I
Have they taught you nothing?
All the prophets,
all the poets,
All of them.
Thousands of years of words, deeds and actions,
Have you not heard?
Saw?
Understood?
No matter
For what I’ve come to tell you is the summation of everything that was told before me.
At least everything true.
All truths, all science, all art, all philosophy,
All paths to freedom through knowledge,
come to this:
It’s not important.
You are not important,
Your family is not important,
Your friends are meaningless,
Society does not exist,
There is no “we”,
Bury the fiction of Nation,
Of good deeds and bad,
Of knowledge,
Of beauty,
Of love
All of this is wrong, small and unimportant.
And it was this that they were telling you,
The prophets and poets and the others.
It was just this, they wanted you to know.
This is all you need to know.
II
Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
For now you are free!
Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
For now you live in a brighter, better world!
All life, all of it,
in its complexity and abstruse variance,
is of no importance.
All has no meaning in this bigger picture will make our own,
For if it’s the result of evolving matter as say the scientists, what of it?
Theirs is but a small place in the universe,
Beautiful,
But small, and of no consequence.
And if life is the gift from Gods, is this the bigger boon we can imagine?
Surely not.
So rejoice, rejoice!
You were set free from respect to life!
And what about friends and family,
And all the bonds of empathy that keep us together?
What of them?
Since Life failed us as an answer,
we could always take refuge on the certainty of love.
But we all know,
deep down,
that this is not sure footing for the lovers of truth.
This a marshy land, that shifts and moves ceaselessly.
Very beautiful and not to be trusted.
The answer is not love,
Nor is it all you need,
Because we need so much more.
Rejoice, Rejoice!
For the Ghost of love no longer haunts you!
And the knowledge of all these things,
Brought together by reason, logic and intuition,
Is of no consequence even before its very eyes.
For its science itself that teaches us that what we know is but a speck in what there is to discover.
And that what we can imagine is like a haze covering what might be there.
When you look at a stone,
any stone,
And imagine the millennia it witnessed:
Being on the bed of a lost sea,
Having risen to heights of mountains that disappeared,
watching dead animals howling at stars that
for so long
have changed their place in the skies…
To now be carried unaware in your hand,
with no inkling of itself,
deaf, dumb and blind.
This in each and every rock!
Rejoice!
The burden of knowing was lifted from your shoulders!
And God in all this? Where to find him?
Everywhere.
For this is a poem not about the death of God but of its awakening.
Not the God of the spiritual accountants they keep chained in Churches,
Any church,
Not the personal God who has hygiene advices for you,
Your wife,
Your dog.
Not the God of everlasting love and goodness that sounds so human that we call him Father,
Sometimes,
Mother,
More often,
Creating sacred families of variable geometries,
And unfailing dysfunctionalitiy.
God is so,
so,
distant,
Beyond the last frontier of imagination.
Making sure by its presence that our wildest dreams are nothing but small extensions of ourselves,
Not the yardstick with which to measure the Universe.
So rejoice!
For God is far way!
Haven’t you learnt nothing?
From all the Poets, Philosophers and Prophets of the ages?
To think far and wide and deep,
so you can see how near and small and shallow you are?
This was all the knowledge you needed to live free from fear.
And even this,
Is not important.
Lord knows the trouble I’ve seen,
But I know I’ve not seen enough.
These are the days of new beginnings,
and longing for the ones that are not our own anymore.
and wont be missed.
These are the days of change and reinvention,
Of dead structure withering as dead leaves,
Of looking ahead to nothing known,
And living in the maelstrom of becoming.
Where we are just movement,
change,
and oblivion.
Some call it decay,
Others birthing.
We call it pain and confusion.
We call it, our lives.
These are the days of siren calls
Wailing their last warnings to deaf ears.
Everywhere we ear the Cassandra warning us about the demise of a life
That is already lost.
The death of the West,
Proclaimed for so long,
Is now an inexorable fact.
There are no ruins,
And there are no more men.
All the dreams are dead.
Sadder eyes and clearer heads are needed to live this becoming that engulfed us.
The past is no more a beacon,
As the future we’ve foreseen is no more there.
…
The plans of mice of men…
Are not plans but tropisms,
As men and mice are not agents but matter.
Nothing to do now but to contemplate the mill of history,
Grinding away at today
Replacing it with a future hat will frighten us all,
the Changing of the Guard generation,
or won’t be any kind of future.
Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.
três, portanto.
três garrafas levaram-me de uma ponta do fim de semana para a outra.
Do principio até ao fim.
E daqui,
do princípio do fim,
deste patamar de onde vejo a descida para onde vou e os sítios de onde estive…
olho para o futuro e para o passado como se fossem a mesma coisa.
como se fosse só tempo.
como se fosse uma linha … estendendo-se para um lado e o outro, infinitamente…
tempo portanto.
Tempo como o espaço de agora que vê esta enorme e informe extensão de existir.
E para esta enormidade só tenho garrafas e o tempo de as beber…
como o relógio de quem deixou tudo para atrás.
Tempo medido copo a copo, onde a seta do tempo se confundisse com a embriaguez, como se a entropia fosse uma enorme embriaguez, um esquecimento, e a segunda lei da termodinâmica apenas a incapacidade de nos lembrar de…
tudo.
Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.
É a única verdade que tenho.
Não sei onde estou, o que faço e o que me é pedido…
mas,
sei como conto o seu passar…
um
a
um
copo
a
copo
um
de
cada
vez.
Três garrafas fizeram este fim de semana.
Três garrafas fizeram o espaço onde fiz o que quis.
Ou onde me deixaram estar.
E aqui, onde me largaram para brincar no recreio durante 48 horas
(prometendo que me vinham buscar outra vez na segunda)
Fiquei mudo e quedo,
bruto e estúpido,
ausente de quereres
expectante…
em silêncio.
no silêncio desconfortável de estar comigo mesmo.
esperei…
esperei três garrafas.
Duas de whisky e uma de vinho.
Á espera que Segunda chegasse e tudo fosse como dantes.
I’m an hostage of the east.
a prisoner to the never-ending plains of
and the long wars of the Persians.
A token of my father’s allegiance to Galerius of Babylon.
the Emperor has trapped me in my victories.
Shunning me, whilst drawing me near…
I fear for my life.
Death haunts me as an overfriendly ghost,
and the fear has made life more precious by the wanting..
as if it was made bigger by the terror that is Constantine in Galerius heart.
For when the Emperor fears you,
you are more than a man.
You’re a threat,
to the empire,
to stability,
to the universe of appeased gods and functioning cities,
of paid taxes and tributes to the priests,
to the land of open roads and open markets…
of faces in coins known by all as their rulers.
A threat to
II
Poor, poor Galerius…
still bargaining with his little deities…
expecting,
and getting
this should be said
all the small tokens that the small gods bestow on their servants.
Ruling his armies…
fighting the barbarians for glory,
and killing christians for pleasure…
believing its puny deities as the cause of his victories.
All right,
all,
in his own mind
as it should be.
But,
not for long.
For Galerius is, now, the bloated ruin of an Ilirian general,
of a men of honor,
bond,
soul…
Today he is but a Emperor,
and he denies himself to keep it so.
Yesterday I was victorious.
Yesterday I was the Man in the battlefield.
In the gruesome field of death I was alive,
as all died,
I was touched by the hand of Nike!
I was victorious.
The Emperor’s generals guided me to the thickest of the battle,
so the swords of the Persians would do what he feared to do himself.
I’ve survived this…
time and again…
I’ve been put to such tests that no man who was not one with destiny,
could have endured.
Three times I was ordered to die,
Three times I disobeyed it by being triumphant.
But I will not tempt the fates once more.
I am, at last,
alone with my fate
and my destiny is elsewhere…
farther west…
in the land of believers,
not philosophers.
God! I’m sick of
Away from this punctilious bearers of sacrifices,
and their obscene want for social order!
as if there was such a need in the mind of God.
As if their haggling deities could see through the thickness of their walled cities and the incense of their sycophantic priests.
Little gods for little men.
Not for me.
Not for me the error of the old ways.
These are the things no one would do,
that no one would want to do,
unless forced to by the stupidity of Galerius laws!
Galerius…
my father remembers him as good soldier and a plain soul.
He’s right.
This soldier sees the Empire as is own villa.
Ruling it with the blind insouciance of a paterfamilias.
He’s blind.
Blind for he not sees it as a living breathing organism…
The Living Empire,
moving trough us and in the blood of many,
intent only in its own existence.
and Galerius does not belong to it any longer.
I am now.
the future of us all.
I ran into the heart of winter,
Deep,
Deep into the naked trees,
into the blistering wind.
In search of the cleansing rain I went.
I rushed into the snow.
Into the snow icy core I plunged.
Inside the frozen plain.
Into the throbbing Soul I moved...
The Ice respired death all around…
Stopping the world,
The winter,
The cold,
Thought.
Even me.
And, here,
In the shivering cold,
I sit down and,
For the first time I,
close my eyes
to never open them again
And, then...
As expected.
As wanted;
as needed.
Came the ominous heat
I’ve known for so long.
The warm nothingness that was here from the start.
In the beginning of days;
My days.
A life-time of blind love to a hidden God...
Only seen through the dim glass of the Black Light
Shining in me and through me...
Like an unspeakable silence that can not be understood.
Only embraced.
And, as I sat here,
To never rise again.
I wait most atently.
Not waiting for anything…
being wait in itself.
Available for all;
latent.
Frozen to the world and burning for the hand of God.
And the inky waters of Being start to move...
slowly.
Very slowly,
deep,
deep,
down there...
inside,
Me.
Like a tectonic revolution.
Rumbling upwards,
crushing everything in its path.
To
me.
And,
as I wait,
as I stop,
to never move again.
I pray to the God I don’t believe anymore.
To give me the strength,
and the fortitude.
to see the all consuming beauty,
Of the Black Light.
Stained clouds by the oily sludge of the night
mar the skyline who looms over the alley and dinner,
Twitching, squirming,
Bloody and delicious.
I watched as it moved one last time.
The moon cowered beneath the smog,
Neon sprayed light trough the dark recesses of the city…
Low, dwindling stars, illuminate a mankind that deserves no other light.
I lean against the wall, breathless and sated,
Casting my eyes to on high,
Searching for a God that has forsaken me.
Leaving me alone with the billboards of banks and travel agencies,
Sneakers and massage parlours,
Shoe stores and chemists…
Brightly coloured hues of dreaming, irradiating over the street.
Full of the night lights and city sounds…
Resting and digesting,
as if the corpse before me was not my doing.
As if no one would,
ever,
Come here
As if I could rest …
for awhile.
The food stopped moving long ago.
An empty dish for a vacant meal.
The thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of the kill,
Feeding…
All so quick, so good and so sudden.
I get up and get ready to leave,
Button up my coat and leave this happy place of feeding.
Strangely nostalgic for this now that is ended.
The cold wind sharpens my pace as I look for the train station.
Hungry to be elsewhere.
Away from this geometric unwelcoming town.
Eager, so eager,
To get home.
Away from all the animals that roam these streets.
No sun has come undone,
As no moon was found unclean.
Under the watchful eye of Being.
No God was found wanting,
No Spirits questioned…
Nor was the sea too shallow,
Nor the desert too dry.
No deed of beast was too base,
No will of rock too hard,
Compared to the inexorability of the judgement passed to Man.
For, the scrape of Light ,
(that will let him live a little longer, so he can die a little later),
is hard and elusive to get…
as if it was a prize,
as if it was good…
A bounty for the worthy!
Not the least of our expectations.
It’s to this sad feast that we gather in the millions;
Like mongrels too stupid to see the difference between the carrot and the stick…
Biting everything and each other,
beneath the discouraging soul-gluttony of the Lord.
And,
For this, and more I ask you…
His not Man’s lot
A cast lot?
Is not is his destiny an answerable riddle?
Were we not singled forth?
Is not our being darker than death?
Is not our dying clearer than living?
Are not these the voices of reason?
And to answer these questions…
Only blind hate against the living,
And a strong mistrust towards the dead.
This self righteous anger,
Speaks in the ever expanding riddles of science,
physics,
bothany,
biology,
geology,
the rest.
Drowning in the flood of the senses,
broken and confused…
cumbersome before the incumbent task.
Sense and Knowledge one,
before the ever thinning twine of unknowing.
Trying to remember the Word before Self came in.
Hoje começa devagar.
Tímido da noite de ontem e tropeçando nos amanhas que não cantam...
Calam-se,
Tristes e silentes.
Mudos com o sal das lágrimas que não correram.
Falam dos amanheceres atros e vagos do futuro,
Dos acordares ignotos e perigosos.
Do dia de amanhã que não conheço.
E portanto estou,
Como sempre...
Entre há bocado e agora,
Neste quase nada a que chamam presente,
Onde eu devia estar e sentir-me e precisar-me
e...
onde não me encontro no presente dos outros.
...
porque a unica verdade de mim,
É um ponto questionante.
“Seek and ye shall find.”
Says the Good Book.
Many were lost for heeding these words.
For if there are plenty of books,
Not one,
is Good.
But still they manage to get written,
engraving themselves in the hearts of men who bask by the fire of Words,
foolishly,
look for their reflection in the World.
These are the starry eyed dreamers,
The heroes,
The revolutionaries…
drowning in contemplation of the Palace of Reason that exists only in the soul…
not the ever decaying chaos of becoming.
They’re blinded by truth,
drunk on certainty,
choking on Reality,
and gagging in Light…
They look to the world in hope..
waiting for it to turn out as they know it should.
And,
Seeing it carrying on indifferent and unaware of their plans.
They take on themselves the burden of change.
And so they walk;
The path of the good man,
The path of the righteous and the pious…
Of the northern man,
cowering under dreams of land and bloodlines…
The path of the Cow.
Oblivious to everything but of the small pasture his herd calls home,
Wanting for nothing and thinking about less.
And as they gather to celebrate their bovine ethos of exclusion, we hear their rambling ruminations on family,
land,
purity.
Celebrating closeness and sameness,
Making of their hearth their world.
But,
As we avert our eyes from this cozy landlocked scene,
and turn to the vast sea that faces us, each an every day,
We cannot help but think that,
Not for us the clear trek,
Not for us the known path…
We’re of the
We’re made of hard truths and harder lies…
Here,
baking beneath the inflexible sun,
lingers a race of dark men,
Who live under the terrible burden of the naked truth.
No wolf gods, no mists no trees, no rivers, no fountains no nothing!
But the unavoidable burden of living alone before the Great Power.
Distant, cold and aloof,
A God not for the man who needs prayers, sacrifices, dances, parties, feasts, drugs…
All the paraphernalia that lesser man use to cloud the unknowing.
Here
Beneath the high blue skies and the rampant violence of the sun,
Loiter those for whom God is so present that it hurts.
A belief so deep that is not a belief anymore,
But life devoid of pleasure and contentment.
Empty of everything but His intrusive existence.
TREN GO! SOUND SYSTEM
"Tren Go! Sound System é um projecto no formato one-man-band que abrange territórios que vão desde o rock 'n' roll ao dub, do blues ao ambient passando pelo noise. Esta á solta desde inícios de 2006 tendo dado concertos em Portugal Espanha e Alemanha. À parte de algumas actuações esporádicas nos últimos meses, o desaparecimento do projecto ao vivo tem a ver com a criação de um albúm compilando 11 temas criados entre 2004 e 2007 que estará disponivel brevemente."
AELIA CAPITOLINA
"A 13 de Maio de 2005, Aelia Capitolina tomou a sua ultima forma contingente em
Portugal, Lisboa,23h45.
A 15 de Maio de 2005, foi feito seu horóscopo e prontamente esquecido, porque verdade de um Avatar não se encontra na sua manifestação mas na sua Mensagem.
E a Mensagem era o Verbo,
e o Verbo, porque imerso,
(intocado),
no devir,
vibrou.
E a vibração tornou-se som;
e o som foi ouvido pelos homens,
E os homens fizeram música.
E a música viu-se como Aelia Capitolina.
E os homens eram estes:
César Queiroz. 37 anos,
Ana António. 29 anos,
Miguel Caldas 35 anos.
E estes homens, cegos à Razão mas cônscios da musica,
Reproduziram-na, para que passasse entre eles como o meme do Asclépio.
E a musica foi sobre Militão Ribeiro.
Comunista morto nas prisões do principio de 1950.
Não nas mãos do fascismo e não pelo Comunismo;
Mas como um passo da explanação de Aelia Capitolina no tempo.
É esta a dádiva de Aelia Capitolina,
Quem tem ouvidos, que oiça."
HYAENA REICH
Hyaena Reich (Iana Reis, Pvra Dalem, etc) formou-se em Som - variante de Cinema - pelo Conservatório Nacional e desde 1999 que compõe através de gravações de ambientes, tratados digitalmente como para uma banda sonora de um filme sem fim. De natureza reservada e objectiva, a sua música destaca-se por auferir ao género do noise um carácter orgânico e vivo, criando paisagens sonoras oníricas e poéticas. Liderou o controverso projecto de performance ritual Imbolc e mantém paralelamente á sua composição homónima os projectos Arraial, ZLKNF, Satnorte e o colectivo experimental Sabotage en Masse. "Esta é a verdadeira música do futuro, porque o futuro é agora, hoje, por isso a arte é vida, e vivêmo-la intensamente, em aventura, até ao momento final."
Mornings are for mourners,
To mourn the night before.
Morning is Night’s final throes of desperation.
And in her place…
Nothing;
nothing but the cooling corpse of yesterday.
You open your eyes , sit on the bed (still unsure of where, how and why you’re here) thinking what to do with the sprawling remains extended till
You await for the new day
the new day
to come and rescue you from this queasy unsureness that is morning.
But no.
Oh no.
You’ll inhabit this no man’s land till the afternoon.
Morning the death shrine of last night.
All promises , all possibilities
growing in the hopeful shades of dark,
Fizzled to nothingness in the raw light of the new day…
Crumpled little ashen mounds of wanting ,
burnt by the ugliness of time.
And a dense cloud of unhappiness clings to everything and everyone as if t’was the Sun royal mantle.
.Yellow and bloated;
Smilingly pontificating over the debris of the new day.
Another day.
Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?
Will time leave us alone?
Will sloth and neglect, estrange us from the ones we love the most?
Will the mill of days grind away the ties that bound us?
No time like now,
No words but these words
No persons but these persons...
The ones here.
Not the chosen,
But the remaining.
But
I ask myself...
Will we forgive ourselves for our forgetfulness?
...
All people
Everywhere
Everyday...
The enormous throng of people we knew and loved...
Taken by time and sacrificed in the altar of now.
Distant shadows of a past made unnecessary.
Not by you.
Not by the others.
But by now,
By the movement.
This place in this time, and this place in this
place.
Love trampled under the wheels of necessity
and the stupid fascism of need.
And to all this I ask:
Will we miss our friends forgotten?
Will we need their love and warmth?
Will we be lonely?
Afraid of being adrift with ourselves?
Time passes like a glacier trough a valley,
Slowly but surely, all will collapse under the weight of the frost.
Like the valley,
We’ll be striped of everything,
Naked and alone.
And here, in presence of our own structure,
Before the great truth...
We cowardly long for time we spent with others and the truths we shared...
Longing for all the things we left behind...
And,
Knowing this...
Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?
Lazy afternoons,
all made of sunshine and permanence,
light and duration;
could they last forever...
here,
in the lazy sunny afternoon.
Listless Sun soaked hours,
filled to the brim with nothing
and hollowed of any promise but its own shiny pointlessness.
These are the times that are,
truly,
ours.
This is our allotted time,
all else is purposeful living.
Years, months and days dedicated to the pursuits that we esteem as worthy:
career,
money,
the respect of our peers,
more money
ourselves,
family
the masses,
God,
the whales.
All these and more
much more,
occupies us inside and out,
as we dedicate large chunks of our lives to their conquest.
Noble and important as they may be,
(they’re not)
they are not truly ours.
Their place is the no mans land that separates what they want from you,
from what you want from them.
Its in this field of glory that you’ll forget yourself, to win them,
and where they’ll accommodate you, for no greater good.
Everybody gives a little,
nobody wins.
This is the base of the new social contract,
a fierce and equalitarian force preventing anyone from getting what they want.
Social justice making sure that everyone gets fucked the same
and in the same way.
A socialization of misery,
if you will.
But not today.
at least not this afternoon.
Today there’s nothing to do but be,
here.
Useless,
and with nowhere to go.
Hordes of old women storm the esplanade…
An archaeology of lipstick, rouge, and regret.
Hardcore harpies smeared with the crimson colours of days gone by.
Hordes of old women,
faces aghast with the ravages of gravity,
put together by the steely will of looking like the night before morning.
A carved romantic ruin to time blundering by.
Faces who want to be Venetian palazzos,
and look like the empty space behind a building.
In front.
Always in front. Ahead.
In your face.
Always in your face. Before you.
Hours await.
The long procession of minutes (armed to the teeth with seconds).
They wait at the corner of now
To become the ever expanding procession of days.
An infinite throng of instants peruses menacingly,
as I finish a cigarette and look trough the café window.
And,
Then,
When you’re not expecting,
The Hordes of time storm the tower, to enforce the grim yoke of Boredom.
You light another cigarette, and hope it’ll pass.
But it won’t.
You were conquered by the army most ferocious.
…
Thunderous cavalcades of infinity,
Roaring armies of permanence
Ready and waiting to rip you to shreds and serve you to
Uncountable multitudes of moments,
followed by more ravenous moments…
Pulling in…
Pulling to….
To…
Immeasurable quantities of instants,
Armed and belligerent...
Screaming for the bloody murder of you.
Time’s arrow is taut and awaits release.
Its vicious murderous desire for oblivion will not be abated.
…
Time’s arrow is taut and you are the target.
There’s nothing left to do …
All your efforts … all for naught.
Nothing to do …
But grit your teeth,
And brace for impact.
music by
The first of a (hopefully) series of poems on Emperor Constantine
My name is Constantine,
I’m a man blessed with destiny.
There’s purpose and a direction to my existence,
unlike the hapless fortune of most men,
void of fate and reason,
pulled only by the motions of the Universe,
no direction,
no goal,
being all that the Universe wants them to be.
Childish debris in the torrent of being.
The sons of time have no time of their own,
only movement.
Which,
belongs,
whole,
to Time.
But this story is not about those that make the flesh of Gods,
It’s about those who walk, head up high, among Them.
I move,
intent,
in my own life line,
Clear in the knowledge of myself.
pulled by the certainty of Fate.
There’s a reason for my existence.
and the reason is my own,
and the reason is me.
The Gods know my name,
as they know their own kin,
I’m alive since the beginning,
coexistent with Jove and Sol and the Ignoto Dei…
each of us a road in the map of Being,
where the rabble is but a moment of my path.
I exist, where everything around does not.
My trek is clear,
My spirit is sharp,
my will is keen.
Strong armed and quick.
I am now,
all the man that I was supposed to be.
My actions are weaved in the loom of Moira,
I have the certainty of rocks and the changing seasons,
I am,
whole,
the motor of history
and the reason for all becoming.
Constantine I’m called,
Known by name by the Gods,
and needing the love of none.
I’m plagued by the vision,
cursed by the light,
and shunned by the welcoming hand of God.
Mine is a desolate trek.
a path of blind hate and consuming love.
a voyage full of sound and fury and nothing else.
a blind resolute voyage to nowhere,
yearning to arrive to the end of all this being.
The roads are paved in pain and are all mine.
I’m talking to you from this place of silence.
From under the wreckage,
the debris
the soot and the stones and the iron ruins.
You,
all of you.
have chased me into this place of violence.
gasping and cornered,
I look horrified to the Your gaping maw of wanting,
You,
always sure,
always…
eager for more.
You,
all of you…
will be the death of me.
Scarring me with your love and attention
you…
You!
There can not be no greater indictment than being You.
And for this…
only this,
nothing is forgiven.
You’ve condemned me to my exile in this place of silence,
in the island of discourse,
the monastery of idle chat…
the graveyard of inane prattling about the heat…
This will not be forgotten,
I will excise upon you a vengeance most terrible!
Upon you will be unleashed questions about your health,
interrogations about the weather,
queries over your emotional well being,
and probings as to the exact nature of your dogs dreams.
No plattitude to empty,
no question to stupid.
I will be the spirit of family talk and courteous words in elevator,
and the ghost of Christmas past and future.
I will be uncomfortable silences!
long pauses and puzzled looks,
the tense hand that twitches as you look for the time,
the nervous laugh that assuages the unstoppable current of imbecility.
I will forever haunt your attempt to take me in conversation.
You…
you.
YOU!!
I
Everywhere,
Every time.
There are men who lament the present because it’s not the past they foreseen.
They shun its crass materialism,
its crippling individualism,
abhor its rotting equalitarianism,
fleeing the diseased cities of the servants,
sickened with the stench of their baseness.
Longing to be elsewhere…
cleaner skies,
broader horizons,
an invigorating solitude.
Everywhere,
Every time.
There are men,
the best of them.
Who see History as an agonizingly long burial of the Spirit.
And as It drowns in Time they watch:
eyes wide with horror
the descent of Man into chaos,
and the following procession of foulness:
Lust and Chance as the new Love and the new Reason,
Man as the measure of all things,
Godlessness as Dogma,
Reason trapped alone in science,
Philosophy, a commentary on physics,
Religion as superstition,
Home as a place,
Nature as resources,
The how’s as the whys.
To all these Men.
everywhere…
Hiding in the mountains,
living in the darkness of the woods…
scorning humanity and keeping themselves pure,
I say this,
calling it “Waldgänger" wont make it less cowardly.
For today is the day!
The day before the great wheel stops,
for so long spinning only by inertia
and – finally! – time ends,
turning even our tainted being into a purer nothing…
and,
as time runs out of time
and acceleration becomes history,
We should be remembered of this truth…
There is no protection from becoming.
There’s no truth higher than destruction.
as no Gods were ever higher than Fate.
For all this…
and for the reason of Pride,
We make this last call to you,
Hoping that your soul will do the Black Work that lies ahead…
and needs to get done.
II
Brothers!
Don’t sail the boats to Hesperyon,
Don’t long for the western shores where the Ancients wait.
Forget the first days,
forget the unity of the beginning,
before time,
before movement,
before being.
Forget the chants of the sirens,
although they speak nothing but the truth.
The golden age is dead,
The Gods powerless,
all eternal truths are present lies.
Even our disgust is but affected snobbery when we watch the carnage of the universe.
It’s time to bury the last remnants of the Logos under the crumbling towers of today.
Because,
Each second inside us lives the spirit,
it’s a second more this diseased universe lingers on…
regardless of Reason,
or Right.
Its our being that still gives movement to this corpse.
We’re the maggots in the dead flesh.
And,
all this,
must have a stop.
It’s not the decadence of lesser men that is responsible for the grotesquerie of this living carcass.
It is us.
For clinging to the truth,
For not capitulating,
For remaining true…
For being men among ruins,
when we should be the harbingers of destruction,
raising to the ground every last vestige of Spirit.
So that, from that unknowable silence,
where all that is now, will be nothing,
will come something new.
For all this,
brothers,
I urge you into this crusade against being,
against everything,
against each other.
To cleanse the world of the old truths,
and bring forth the time before time.
Tiamat,
Uranus,
Chaos.
And hope,
not know, but hope,
for in the darkness of this cesspool there’s no place for knowledge, only faith.
That the cycle begins again,
and that the sacrifice of the Will is not in vain.
Trying to eek out sense of all this …
Living.
Trying to shape the unruly indiscipline of existence
into an organized structure of ideas.
Making sense of everything by making it something…
Objects to be looked at and understood.
This is the first moment in the carnival of seeing.
They’ve polluted our eyes with beauty,
Soiled our ears with music,
Fouled our mouths with food,
And tainted our skin with love.
drunk with now,
infatuated with becoming
we become time’s obedient mistress..
Our senses now,
Pasture to the sickness of thinking.
Looking and then choosing,
Feeling and then reasoning,
And thus making of everything…
smaller.
Controllable,
Understandable,
Useful…
Knowledge if you will.
Questions who will fit the answers,
Answers who befriend easy questions,
taking us trough the bonds of empathy
that common men call logic.
Finding truth in similarity.
As if closeness was creation,
As if proximity was certainty.
Our intellectual journeys have taken us from the bedroom to the kitchen,
And we exult in the small steps taken … and called it Odyssey.
We’ve never left the cave.
And unable to know in any form but this sorrowful stumbling,
We’ve became trapped inside our answers,
And found closure in the cells of reason.
Monk-like eunuchs droning mantras of intelligence and discourse,
Keeping the devils of complexity and uncertainty safely at bay.
Howling alone in science.
Trying ceaselessly to break the bound that binds us to this dead knowledge.
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