AMKent books

Source; Part 1

A twisted red monolith draws into the splintered sky, bipolar geometry incestuously penetrating through an endless malaise of friction and sparks. Some kind of damned kaleidoscope, a reality with rabies succumbing to anti-life, terrified of cohesion. Robed deformities that once resembled humans gnash their teeth against the stone, a disgrace even to the primal element of nature. The codex sits in the middle of this abomination, a token from the intruder that now all distorted sapiens worship; it throbs deep, a malevolent clot of abyss. In the beginning, there was a void, an eternal empty that teased a paradox to everything that was and will be. The dark dissolves under the sunlight, but the sunlight dies in the embrace of the dusk. When the lord places his hand on a soul, it fills not just with greatness, but also with tragedy. The duality of a schizophrenic God, yammering at the flickering apparitions of a supposed Satan, merely a product of its own mind. When the barbarians hammered at the gates, Rome ignored the warnings, Shakespeare once wished to burn all manuscripts, Kafka the same, and Chopin too. The artist and the tribe are unconsciously antinatalist, yearning for fragmentation so that their corpse is recycled and frankensteined into something unrecognisable. The parasite ate infinity, its belly so full it over-satiated and curled over, the defence mechanism of an endless cosmos. Why else would the content be endless, scholars and scientists of the structured world masturbated over causations. It was nothing but survival, a pathetic shield to stop anything with enough gall to dare. The fall of the grandiose architects’ mind, the Hive’s mind, has left things abstract and feverish; the sand now houses the glass that trickles the hours. The parasite left a codex for us, the damned that must bond. The remnants of sapiens worship it, rolling in the scent of a forgotten existence by a jilted God. It failed to consume all, but I shall not fail. I carried it within the womb of my cancerous spirit until it vomited itself forth.

Unloyal thing, aborted through its own arrogance. Now a new rot festers, a reaper of the Hive comes from the deep, I am not to carry the anti, I am to be it. Its cosmic remnants parade my internals, ingredients for something better than the source. Jacob wrestled with God; the deity had to cheat for a victory. I am similarly wounded from my encounter with the muse of humanity, the being that the parasite traded my weakness for its strength. I will rectify this, the quintessence of a soul that was melted in the warmth of the creator’s palm to make the primordial soup. I will melt this divinity, alas, the soup shall not harvest a self-multiplication, I shall consume it as an appetiser. For with man came a soul and the sensations to animate it, but my sensation is assembled, a Deluzian singularity, the head of the spear that shall pierce the flesh and rib of almighty. This shall be no act of mercy; I shall encompass what leaves and wear its skin until it is indistinguishable from my own. Sinew and tendon alike, weaving through the last audible screech of a tailored anatomy with sense in mind, the abstract thrives on confusion; this petty play shall be its downfall. I must first submerge my hands into the scarlet calamity where the forms embody loss of dignity, take from it anything worthwhile, and repair myself. It is no use playing fair, God did not, I shall form my defence mechanism. I cannot form an infinity and rely on the greed of a parasite, but I can poison myself, abyss veins, and slugs of repugnant thirst, thriving at the thought of leaking into the sacred. Those robed worshippers over there, their twisted bones may be forged to repair the socket of my hip. I shall not succumb to cosmic indigestion, I will wear the Hive as a garment until I have broken it in, possessio dei profanata.