NeterSelf

Twist the nails out of the fingers and bones,

Cold beyond remedy

The Alien theatres of the Second Age

Tear me away from the bleeding eyes

In the everyday, I step into new oblivions!

Flesh

I am filtered inward

Speak not of what was created

But what was maintained!

Far removed from the Grandfather’s chime

A tick—constricted through biology

Platitudes lie…

I’ve forgotten the tiny measures

And half step into a new oblivion

Every night…

I shed my skin, I shed my skin! I shed it!

Before the fires

A towering spear am I,

So far from the moonbeams

So far from the light.

The Living Dog breathes not the breath of free will

Automatic it rains

Oceans of Devil’s wire

Fallen

I am smeared into the winds of a final Saturn.

Looking for his monument

I turn my back to all the names!

And pierce the daystar

As a false moon.

My mind shares no true belief

In the lunacy of flesh

In the lunacy of flesh…

My mind shares no true belief.

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NeterSelf

The Fifth Eclipse 

In all directions, I see mountains. And beyond those mountains exist the Great Darkness. Nothingness. Abstraction. Time moving forward, dragging its rusted body across the dimensions in a spiral. Every minute inevitibility comes more and more into focus. What does it mean to End? I gorge on the Never, bringing into being a renewal of sacrifice. My subconscious, a conduit, digests that which lies on the other side of the black towering Eclipse. My first deed, created out of the earth like a disfigured shape wrapped in decay, engulfs the whole of the earth in flaming fire. 

Yes, I am willing to forget myself for myself. Sacrificing the who I was for the who I am to be. 

The walls do weep the saddest shade of red wailing for relief to shine the light of divinity elsewhere. Their shadows creep towards the pinnacle strangling every rose that dare bloom in the absent sun. 

O HOLY, HOLY, HOLY is she who raises the glass of invention. Her flesh a vessel to be shed–motionless and Dead. 


Raise up your beleaguered body from the ashes of the old, for there exist no gods without imperfection, the means to create, and the ability to recognize that even the future can be reshaped and disfigured in the image of We. 

Hard is the heart of fate. And every tribute? A feast for the hand of Me.  

The Fifth Eclipse