Lord of (f)Lies your word belies, a cowering heart that mortifies. Choosing the parts you most adore, gathering your blood from the dirty floor
Clown Royal, and magic conjurer you failed to account for the lonely Wanderer silent (s)peaks and in the (k)nights clearing the space for the cuming f(l)ights
Collector of bugs, Lord of (f)Lies Gathering, in your stead, butter-flies with sweet words and scented prose you build a castle full of whores
What blue eyes, Clown Royal Menaced with a well-staged frown From your mouth you cast a spell But where it falls no one can tell
Ambitious performance, Lord of (f)Lies exploiting secret erotic sigh(n)s scratch the soil and eat your (p)runes in a wile your arse will play its tunes
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Last edited by Satyr on Tue 23 Aug 2016, 22:46; edited 2 times in total
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
(f)Lie Lord exits the restaurant with a hip and a skip, waving a stick, with one hand carrying a package with a magical gift; with the other he fondles his testicles enjoying their girth. (Re)Minds him of his belly full of matter to trasmutate into precious log(o)s.
He calls it his Self-Honouring Integromodular Trasendetomutation, or SHIT for short. It comes out of him, daily, magically, over-flowing spontaneously....he is convinced his body is a transformation mechanism, alchemically altering matter from one form into another. He knows he is a gifted person - marked for great things. His consistent production of this life-giving material, sets him apart from all others. They will see, one day. He will grow a garden with them - a forest, an empire. Pretty flowers and butter-(f)lies dancing around - delicate and with a brain the size of a seed. He smiles at himself, for himself, by himself.
The hard work to come will be to conjure up a way to sell his SHIT for profit. He must attend seminars on marketing, and the art of the pitch. He must learn to recycle, repackage, refurbish...and before that, some spiritual nourishment from a gifted motivational speaker, to pick-up some points, and joints.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Miser(able) Clown King Pollyanna sucking on a... Pop-sicle, test(icle)ing, his tongue's talent around the spoon. Hungry for the moon. (Re)Arranging words, like market goods, according to the latest seance on buyer psychosis. Piece-by-piece, snip-by-snip, castrating jig-saw parts, a clever mohel, blowing collateral farts, evidence of work being done, digging into the soil to lay a foundation for his new and improved synagogue. Push it in, shove it in, hole cut into the sheeet, pressure it to conform - in-and-out until lubrication makes the job easier. The deed is done, and now to make it cum. Immanent sur-prize, syringing with a sur-charge, given a value cost/benefit, number/word.
Inflation, my dear man....cosmic inflation. What can a moil do to keep the costs down, way down. I have to make a profit! Pound, for a pound of flesh.
You may fake the boy out of (h)Israel, but you cannot fake (h)Israel out of the boy.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Words on paper, words on screes, runes traced on chaotic reams. A kingdom built on flesh and bone - zombies shuffling, agencies as drones.
Useless chatter, about matter. Emotional handicaps, finding a verbal crutch. What's for lunch? Clown King films it for posterity, up-loads it from his posterior. Generations to come will use it for (re)calling chuckles... the clown. His every glance his every twitch, power of a rancid witch-bitch. He trips, he falls, bounces up, as if he meant it. It's all part of a master plant. Get it? Joke's on us. He's way ahead of the pack, preparing for his next skit, from a dim-wit.
He calls the clan, for a gathering, "Bring the hoodies, we'll take the van", adolescent signal of bonding, magic in the making. They sing a cult classic...
They'll sing the new chant we wrote, later. Power in conformity. Pack of wolves amidst the sheeple. Ah, but there are other beasts a-round. Two-legged vermin...calling themselves human, all too human.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Lord of (f)Lies trained himself in the performing arts, to make a living, to take without giving anything of value, but a smile. He is a brilliant juggler of words, talented in verbal acrobatics, adept as a crippled magician with his sleight, and slur, of tongue. All this in comparison to the intended audience, because where such tricks are plain to see, and more talent watches from the audience, his insidiousness is more annoying that inspiring, more base than mesmerizing. Best trick the Clown King learned over the years of performing in dives, is to pick his time and place - optimal effect when the brain-dead zombies come out in the dark, to consume.
He closes his eyes, imagining himself in an opera house, and he its jeune premiere, being appreciated by distinguished ladies and gentlemen, and then he opens them to find the toothless, dirty, rabble cheering wide eyed. They've never seen a performance like this, except in Churches and Synagogues.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
King of Clowns, gathers his hood-lumps, his New Age apostates, for a trek into the desert. Dirty van, caries the clan, with the joy of a Charles Manson, weed and guitar in hand. Crazy creative, creatively crazy, one moment he is making sense, regurgitating sublime, the next he's rambling, draining all sense from sensation.
Children of the seventies, sixties wave smashing into Regan's nineties, taking the Wall down in its wake. The storm passed, leaving a silent pool full of mud, trapping tadpoles.
Gather the boys, and collect the coins, for a new fun-mobile, and some vibrating toys.... Let's paint the relic psychedelic to blow the mind. Go West young man!!!, into the desert where the Devil waits, to exploit your mistakes. Helter Skelter Chemistry will bring the bitches, and keep away the cops and snitches. We'll build a civilization in the sand - New Jerusalem, decorated with Doric columns and vine-leaves, bringing on the dreams.
We'll call our Christmas, Kaballan, just for fun. Sacrificing language to our reincarnated one-God.
And they will speak of us for years.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Death of God, though announced, has taken time for the smell of his decomposing rot, to reach the flies, gestating lies, that had been scattered, over time, buzzing from pile of dung to mound of crap. They now come to congregate, to feed, to intercourse and then to lay their tiny eggs, out of which maggots will emerge to feast on the cadaver. A hive of (f)Lies happy when their gluttony has been satiated, for a while.
They make such a ruckus, so many buzzing (f)Lies, reminding me of Woodstock: addicts, and hippies, lost souls, fucking and drinking and psychedelically writhing, concealing inner void by revealing the body's desire. A new breed of flower children, to bring about the lost generation's calling. New era of redefining, and reinventing everything from sex, to family structures, and from history to philosophy of politics. Let's put that education, of the eternal student, to work - Marxist fantasy in a tie-dye. We need a modern God to take the place of the dead one. Nature of the lost hate vacuums.
Re-invigoration of Rock n' Roll for every hole, with a little snippet of hip-hop, for it to pop, fresh out of the oven, hot out of the orificial cavern. Wandering... caravans of hippies, looking for their next high, and then bye and bye, back into the desert of the real, to meet the Devil, once again, and bury in the sands of time the remnants of their shame and guilt.
When will the rains come, for the bitter fruit to blossom?
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Noise for the boyz, that will not keep silent, will not be ignored. Throw up a ruckus, and when they turn, to look, find in that act a reason for it all.
On the Island, the shipwrecked salvage what remains of the past, and build a bonfire with planks, stripped of their luster, and drums, improvised from sails and rope, and when the darkness comes, they dance around the flames, banging no their makeshift instruments, light playing upon their painted faces - children pretending to be warriors, in the shadows almost becoming convincing. They are lost in the rhythms of their own making, primal energies rising up to possess them, aided by the effects of roots and poisons, gathered and carelessly consumed, to gratify their hunger.
Night passes, and exhaustion comes, bringing with it the morning sun, revealing the childishness games of the previous night's delirium. Warriors bleary eyed, and soft cheeked, return, for a moment, to their naive innocence, until the pangs of hunger begins the process towards a new night.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
In desert heat, all sizzles, air shimmering, what remains buried in the sands, rising as steam, a hazy dream. Devil awaits to tempt, when sun sets, sand unable to retain its heat - shimmering is replaced by trembling, teeth chattering, words losing their intelligibility. Visions will come, as if out of the dunes, soul speaking to itself, as night creates a perfect background for projection to become real.
Boyz gather for the (f)Ill-mmm to start. Master will spill out his guts - no girls allowed. Symbols carved in their cheeks, tracing in the sands. They begin to hum, beating on their chests. Improvised drums, and sticks, reeds drilled with holes, to blow hot air through. Towards the end of the performance, a fire will be lit, burning the instruments, ash covering the sand runes, then rest. In the morning some will cast off, alone, to test the enemy, to find weakness in neighbouring communities, bringing back data.
Lord of (f)Lies will wait, meditating over last night's fire, preparing to digest the influx of martial. Boyz will kneel before him, waiting for his Delphic decree, mystical and full of personal meaning, as always. Each will feel enlightened, lending his own private meaning to the offerings - master speaking only to him. Excited low buzz, will begin, growing into a buzzing crescendo, Dionysian ecstasy fueled with artificial chemicals...they've siphoned gas out of the van, and inhaled it for hours. Then they burn the heap, toxic smoke sending them into fits of coughing, some black-out, only to rise again.
Neighbouring town has an insane asylum. They will take it over, in time, converting it into their church/castle, dominated by one insanity to rule them all.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Which fly egg will be gestates within the cocoon of maggots - safe and warm until it's time to burst out a moth, or a butter-fly? Who will seed the living breathing womb of flesh and bones/Center of the flesh vortex, longest distance from the outside, form the undesirable periphery. Who will slither to the center of the maggot storm, and stay there long enough to copulate and lay its eggs?
Maggots gather upon the cadaver, of their dead host. A community of rotting carcass eaters. Multiplicity is how they protect themselves from predation. Bring more into the fold, create thicker flesh walls, a alternate reality, a slithering mass of bodies; a vortex of vicissitude. Winner gets center stage.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Lord of the (f)Lies is a living breathing Fellowship of the Ring Middle-Earth dress, to match middle-earth thinking. Children of Modernity seek a new Abrahamic mythology to give them identity, to raise them up, to distinguish them, from the "blind", to bind them into ONE.
Living in a Middle Earth, an UNDER-WORLD, where all kinds of creatures (psychologies) hide. Middle-Earth, like Under-World is a psychological realm - hiding beneath the apparent - it is noumenon, under the phenomenon, of living beings, particularly that of humans. Subterranean psychosis, populated by all the repressed monsters of human "civility" and social image (character). In this realm the Nihilistic memetic dis-ease establishes an alternate reality, sucking all other alternate realities, trying to be the ONE.
An unseen world the experienced world covers, and hides. A more real reality. Middle Earth - mediocre reality. Where simpletons can be kings, and memetic/genetic dwarves can grow in stature, and claim a place beside men, and elves, in the fellowship.
Who is the ring-bearer but a small, once insignificant, ignored, hobbit. Meek shall inherit middle-earth. The small shall be large. A lord to be....a Lord of (f)Lies.
What does Abrahamism do? It takes the given and inverts it. It absorbs and corrupts, turning black into white and white into black. What doe a coward and a simpleton do? He takes genius, courage, and imitates its appearance - it creates a shallow image, eliminating the past/nature, and all the struggle, suffering, avoiding the stress, agon. What does a copier do? He imitates an artist's product, founded on his genius, his talent. He copies the outcome, lacking genius and talent.
A singular ring, to unite them ALL, and bind them. One ring to rule them all.
Mystical rune-like symbols, speaking of magical powers. Tolkien invented languages to promote the black/white ideology of Christianity - good/evil, represented by the warring forces - He was a good Abrahamic. He wanted to modernize Biblical mythology, to infect a new generation.
Secret code, language/words for the initiated, the trained. Uninitiated sense power, insinuated secret force. What is unknown must be positive. Power of the mysterious symbol, delivered with a particular awe-inspiring tone, a ritualized dance of gestures, facial expressions....rhythm. Children are affected by such performances.
All the races of Middle-Earth uniting to fight evil darkness.
Ring bearer hold unimaginable powers - all covet it. Only he has the humility to bring it to its destination. All previous ring-bearers were corrupted by its promise.
Fellowship is an adaptation of the biblical tale - the Jesus and his apostles covenant. Only Jesus IS the ring and the bearer.
The apostles decipher the mystical elvish text, they aid the ring to reach its final destructive destination, where evil perishes with its sacrifice.
One Ring, One circular idea(l) to RULE them ALL.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Nietzsche through Kabbalah - a Mason's jar full of satanic toxins, intricate symbols carved into the goblet. Menorah, Crucifix, Moon-God, Buddhist, Hindu, pagan...all carved on the outside, and inside a toxic brew, a heady stew, for the sacred few, helping them see how wonderful life is, giving them the courage to endure its beauty. A ritual begins, to make child's play seem profound, as they spin round and round, stomping on the ground, pretending to be wild beasts, after their feasts.
They dance, into the night, intoxicated round a burning fire, robed in gold; one-ring to bind them all.
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
When all is inverted and converted, what do you see in what's inserted, A filtering glass to lighten the mass of a floating eye-lash
I see Satan where Saint was I I see left when right I spy I hear myself when an-other screeches Refusing to listen to what he teaches
Who do you see when you look at me? Is it I, or a fly buzzing from pile to pile in your decaying mind? Belly full of faecal doom Is it an other's cadaver or a body you left behind Refusing to identify, as that which you once called "I"
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Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
No flies can survive the cold. They flourish in the heat, where dead bodies and decay nourish their busy neurotic wing speeds. When you sit still and can endure their annoyance, you might glean a pattern in the white noise of their incessant flapping, as if in the nonsense of their noise some divine spirit spoke in lyric and prose.
Does the ear hear it or does the mind project it from the esoteric sounds of its conscience, projecting into the noise a melody, a rational sound, an occult wisdom. Ancestors speak to us in dreams, who's to say they do not also speak to us while distracted by the daylight? Subtle feelings, intuitions, rising up from our cellular depths to mix and mingle with aesthetic input, slightly modifying the final image, the mental abstraction, the sensation of the real.
Where does this vermin free land reside? Out there, up there on a planetary pole, or in the cold depths of the perliplanomenon spirit? Cold sharpens the mind, forcing an economy of action; laconic daemonic. In the heat of squandering energies, a benefactor becomes the trickster, and a trickster the silver tongued benefactor of lethargic delusions.
"for we fight not with flesh, but principalities in ´higher realms´, so to this re-magian verse they masturbate insentiently, instinct of soul? that´s what they call it,
and they weep, silently, as they shy away from sunlight´s imprint on dawns blossom roses,
"why not four penises? why not a vagina attached to the face? a fuck-gadget that vibrates at the flick of a finger? progress, nay, a dirty word, ´powers that be´ strive for higher trend-ascendance,
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Such a romantic....naïve....feminine....gullible. We fight with both flesh and ideas. I only know a man when I've fought him with flesh and blood....and I know not a wo-man even when I've only fought her with words.
When we let the mind go... free it turns to a monstrosity. With no grounding imagination becomes fantastically inspiring. We lose our humanity when we lose our identity. Free from the past, we float in limbo, seeking grounding to orient our desperate, longing for gravitas in limericks and pretentious word associative mind-games that mesmerize children and make a maiden swoon with delight. How seditious you are, bitter-sweet prince-ess....what do you rebel against? Logic? Nature's limitations on your mid summer night's day-dreams? or is it only yourself? Behold....it is your-self you seek relief from. And I won't let you....no mater your luminous mind-games and womanly verbal seductions. Oh pseudo-sweet and truly sour prince-esss...I know you all too well, no veil can conceal that face I've seen a million times. I forget names - numbers and words upon words - but never a face...a smell.....a sound....
thy satyr, i rebel against my evolutionary brain, if et´s switched min "hjerne" to a higher frequency i would retaliate to your superior wisdom with a genuine smile, in this higher state, ie. "extraterrestial nirvana", my "essence" would flow through me and females would finally, beautifully, kill my heart, with just gracious humming, i could surf such "sequences" as long as i would see fit,
satyr, do you revel in the mental retardation, the mass psychosis, is it amusing that there is currently no planetary or cosmic cure? that retards will be slaughtered or tortured by "eerie frequenies"?
"and men shall seek death but will not find it"
i´ll rephrase...
and men shall die every second, every hour, like rotten filth, wandering streets, praying in their sickened hearts, for tomorrows redemption,
satyr, do you revel in the mental retardation, the mass psychosis, is it amusing that there is currently no planetary or cosmic cure? that retards will be slaughtered or tortured by "eerie frequenies"?
Has not philosophy become politicized by the vermin who now see their drowning approaching? Will word-games help them float over their own flood of shit?
What of the....satyr with his syringe full of....pharmakon? Who listens? Who can hear the melody in all this noise? A mind that can find silence.
VRZeus wrote:
"and men shall seek death but will not find it"
i´ll rephrase...
and men shall die every second, every hour, like rotten filth, wandering streets, praying in their sickened hearts, for tomorrows redemption
As it was before...extinction must be approached, like a moth the brilliant flame. In its tiny mind it is approaching the divine - magnetic magnificence. It will never know what consumed it, like none of its brethren ever could. It is attracted by its own demise, perhaps believing it is being reborn. Who knows what goes on in a tiny skull, containing a tiny mind, hungering....all I know is that the light attracts it for it is full of darkness.
Harris, Thomas wrote:
[To Will Graham]
Hannibal Lecter: With all my knowledge and intuition I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar, I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.
Mutation upon compounding mutation...will a butterfly be born or a buzzing fly, insatiably attracted to shit?
I am no god. I did not will this into existence. I only watch it follow its predictable course, and test my own intuitions against its seemingly chaotic movements. What else can I do when the gods have allowed this to happen? the only thing a mortal man can do is watch, learn and gather what he can around him, hoping to preserve them when the wrath of gods finally erupts and all but the strong are left to scatter the dust.
I am a seeder; a whisperer; a flute player. Do not follow....simply listen, and do as you will - dance.
These "genetically designed orphans" allude to memes determining genetics; chosen - willfully, intentionally - by a consciousness with an ideology with its own ideals, and imagined heights.
What is unpredictable are the collateral, unforeseeable, side-efects. Every dark cloud has a silver lining and every silver cloud a dark lining. What will be lost for this imagined gain? How will the naturally selected fair when they are socially selected?
We see the consequences of Abrahamism, converting to Marxism, and its current Postmodern ideals. This is all part of the same "logic". A defensiveness creating monstrosities declaring themselves to be the "last men", trapped in "disgusting" flesh prisons; spirits longing to return to the universal flame, like those little moths.
Who will be in control of this new phase in human evolution? Which ideals will guide the selection process? Will it go through women, and their filtering judgments, or machines programmed by men with their own judgements?
Frontiers are missing. With no spatial frontiers to distance, fragmentation will occur esoterically - ideologically. With much bloodshed, instead of distances. The chosen use abstracted enemies and victimization to create distances of self-preservation. Without them they dissipate and fade, having nothing to keep them together. If we reject this vain and envious divinity - greedy and glutenous - against all Hellenic ascetic ideals, then maybe we need Hyperborea.
The "devil" theme seems to be central to your thoughts.
I remind you that the Greeks had no demons, they did, however have daemons.
Zoroastrianism made the duality popular, appropriated by those who would later be identified as followers of Abraham, of which you appear to be a recovering "victim".
The idea can be traced to Prometheus as mankind's benefactor. Symbolizing the incomprehensible - forbidden wisdom only some naughty few can enjoy the bitter sweetness. Associated with chaos which makes life and consciousness necessary - free-will would only evolve in a consciousness forced to deal with what is forever unforeseeable.
oh, abrahamism, in denmark where i live we would classify such a religion as, "børnehave psykopati-lege". ie "psychopathic kindergarden plays"... "hova is the bad guy"
to change subject,
does life approprigate itself, it´s "essence" into "cosmos" through music?
Satyr Daemon
Gender : Posts : 37187 Join date : 2009-08-24 Age : 58 Location : Hyperborea
Music is how a living organism represents perceptible order. As per Schopenhauer....cosmos is a symphony, every note a particle... That leaves chaos as background white noise, or as silence.
As such, I divide primal from sophisticated music along the lines of beat based versus melody based. fArt versus Art.
