He wanted to know himself. Sunken down, red-eyed in dissociated blackouts, both chemical and younger sufferings. Moving out from family, home, and themselves.
A morning dawn journey from Satan’s rescue of familial conjuring in time. He went out far alone, and only sixteen years old. Gone for a while.
Dark neons in mining-town tropical nights covered in foliage and stone reaches. Desert signs flickering amongst stars above. Lost in the city alleyways and their crowds into abandoned basements, loud waves of others’ stimulantations.
Daytime musings in empty squalors with secret rite-writes and quiet practices sobering. Patiently finding his carefree touch abundance flooding by sun in night, his nightly malefic bringing a daytime hoof and chew before charge and strike passions of mind in death studies.
He found his freedom in the empty hedonism, where chemicals and brain drives drew him deeply lost for speechless position, callless; rather, another calling kind.
Seventeen, walking down a desert with sand-smog swirls covering a cold new-moon night, cold. Shivering laughs, crazy without humor. Knee bends without telling if there was or wasn’t anything there yet. Symbols across the ground. Brought from opium and phencyclidine learned leads.
Tears, cast one last time at a deservedly dead-beaten father; without understanding, same here.
Tears into the small scoop empty of sand catch. His fluid collects. This is the night he tries to forget.
Leviathan slips something into the drink of sand; memories of memories. Soul empty-full of nothing pouring in. Drinking revelations. Leviathan constricting a shadow on the moon above.
“Spit revelation’s limbo back into the cup of sand,” the serpent says wordlessly to the soul from the moon above.
Caustic spit, bitter with mouth burns. A favor of spirits, where pillars are seen like windows of reflections of themselves inside; dying memories.
The boy says to himself, “The apocryphon said thirteen of twelve eternities. I must brand the soul with burning births. Falling from infinity without beginnings, into four corners of end unleashed onto a new world.”
“Like a spirit of Columbus, but by a dissolve of Neptune’s conjunction.” The soul speaks like Mercury of the skies and alchemy. “I will ignite.”
“Drop the seed, plant the seed of Antichrist,” speaks the demiurge.
Fathers and Mothers.
Daughters and Sons.
Lifetimes of roundabout perishment waves.
Lives of dying in revelation.
“Don’t ignore the presence; keep it close,” says a long chin shadow.
The archons glow in the night in solidarity. Swirling star domes wrapping you warmly, cooking you alchemically. A burning skull now.
“Spit the burning flashes of your sixteen; you will culminate in a new form of pride,” speaks the Lucifer, who holds his heart with déjà vu weight.
Sulfur spits from a burning mouth with sight flashing epinoia exhales. The blackened heat takes hold, an appetite unending. Magical night recalling itself; memories of memories repeating.
“Living or dead?” erupts a flame over the winds of disruption flint across compound, igniting the sand cup below.
“Mix the salt in your hands to a powder, then mix it with the drink below. Return to your folly here again and consume; it is your vomit and tail of your soul’s future and end together. You will never begin but always end,” says the ouroboros by way of gut movements.
“Your strength is in your thirteenth age of twelve, begun in your sixteenth bondage, unleashed within the eighteenth story of six-sixes reversing, which will be added unto by your seventeen now, and its prime will count backwards unto your awakening and upwards to nowhere; your chance to inhabit is by madness of both pillars.” This is shown in the soul, by the form of the magician, kōaḥ.
“Warnings, beware them by screams of spirit; you must become blackened by blindness, and feverish with escape, into the dreams of dreams come true, always hating the truth without knowing in reason, but a heavy burden of madness clarity.” The boy named Christopher, his soul possessing his soul named Satan, Leviathan as Snake on the moon, the Lucifer of lies in his heart, a shadow chin darkness as Virgil guidance often unseen, the Ouroboros slither who consumes themselves endlessly, the soothsaying of kōaḥ, the Demiurge as a Devil-God serpent creator, and the archons of the glowing throughout the cloud-covered desert night; all speaking this to themselves in two-split convergence into the deeper abyss.
Christopher drinks the end and never begins. He sees a brother and a lover as one; they begin without ending, listening to angels beyond. This terror cannot be named truth, at all costs. He must not escape, or the end is filled with puppets playing with themselves.
His eyes bleed with sanity in a dark caresslessness. He swears to kill the brother in a spiritual damning of twelve eternities of his thirteen.
The lover unknown, lost even to Christopher. Though he looks for her, he is blinded by an angel in every vision, omitting the woman as himself. He will make the word cruel then, so that she may dissolve herself, keeping nothing but empty.
Shackled to oblivion; abandoned. Itchy eye bleeds, forgetting something. Meat sunk into the midnight of cold sands burning with tears regurgitated.
Sharing the same vision; yet different paths. Scatter the parts unseen of her.