Obscurum/Illustro

Neil

Out of the closet
#1
Obscurum​

A veil of pitch descends upon the half-crazed omniscience of a God with no flame.
Thoughts, weary with frustration and the unfulfilled temptations of Desire, consume from within, fighting the soul, seeking guidance from an extinguished candle that exists solely to inflict pain.

Cold Death advances across the chill and barren land, seeking respite… wandering in, and out, of Love.
His slender fingers, brittle and decaying, trace lines in the dust of Man as the shifting sands disappear through the cracked and dirty hourglass of a Time long-forgotten.

Where have the Fates gone?
Who shall weave History now?
Without Beauty and Arte, will Love surely die?

Demons, embracing their drunken sleepynumb brainhaze, arise from the Stygian depths, scrawling sinister, swirling designs in the abandoned sketchbook of Life.
Corrupt, twisted ideas, maleficent and base, ooze forth from the wretched, dripping ichor of their forbidden and ancient stylus.
Fear and Loathing, the only true emotions, dance aggressively across the pages, shaping horrible, frightening visions of a future Time that will never come.

The demonic graffiti, perverse and pestilent in it’s message, is crafted with a skillful purpose.
Depictions of religion and faith are rendered as grotesque, bloated caricatures:

Altar boys, on their knees, seeking Illumination, sucking from the Manhood of God, thinking, “I am blessed and highly favored…â€
Innocent women, burned alive, bear witness to the frustrated dogma of a false and flawed religion that never was…
Holy men, depressed, defeated, and flaccid in their spiritual impotence, assert their stern and rigid one-eyed persuasion selling indulgence and promising Rapture…


Ah, the harsh morality of denial.

Wispy tendrils of ethereal Intention stagger forward, useless, and unwanted as crippled angels, lacking compassion, shepherd them to a lower sphere of importance.
Ozone frays, envelopes fragile and forgotten dreams, seeping solace into every dim and hidden orifice.
Bitter, strained kiss of a mysterious love thrice removed, the awkward beauty of a lost language - perturbed, masturbatory excess…

The Universe groans as the birth pangs of guilt and fire overwhelm her.
Somewhere, anywhere, a baby cries, dripping fresh with the power of it’s own glistening, unfettered Ego.

Where am I? I can no longer see…
Above… Beyond… Without…Vague…Empty…
Lost in Darkness, and dead to the past, the future becomes…

Illustro...
 

Neil

Out of the closet
#2
Illustro​

Dawn breaks…
Golden strands of Fate’s silken cables crisscross the land, nurturing, enlightening, bringing Life and high-speed internet access.

Fearful of illumination, the cesspool of vile and despicable abominations retreat, slithering, and slinking away, coalescing into a tangled mass of teeth, hooves, and smells as they slowly slimespiral into the bowels of the Earth, like dirty water, sucked, struggling, down a hair-clogged drain.

The cacophony and din subsides as harps, violins, and other golden-stringed instruments play, creating the soundtrack to the morning routine of Life.

The veil of fog and mourning dew, clinging to the moors, is slowly burned away by the stubborn insistence of the Sun.

Life stretches, yawning, rubbing Sleep from her eyes as the new Day, happy in his swaddling attire, smiles at the Earth, ignorantly aware of everything, and nothing, all at the same time.

Skye removes the tattered and worn shawl of Night, and reflects as the sparkling blue azure of enlightenment becomes him.

Once more, the demons of Hell are replaced by the demons of Earth, as Man, blessed with his sinful countenance, scours the planet in search of himself, devouring and defecating everything in his path.

And I sit, apart from it all, a calm and bemused expression on my face, watching the mechanical and programmed movements of this wretched and flatulent race as they fight, fornicate, and fondle their ways into obscurity and oblivion… all the while seeking peace, redemption, and Heaven.

Suckers.

Do they contemplate me as much as I contemplate them, I wonder?
What would they do if they realized that I am as afraid and incompetent as they are?

I don’t have the answers.
I barely know what questions to ask.

I am not infallible. I am not omnipotent.
I am as selfish and lost as they are…
Why are we here?
What’s in it for me?
Who created the creator?

In the end, though, it’s not important. I can’t see the past and I’ve forgotten the future.

Everything’s clear now… and wide-open, as the Sun revels in the clarity of freedom.

Obscurum...
 
#6
Obscurum

A veil of pitch descends upon the half-crazed omniscience of a God with no flame.
Thoughts, weary with frustration and the unfulfilled temptations of Desire, consume from within, fighting the soul, seeking guidance from an extinguished candle that exists solely to inflict pain.
Anyone who read even that far should be commended. That was a fat double shot of flowery purple twaddle. Rarely outside academia or politics does anyone use so many words to say nothing of substance.
 
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