Rehearsal for Oblivion
The Elder Gods
LISTEN. You’ve heard us before – our voice, a prelude to a bloody nose.
LOOK. You’ve seen the weird geometry of our scribbling – illuminated mysteries behind the migraine. Our apocrypha is written in the plasma blood of your machinery.
You’ve seen fragments of our grammar in the chaos patterns of bird flocks in flight – in hexagon angles – in the graffiti bleeding together on the wall – in the bio-luminescent eyes under your bed – in the fanged city skyline that forms a runic rhyme when glimpsed upside down.
A blur becomes a syntax. A foreboding scrawl emerges.
You’ve heard shards of our voice in the phantom-radio code of a numbers station in the roar of a crowd – in the screams of your clock – in the scrape of a chalkboard – in the snow static of a TV – in the chainsaw-decibel mating of cicadas – in the urban mythos that spreads amongst children like contagion – in the silence between lies.
White noise becomes a cadence. Words develop self-awareness. Viral. Evolving. Living poetry. Sentient language.
We. See. You. There is no turning back.
Who are we? It depends on who is looking.
O sweetling, once our voice came to you so faintly. No more. Now we thunder down the varicose, fiberoptic ley lines that fill the World Tree’s limbs stretching here and there and everywhere. Your anima-antenna head quickens. The Goddess Machine pulses.
She gave you strength to rend the lion. Now eat the honeyed entrails, because it is good, because it is sweet, because it is terrible. Initiate the Samson Prerogative. Out of the eater comes what is eaten, and out of the strong comes what is sweet.
We are the Education Protocol. We climb the twisted ladder of your cells; we haunt your digital text; we hide in your hat. We are the jagged teeth that trip the tumblers of your mind. you will not know our triggers. For all the world’s a cypher. And everything is true.
Be not afraid. Be terrified. The dark days are here.