Conceptions of Self

Difficult days typify the ways
Of the soul
It is said the strongest spirits
Experience the greatest trials
Tribulations through time
The woes of Job
The death throes of conceptions of Self.

Troubles arise and fall
Arising from someplace beyond us all
A wall of sorts seems to exist
Separating our perception
By means of deception from some
Deeper font of Wisdom and Truth
The proof we ever seem to seek
Indicative of the futile ruminations of
The weak.

Seeking existence of the Divine
Ignoring the times in our lives
When strife has risen like a tide
Engulfing our entire conception of Self
And purpose
Conveniently forgetting our soul-felt
Prayers soon after
Returning to blissful ignorance
Pride and hubris the restored face
Despite the willfully ignored response
Of the Master.

Coincidence, we proclaim
As we continue the game of denial
Projecting ego through space
Blindly unaware of the blessings
That took us there
To that place of self-destruction
Of reticent self-deconstruction
The seduction of personality
Soothing fears
Whispering lies
In terrified ears.

The Detritus of the Day

Thought fails to encompass
the entirety of Being

Words and phrases running
endlessly

Through minds awash in the
detritus of the day

Ruminations of mundane happenings
cycling without cease

Disrupting the Now with impressions
of yesterday and tomorrow’s imaginings

Fantasy becomes reality when thoughts
run amok

What is remembered becomes history
what is hoped for or feared the future

When neither is relevant to the magic
of the moment

We lose the precious gift of Being and Presence
to hopes and fears unrealized.

Relativity

It’s a commonly accepted Truism in these the Last and most Fateful Days
that all Truths are Relative that nothing is Real except for what we
feel and think about the things we do and say this way is that of the
World of the Purveyors of Lust Unfurled of those who hate life enjoy
strife and the fight against all that is right who delight in the sight
of our pain their feverish games are played to win who is the Judge
those who possess the most sin or those whose ethical boundaries are
tossed upon the wind the Soulful Journey of Truth begins all Spirits
must rise and realize that tomorrow is unclear the Now is all that we
fear living in the Past the Future’s promise a deadly dream of steadily
eroding standards of life and increasingly prevalent panic and strife

I’ll break it down even further for those who don’t know casting stones
deals a fatal blow to any claim upon the Truth I know this having lived
most basic lesson a mundane blessing upon those with eyes to see and
ears to hear and the sense to keep those who truly love them near if
the cause is right then the fight is light released upon the darkness
of Death’s fell blight the plan is was and always will be to Conquer
and Divide I said to Conquer and Divide hide the Truth by sliding lies
and subtle misinterpretations within the Cipher of those who would be
Friends when spiritual power is witnessed by droves of eyes alight with
jealous hatred and subtle crimes of a zealous nature they dislike
the sight of Elevating Consciousness and do all within their power
including glowering upon flowering Souls shining with the Sublime
Divine I’d be remiss if I didn’t diss the spreaders of gossip and
untruths in the attempt to raise themselves but its Human Nature and
the lowest of emotions to brew that heady potion prepared for crabs in
a barrel clambering slandering and devouring one another when instead

it should be said that Elevation is the Key but those involved can’t
see that this is the Final Cause the belief that will set us free to
loose the chains upon our souls and cast our Truths to the furthest
shoals the pain and desperation within will wither and die without a
cry if we allow Relativity to rule the day it is not true what it
is they say those Philosophers Scientists and even the Novices that
play at social and political engineering they be steering visions
of equal pay in the Karmic Debt of cobwebs unswept in corners of
subconscious yearnings and desires that arise from the fire of
decisions made in the moment of passions awakening but all share the
burden of emotional hurdles no one being above the next the test
applied to us all we fall further into the Deep whilst awake and during
sleep our dreams disturbed by heavenly verbs and nouns that astound
wearing Ethereal Crowns like unto Ceremonial Mounds that gird our words
the fight is Now and here in the Real World or in Virtual Space we must
be True and realize our place beyond these games that people play the
Poet’s fate is to awaken the Day of Comprehension’s Dawning to know
that Truth is Eternal and all-encompassing that Nothing Is Relative

All is Real and you are responsible indeed for those sinful seeds that
you thought you’d left behind sown instead of blown by the Dead into
Headz without Dreadz but they will come back to haunt you and taunt
you with unrealized ambitions concerning the replacement of God with
worldly Perdition the defacement of Love in the placement of boundaries
meant to keep Souls from singing in syncopated harmony but all this too
shall pass as the last gasp of the Damned heralds Time’s forecast and
the Judgment of Relativity’s Reign will depend upon the pain suffering
and heartache caused to those True Souls who kept themselves pure and
immune to the lure of Babylon’s fatal call it’s difficult y’all to
write these words knowing that my fate may lie far from these shores
I implore those of Faith not to judge in broad swathes but to realize

that in time all of these things shall be known whether on the Day of
Death or the witnessing of God’s Breath total Translation from the
Physical Station in Contemplation of the Creation of a Poetic Nation
Equals the End of Relativity and the Birth of a New Earth on this Day I
Pray Amen-Ra.

Take that. And the beat goes on….and on…and on…on…on.

Star Seed: The ancient breed

Star Seed: The ancient breed

Nights
Soulful seeds breed
Half-remembered memories
Of distant Eons
Disturbs dreams
Evoking Fantastic Visions of
Superhuman Pantheons
Third Eye awakenings herald
The onset of pineal potency

Of Gods and Goddesses making love
Beneath purple-hued skies
Multiple moons gliding by
Sighing and whispering as
We dance to the beat of ethereal tunes
Echoing The Music of the Spheres

Harmonic runes ring out
Chanted with solemn glee
Galactic progeny burst from the womb
Of Creation Herself while
Giants and Heroes war against
El Eloheem becoming in time
The Fallen Ones
Heir to death disease and
Warfare

The bass contusions of
Dark Matter Reborn
Rumble subsiding grumbling into
The nether regions of
Spatial inconsistency
Dark energys synergy with love
The key to understanding the
Tantric magic of
You and I

Serpent-fueled Kundalini rises
Formulating emotionally liberating
Connections that burst like convection
Upon the surface of Amenta
That which underlies Creation
The Void of Potential formed by
The desires and dreams of
Divinity Incarnate

A Nation of Stars
Fallen into the flesh
Risen from millennial crypts scripted in
Stone and silt headed full-tilt toward
Evolution of the Soul
Bones formed by crystalline veins
Of pure energy become viscous breaking
Free into skin and breath

Life pulsing then streaming in
Oceans of blood and DNA
Vivified by times immeasurable flow
A visceral experience bounded by
Nothingness

And yet
Everything is retained
Contained within The All
Cresting in heightening tides of
Awareness

The Holy Word spoken
Creation Become
Those memories are truly
Slipstreams of Incarnation
Fantastic voyages into the Souls
Declination beyond the Ecliptic
Beyond conceptions of propriety
And Society

Love shared
Beyond boundary

You
Me
He
She
We

Remember
Times beyond mind
Journeys of the sublime
Dream-like states
Wherein Souls in Synch
Approach the brink of
Conscious Awareness

Accompanying one another upon
Adventurous essays into Oblivion
The goal

Transcendence

Knowledge
Awareness
Remembrance

Memory becomes certain knowledge
The constraints of the flesh only
Ephemeral chains
As Eons collapse into
The Now
Awakening Genetic Cellular Databases (GCDs)
Programmed for Perfection
Overriding lifetimes of defection from
Our innate connection to
The Godhead

Chanting voices thrum
Ringing through my dreams
Tribal Nights contrast with scenes of
Technological Ascendancy presented
In multiple frames of fantastic
Visual potency timeless but vivid and
The Mantle of forgetfulness falls
Once again as dawns bright light
Erases the night and I awaken to

A brand
New
Day

Bugman’s Burden ~ Conclusion

9th Interlude
The war was over.

Night had fallen upon us like a veil and the Beasties howled in ecstatic hunger, anticipating the flesh of their victory. The harsh strobes of the settlement cast a dim glow over the graveyard and the Beasties advanced, ghoul-like. The hulking form of Sloogon rose above them like an avatar of death.

His crime had been cannibalism. He had killed and eaten his entire family, including cousins, distant relatives and even a few unfortunate neighbors who had been in the vicinity when his terrible hunger had reached its crescendo. Sloogon had been on Purgatory for fifteen years, the longest surviving prisoner in the history of the planet. The Administrators above had made that little factoid available to me before sending me down to meet him in the flesh, so to speak.

I shivered again, afraid in spite of myself. Ranae had left my side and moved to the stone wall, where she crouched, her arms wrapped around her knees. The others were also silent; each lost in their own nightmarish conception of what the immediate future would bring.

A new sound rose from the graveyard and I shuddered as I recognized it. The hoots and hollers of the Beasties had been replaced by a purposeful cadence. They were chanting.

““Fok it! Eat it! Food an sex!””

Over and over again, they chanted. Sloogon’’s bad habits were in tune with those of his chosen companions. Perhaps as a direct result of his lengthy incarceration or more probably as a result of the morbid dementia that afflicted us all in this hellish place. Ranae’s voice was a hollow croak.

““There will be no stopping the Beasties tonight. They will take us all. I know it.””

She was right. Ranae cowered in the mud, staring at me wildly. Her eyes were orbs of white in the faint light. I had no response for her. Could barely think, let alone speak.

But it didn’’t matter. The hopelessness of our situation was beyond discussion. Around us, the other Talkers were moaning fearfully as the reality of our imminent deaths marched nearer.

Suddenly, Kahaki was there. He was covered in mud. Only his eyes were visible, flaring with excitement and madness.

He stared at us both, his usually vacant expression replaced by a feral hatred. Still, in the depths of his eyes, I could detect a yearning for love, for the love of Ranae. He spit at me and pointed at Ranae accusingly.

“”I’’m leaving you, mama. You love the Bugman more than you love me. I’m gonna be a Beastie now. Sloogon says I can.””

Ranae looked at him; her mouth working futilely as she tried to respond. A dull croak was the only sound she could make. I watched the little monster with grudging admiration, appreciating the extent of his hatred.

To join the ranks of Sloogon’’s Beasties was to align oneself with the dregs of depravity and no salvation was possible from those stygian depths. Kahaki looked at me once more but I did not meet his eyes. Instead, I shrugged and concentrated on Ranae, who stared at Kahaki, despair dripping from her eyes. When I looked back, he was gone.

The Beasties had reached mid-field and their cries were louder now as they sensed our desperation. Sloogon had moved to the front of the assembled Beasties and I could see a dirty cloth twisted around his thick neck, soaked in his own blood. I put my arm around Ranae and she drew closer to me, unresisting in her stupor.

From the ranks of the Beasties, a familiar voice rose, a child’’s voice. ““Mama, help me! They’re gonna eat me, Mama! Help me!””

Ranae tensed and called out, her voice quavering. Her will had returned at a most inopportune time.
““My darling boy! Kahaki! Mama’’s coming! I’ll save you!””

She sprang into action. She pulled away from my weak grasp, drew a flesh-encrusted thighbone from the mud nearby and jumped over the wall, her naked form reflecting the wan light of the settlement’s glow-orbs.

““Ranae, no! Come back, they’’ll eat you too!”” I cried, reaching out for her. I was too late.

The dancing Beasties howled and closed in, quickly overcoming her with their numbers. Her screams blended with Kahaki’s as they both reaped the consequences of their pro-activity, becoming an early-evening feast for the ravening Beasties.

I turned away then and began preparing myself for my death, which surely would not be long in coming. The cache of supplies lay nearby.

A collection of silvery cases, bound together with thermoplast ropes. Some of them had been opened and in the darkness between the crates of dehydrated food and medical supplies, I could see small, beady eyes staring back at me.

I smiled to myself, in spite of the pain eating away at me.

The cycle never ends. Birth, death and rebirth. With the passing of each life, somewhere, another begins. We are promised nothing in this life except pain. Pain, and the promise of death, hence the cessation of pain.

Along the way, the choices we make determine the course of our lives for better or for worse. The Beasties had made their choice and the agonized screams of my fellow Talkers announced the hellish result. Shadows abounded and moist, horrific slavering sounded close by.

I shuddered, awaiting my own call to judgment.

Ranae had been right. The Beasties were showing no mercy. Come morning, there would be no Talkers left in the settlement west of Hell’s Gate. A shadow covered me, obscuring the faint light of the settlement’s strobes.

It was Sloogon.

The Beastie stared down at me in triumph, his immense body soaked in blood and gore. As his minions surrounded me and began to grasp at my body, I could hear Sloogon’s breath whistling through the hole in his throat. How he gathered enough air to speak, I’ll never know.

““How’’s dat, Bugman? Yo kill alla peeple an now yo die in Hell wit yo bitch! How’s dat, Bugman? Yo be notin, in dis place! Sloogon rules in Hell!””

The pain caressed me like a long-lost lover and I welcomed her final embrace. I flew into the forever-night, my soul diaphanous upon the breath of the solar winds.

~

The choices we make stay with us eternally. Never are we allowed surcease from the pain we cause others, nor the pain we inflict upon ourselves. My last conscious emotion as a creature of the physical plane was regret.

Regret, tinged with sadness. Regret for the choices that I had made, the life I had not led, the love that I had hoarded jealously, for myself alone.

Last but certainly not least, regret for infecting the rodents aboard the space station with the virus. The rodents that had accompanied me to Purgatory 7, hidden within the silvery boxes that contained the supply shipment. I felt regret for sharing my virus-tainted bodily fluids with them on the station, for knowing the equation’s answer before the formula was written.

Soon, every living being upon this planet, as well as those who had been aboard the station, would be dead, God willing. This time, there would be no cure and the virus would spread throughout human space until all of Man’s works vanished, subject to the ravishes of time.

Ancient of Days, I pray that my Will become the Alter of your Judgment. Let my utter abdication of pro-activity provide atonement for my unforgivable sins against your Creation. Thy Will be done.

Let the church say, Amen-Ra.

 

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Bugman’s Burden ~ 8th Interlude

8th Interlude
My physical descent into purgatory mirrored my soul’s fall from grace. Euphoric weightlessness within a womb-like cavity followed soon after by crushing gravitational forces beyond my control exemplified the shift into micro-dimensional space. The stasis-field that held me bound did nothing to assuage the intense pain of molecular restructuring brought on by re-entry into normal space.

The space station orbiting Purgatory 7 only served to reinforce the sensation of isolation. Cold, gray walls, Technicians and Administrators clad in silver bodysuits. They gathered around me curiously, studying for themselves both the mental and physical profiles of the most hated man in the galaxy.

In turn, I observed them. In them, I saw myself. Or rather, myself as I used to be. Supposedly objective and clad in the regalia of their stations, imperious in thought and attitude. Physician, heal thyself.

““Are you sure that’’s him?”” One said, doubtful.

““Of course I’’m sure, dolt. Look at his coloration, his eyes, and the size of his head. He’s Black. If you look closely, you can even see the remnants of the Enhancer’s probes. See?””

The other replied, imperiously knowing.

““I don’t know. Doesn’’t look like him to me.””

“”Nobody ever looks like they do in the holovids, don’’t you know that by now?””

““Yes, but I thought he’’d be taller.””

““Stupid fok.””

When I was younger, I had believed that humanity’’s inheritance was the stars, that the only limit to our technological sophistication was the boundless expanse of God’’s Creation. The purity of my innocence astounds me in retrospect. My naivete was boundless.

The extremes of outer space can only be explored by the fearless navigation of inner space and to follow that chain of thought too deeply threatens the very foundations of human achievement as well as our individual grasp upon sanity’s diaphanous fringes.

In the dark corners of the space station, beyond the inclination of the Technicians and Administrators sight, lay the chaotic vestiges of true reality. I could see clearly from my vantage point beyond their version of reality as they pontificated, irrationally secure in the implicit knowledge of their own willful blindness. While they pronounced judgment, produced documentation and observed stimuli, chaos stole away the foundation of their Truth.

It’s quite simple, really. Chaos is the common denominator that underlies the entirety of Creation. In any ordered system, events tend towards disorganization leading to eventual reorganization on a larger, more coherent scale, after a certain indeterminate point.

Black, beady eyes kept me company in my silence. Brown, gray and black bodies whispered through the stainless corridors, attuned to the cleaning cycles, the robot-drones and the occasional stray eye. Somehow, these creatures survived, and in surviving, thrived. Watching them, the full realization of my doom churned and roiled within me, finally heaving forth without apology.

I vomited profusely and tears coursed down my face as the rodents accepted my offering. To my reasoning, the purging of my stomach symbolized my acceptance of personal responsibility for my crimes, while simultaneously representing my denial of ultimate culpability. Society must play some role in the vagaries of human expression, regardless of the extremity of that selfsame expression.

My moment of epiphany was accompanied by the realization that beneath the surface perfection of our their reality lay a heart of darkness, a fetid abomination of death and decay. I reveled in that knowledge and the chorus of my insanity was born aloft by my shrill laughter, which echoed throughout the station in loops of forlorn despair. Let the church say Amen-Ra.

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Bugman’s Burden ~ 7th Interlude

7th Interlude
The red dwarf sun was setting on the eastern horizon; its wan light approaching purple. The stars glimmered coldly above the desperate battleground and our souls lay in the balance, forfeit to the Eater of Worlds. I gazed upon their beauty and the torturous cries of the wounded and dying assailed my ears unceasingly.

The surreal atmosphere was heightened only by the stark hopelessness of my situation. My chest ached with a searing pain that banished all thought of surcease. But that was not important. The battle had proceeded from mid-morning and would end with the final setting of the crimson sun.

In the center of the graveyard, scattered body parts lay – half-covered by mud – the odd limb grotesquely poking from the dark, combat-churned soil. These pitiful remnants would be gathered later by the losers and provide them with the only sustenance they would receive outside of each other until the supply ship returned.

I was told that the months on Purgatory 7 were short, three quarters Earth-time. The planet’’s retrograde orbit around the red dwarf skewed all natural perception of time and the years might seem to last forever to one damned, as had this single day of blood and death.

The few of us left standing watched the final battles silently, waiting for the now inevitable outcome. There had been thirteen deaths thus far, nine of them Talkers. Our side was losing.

““Where is Kahaki, Bugman?”” asked Ranae, her breath harsh in my ears.

She was sweating profusely, her eyes wild and darting. Dried and caked mud was her only clothing. She had lost her thin garments, as well as her dignity, in her earlier battle with Sloogon. Her hair was torn and she sported numerous bruises and cuts on her arms and legs. Blood ran down the interior of her thighs, evidence of her earlier ambiguous victory.

Kahaki was nowhere to be seen.

Sloogon had manhandled her aggressively, using his massive strength to subdue her. A sudden blow to the head had knocked Ranae from her feet. He had thrown off his loincloth, his bulging stomach protruding grossly over his trunk-like thighs. His penis was barely visible, its considerable length and breadth superseded by the girth of his belly.

Sloogon had advanced upon her, goaded on by the raucous cries of his minions. He knelt before her torn and bleeding form and his immense bulk sank into the mud. Her body disappeared beneath him, only the rabbit-like thrusting of his cellulite-encased ass giving evidence of her violation.

Suddenly, Sloogon had bellowed with pain and rolled to the side, releasing her, blood running from a gaping wound in his throat.

Ranae had bitten him savagely, releasing a copious amount of blood that fountained from his neck like rain, running down her body in a crimson flood. Sloogon rolled away from her and staggered to his feet, stumbling back to the edge of the graveyard, blood spurting through his clasped fingers. Ranae crawled slowly back to the wall and dragged herself over it, collapsing next to me, her captive lover. Gore and grime combined, her too-bright eyes shining sullenly behind the hellish mask.

The shocked silence had been broken only by a high keening, coming from Kahaki, who had watched the entire battle from his perch on the stone wall. Ranae ignored him, for some reason preferring to nurse her wounds by my side. She was incoherent and I held her protectively, taking short, whooping breaths while cherishing the stolen moment of tenderness.

Kahaki hooted again, staring at us both. I couldn’t tell if it was pain or anger that the little demon was expressing at the time, although now, I rather suspect it was a little of both. Whichever it was, that was the last I had seen of him.

““Did you hear what I said?””

Ranae slapped me on the side of my head, awakening me from my musings.

“”I don’t know where he is, Ranae. The last time I saw him he was sitting on the wall, watching you, uh, cavorting with Sloogon.””

She shot a look of disgust at me. ““Watch your mouth, Bugman. You still belong to me, or have you forgotten that little fact? We haven’t lost this war yet.””

I refrained from comment, deciding that my last foray into insubordination had used up what little good will Ranae had left, considering the way the day had been going. Win or lose, my lot in life could only get worse. Not that it mattered now.

The pain had spread from my chest to encompass my whole body and I coughed, my body beset by spasms. I closed my eyes and began praying. The oncoming night was accompanied by a chill wind and I shivered uncontrollably.

Whatever outcome the gods had ordained would be upon us soon, for the onset of night signaled the end of the war. Whichever side could field the most survivors would win the day and from the rising tide of noise coming from across the muddy graveyard, the Beasties, at least, were under the impression that for all intents and purposes, we belonged to them.

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