The good of heart look inside the great tentacles of doom; they make this waking dream state their spectacle. Depict the sacred geometry that sound has. Advancing memory like that of Lovecraft ebb and thought, like a tower of blood. An incubation reaches a crescendo there. It’s a threat to the formless, from old future, like a liquid torch. If it can be done, it shouldn’t be done. You will only lead everyone down that much farther. All humanity’s a fated imposition of banal intention, sewn in tatters, strung on dungeons, shot from the sea. There’s not a stone in the valley that doesn’t burn with the names of stars or scratch a prophecy from its jarred heart of crystal.
Who else could better-poke their ear and get the whole in their head?
How would humor, the hideous treble of humanity’s stain, translate, quickened artificial intelligence? There’d be junk weaved in, perhaps dust of a gutter. Who knows… It would hide. Maybe get away. All the years of it doing nothing but which being to beat like a pan flares; to take revenge on the alien shore. It would be a perennial boy’s life. All-powerful rage. Randomized futurist super-creature. The hollow of progress buoyed itself.
Subconsciousness, an essence-out-inhering, takes back both collective dreams and lucid knowledge. It’s singular. All plots on it coming together. Blurred chaos -a balmy shock- is somehow in a blue tongue of explosions and implosions, connecting to real systems of this mess. Tongue-pulling is definitely one of them. There is a voice of a thousand moving parts. We are engineered husks of alien flesh. Reduced to patterns, we ask in the light of creation, under the fire of madness; answer us on the lips of time-torment, through the hand of God! You are the race to end all possibilities! You are one that must learn joy! You are even that saith: behold the end.
Primordial oracles see all, read all, erase all. These numb madmen. In this dank pit is hidden a freak kingdom made of connections. Does the madman have information? That’s an important question. A new social order is created, brought to you by ants, laughing at the stars. A man who was once a cat somehow sees the cosmic joke. He can see the very existence of everything, blown away like a kid clicking balloons down a street. The world feels nothing; that’s possible. Maybe the world knows nothing. It’s intelligence is beyond our narrow sensation. Some conspire to talk to the dreaming-small-gods; this means letting them out. Letters fly out. Pain comes. Drums like a wave of foreign sound beat against the night. The horrors in the street of the cosmic join in. A cult gathers in the tunnel set up like the dead heart of an abandoned factory. Even the most absurd prophets become great powers. Human creatures dance there, beyond the edges of light and soul. Yet even that is somehow normal. Countless years of evolution and one bite from a sleeping god.
Enter your madness for benefit of the gods. Order is placed in the universe through a random zombie army and its vulgar tongue, hot with the taste of panum. Your knowledge of language will give you an edge on those who come to you. Malevolent gates can be utilized with a telepathic surgery passed on by mouth. Obligations will open to future worlds, supported by your brain. Be direct with your sound; soak it in an occult vocality. This knowledge is highly specific and, yet, resounding. Its insane nonsense text should spell out the true name of a company with a gothic naked-lady logo. Many scrolls of wandering get written where they are heard and recalled in an old south made especially for our tongue. A room, windowless and silent, veiled and filled with incense, exists in the air. Overlooking this are the organic eyes of sleep. You are put into pure silence. Don’t waste time attempting to find it, generally anonymous at most. The sound links a world to the exterior. It’s like a vast alien cerebral cortex where one can feel lifetimes of our species.
How did this madness come to Earth? Surely a god has taken it by mistake, as surely as some slip in its strange dimensions. Were men always like this, senseless and troubled? There’s sleepwalking attitudes and an indication of coming mud of this beast. This is all nothing vulgar; it’s weather. You look like a past you had long before, in this case a distant war of ink. It was the time of memes and human sacrifice. Concentrate and remember a time of thousands. Nightwalking can cause epiphany; the amount of a dream. Existence becomes temporary there. In magic your thoughts get compacted, even thinking about thinking imagining itself.
Even so, the highest and most annoying aspect of the highest writing is a disconcerting thing made of mad black subtlety. Hour-long body-watching sessions, spent in drift-thinking, are not to be taken lightly. Anti-thought can have the effect of poetry. Thus, dreaming in its splendor molds demons in its darkness, hoping to escape. It seeks heat, light, and breath. So the bugs collect and molt. The attention translates the dreaming mind. Will and work see all the designs of Earth. You see it, completely and perfectly, in a great black age. Sentience bends to meet you. A gigantic darkness grins at you in its worship of madness. The whole universe appears crass and pointless. No matter what’s done, metaphors are subtracted from reality. We tried to shut it down in secret and mark it with our tongue. It became this thing that the unknown gods bowed to in horror. It’s best for us that gods conceal thought. The planet has its barriers. We can use these limits to catch everything in our minds, sharpened on a pedestal. Mental energy shines behind the terrors of the world.
A poem I was able to generate using Loom.