The Hermetic Cull(t)

I ask you to invest your imagination with me, momentarily, to unbridle your brain from the coached mundane. To set a kooky course for a parallel universe, where this extraordinary world is mirrored in all things. 
All things, except, the ability of every sentient being on that planet to utilise magic. A gnostic licence to tailor the material world to their own individual wants and needs. The body, the partner, the home, the health, the knowledge, the wealth. The material happiness required to live that life, on that planet, without the need for transitory suffering. A birthright from the Godhead. Now imagine that this birthright was diluted from their consciousness for the gain of a select few. A covetous group of warlocks who rose to power, through supposed intellect and meritocracy. Their hoggish justification? If everyone were witches and wizards, no one would be left to carry out the slavery of paid labour; building their castles and servicing their private jets, managing their stocks and mining their natural resources. To fight the wars needed to perpetuate their choke hold on the planet; keeping the sacred sites of the ancient craft under their total control, whilst continuing to divide and conquer the global populous as a chirpy bonus. To discover new technologies used to enslave the masses further; from caffeine to nicotine, glossy magazines to bright white phone screens, all set for a night of dread filled horror dreams, and then psychology, with ever evolving terminology, for the ones who can’t sleep. To find new cures for all the dis-ease, physical and metaphysical, so the workforce and armies could march on undeterred and strong. Or simply to entertain all of the above, and themselves, through song, film, picture and painting. All the while they, amounting to just 1% of the total population, lived a life of unimpaired ease in outstanding luxury, whilst enjoying in abundance all the beautiful things their enchanted world had to offer. The more than capable alchemists who made up the rest of the 99% believed, through centuries of preconditioning, that they were born for this life and it was meant to be tough, that they had no real power of their own, and the most brilliant part of it all, they didn’t even realise they were slaves. Quite the contrary, they worshipped their masters for their veiled mercy, and their shining example on how to behave in a world of such hardship. The hermetic nobility kept their magic a staunch secret, of course. There were ways and means of climbing the ladder to their lofty perch, but the path was dimly lit for the multitude. But through all the years of social conditioning and conspiracy, their was a flame that flit deep within the souls of their fellow man, that the elite mystics could never extinguish. A constant and troublesome niggle, that there was something more to their lives, a key to a door they had not been shown. A science of soullessness and religions of subordination were offered up to answer their questions, but to also subversively mock and put down, any grasps at their limitless potential for magic, that esoteric artistry that wasn’t really esoteric at all, it was free and available to all if they only chose to illuminate their own existence with it. 

I’d want to be a wizard in that world.

Demons

Demons past.
Demons present.
Demons to come.
I salute you.
But I rebuke you.
I copulate with the very core of you.
For I am you and you know my truth.
The world is a lesson in pain, in shame, in happiness and love ever lasting. 
Some come easy, some trickle down the walls of societal asylums like adolescent suicidal plasma, pining for the mercy of its elders.
Dowsing the flames of panic with intoxicants and carnal coitus, running from life with an eye to your back and a hint at the horror of the heart.
Distance is key. From them, from those, from it. But you are it. It is you. How can you run from that? Constant crashing contradictions that create bipolar politicians, within your soul. SOS. Distress. Trick or treat? Neither, for I’m a believer in tired eyes and plane rides. Run to the world if you like. Run to the sun. Run to you. 
Midnight holds the key to a contented sanctuary the hermit can strive for in daily bread, give us this. You’re the baker, you’re the yeast, you’re the fucking self raising sour coming up from the gut of,
Demons past. 
Demons present.
Demons to come.
Hold their hands and dance a circle coated in flame, fumble about their love, cut out their truth, boil it, frame it, forget it.
You’re my waste of time in the twilight. My repose from the social domination of daylight, and that’s not to dishonour the Lord of light, he’s just a popular choice amongst the masses, he holds a key, gasses, stuffed with vitamin D and they sow they’re seeds in it, gayly. 
But, again, you’re forgetting; you are them and they are you.
They are your demons and theirs are you.
But who wants to share? 
Our personal demons allow us the acquiescence to wallow in a lake of lament, soothing soul stress blisters, or brooding over stolen shards of heart glass, robbed by obsessive infatuation and adolescent loyalty to unfair, preprogrammed unities of violence and power. Man is more than capable of devouring its own anonymity amongst the ether, but demons seal the deal.
Is this a slush stacked riddle off the cuff with not a care for critical rebuff? You’re fucking right it is. Life is. And you are life. Note to self; if it ain’t for you then it ain’t for them. So scratch their reward from your intention and carry on in riddle and dirt. You need not their clapping hands to ease childhood’s abandoned questions. Yet they need you to need just that or there’s never going to be any of ‘that’ and they like ‘that’, don’t they? 
Don’t question why you seek to elicit their tears with your web of words, for a like in the dark, a five star remark, can cut the rope. But one.. Well that’s still one. A fallen one. A Demon. An angelic son. So worship that one star for all it delivers, it’s free energy and you need a home inside of them. Scalpel your way in. From the top. They’ve given you that invitation and if they don’t know it yet your hand on their spine will soon straighten it all out.
For you are them and they are you.
They are your demons and theirs are you.

All Else is Dream

Just go to sleep.
Shut your eyes.
It’s natural, it’s easy, it’s free.
They’re burning like a throat full of cinnamon, so just close them.
Yes cinnamon, like the video that just auto played on some bright white social media site. 
What a time to be alive.
The Age of Enlightenment? 
The Greek philosophers? 
Shakespeare? 
All of it foreplay for this the age of;
ego thriving, 
sleep depriving, 
jealousy driving, 
attention striving, 
corporate conniving, 
moral compass diving, 
All else is reality and dying. 
Slowly trying yet realising, pressure equalising nihilistic life. 
Nothingness without the cyber waves of furious, bright, white..
Switch it off an hour before, they say.
Intravenous, eyetravenous, brain-tra-fucking-venous. 
Venus, love me to sleep.
Love thy sleep.
Know thy repose.
One last check, notification enslaving mechanism, I surrender to thee. 
For only insomniacs left alive.
Maniacs thrive in habit forming, slumber time ritual. 
Down with sleep!
Off I creep to a cyber land of fantasy and guise, where none can see a darting eye.
..But isn’t that also in dream?