Apocalypse Divinium

 

Gnarlodious:  When you were a baby I held you in my arms, and at once an electric shock from my hands jolted you into Awakening, like lightning.  Then you cried, but your mother wasn’t there.  It was only I, the Skinwalker, endowing you with the Chosen elixir. 

atlas84:  Is that why I feel like a manic light bulb, burning fiercely over the candles of complacency, inversely proportional to light that’s normalized, light that burns half has bright yet twice as long? 

Gnarlodious:  You’re above all that.  You can solve this, I know it. 

atlas84:  No.  The ability to solve the Theory of Everything requires an equal distribution; the logical calculations of the left must be balanced with intuitive patterns of the right. 

Gnarlodious:  But you’ve got both... 

atlas84:  ... 

Gnarlodious:  I can only think in terms of mechanics, of laws that can’t be challenged.  I don’t have the creative insight that you do, but by God I wish I did. 

atlas84:  Even if I could solve it, you’d just use it to glorify our bloodline. 

Gnarlodious:  You come from a long line of Jews, a tributary of the inbreeding of Egyptian Pharaohs.  They were purified, supreme minds, and people considered themselves lucky to be their slaves. 

atlas84:  But their slaves were Hebrews.  You’re suggesting that a Pharaoh’s child ditched the high life for a stroll in the desert? 

Gnarlodious:  Nothing in life is easy. 

atlas84:  Everything is easy when you embrace the paradox of the infinite. 

Gnarlodious:  And you know the symbology.  You’re a trained mathematician.  If I only knew how to read the equations like you can. 

atlas84:  It’s hard being smart because everyone expects you to be somebody. 

Gnarlodious:  There aren’t any good people who haven’t suffered. 

atlas84:  My teacher is a dot, my friend is a line, my girlfriend is a curve, but I’m their fractal hybrid- a neural expanse of spiraling curves that converge into dots. 

Gnarlodious:  At least you aren’t ordinary. 

atlas84:  Yeah.  But sometimes I wish I were ordinary.  Not a complete vegetable, but someone people want to be with. 

Gnarlodious:  Ha!  You wouldn’t last a day with all those drones foaming at their mouths on cellular devises, babbling at somebody that’s hundreds of miles away. 

atlas84:  Even so, I won’t do this for you. 

Gnarlodious:  If not for me, will you do it for the benefit of mankind? 

atlas84:  What benefit?  Technology has made us savages.  We use it more to gain tactical advantages in warfare than for the common good. 

Gnarlodious:  Oh, you are so naive! 

atlas84:  No, you’re naive.  Decent humans knows that corporations only invest insane amounts of money into technological fields to gain them an advantage over others in the market. 

Gnarlodious:  Then imagine a world where corporations, instead of revealing their discoveries to the Military-Industrial Complex, use their electronic offspring to introduce a new era to mankind, an era where a new kind of war is presented: The Corporation Wars. 

atlas84:  I’ve imagined that already. 

 

Hoji hoji!  Ra-ra-ra!  The war cry of our Countenance echoed off the cliffs of the Negev yesterday, carrying with it the announcement of a rebellion that will rip apart the eon stratus of tyrants and sodomites that bog us down into the pollution of our old planet’s Greenhouse.  The ranks departed off the flanks of said cliffs and stole away to that broken crevasse upon the ancient lonely sea that so flowed in and out through the ages, sacrificing all those washed-up bodies that crashed upon the Earth from the great darkness beyond Yerushalayim and it’s cracked dome from which the demons of the Netherworld escaped from.  Now we march stoic and rampant along the sea-crest as those ageless monsters dance in the sky, oblivious to the technology we inherited from the ruins of New Chimera, spirited up by the literature of the Gods that the enemies of Knowledge were never quite able to incinerate.  O Milton and Mozart, Oracle and Sage, Nine Muses of the Merovingian Encephalon, I call upon the literary greats of the Pregalactic Epoch to invoke the spirit of Valedictoria, of which we are in need at this most crucial hour.  O rage of Achilles, o wit of Odysseus, o perseverance of Aeneas, come forth through my lungs and decorate the desert floor with your ancient magic, magic that like the tales of Arabian Nights forged diamonds into the minds of all the poets, warriors, scholars, and vagabonds of the past.  Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, the rest of the enlightened few, so potent after the betrayal of Satan, reconnected the Ouroboros that had been severed after the Fall, only to rupture again the cosmic Yin-Yang that held us together for centuries, held together despite the Kali Yuga so prophesized by the Upanishads.  Dante, who in the west heard voices from the past, channeled the great poet of the Aenid, Virgil, who, just as Homer before him had been ostracized from the valiant sea that churned our souls through the Socratic mold, built monuments on the words of his progenitors.  Iliad, Aenid, Inferno, Paradise Lost, I invoke thee to sing of what horrors lay down there after the insanity of empire put a stranglehold on the world, inspiring everyone to do the same, sending ripples of war coursing o’er the Earth.  The Mongols, the Spanish, the British, and most of all the Americans- who opened the portal- what dastardly inspiration inspired them all after the crucifixion of Christ made Rome superior to the rebels of sin?  How long before the Gates of War became closed?  Listen Europe!  Old medieval Europe that took the seeds of imperialism to a whole new level: the children you bred were blind to the history you subjugated.  Shades of Shakespeare soared on the wind, Ariel streamed through centuries into the post-romantic era of union activists and suicidal writers.  How the Enlightenment tricked us all, submerging ourselves in the game of greed, the glory of science, away from the farms and into the cities where the suffocating smoke of industry drove us to madness.  Nay, not even the Romanticists could be spared, nor the sentimental treaties on the communist Noble Savage that Rousseau and Marx sought to preserve.  Capitalist dogmas became the creed of the 19th century, powering through it like a locomotive with no regard for human or animal life or the natural world that birthed us.  The consumerist agenda wrote the Space Age Magna Carta that bred overpopulation and all the variables that came with it.  What could possibly get in their way?  Ulysses: the soliloquy that became a movement.  Gravity’s Rainbow: the warning that nobody listened to.  Infinite Jest: the absurdism of postmodern chaos.  I call upon these writers of the past, who roared through the aqueducts of their pens.  Eliot’s Waste Land between the wars; Yeat’s Second Coming.  Proust and Woolf: the King and Queen of Prose; Hemingway and Faulkner united even now, in the year of our Lord, MXCMXC AD.  ’Tis the year of the Godhead’s Hydaspes, who, due to the regression of sanctimonious devotion embalming the land, base from the free along the rim of reason, staring incredulously on the empty fronts of Israel, abandoned His followers into the fading smoke along the recoiling of the lonely sea.  High up along the vaults of the skydome there came a howling wind mockingly wild knockin’ on man’s door, not a typhoon nor monsoon just the rambunctious tempest of a psychological cataclysm, one that befell the Space Age jackals and jaunters who ransacked the barren Madonna, stripped her of dignity and cut off her head with scimitars from the orient.  Repentance indomitably imminent after the campaign of an Arabian subjugator, not the Dajjal just one of his many disciples, searing a rupture into the pages of history with the Army of Pale Countenance- ghastly ghouls flitting about on the ancient sea, comparative in topology to the Aegean yet gurgling with drowning witnesses and hollow of deep blue depth.  Instead a bone chilling glow was all that appeared through the shallow mold, infiltrating the crust and boiling the ocean by a convection that inevitably accompanies an invasion from the mantle of Hades, and now these tubas of fear reign panic inside the depths and all the primordial prototypes swim about in apprehension of the true justice spawned by Nature’s discontent; water, soaring, the oceanite bedlam conjugal with the atmosphere’s unleashing of the Godhead’s asphyxiation can only mean that His inert Queen, the paralyzed Earth consents, and Mother Terra finally takes back what man took from her.  All those tedious fondlings in the back seats of disheveled cars, the rape of the Maenad, woman patiently yielding to man’s weakness, his concept of success, control, and superiority- all those proverbial delusions of grandeur fastened to the necessities of their psyche; woman, so deceptively clever under veils of patience and scrutiny; to care so much for them no matter how much they desecrated the Queen: to be so forgiving shows the true strength of their hearts during centuries of sexual oppression.  Woman knew that man needed to feel superior, so she inconspicuously allowed the tarnishing of her dignity and thousands of years ago the gendercide of Genesis launched a sexism over the land, an ancient land during a time when goddesses had as many things to say as gods, gods who had no chance against the bewitchment of respect, the seduction of beauty, and the compassion of equality.  They let them do it, yes. They let them choke the heart and soul of Terra’s glorious garden, watched them as they lacerated the forests, killed off the retreating species, and wore them as tokens of achievement all for that false sense of grandeur.  All along they knew that one day she’d come back to restore balance to the land, unabashedly seducing warriors of the Fertile Crescent with the sanctity of her sex like roses consuming the sun.  Those tantric mantras of dysphoric angels now cocoon them with their hypnosis.  Dear Goddess, how did it happen?  When man’s philandering of your resources reached critical mass, the flowering of your valleys, the pinnacles of your mountains, the tumbling waves your oceans ceased to aspire in our minds the revelry of true sanctimony; no, don’t concede to that erectile dogma of boring monotheism: unleash the Hell they deserve, the Hell that they so obliviously created to sedate the threats of your passion; a Hell that was only blasted out of the ecclesiastical boom-boxes of church balloons floating in the sky to reign terror on the political infrastructure of the nations of man below, the brainwashing agent of fear meant to paralyze them from their intellectual peace, setting fire to them with the torches of ignorant fantasies, fantasies originally meant to be taken metaphorically as testaments to the Creation; Gaia’s Creation, not the imaginary Phallus in the sky with white skin and the greed of gold glittering in its eyes.  I may be a man but I haven’t subscribed to that tyranny, one tyranny that throughout history repressed the lower classes until the time came when not even white men ruled slave colonies but even companies used the racist mirage of God to turn indigenous, family abiding cultures into geopolitical veins for the heart of Globecorp.  But no, no matter how hard the Countenance tries to hammer complacency into my soul I won’t give up and neither will my compassionate brethren and victimized sisters who for so long sacrificed themselves to the mercy of His hostility.  The planet is beyond critical mass, the bill has arrived and it’s time to pay the check.  Forgive them Goddess, for they know not what they do; forgive them for this blind intrusion on the wonders of your Creation, for that criminal folly indolent to Karma.  I know it’s difficult, but they’ll die anyway, so forgive them because they’re already going to Hell.  Forgive them because all that’s left is the murmuring sound of the wounded scattered about on the beaten beaches by the lonely languishing sea with the bombs blasting on the precipice above where the storms of Fallout beat drums in an echo chamber of destruction, where the horn of Baphomet gives one last bleating blare over the crimson ground below that Judgement is upon them, those torturous fiends, those clueless tools of evil wasting their lives for an idea they’ll shake their heads at after they’ve transcended through the ranks of the Netherworld.  No I can’t stand to see this happening anymore, no I’ll drift away from the planet and let it regenerate because there’s nothing left to defend, nothing left to preserve for the generations ahead, nothing left but the Equation’s artillery and the thuds of dropping bodies and the ceaseless screaming of the sea creatures below.