. My heart beats to the vibration of the world’s soul, for it knows no beat of its own. I see the world through dark and accusing eyes because my own are colorless as bone. The dreams and aspirations of the Other are the lubrication for my joints and their lives, the stimulation of my mind. I have no being other than that created to nourish my inner purposelessness. Rather, the light of my whiteness is sustained by blackness. I am a technician of the new world order.
mirrors twist my reality sideways upside down and all around as the circle turns and my soul burns in the embers of another ego-trippin’ episode of pain and heartache, black american style. the cadence is counted by fleetin’ affairs and distant loves, bereft of a dove’s purity of existence by willful fire and callous desire. dreams flow like streams and pleasure obscures the treasure of a perfect love, hidden within by layers of sin and distant chagrin. i go outside myself to come back in, spin and watch the sky as love dies the slow death, nagged ceaselessly by false expectations come round again like an old friend, faithful till the end.
round and round i go, tired, but checkin’ the flow as life wanders past, pausin’ in fits and starts; some parts comin’ clear, albeit framed by fear. i check my stylo every now and then, recognizing my patterns, my shame and my sins. in seeing my reflection in all that i do and say my truth is flung back in my face, no waste of time or space in this eternal race every sweet taste of pleasure is chased by demons of lust and loathing misplaced.
i gasp with bliss as i am soul-kissed by greed and the seeds of material need that bleed the blood of my ancestors. their tears trace paths of mercurial fears through the haze of my self-induced daze. i lie to myself about myself as i wait – in the meantime – undulating beneath my own caress, undoubtedly blessed, whinin’ about fate as i commit the ultimate act of self-hate. gratuitous spiritual masturbation murders afrofuturistic nations, melanated gods and goddesses of infinite conception, victims of unconscionable psychological deception, imparted at the cellular level.
as a metaphor, music soars loftily, in tune with my doom. the neurotic treble tones bone the bass clef, which acts as the most def function, linking sexual harmonics to junctions of material compunction and unconscious urges that surge to be purged.
such is the state of my slate and i progress in spates of determination, persuaded yet jaded by life, served cold on a broken plate. the warmth of unconditional love passes through the glass. divine, white light shines, multiplying sight and i revel in its soothing glow. the past and future intertwine as joyous laughter denies the sorrowful cries that overlie my sighs of soul-ache, crooned soon after.
love permeates all, has since the fall of divinity to the physical plane, i am but a link in the chain, a lock in the mane of god. i am risen and i traverse death aloft on the breath of life, above strife, selfish gain and gratuitous pain, above love denied or quantified. today, i pray. amen-ra.
Such sweet delight
to which others might exclaim
in stupendous awe
as might I
were it not for my sighs
and my reticent appreciation of
divine law
Multitudinous fowls do flock
do flutter by sweet fortune’s side
singing songs
to amaze and amuse
To mine ears in the morning
awakened from dreams
weary and yawning
my mood sorely tested and
abused
Soaring high in the skies
birds do fly seeking mates
sustenance and the fulfillment
of soul’s ease
as above so below
so the stories do show
afflicted are they with the dreaded
‘happy disease’
As I listen to sweet songs
of poignantly drawn poems
sung by lover to mother to child
the world of birds mirrors our own
what is reaped may then be sown
to my face a small smile is then
beguiled
Eternal cycles of life
filled with trauma
pain and strife
to all species
God’s promise is true
but the tyranny of songbirds
punctuate the meaning of
Divine words casting light
as delight does
accrue.
Awakening dawn light signals ascent into conscious awareness, civilizations on the cusp of paradigm shift seeking enlightenment within, heralding world changes without. Verdant fields of golden light beckon souls of a similar brightness, while aloft spears of spirit soar, consciousness attentive to transmutation, brilliantly bursting illusory laws of gravitational boundaries effortlessly, spinning into silence. The music of the spheres sublimates sense and sensation alike, revealing the profundity of pain, the subtle whispers of ignorance, vaporized in the intensifying light of enlightenment’s searing awakening.
Flowing rivers of color dotted by ponds of dark potentiality waver and thrust bullishly through conglomerations of desire, birthing new paradigms, thought modes and processes conscious of their singular nature. Bursting upon the scene aware that there is nothing new under the sun, swift repetition of ancient patterns establishes the codex, chiseled in stone and bone, inscribed in the marrow and genetic code of amoeba and homo sapien sapien alike, synthesizing aeons of energetic permutations and every, single incarnative urging of probability’s unique, quantum directive.
A conch shell of Infinite size sounds, the bass bellow of Being reverbrating within the Absolute, imbuing Creation with consciousness, the word heard, omnipresence leading to omiscience which then, through action, heralds omnipotence’s virgin birth, black hole multiversal conception being the inception of sentience made manifest upon the material plane of existence.
The bass booms, gentle thrumming augmenting the conch’s funky vibrations, the cosmos created to the beat, the eternal tapping of Divinity’s galaxy-spanning feet.
9-ether emanations tingle like feathers upon the soul, tickling shivers blending pleasure and pain, sensitivity to the sound of an atom clapping on the other side of the multiverse a warm knowing birthed in sacral spaces scored for universal dissemination. Orchestral haunts echo the tuning of forks and instruments designed to awaken minds, while time continues to flow down the rabbit hole, indicative of the state of our individual souls.
Evening replaces noon’s heat with circadian rhythmic songs, birds twitter in time, the conch’s notes grown long. The feet of divinity slow an infinite nano-second of soul blown by astral breezes past the branches of ghostly trees, their potent seeds free to traverse chronological fallacies in search of truth, burrowing among the roots, dirt and skin beneath the nails of sin, scratching at the seedy underbelly of the subjective perceptive, a collective invective of sarcastic sneers.
But I just judge the game, I don’t play. Before I sleep, I dream, visions like scenes of a fantasy’s ilk, encompassing the organic goodness of mother’s milk from which I’ve weaned y’all, smiling and chuckling to myself as portentous night falls, and slumber calls me to rest, the spiraling precession of knowledge realized as the sole condition of life’s eternal test.
Disclaimer: This write is reflective of a particularly crass form of societal disfunction and the incontrovertible completion of a sub-cultural, material cypher. The philosophy, ideas, language and imagery used herein may be disturbing to many.
The Psychosexual Suppression of Jismatic Heresy: A Darwinian discussion of disutopian dreams.
By Mark Rockeymoore
Something real is going down.
And, from my perspective, only invectives suffice, the objective, to determine the price, to understand the spoken lingo. Awakened by dread, a coal-black Mandingo swings his long, majestic dong real strong, then screws a set of pale-skinned twins, impregnating the void with Potential on steroids. His melanated seed spreads like weeds in the Garden of European Delight, whispered calls of frenetic need sent skyward, computerized, explicit fantasies sold to fulfill insistently dark desires.
Freckled and powdered Mavens of Lust grow mechanical wings and ply their way south of the border to quench their own distasteful disorders, seeking out dark, Tropical Kings, their pride on open display. Delight us, these women say, eyes gleaming by night, shying away from the light of day. Elephantitis-inflicted dicks sway to the tune of moist poontang smacking wetly, lacking only the peculiar discretion to freshen up before fucking, to question their lust before sucking and then trucking back up to the Midwest, whispered conquests the test of their racial tolerance, no jest.
Some days, months or years, there’s just that kind of energy in the air. In many ways, we thrive on fear, invoking eternity with our Thousand Yard Stares. Nobody cares about creatures designed to die, and some days everyone you meet wants to either fuck, fight or cry.
Stare into the eyes of insanity and dare a motherfucker to jump.
Yes, you heard me right. Open your eyes, employ your Second Sight if you’re lost. In this space, all morality is tossed to the side, for it is only within sublime, anarchic halls that certain value systems lie. I could care less about your personal vanity – your humanity or your obvious and reeking insanity – and, as you can probably tell, I can give a good flying-fuck about your dislike of profanity.
No matter where you go or what you do, there is someone there to confront you with a crazed glint in their eyes; realize that events conspire to make your motions meaningless, leaving you dazed and confused, wondering what the Hell is going on. On those days, it is easy to fall into negative stasis, attempting to map the trap of energization and deprivation, engaging in the conduction of negativity through action and word, shouting, fighting back and lashing out in retribution for what you might have heard or intuited about the ephemerality of Existence itself.
Afterwords, you feel drained, denied the light. Born of parasitic forces, the brightness is obscured by the shade of egocentricity, and the satisfaction of the desires flares, sending us spiraling into disfunction. Such is the conjunction of life and death, these are our crosses to bear - our breathes to share - and by descending into the darkness we finally find our sight. Violence is an end unto itself. It requires no justification other than that which leads to an altercation, fuels its fire or any thought or action that results in an increase of pyrokinetic energy.
In the attempt to keep it friendly, I offer you this bone to pick: blessed, born into strife and sickness, shotgun dreams send us screaming into the night, leaving a bloody swath in our wake. The stakes are high as vengeful Demons of Disutopian Conception threaten transgenic monstrosities as some future-perfect formation of human identity – engorged upon the Horn of Plenty - born of Nazi dreams and Eugenic streams of thought. Who is to blame? When we all are responsible for our choices, is the victim as responsible for his or her victimization as the victimizer? Is the power-play a drama of equality? Is the implicit choice a subliminal acknowledgement of life’s Darwinian aspects, the survival of the fittest a sublime treaties on theHierarchy of Souls, with the Nietzchian Ubermensch striding across the globe, crushing Mud People and lesser beings beneath his jack-booted stride, his blonde hair blazing like the sun, his ice-blue eyes as cold as his martial soul?
The End of Days beckon the Apocalyptic, sending shivers of ecstatic dread screaming down their spines as they genuflect before the Royal Phallus of Imperial Destiny. Blood-spattering, brain-leaking, viscera-tied pouches of goo and gore drip drops of nightmarish conception upon the auric splender of perfection, eating away at Eternity, awakening Leviathian. Broken borders seek completion. Shattered hearts tinkle softly upon the floor of our salvation, sending apoplectic spasms, shivers of slivers, shards of icy intention, seeking the warmth of hardened hearts like love seeks the highest state of Being-ness.
Welcome to the jungle, where beastiality only means you fuck condomless, cocks spewing poisonous semen into pussies puffed grotesquely by putrid pustules, imbued, by the force of their own distaste, with the power to birth hemophroditic avatars of super-human conception. These are the Dreams of the Denied, those who seek to fill the hole in their hearts with the pain of the whole world. Laughter takes on a demonic tone when they’re in charge, and eyes crazed with insane delight shine with a preternatural glow, intent upon denying you your life.
But this is all as it should be, same shit, same night, same mother-fucking useless-ass fight againt egoic self, intent upon immolation and the denial of our Heaven-sent station, let alone the birth of an elevated and enlightened Nation. Watch me stroke my tumescent soul with long, silky fingers, cooing ethereal sighs of passionate lies designed to stimulate my inner demiurge, my ability to purge myself of my inconsistencies, and, upon orgasmic release, spurting jism to the four corners of the earth, imprisoned by schisms defined by my impending death and the pre-set conditions of my inevitable rebirth.
I break the bank to steal the show with stank-ass codes and mortal body blows. I then press restart and proceed to crush hearts, I was the one who took your virginity and played the part, eviscerating your dreams then ripping the seams out of your doubt, stripping your expectations of flotsam and dross, shouting Amen! when your most personal boundaries were crossed.
Kill the Sacred Cows and eat off Buddha’s plate.
Piss on the Tomb of Mao and cuss out a Head of State.
Seek to cultivate chaos and anarchy will rise, the tide will exorcise the unplumbed depths of mind and soul, Twelve Steps required to reach the goal. the Thirteenth Gate reveals the way, the path to reach a Higher State. This world exists to fuck your dreams, to kill your steam, to dull your preen. But shine on still, in spite of the odds, devour your last meal and enjoy the facade of civilized behavior that masks the real, the Executioner’s mask, eyes glinting of steel. Damnation is promised, salvation, unreal. Creation is endless, Eternity’s the deal.
Don’t you get it yet?
If Eternity means Infinity, Perfection is Unreachable. So get on your knees and pray, enjoy this day. Even Angels die, while we try to transcend.
The End.
Bone drift-ing
rift-ing
grift-ing off
blood rumb-ling
flak-ing skin
Leviathan sleeps deep
slumber-ing like sheep
weep-ing priests
inton-ing dron-ing
mantras
zon-ing
a drive-by tantric
ston-ing
re-sonation re-solution
the evolution of
an exultation
a nation up-rises
beyond its station
in the eyes
of Isis
a re-velation
Haitian voodoo kings
sing of dreams
where peacocks preen
and lost souls revise
their goals
bones sift-ing
then lift-ing
marrow bubbl-ing
tribulations troubl-ing
population doubl-ing
wandering preachers
teach-ing love
blind bats screech-ing
from above.
It’s not enough.
Nothing is enough, anymore.
Desire is pain,
the ever-increasing need
to fill
empty space inside
with the wanting of
needing another
close.
Worldly gain
is meaningless in a space
of directionless longing.
There is no pain
like a pain that has
no bottom,
an Abyss of Absolutes,
like a hole gaping within
one’s soul
seeking solace, or
some way to fill that which
cannot be
satisfied by anything
of this world.
It’s not enough.
Life offers nothing
worthy of pursuit
other than
pleasures that pale
by comparison to…
…something more. But what?
Money, fame, sex
scintillate in visions of
vacuous promiscuity
promising
nothing except a
further descent into
flesh.
Where lie the higher realms?
That which severs the Self
set adrift to diminish
the universal solvent called
gnosis
seeping into souls tired
of tribulation?
When does movement equal
matriculation past the morass?
When will life be enough?
When will something
anything
be enough to awaken my desire
once again?
I want to just go … get up and leave, letting concern and caring dissipate beneath the weight of the moment as each new thing rises in experience birthing action and reaction, whispering silently into the past as ghost-like emanations, reverberating across inter-spatial solstices, rising and falling through oblivion. Matrices of motive action branching out into infinity, culminating in the coalescence of the One, eternally evolving past sensation as souls expand and contract in omniversal awareness of perpetual motion.
What may fill the void?
What yearning is this, that cannot be filled?
Who made it, for what reason?
It overwhelms the intellect and reason, obliterating intention with the futility of anything past the rumination upon navels spiraling inward toward death and rebirth.
Silence.
Darkness beckons, as does the light, revealing all ills, secrets exposed for all to see. Awakening to the dawn of Truth. The Revelation of Contemplation.
Nowhere in this world does enough exist.
Everywhere lies disappointment and unease.
Outer promises bleakly threaten dissolution. Silky thighs caressed, hard nipples poking licked, jutting moans strutting past rock-hard cocks. Desire pales beside the need of satiation, vampiric siphoning of life-energy even hollow, blood spattered across faces gaunt with unpent want.
Tell me when you find enough.
Show me where it’s at.
Lead me to the trough, so I may drink my fill and rise, reveling, into the heights of joy, leaving happiness and sadness behind, trial and tribulation, pain and suffering.
Wake me when the dream of this life ends, and the furthest shores approach, the sound of waves crashing upon the brow of G-d’s most febrile dreams approximating the sound of celestial choirs, singing odes to reality television and junk food binges, soothing my soul.
Salve my wounds with your tears, salty and sensual, giving your life for mine, as fate returns to the game, rolling skull-faced bones seeking snake-eyed redemption in time.
This, is where the passion is.
Where enough has hidden, afraid to be found.
Karma‘s a witch.
Men are of the sun, women are of the moon, they say. Mars and Venus, light and dark, lust and love. We are all both women and men in that we vary like shades along a spectrum, the extremes expressed within and between successive lifetimes manifest as the infinite and eternal cosmos. Emotional and physical characteristics run the gamut and there is no gender to love.
Unbreakable denizens of mythic proportions, the frailty of each of our chosen paths is based upon illusions shattered by life’s concordant realities. This shit is hard.
Tell me your problems
and I’ll tell you mine,
sublime woes
joy and transcendence,
heartbreak
in time.
Moment to moment we live in the ever-present now lost in the past and future. The record plays, scratched vinyl echoes in a lonely room. Alone and together we rise and fall, wobbling between right and wrong singing our breathless and unquenchable inner song. The band trails behind, my own personal theme song echoing in my mind. Maybe you feel me though, as you thread your way between yesterday, today and tomorrow’s problems,swaying to the beat as life brings you heat and you make decisions based upon illusions leading to collisions of collusion and intent, soul groups bent upon manifesting perfection’s vision matched perfectly against doubt’s relentless incision …
… revealing … our …
… delusions.
Words on a page on stage. Spoken to heads dead and alive, glued to an electronic eye.
Your sense of who you are, of me, myself and I, falling to my knees and screaming out to the sky, why? Why did I choose this path, why did daddy leave you to die, why did mama make you cry, why did I – no, your brother, sister or friend – betray you with disappointment and lies? There’s no reply, sometimes, yet, a choice has to be made.
Another path betrayed.
Branching off into future infinities the shade beckons beneath the tree of life, off to the side. Residing within screaming warnings soul glides, we ride the wave of indecision deciding by … not … deciding.
Colliding with fate, karma tumbling and casting her net far and wide, what is done returns full on, crashing over us like a tide washing sandcastles away, to be built upon the same shifting shoals another day. This is the way, the path, the cause and effect of the interplay between dark and light, your tearful eyes, my joyous might.
The way only clarifies when the moment arrives. The choice is now. But it keeps getting put off …
until now …
… and now …
… and now.
This shit is easy. Frail denizens of un-noteworthy dimensions, the power of each of our chosen paths is based upon realities proven by life’s bounteous lessons.
Till we find ourselves there not here, our fears cast away into the ides of time, become memory just a rewind fading into experience at building walls inside of our minds that divide us into discrete units of the divine. Crumbling at varying rates into decaying particles of quantum flux that replicate us endlessly, holograms of intent stream into future’s purview, doubts and worries about our abilities arising anew, striding roughshod over the irrepressible urge to elevate our view.
I can do and be anything
manifesting divinity
without,
God-spark awakened,
wonder obliterating
doubt.
Swinging back and forth, rising higher falling lower, growing and changing in tune with our innermost orientations. Loving and hating, building and destroying, we project what is within without, the ire and rage mixed with laughter and loving words. Movement is promised. The fallen mingle with the elevated, the transcendent discourse of eternity manifest.
Karma’s a witch.
