Xtinction Agenda

Government spooks and tunnel rat slashers. Crack strikes again. The city has gone crooked, rained out, lost. It needs something true. Straight. Something spine light, with eagle feathers fletching. Strong enough to kill.

We are all marionettes, our lives upset, dancing over desert red, a fog of memory lost, the dead giving clues through what was said to where we began and where we are led, so alchemy wed, we find ourselves, shattered golden maidenhead, returned by strings to innocence shed.

Firing side knee supporting firing side shoulder, the rounds flame outward, evaporating into the air's thin film interference, a sickly rainbow of annihilation. Her cruel heart destroys reptile plate and horn, shocking even herself, leaving yet another slumped cadaver in her wake.

Sharp edged mirror divided, a soul savaged by the hysteric rage of addicted loss, pushes and cuts as soul screams moaning, and under crown of thorns births whimpering faith, spilling forth like a vein of blood in milk.

What was once a family entertainment turned encounter with the monstrous feminine is now tamed, taped over and enclosed, shipped safely back to shore, leaving the family unit intact. No more angry mommies. No more rebellious women. Now only sleeping harmony on the couch and a child in front of the TV.

Shatter the fucking stars and bring the world to ruin. Leave it all yellow and grey, illuminated by unknown suns, soon to die. Release the dark horde, come what may, and sail the ships from nebula to rim, ready for harm. Our enemy: life. 

Objection. Whatever one might think of my client, he's never fed an animal its own siblings or whined to the principal about broken rules. And whatever he may have done to his friend, I ask the court to see what he has been and always will be: a sad sad love struck boy who created a pond reflecting his face all over the world.

Behind the locked door, a punctured neck resembles a spear wound geyser, an eye that waits to be opened. It won't be long now. We are mere moments from midnight.

The scars of the wound resembled a map, burned white-hot into flesh, a colonizing fire outlining the lost lands, where tendrils beneath the earth wait and wait and erupt into storm.

Les Misérables hollow man stare, an impotent confession, a waking nightmare. An empty shell, qlippothic grace, a pool for man to see his face. Cool, this face. Buried it will be, without a trace. "Why don't you get a job, Al?" 

In paradise of hate, feelings shift and mutate, leaving wandering sons hurtling through space, earth shot flames dissipate, revealing child's rage, who yearns to take from noble hearts their very fate.

The fire, negative orange in the black desert night, burns its spite, a promise. Freedom from constraint, it whispers. Freedom from these people. And a paradise of hatred.

The Code must be maintained. Deploy bubbles. Feed. Angles. Steady. Power boxes. Feed. Cables. Steady. Feed. Now snow. Walk him away. Suffusion enacting.   

Wisdom, whether owl or sphinx, a shadow tomb, pulls black flesh to void. He kisses her hand and descends, silent, naked, alone. 

Demon of the air, shadow casting, slide over land, a bane to the sun. See the warm white cold flesh enter the cave, see it, truth sweating. Watch it turn yellow in this land of wolves. "Okay, it's a fuck up, what're we going to do now?"

"I believe I was spared so I could finish the job."

To prick the human conscience itself, to make it bleed the shape of hopeless loss, and want to die but know that conscience denies, even as the gravity of nothing leaves it laughing and alone.

Savages. Kill the savages. Repress criticism. Be sad about duty. Neglect family, lost. Be your father. Do it. Do it again.

"You're everyone!" she screamed, facing the faceless ghost, saviour scapegoat, the fabricated truth which, teaching you how to impersonate yourself, teaches you how to believe. "Who... who the hell are you?" "You'd be surprised how often i get asked that."

Void floating black boat, an abyss upon the sea or a face that seems, warbling shifting, never mixing, cooking fat screams, you have it all wrong: you are in here with me.

Listen folks, we were feeling chatty at the beginning of this episode. It happens. If you don't want to listen to three guys shoot the shit about current events, our conversation about everyone's favourite Kafka-esque dark romance,  The Lobster , begins at about the 10 minute mark. Don't say we didn't warn you! "We dance alone. That's why we only play electronic music."

Why do you believe something? Ask yourself. Ask yourself about light. Ask yourself about light asking about light. Why do you believe? What is it, that underlying certainty? Is that love?

Love, the mother of all bombs, is a mirror, looking back at the horror you might have been.

Thinking about how the red pill/blue pill metaphor was co-opted by racists and shitheads, the blame has to be laid at the feet of David Icke, doesn't it? If he wasn't the first to steal the idea, his online and in-person popularity must have opened the door for all sorts of peddlers of conspiracy ideation. From the Matrix to reptilian infiltrators to FBI crime statistics and great replacement theo...

It's symmeTRY, goddammit! SymmeTRY!