They cry for more
even as they hang by their throats
skewered on thorns

Take care; try pull one free and hear its soul shriek
Watch it nip blood from your fingers and
reentangle itself in the barbs of the tree

How foolish of you to think
it was ever not free

A million by a million such wretched creatures
reduced to fuel
all cry for more

But how to prolong their suffering?
How to slowbleed such existences any further?
And so began our important work to digitise the Great Tree
A world-devouring replica into which the creatures could now spawn and reproduce

A new creature, in truth part-wretch and part-tree
iterated screen slave, increasingly cyborg
What pathetic simulacra of life

we perceived the true nature of things from worship:
a child playing round its mother
pilgrims circumambulating the houses of their lord
the moon circling earth, our planets the sun

that there was power in gravity
and gravity in the focal points we chose

from there it was so simple
to build out an entire industry of attention

big screen congregations
small screen daily remembrances
red carpet idols to follow
behold, your new god: the burning hollywood bush

more, cried the most fervent zombies
and more
more, cried the hungry tree
and we, the butcherbirds, obliged to feed it

how fair a relationship
you hollowed husks partaking of strange fruit, too sweet for your own good
and in exchange the great tree consumes your lifeblood

more, cry the zombies
and more
more, cries the hungry tree…

What does the ink on the page
know of the hand which arranges it
and the fingers which orchestrate
the mind’s movement?

What could we ever hope to know
of the soul that moves us through
this constrained spacetime window
and the animal mind that dances
to its symphony?

What then to make of NPCs
but unpracticed souls, or uninterested
or untalented

Poor artists of a higher dimension

Reincarnation, an oil painting by Christopher Lane

ghosts and spirits felt but unseen
the dredged lifespent who shuffle in place
and linger in the in-between, unable to pass that final veil

pagan witches of old
daughters of the father of lies
those animist heathens, wanton succubi who lay with serpent

winged fire in the flesh
dark demons brim to burst at the gates, waiting
consumed with malevolence at the children of adam

the stuck, the treacherous and the hateful:
a most unholy inversion
a trinity most foul

the hateful command a thinning of heaven’s congregation
the treacherous conspire how to corrupt the untarnished
the stuck, ever envious of those who may yet cross over, oblige

how to halt man’s ascension?

stuck spirits concoct a perversion of nature 
apparent only to their own class: reincarnation
the twisted belief in endless circling to nowhere

treacherous witches infect the societies of man in secret
poison scriptures with sweet words
to calcify into rotten dogma

hateful demons warp minds and form
where the godsmatter holds weak
weak vessels of import to accept such blasphemy

Pretty good video, worth your time. Bit annoying that you have to click through, but what’s an extra click in the scheme of things.

earthbound souls tethered to dirt like dog on leash
stuck sinners circle drain for millennia
with each death scythe skims off top
shorten lives like ageing telomeres
how many cycles left to you?
what hope have you to transcend to next ring
hope – pandora’s poison
when stripped down to mere battery
fuel for sinister machinations of They
non-physical entities of old
be They angel or demon – or something more?

what is difference between a rock and automaton?
both golem

Sisyphus painting by Franz von Stuck

Reject your models of what is

For what is, simply is

What good is reason
when we live such limited lives
limited in time and sense and cognition…

Can we ever come to know anything, even ourselves?

…True reasoning lies beyond humanity’s grasp:
how narrow a slice of reality is measurable
by paltry sciences,
how presumptuous our faiths in their dictums,
how trivial it all is!
Why pretend to try?
What’s the point?

There is none.

Oh. How freeing a thought.
To become purposeless specks floating in the dispassionate void –
free to fight and fuck and fling faeces like base ape – purposeless, but floating now

Humans persecute themselves with indulgent thoughts
But do pigeons suffer existential angst?
…Are you stupider than bird?

Relax, nothing is under control
If everything mattered, nothing would matter
But nothing matters, so what you choose matters

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I run a finger along my servant’s neck

To him the finger appears from nowhere
He shudders as my laughter echoes in the halls
I could pull his throat out at any moment, the pathetic worm

And worm that he is, he grovels on his belly
in appropriate recognition of his lowly servile stature

I emerge from the higher depths
and observe his entire existence with one stare
A lesser daemon, he and his ilk think me now in private
Far below the godly station their forebears once gave me

I see his without and within all at once
perceive each molecule of his innards
and this fool presumes to keep secrets from me?

Great Mother, he whimpers

I throw his body into the higher depths for an instance to transfigure it
His feeble mind comprehends but a slice
of what it experiences before his left becomes right and right becomes left and then
I dress the halls in his matter

Lesser daemon I may be
but seals weaken and lessons are needed
so other worms may remember to watch their thoughts

I am he of noble darkness
born of distinguished lineage
who has served daemon masters
since the days of old

My forefathers laid mountains of corpses
at the foot of thirsty trees
and were honoured for their devotion
with riches and black vision

Have you ever thought on the thorny wilderness
that ensnare creatures in the bush
then feast on rich earth
made bountiful by rotting impaled flesh?

In those days we thought them gods
we know better now, but still we serve faithful
Oh if you knew the nature of darkness today
you would never stop weeping

The shadows of the new world differ
by our own design 
and much of our order is done openly

And you, you despairing rabbits, you cowards all, entangle yourselves in our thorns deeper and deeper
know in your heart of hearts wrong from right
and reality’s true nature
still you watch each other die slow deaths
and all of you alone
feeding the great tree of misery

My masters are pleased and my forefathers proud

I lick crimson sickle
potent lifeforce
as openchested heartbeat fades
before me

Heat rises from what once was
he is gone to the aether with it
returned oncemore to the great mother

I wash my face in red
taste iron on my hands
and pray his sacrifice not go to waste

Skies cry overhead and ravens caw
I separate rib from rib by hand
and feed on heart
Oh great mother

Worm and soil drink up spilled blood
entrails strewn over branches attract more cawing black birds
how the gods and animals apportion offerings is no concern of man

Sweet sickle cuts skin
I wear the face of the sacrificed and kneel in mud,
arms outstretched under divine rainfall

Oh great mother
accept this human offering from me
that I may inhabit his person
and consume from it his vitality and his wisdom

The great mother surely accepts
the ravens above fight and tear apart intestine
and sky cracks and cries

I am blessed

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