Chaos

Predator

Someones son is dying
right this immediate second of now..
and his General wraps his meaty iron fist
around the all-mighty oil-soaked dollar.
  An apex jungle-predator won't kill
for pleasure or amusement; 
  Even when hopelessly entangled
in the shimmering, dew-wet death
of a spiders web; 
  The spider, knowing it has no use 
for what has surrendered to its entrapment,
releases its prey not out of mercy, or sorrow..
but out of the calm calculus of reason.
  What then of this war? 
To quench the beasts' blood lust
of un-satisfiable desire?
  A revolution is growing silently 
in numbers, behind the backs
turned,
suckling from the tit of self destruction
and greed.
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Train Station

A train stops 

somewhere.
Pale strangers
with hungry eyes 
and dazed  faces
gazing ,
dragging baggage 
and dusty- shoed feet
 right over left,
into the station.
 
 
Miles of 
dimly lit cavern-corridor;
the acrid city air is heavy 
with filth and hopless
prayer.
woven metal wastebaskets overflow 
yesterdays black and white news
wet;forgotten.
And ticket-stubs
torn in half 
like the curbside heart
of those bid fare well
 
shabby cloth flea market millionaires
in toothless rummage-through
almost carefully...
for tin vessel pocket change
to trade for 
bottles of wine,
or six- packs of beer.
 
Clinging to the littered walk,  
the transient liquid mass
of faceless caricatures
sweep like dust
across a glass photograph.
Starry-eyed children laugh
and talk happy things 
to a gray haired lady in a 
cat sweater.
My how youve grown.

A sharp mechanical scream
made necessary 
diversion from the hi-heeled
 woman 
flesh vendor,
hair dischevled; 
pleading for fare.

A serpet hiss as doors open and exhale  
an overdressed man with plastic hair
carrying flowers; 
greeted by his long awaited lover
and her open arms .
Transition.
Train station. 
Mysterious intention. 
Cause,  or affliction.
  The place where the journey
begins or ends.
 A travel weary heart.
castaway of a vast unknown,
or drawn back to sanctuary home.
Where love chases its 
furry phantom tail....
And
where hopes sprout
 like spring blossoms,
or wither 
like the skin of an old whore.
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After the Golden Age

Folder: 
Poetry

Chaos should not cease

To dominate the world.

O yes, Nyarlathotep;

Will rule!

 

No wish for harmony,

Of its Golden Age;

It was before the Fall.


 

Reveling in constant disorder,

But Yog-Sothoth prefers reason;

Giving His first allegiance

To the Daemon Sultan: Azathoth

Remembering old times of this God.


 

Cthulhu does side with Him,

But Yig supports Yog-Sothoth;

As Father Serpent of the Cosmos,

Who invented this very world...


 

Yog-Sothoth has sympathy,

As Dagon; the Deep One Lord

And not even he can say

What will happen when there remains

A Princess restored on Her throne,

A Princess on Ebony Bone.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about what happened after the Golden Age.

Yog-Sothoth

Folder: 
Cthulhu Mythos

Yog-Sothoth, archons

God of portals.

Rules all goings in,

Rules all comings out.

 

Doors are His mouth

Windows are His eyes.

Whenever you cross,

He is aware;

And only when He permits it.

 

He is the Gate and the Key;

Jealously guarding the portals.

The face of Yog-Sothoth,

The face of the cosmos.

 

During death and dream,

Liberated from the house of flesh.

Struck out by violent force;

He may lead the soul to any world

 He: Nyarlathotep,

Even to the throne of chaos.

 

Yog-Sothoth cannot be bullied,

Not even by Nyarlathotep.

There is no way to harm Yog-Sothoth

There is no way to kill Him...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about the Cthulhu Mythos Deity Yog-Sothoth.

Chaos

Chaos

Chaos, it is everywhere
Like fire in an open field,
Or water in the air,
Natural yet it has no order,
I savor its randomness,
I enjoy its destruction,
But I see it for what it is,
And what it shall be,
No fighting just resolution,
Leave it be or it will do as it may,
With or without your assistance,
We do not need you,
Or you or even you
Just us, combined
We are unstoppable and cooperative,
We destroy and rebuild out of the rubble,
We create universes and solar systems,
We control the sentient mind,
We control free will,
Yet we have no order,
I admire beauty and order,
But Chaos is all-powerful

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tags:

Tangent #6395

Folder: 
Tangents

Tangent #6395

“You've labeled me insane, though I am the one who uses his brain.”

Dumbasses and I am surrounded by them. Everywhere I look, like a zombie plague. They speak yet say nothing, walk and go no where. How else would they accept their slavery so openly?
We are living in insane times. An epic tragedy of a dream we so willingly trashed because we grew lazy and ignorant. Huddled in a corner with your scraps, listening and believing what they tell you. As long as you do not have to think right? As long as you are distracted by meaningless entertainment that helps keep you lulled into that sedative trance, that false belief that you are actually free. I often see a vary real similarity between a Zoo and the human race as a whole.
You could be robbed blind, catch the thief red handed and still convince yourself otherwise. If it's not front page news it does not become worthy of your time. Going about your lives hopped up on legal speed, often walking over those you love or care about just to climb that ladder of success. God help those who stand in their way, an ego who has devoured their vary soul. It has become human nature, to reach the top at any means necessary right? When I look out across the ocean of the ignorant masses, the ones who at a whole manifest this reality we live in. All the bigots, and assholes of society who unknowingly projects this nasty corrupt vibration across open space. I see a sickness so grotesque that is the cancer of man and their arrogance could only be described as “insane” and yet I am the one who is labeled crazy. I want to believe there is still hope for us. That out of this storm heroes will rise up, then I find myself questioning if it is even worth saving anymore. Have we the self proclaimed smartest creatures in the galaxy manged to screw things up so bad we cannot fix it?

That old Stone;

Walking down the creek bed, I came across an old stone.
Reaching down I picked it up and wondered what it has known.
Has it seen tragedy? Has it seen creation?
Does it even know the beauty to behold the setting of the sun?
That old stone, oh the secrets it has known.

Time has a way of reminding us of our failures,
the mistakes and regrets that scar for our troubles.
To live in the moment, to forget for a moment
that this old stone is simply a rock. What if it could talk
what would it say? To have known every day?

I take that old stone and skip it across the water,
and once again my mind begins to wonder.
If for only a moment in time,
moving forward leaving it all behind.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I know I retired my "Tangents" a while back ago, however this one has been brewing up for awhile now. So I've decided to dust off the folder and create one more! I know I could have put it under my "Discourse" (the bastard child of my Tangents) however as choppy and raw as this piece is, it deserves to be a Tangent for it hits home on a few subjects that have been bothering me a lot..... Hope you enjoy and as always love to hear feedback!!

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System has failed

Redefine what is left unambiguous
Social Cliques kills away the anxious
Creative minds take a back seat
While the blind dogs are on the loose

Sixty seconds left and it's mayhem
Sticks and bacons are all's that's left
Hotly cooked by false Politics
Government's a silly term for religion

Decrypt the silly codes of the Media
All Television has its hidden agenda
Despise the hidden truth and welcome the spoonfed fraud
Confuse the people with the sensation of the fools

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Kick the chair, the jury's for sale

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Extinct by design

Folder: 
The Battle Mile

Along the battle mile, lie the casualties of war; lie flesh and machine
on the digital highway; the endless miles of death, where the followers
of the old ways have been pursued and punished. Left in disarray and
driven to near extinction by a war they could not win, a two front war
waged the children of the new age, and those from beyond the horizon,
only a few now remain; lost, scattered, and hunted. The program has been
successful.

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Assassins of the digital highway

Folder: 
The Battle Mile

Under the frown of the moon, the hyper bikes scream,
leaving florescent trails in their wake as they race along the old highways,
looking for more dangerous challenges, searching out on
the wastelands for the followers of the old ways, those who live
on the forgotten past; those faceless who still exist in the darkness.
The assassins of steel and fuel lie in wait on the horizon.