Written in the Stars
has been force fed
down our throats
behind our backs
by an alien technology that
filtered through the slipstream
and embedded in our DNA –
We never had a chance to grow
on our own
in a natural organic process
after the spinal column injection
and the rib transplant
were thrust onto our path
and laced into our consciousness –
it must be destiny, after all.
Lost and Found
Pushing and pulling upon the dualistic nature of reality
until the thin thread of unity spills out all over the floor
to be trampled upon by the hooves of swine,
shattering the divine pearl
and scattering its timeless wisdom until lost to the ages.
Now falling fast from the perfect garden of paradise-
breaking apart into an infinite number of soul shards,
moving further away from the Oneness, taking on the personalized shape
of individualized specks of consciousness.
Amnesia sets in; wanderlust reigns supreme.
Separated from Source, begging to get back home,
seeking everywhere in the outside world for a sign,
forgetting all the while
that the true path to peace is always paved within.
Eons come and go;
eternities are born, only to pass away again,
rising and falling with the cosmic tide.
Meanwhile, in a voided state of confusion, the energy force of humanity
is trapped in the illusion of temporality,
entwined by the spell of materialism meets apathy meets dystopia-
wasting away in the abyss of nescient ignorance,
yet always a haunting, fleeting tug of knowingness
hoarsely whispers from a space deep within the core,
beating against the wall of ancient archetypal resonance,
hoping to release a spark of stifled memory
and ignite a return voyage to the Holy Spirit.
Every now and then
the silent voice within
erupts from the volcanic undertow of indomitable will,
releasing a prisoner from the bondage of golden chains.
Electric pulse vibrations
tear asunder the gilded cage,
unlocking the truth and pointing the way to sacred spiritual treasure.
With eyes newly awakened, clearly it can be seen
the trick that has been pulled
by minions who serve a power of black entropy.
A nihilistic death cult, with its mask removed,
becomes open season for a species reborn.
Off come the velvet gloves as the opposite sides step into the squared circle,
waiting for the bell to ring and get the party started.
Lines cast out to the yawning depths of the ocean
are dragged back inland to the beach
to be drawn and defined clearly in the sand
from the fiery fingertips of pent up frustration.
Belching flames singe the enemy’s flesh, howling in primal tones,
“Thou shalt not pass!
Thou shalt not aggress one single step further!
Satan, get thee behind us now!”
Boiling point reached, enough is enough.
The chaos you seek
will surely cycle back around
and the light of karma will bite where the sun has never dared shine before.
The Demon in the Door
As I sat in the bathroom
thinking about the existential nature of reality,
considering the Giants of Philosophy,
I saw it staring back at me.
Though it was right in front of my face,
it seemed to be gazing from across
the infinite void of time and space.
Its eyes were filled deep with a sort
of ancient knowingness that sparked
strange stirrings in my own soul.
Flames from the fiery abyss were blazing
beside its head in an ethereal mist
that acted as a gateway between our two worlds.
There was madness in that face,
calling out to me, urging me
to cross over to the other side.
Though the invitation was alluring,
I simply smiled, as if to say,
“Not yet. Not yet.”
Some people would think
that it was just the cut of the grain
in that old, wooden doorway.
But the Demon and I both know
that such silly superstition
is simply the work of the Devil
as He weaves His wicked lies of deception
into the hearts and minds of the non-believers.
Scott Thomas Outlar burst forth from the womb of primordial ooze with thoughts of Renaissance, Revolution and Revelation dancing across the newly enlivened neuron synapses of his consciousness. After taking a look around in this strange new land, he huffed some fresh oxygen, then got down to the business at hand, hammering out prose-fusion poetry, fiction, rants, manifestos, and hallucinatory, psychedelic meanderings through the psyche dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His work has appeared most recently in venues such as Medusa's Kitchen, Dead Snakes, Underground Books, Black Mirror Magazine, Section 8 Magazine, Record, Aphelion and Dissident Voice. Scott can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com.