Xenognosis

“This is only the beginning,” she said. Goading me on to design the new addition to our house. Architecture had always come easy to me. As if the angles and curves already existed… somewhere inside me.

The magician needs companionship to keep him rooted in the everyday pleasures of this world. However, these pleasures are not everyday. They are, instead, hard to get at… strange and otherworldly. She is the name of the one or the many; she will balance energies.

The addition will be a ritual chamber until the first spawn is born. An entity that will fall through the black liquid of abhorrent space and the madness out of time. Until we have received it, this area will be the center for Lovecraftian workings of the most dangerous sort.

Count the room’s angles; you will never guess the extent to which I go. Designs are all around us, but they are false designs, unworkable designs. What we need is inspiration. The lucid dreams of a hideous, tentacled God.

Driving. Watching the landscape move around my car, move around me. Things live through those trees, and slimmer beings live through those humans. Activation is the key, but that can only be had with conscious Willing. Events out of control.

Home now and tired from resisting the hollow allure of results: emptiness itself. Vacuous nonsense filtered all around me. Fighting to keep it at bay. Listening to people talk about whatever. Listening to myself talk about whatever. I can hear it slipping away, the Eldritch Empire.

My life is in peril each night I communicate with Them. Normality drifts away as I stare into the idol’s milky eyes. Left my job and friends behind. My belongings only hold me to this stifling banality. All I need is my black cloak, bible, and wand.

Son growing up, feeling the pull. Strange entities in those hills beyond the trees, nearest the bloated moon. He can hear them. I taught him that. Getting old, this wicked man has touched another aeon. The world is sliding into the abyss of hell’s creation.

Looking for a church in the paper, on the internet. Seeking a structure to house the worship of our Old Gods. A sacred place where men can learn of the needed bloodletting. Women can prepare themselves for the Superman who will comes from the stars. Direct descendant of Yog Sothoth.

All of it drifting in the sun waters. Disturbing reflection. This is only the beginning. Thousands of scars before we Awake. Calling to the quiet, bubbling pit of mankind’s hollow, lonely wanderings.

Three men walked up to the statue, the place of worship, the foulest of the foul. Their eyes dancing upon its slimy surface. Its tentacles frozen in fascinated delight as the thing reached into a sky that had never been there.

The first man was scowling at the gorgeous, oozing thing. Temple fires flickered now and then, haunting it with the light of life. But they knew this statue was conscious only in the most polluted of atmospheres. Effulgent when bathed in self-believing, righteous blood.

The second man wore a dreamy expression. His long fingers caressed the image of our obscene God. This man came from the outer church. He was the reverend of a masked religion. Persecution was everywhere in those days. It consumed the masses and gave them a reason to be.

The third man smiled as he circled the statue. He put his face up to it and smelled the bright green which made his heart ache. This man yearned for the coming age, a secret apocalypse. He yammered sound and fury to the others with his excited tongue; he had been blind and mute from birth.

This temple had been built by the most vile and hate-filled of our descendents. It was a testament to their frame of mind; they could not be swayed by logic nor good taste. The stone temple was constructed by the last architect who knew his time was short.

All plans were drifting into nothingness, form itself was disappearing. A great many of that race could visualize the temple even before it took shape. Only the faithful were allowed to build it. Only the sincere could touch the stone. Years passed by… eventfully. New mazes for the worms to negotiate.

Days were full of work and nights were full of dreams. The nihilistic imaginings of madmen crept into open-minded circuitry. A frustrated sexual impulse erupted like a universe of horrors. This collection of stars and worlds sang in shadow. Passionate gore rained down on the innocent, teasing flesh. A conscious darkness washed them.

The need to extend, surpass, heighten… it whipped them as they coldly glared. A love of power was in their veins, bled into them by the Old Ones. Our descendants will rule where we were exploited. The changes will come as this religious movement usurps the emerald illumination and crimson glory!

“We must call it,” they said. The first man buried his dagger into the air. An audible rage gave him strength. He was too angry to be tolerant. He wore the nighted robes of the first thousand, the ones who dreamed the last city. The next thousand tore the obscurity aside, a terrifying visage born.

“We must call it,” they said. The second man let the insanity wash over him. It was too loud and long to interrupt with stray thoughts. Concentration and study Expanded the dream. Material illusions say nothing, artistic illusions soon become Solid. They scream, leaving truth to howl like a demon in the black pharaoh’s desert.

We must call it, they said. The third man made wild gesticulations, his hands drawing entities from dead places we all know exist. His tongue flickered in moonlight. An emptiness filled the temple, a palpable solitude where nothing existed. Eternal, shapeless black rising from a reality of blood and slime and darkness!

Leaving behind the world of false shapes and forever falling ideals, I set to the task of authoring a journal. This would be a record of the things envisioned… that come from outside, alone and unnatural. Streaming values like a rushing river of instinct. I left reason behind.

How can one be sure what is received from a higher source? Practice at perceiving, the astral universe is far removed. It cannot be grasped by an ordinary mind. Everything depends on right attitude. Clutching at string theories, indulging a woman’s sweet sexual torture, basking in pure spiritual void.

This journal will be a guide to those who seek an unspeakable path. It will break with the reality we’ve come to know and loath. Rearranging the sequence of a magical language that weaves in and out of impossible symbology. Characters writ in clean blood.

Deathless jewels reside in the deeper mine, subterranean lore carried out. Always reaching farther down. Mental caverns seeping with cold; ice-skin. Sound casts impressions that disturb a precarious universe of subtle pattern and planning. Unending energy, precious gleaming hope and belief.

They can also be acted upon. Transformation is possible when inscribed by the sigils of living flesh, the one who is the way. These stars burn violetly. Secret destinies for those who act. None shall come unto the father except through him. Venger As’Nas Satanis, Cult of Cthulhu High Priest. I AM the way.

The hungering thing parades around the ruins. The dreaming thing lies upon a heap of bones. And the smiling thing glares up at the majesty of the Hidden Masters. For a moment, all is illuminated and known. The manifold reasons for suffering: a reason for becoming. All this nonsense is merely the introduction.

A preamble to the enigmatic sounds of an alien Devil God tearing at the fabric of this wretched universe. Human remains plummet as Azathoth maniacally laughs. Red and green eyes match the velvet curtains in His lair. They hide the unimaginable. To know such a being is to become such a being.

Fiery determination tempered with unknown horrors. The new man, the Cultists who wear His name. Wild sigils decorate their blood and soul. This movement is from the world but not of it. We are removed from the failures inherent to this program. Decaying reality listens for black thieves howling in moonlight.

We are the future, as it was foretold in Abdul Alhazred’s prophecy. The mad Arab sensed a continuation of essence. From the Old Ones to Their children. The newborn Gods have to accept their fate. All that is human must die. Change comes from overcoming this world’s suffering. Overtaking man.

Tirelessly searching in the once red barn. Faded and peeling. So old that it exudes a feeling of decay. What degenerate folk might live in that barn…

Feeding off cattle and man as if there were no difference. Fornicating with their sister and she with Yog-Sothoth. The walls scribbled full of weird signs and portents. An end is coming, thank God. It will deliver us all from sanity.

Scenes change before the sacred, horned moon leering in the black heart beyond our world. Lunar darkness casts an alien shadow. Affecting the mind, influencing the flesh, and annihilating the spirit. All progress begins with change.

It must be some new knowledge. Forbidden knowledge recently attained. Those who exist in the void are anxious to use whatever advantage they have. And I am ready to leave my prison, the one I was born into. As the Old Ones are free, so shall I be.

Blood bends the bars, sex loosens the chains. Feelings extreme come inside and lure us beyond. An unholy whisper from such Gods melt the entire cosmos away. Orders are orders. There is little left… in fact, there is only escape.

Neighbors are ashamed that we’ve lived there so long. Killing and fucking inside that red barn. We danced on the gore and paraded with goats. Splashed her filthy juices upon the foul roots… so that darkness could grow.

What is inside an outrageous act? What is the core like? Where is the heart? I find that nothing is real outside such outrageous acts. Everything pales, becomes weak and stagnant. When masters are too lenient, then slaves flounder and drown in the waters of life.

In the black pyramid, I struggle to know. What is the Will of God? And if that God is evil… sick and obscene? I may not agree, but I never lose faith. Building his cult. Continuing to shamble forward.

The magician chooses the God and orders the sacraments. The God responds with what the magician wants to hear. The mage obeys the instructions he instinctively knows. The God is pleased and so is His servant.

Xenognosis from out there. It first came to us from those hills. And on those hills were the standing stones. This chaotic demon-circle was the reflecting mirror, broken and shattered, splintered and slivered. We walked multi-dimensional through the gateway unknown.

The images, such horror. All savage and cruel. There was an ecstasy of trampling the false dreams. Mindless prophets were stripped of their skin. The human race is such a prophet, beings born with a truth weighted down below the surface. As it drifts, so they tear… the inhabitance of that gate.

Wavering pentagrams burned into the flesh of a dream. Oceans of sentient blackness. Dominating and crippling those who dare oppose Them. Scream with the knife in the scarlet room.

This Eldritch Empire shall be built with devotion. Men who have risen to the height of their Gods. An emerald apocalypse engulfing those who sacrifice for such a glorious homecoming. We call thee!

To see the divine in its naked, unwholesome simplicity. Unraveling promises of good fortune away from the window. Seize the next position of power. Wrestle the mad snake. Complete the incongruent circle with pieces of bone.

Magic deserts the faithful at times. Lessons to be learned, power wanes, Gods drown… The abyss is too far sometimes. Too narrow and inexplicable. Who knows why things happen the way they do? But eventually we succeed.

“This is only the beginning,” she said. Goading me on to design the new addition to our house. Architecture had always come easy to me. As if the angles and curves already existed… somewhere inside me.

Twin serpents, dragons of that alien age. Green and red… succumbing to a pallid flame which burns deep in the shallowest center of a non-existent, irregular structure… a manifestation of distorted reality-planes.

When Dread Cthulhu spoke to His disciples and priests, His wisdom was known. In their minds the faithful heard… knew what each man had to overcome. The will was the energy that directed his machine. Will was the magical, Godlike power that could liberate this new mutant race.

Take my hand as you would a glistening tentacle. The three men of the Eldritch Empire have crawled like a God unbroken. They are comfortable with their role, on their belly like a serpent or worm. It moves like pure evil. Flowing like unwholesome green jelly, the three men come from stars inside. Inner stars change with time and pressure.

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 6th, 2010 at 8:46 pm and is filed under Prose. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.