2012: Immanentize the eschaton and join the Black Parade

[Sepia]

The drugs drive us from our barns, put under lock and key by angry farmers sown throughout the landscape like shit from a cows belly and everytime we drive through fields of corn or what seems to be the remains of wheat or similar we hear this distant little sound in the background and we fill our hands and git on up and the sunset is prettier than any sunrise and god has given us a task, we are the holiest of the holy warriors, we are god kings of illumination and there should have been drums but there are no drums theres just this distant little sound, ennio morricone soundtracking us and we hear the drums, beat in rain and then comes the vocals.

Code Select Expand


the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows

the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death

the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves
mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble
and pulled out their hair

the skyline was beautiful on fire
all twisted metal stretching upwards
everything washed in a thin orange haze

i said: "kiss me, you're beautiful -
these are truly the last days"

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a fever

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
for sure it's the valley of death

i open up my wallet
and it's full of blood


[Sepia]

Chapter 1 - The awakening of Peter

I wake up somewhere from somewhere. I am completely disorientated, blurry memories and faded sounds, muffled footsteps and a window slamming. My eyes are open and the landscape infront of me is unknown, wooden and coarse, wind seeping through the cracks and dreams, too many dreams too much reality for now and I sit up, slowly, groggy with memories of a night in some basement, punks all around and I'm on something completely unknown, seeing what prophets used to see back in the days and the memory envelopes me and I swim in it because like then as now, I cannot remember my face. I can't remember my face and I'm in a house of a god I've never believed in and it's old and abandoned, dark and musty. The sea? Smells like New England with pilgrims on the march.

It's a little town, like the town you'd see in strategy games, the town hall model with a  village well where the village idiot hang around and the town hall with the clock in the top, doubling as bank and church and a few other houses spread around in an almost perfect circle. It seems long abandoned, some houses are boarded up and the paint is flaking. It's silent and I know I'm alone here. The town hasn't seen action for many years, little shitty village just next to a cliff dive and the asphalt is cracking, weeds growing. Someone might have seen it and thought Mother earth is healing but those with those lines always get slaughtered first, whether it's zombies or axe-murderers. I check everywhere I can and there's nothing here, one shed more solidly built than the others, with a working lock on it and there's oh god fuck it takes forever to find a crowbar but I hit the chain enough times to destroy it and there's a car on the inside and it's almost shiny, it's damned pretty and it says Hillman on the side. I get in and it lives. It lives.


Passed the weathertorn asphalt, I pass onto something more civil and the roads are connected, signs depicting items of severe dullness. We push further, civillization looming at a truckstop but as I drive by it's been abandoned for a while too, glass broken and tagged down, dead heroinists in a faetal position. There are signs for something that seems like a little town with hotel, gas station and whatnot. The car is almost like brand new, the seats creak and it makes those noises, almost uncomfortable like a horse or a dog on its' way to training. I arrive in the town called Croatoa but I have no idea of what time or day it is, the batteries are dead in my cell and in my laptop and I've never been one for a wristwatch. The sun hasn't been out. Heavy clouds but not rainy, it doesn't feel like rain, feels more like what I would have imagined being a desert in the early winter season.

The town's bigger but it seems dead, it's almost ripped out of a bad western and some lights are on and some neon is still on but it's eerie. It's silent here too and this place hasn't been abandoned like the others. This place is just dead or there's something important on the telly. I see a waffle house so I pull over. There's not even a breath of wind, it's just silent. The lights are on so I walk up the stairs, ascending and there are bodies on the inside of the glass doors. There's a faint smell also, like a barbeque and it's a few degrees hotter inside than what it should have been. I can see six or seven bodies on the inside, no sign of struggle nor anything else, just some bodies lying burnt to a crisp. A trucker dad and a trucker son sitting in a booth, the burning fat going through the plastic and their fat arms and fingers still clinging to the menu and nothing can tell me that these were once human.

The whole building and all the buildings next are exactly the same, crisp dead people, children, grown ups hard to tell the difference now except for when gauging the size of the black shapes. I go through every mental technique I know to determine whether I'm completely high on something or other or if I'm dreaming or if this should be reality but the lightswitches work and I fall upon my knees, making a sound against the concrete and burning pain through the body and I'm rendered speechless as I tumble backwards with my back firmly planted and I'm shacking like a leaf, reaching for two cigarettes and a lighter and the nicotine clears my mind, drags me down and I wake up. I wake up on the outside of a waffle house.

[B_M_W]

Okay, I need to sit down to read this.

BMW,

Thinks its awesome you're writing something of a longer length.

[Sepia]

Version 2 of the 2012 thing I did some years ago but a thread I can't for the life of me find. Meh.

[Cain]

 

We really need to fix the search engine.

Also, looking forward to more.

[Sepia]

Chapter 2

The houses are not brought low with ashes, there have been no commotion. I don't know who or what or where I am, restlessly shambling through the streets and the only thing that goes through my mind is that it just happened. There's still the linger of smell and the houses radiate warmness, the warmness you get getting in from the snow with mums hot cocoa waiting and no dying embers.
The bodies remind me of an old programme I saw on the telly, there was a pig in a blanket and a room decorated with red drapes and an old television set showing the wall in black and white. The pig was not on fire but it was burning, from the inside, all that fat catching enormous heat. Like a candle burned in both ends. Hey pig.

The local liquor store had a fine selection of whiskies, some good irish ones. Really good. I don't think I've ever tasted alcohol this sweet, this wonderful. This is like drinking orgasms. I stay in my filth on the old rotten floor and I go to back to my dreams and life is wonderful, life is mellow and easy. Life's a bottle of malt.

I dream of old school assignments, eager anticipation for doing something of interest, golding perhaps or even koestler or orwell or atwood if someone just hadn't understood and it was there, that little pig with the drapes. As I slowly awake I realize nothing has changed, except it's gotten colder.
The dreams switch me from a reality. It's hard to let it off but it keeps getting closer and everything is wading and I take a chug from the bottle and I get there, I get in the zone, my lungs burning of nicotine and fresh air and I feel my eyes getting violent and my wings spread and I am completely aware. I'm in the zone, up for anything as long as I can stay in the zone. I'm in the zone. That rare occasion of heightened senses.  I go berserkergang as those who came before me so long ago have. I hunt.

The prey answers and I'm packing apocalyptic movie style except I don't take any guns except for two goldplated eagles .50 which makes me almost horny but it's the first time I've had any guns so I guess it's a crush, it'll pass and fade except the desire for shooting at things just to see what happens. There were lots of impounds, illegal and fun and illuminating and boring and fan fucking tabolous shit making you dream in ultraviolet 4d from the angle of the nearest bug. I think I'll need it for heading down that road and baked beans and bacon lots of bacon and some tofu but it wont hold long enough and bluecheese and enough alcohol to keep going. There was a dream once, from a book I read about this place and like good vodka it emphasized the importance of its feel and not its taste and the feeling is quite spot on. This is different land, this isn't the mud we've walked over and over for so many years. This is disney country. This is the american dream right here.

The drugs won't help me out of here but it'll help me dull my senses straight enough for me to survive and the drugs might give me even a giggle or perhaps they'll just make me crash the car in a telephonepole or perhaps I'll see god and cry and see it all, a tree falling down in the middle of the woods with only one spectator and a bunch of orcs coming from the deep with the drums sounding out and I'm no longer in the zone. I have no idea where I am but I feel happy, content. I feel secure and fearless.

[Cramulus]

btw- the Godspeed You Black Emperor quote in the OP is some of my all time favorite lyrics

[Messier Undertree]

WHEN I WAS

[B_M_W]

WHEN I WAS

PLEDGE.

[Nast]

WHEN I WAS

PLEDGE.

IN B4 SANITIZING WIPES

[Sepia]

btw- the Godspeed You Black Emperor quote in the OP is some of my all time favorite lyrics

WHEN I WAS

This is the beautiful truth.

I think it'll end like the first and begin like the second. It's going to be epic and tacky.

[Sepia]

Chapter 3 - The writer

The god spoke from the prophet's lips. "That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die."

The prophet woke up. His bedchamber held a dull white upon it's walls with scars of water running down from the ceiling. It was raining, just like yesterday but the rain was different.

It was as if a dream had ended. The prophet smelled the crotch of his pants before he put them on. He wasn't an old man but he was soon to die. His mind was eroded with age and to a lesser degree, madness. The prophet had nightmares and it was this way he saw himself touched by creatures that might have god-like qualities in the face of man but were different than the scratchings of drugged lunatics. If you believe enough in one thing others will also believe you, the prophet mused before he buttoned his shirt. He hated the way this world had to give him yellow circles around the armpits when he could have had a maid, a little negro girl for him to command, just like how these ancient pillars of information would once do with mankind. The stairs creaked as he moved down, slowly, as to not disturb his aunts who slept after their tea.

The prophet made his breakfast and ate it standing by the kitchensink before he headed down to the cellar. The walls still retained heat from the day before so he sat down at his desk, writing his dreams upon the paper laid before him and he knew it was not himself who wrote. He could stop the writing but it was more comfortable to write. The prophet wrote for hours and hours and ignored the crying of his aunts. He fell asleep, distorting the title page with his chin. He had hours of dreamless sleep before he woke up in his cold room. He shivered from the cold and an icy sensation went down his back when he saw the remains of his pillow. Though blurred, it still read out "Al Azif". There were lines directly underneath but most of it had been smudged. The only thing that remained were the undermarked letters "red" which appeared to be the last part of another word. The prophet gazed as if light was getting lower but couldn't make out the rest. He flipped the page. The text was archaic in its writing, using old definitions and pronounciations. It was weirdly written, recalling memories from biblereadings when he was a child and old horrorpulps. It was written like a poor translation but it was beautiful. The prophet saw the crudeness in this language and ideas about stories on how to right these wrongs cropped up in his mind.
He began to write.

[Sepia]

Chapter 4 - The sea

We cry for you mother. Through every waking day through every dream of dormant clouds and dormant minds we are you, your children, seeping with misunderstandings and hopes of grandeur. Our lids bear the colour of our eyes and they pierce through, I've always seen more than I did. I have always been aware, I have always been aware of you mother, siding more with you than my fellow brethren and I have seen you as the most fearsome of whores and the most beautiful of the angelic host. I have seen you long lost mother and now you are dead.

I drive. The Hillman is an old whale, coughing and spurting and bleeding black blood as we drive forward, herbie and me. We're living dream country, we're dead and sitting on the side of the curb, two hobos singing Guthrie and drinking cheap bourbon but we're here, we're at the birthplace of the new where everything smells like lime and everything feels like marshmallows.
I stop at a seaside diner, abandoned long ago with faded teal and pink and roll myself one and I sit contemplating  and the world feels different. Everyone's turned into a crisp, everyone has been burnt to obscurity. Noone remains to sing the old songs nor mourn the dead except for failed gods and time displaced prophets. It feels natural, it feels like everything has been built for this moment. I turn into paranoid thoughts, the weed affirming by beliefs in that I am something special to be alive, that I am indeed something similar of a chosen one but there are voices in my head that get me back, on the ground, on the bench by the black black sea.

For the first time since I can remember, the silence is eerie. I know who I am but it carries little significance here and now. It was the majority who was my base of life. Everyone I'd ever passed at a vernissage, at a wedding or at seven in the morning, leaving without breakfast. I embedded part of myself in everyone I met and I let everyone else know me so that I was continually reminded by everyone who I was. Sliding and gliding through a life I tried to keep frictionless, babyoiled and streamlined so I didn't have to involve myself but kept the trust going, kept it all up and stumbled rockclimbing through the surface.
I've always loved the silence. The silence is what gives people away. How they react, what they think about, their body language through the silence. The nervousness creeping through every pore. The silently pitched voices and awkward muscle contractions. The god that speaks through the silence. The sea is black and silent, oily slick meeting with the grey sky in the horizon and it could have been some sort of crackpot weapon experiment but that would have been alot more plausible during the cold war and it wouldn't explain why I was still alive. I could have believed some archvillian plot from a comic book that everyone with a certain gene had been eradicated or everyone who ever wore a tinfoil hat but there'd still be plot holes to throw nukes through.
I don't know what time it is. My clocks have stopped and the one in the car seems to have gone out years ago and every clock that town had stopped at different times but still stuck but there was no importance to time anymore, I folded the back of the seat down and I went to sleep.

[The Littlest Ubermensch]

Please never stop writing Sepia. I love pretty much everything you write. Just thought I should say that.
</not lurking>

[Sepia]

 


*blushes*