Post by The Velvet Claw on Aug 27, 2011 8:44:12 GMT -5
BOOK I
Amidst the glimmering sundials of the dying world,
Heaven and Hell have finally
joined forces, to empower chaos
in contrivance of a world
of serendipity - oh, most stupid serendipity!
What happiness we find,
is merely the cross-pollination of the monotony of crosswires,
triggered amidst networks, constitutional laws
fast food, junk food, slow food and organic meals
and contextual ambiguity.
BOOK II
Then let it be that the when Antichrist comes
he rises up, with the bears
only to be gored by bollocks
amidst static storms and fiery wells,
and information crossfires conceal
a corruption of the Cities of the Plain.
Let power grids congeal in ectoplasmic shapes
where the sun doesn't shine anymore,
and the only moon left to guide
the seasons, the tides, coition
is a worn-out cliche mummified with blood and newsprint,
bearing an uncanny semblance to armoured tanks,
synapses and firewalls
throughout the human mind.
BOOK III
Let the Lord of Lords on his high horse
come with rampant swords
crimson-shaded fractals
enforced by none other
but the omnipresent roving eye in the heavens,
trailing a blazing arrow, on a map
of the imagination slashing across
the black arrow hinting at the armadas
stock prices and algorithmic codes of the future
that lie in wait, until the World-Spirit -
garn, why doesn't He do it sooner? -
wakes up to massage His back,
sore from sleeping on the spires of skyscrapers -
crass commercialism's cathedrals and charnel-pits -
comb His matted black hair with dirty fingernails,
look at the commotion of malevolent modernity
and, as if stoned, rub
His sleepy, but 100% guaranteed immortal
eyes and exclaim:
"...What the fuck...?"
...before dashing the brains out of
both the risen Christ and Anti-Christ,
For His antipasti at the Last Supper
with His 21 epistles.
Amidst the glimmering sundials of the dying world,
Heaven and Hell have finally
joined forces, to empower chaos
in contrivance of a world
of serendipity - oh, most stupid serendipity!
What happiness we find,
is merely the cross-pollination of the monotony of crosswires,
triggered amidst networks, constitutional laws
fast food, junk food, slow food and organic meals
and contextual ambiguity.
BOOK II
Then let it be that the when Antichrist comes
he rises up, with the bears
only to be gored by bollocks
amidst static storms and fiery wells,
and information crossfires conceal
a corruption of the Cities of the Plain.
Let power grids congeal in ectoplasmic shapes
where the sun doesn't shine anymore,
and the only moon left to guide
the seasons, the tides, coition
is a worn-out cliche mummified with blood and newsprint,
bearing an uncanny semblance to armoured tanks,
synapses and firewalls
throughout the human mind.
BOOK III
Let the Lord of Lords on his high horse
come with rampant swords
crimson-shaded fractals
enforced by none other
but the omnipresent roving eye in the heavens,
trailing a blazing arrow, on a map
of the imagination slashing across
the black arrow hinting at the armadas
stock prices and algorithmic codes of the future
that lie in wait, until the World-Spirit -
garn, why doesn't He do it sooner? -
wakes up to massage His back,
sore from sleeping on the spires of skyscrapers -
crass commercialism's cathedrals and charnel-pits -
comb His matted black hair with dirty fingernails,
look at the commotion of malevolent modernity
and, as if stoned, rub
His sleepy, but 100% guaranteed immortal
eyes and exclaim:
"...What the fuck...?"
...before dashing the brains out of
both the risen Christ and Anti-Christ,
For His antipasti at the Last Supper
with His 21 epistles.