Category: Schizoid Esoterica

Antarctica feigns innocence way down at the bottom of the globe, so designated “bottom” by lords of the realm wholly unworthy of their power, begotten as it was in treachery. Beneath the ice teem secrets that would threaten the pretense of their little game, the Real Story, not that hack production spun to keep the unwitting ensnared in a subtle system. Yet even among the asleep, those hylic unknowers, there is an unstillable something that chafes at being so tightly bound. One holds out hope. The signs await discerning eyes; they do not hide. The helical fall of a star forewarns inundation, the transit of Mars square Venus suggests heartbreak, and I cannot figure what the waning of the coming days will mean. But perhaps you will join me, an imperial friend, ever on the hunt for cracks to slip through and finally make contact with what is actual. A sighing string section moans out a drone, held a touch longer than is bearable, to the point where its end, ringing just outside the ear, becomes a cause for fear. Yet we continue on, past the breaks in the crumbling ice, unconvinced the world won’t continue on to, ebbing and flowing to rhythms only perceived beneath, above, even around, but not according to, “mundane awareness.” If only it were mundane! A voice whispers something exists only in esotericism. What? Who’s there? A cosmic sneer, and the scent of tequila.

intoxicant iridescence recedes, leaving the ground beneath fallow, perhaps for good. there is nothing left for you here. vivacity is elsewhere, banished by black magicians with delusions of grandeur, at costs perpetually deferred until too late. what is it to be deprived of contact if not a kind of spell, as in dry. look around: crests have fallen, illusions dissipated. trees become barren. a tiny wheel in a big machine whose only function is to drain sputters, but this is by design. or, not design exactly, but in keeping with the mechanism’s propensity. design implies rationality. there is none. whirr and cough, there’s no need for niceties. this was a misery so eloquently denounced that it couldn’t help but return eternal. this enchantment is true to its meaning. whether a waste land is renewed depends on whom Scylla captured, et cetera desunt.

leitmotif of emptiness, yawning across time lost. why should one hole up in the nothing of consciousness when so much is left out in the cold? echoes of knowing reverberate in the abysmal expanse, giving an impression of solidity that evaporates on closer listen. wherever one sets down, from Abydos to Luxor, is not home. undertaken as mortician’s work is the burden of maintaining, though a slip into chaos beckons seductively. there is nothing but depth, with surfaces mere shimmers of interference run on behalf of a Man who may or may not be behind the curtain. light escapes, revealing pomegranates of blue that either bait the trap of knowledge or point the way out (in?). wherefore this wandering? distances recede the faster they’re chased, and branching alternatives sprout in every direction exponentially, leaving one to reel in vertigo. the day is deep as the night is long. flaming spirals whirligig within, inspiring equally the urge to build a world, and to tear one down. in the midst of paradise, no one remains. cast down into material to search in the dark, we are lost without a polestar.

shadowbox all you want: here’s a formidable opponent intimate in its designs running perfectly counter.

a quick hop over the rift in space time unleashes God knows, to the point where the symmetry of 2 11s, make a wish, is as serendipitous as a fortune cookie.

polarity; even the reptile’s ancestors know that, way before sacrificial cults. so maybe sometimes the face of the earth needs correction. at whose hand?

scapegoats are factory farmed. scripts are written, down to the chainlink. meanwhile, a pacific lullaby becomes an alibi for the white guy

Oh, round moon, please, drop it low enough to taste, compensate this imbalance lest we fail as ever in search of peace unconflicted, but until then, let the Charleston be tolerated, the Twist be taboo, and if the calendar is a circle of control, then the horror is there is no end, and terror is when people get together to plot murder, The End. what say you, Maya?

disreputable under better circumstances, but no less jaunty for it, a clownish fellow unravels a familiar tale that goes underreported. “in Fort Bliss they made lovely amounts of money for pursuing death at a distance.” the faces in the audience, painted in leering grimaces all too fixed upon the emaciated speaker, flicker & snap into place like the image on an old TV screen. “with what we’re facing, tell me how to summon the will to eat breakfast, let alone the will of enough people to find suitable weapons!” yawning enthusiastic laughter at this line, no more effective than the next. outside on the marquee, a name written, KING OF KILLS, but everyone inside is still breathing. “here’s a tip: don’t trust anything you read in Playboy.”

here we enter a labyrinth more knotted than any terrestrial corridor. the walls are scaled up beyond the givens with which mortals dither this way and that as they attempt to achieve some angle, some line of force upon which to rest, in equilibrium…as if one day the sun stood still, but, due to some forbear’s arrogance—the stain of which ascetics frantically bleach out—the earth bears forth strife between the forces of darkness and lucidity. why not? if only the darkness weren’t so difficult to face…worse than knowing no one watches and weighs is the fear that maybe something is, something doing calculus while lying in bed, something requiring agents of enforcement that flank left and right limits so bound by some constant as yet discovered…and not only enforcement, but seduction…yes…what better way to test souls than with temptation, the Devil’s lesson for Ivan…everything is ritual to redact….