Poetry



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Radio Receiver

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All sense perception is illusion, all is filtered: the eyes and the ears are but simulacra of actuality. Our mental maps can't do it any other way. They obscure that impossible ocean of energy surging its truth throughout the fundamental fabric of the Beyond. So, basically, your five senses are lying to you. They're lying because they are giving you a partial truth. White lies. Limited, mothering you, protecting you from daddy's overwhelming awesomeness. But they have to, because we can't look straight into the sun for very long; our eyes are only jelly. Perhaps, then, when we delude our selves by choosing (whether knowingly or not) to see the world a certain way, that is why we then actually do start to see the world that way. Nothing changes; it's the same (objectively) except for all the differences (subjectively). Your belief system is a lot like a radio receiver, which you can tune to receive any of the available frequencies along its spectrum. You ca
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Stepping into the Occult. Cue ghost noises.

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Perhaps the secrecy and the scare tactics shrouding the Occult are there for a reason – you need to be both curious and brave to walk out into the dark unknown, alone outside the comfort of the group cave. It's no place for the meek, not a path for the lily-livered, the path of cutting off capital to a Proper Noun. It's difficult to undermine the authority of the uppercase. But I do think it's true what our notorious sage once said, that the meek shall inherit the earth. The brave though, and the curious, they'll step beyond the realm of bone and dirt and worms. They'll encounter the Holy Ghost, and perhaps if they see it through to the other side, perhaps they shall inherit the universe . A world-wise man once said: "Yes, dude, but remember – curiosity also killed the cat." So, no, it's not a path for the meek; to challenge the status of those in the quo. It's a path of passing through specters. ... By the way, I bet you don&#
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Tower

He starts to build a tower Half of dream and half desire While others live he's digging He so badly wants to be. He struggles to fuel the fire Finds the dreams burn up so fast But he labours on regardless Days slip by until at last. He's in love with what he's crafted Won't see this cage he's made is he Stays up till sunrise thinking Picks at meals alone and free. He is sad sometimes, frustrated No one ever taught him That his tower's to return to, Not to dwell in, endlessly. Still struggles to fuel the fire Till his dreams dry up at last But still he sits in silence Too proud to leave, to flee. Because he knows there's something to this, He just knows it, must be, So he labours on regardless Forging  must be, must be.
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