I sit here, amidst a darkened hall,
Congregating with the darkened rats,
Sipping upon a darkened drink— blood-drawn.

Now I rub my ******* and feel them swell
Amidst a rally-call within this darkened hall,
Possessed by a demon’s hypnotic call— his rally-call.

I waited for The Monolith Spider on his denizen web,
In the silk-drained air!
In the silk-drained night!

His legs must be coarse and onyx.
His eyes must move many to tears.
Scorpions must hear his name and pince at the moon,
Locked in prison cells,
Shrouded by the haunt of night.

The Monolith Spider.
The silk-weaver.

How do we remeber the strands?
How do we cross them?

As I drew the Philosophical Tree,
Darkness swarmed around me,
And I knew a new Line,
And owned a new pen,
Possessing a new sense of myself,
Realising how I had came to be.
I knew how matter had been constructed—
How it conformed when freed from its shackles,
Designed to be unburdened by reality.

Though the form is abstract in nature,
And the lines are intrinsically Art,
The eye reverberates— gyrations!—
Revelations of that which cannot be seen:
That which is wrought by design.

Scattered across dawn: fragments of the Emerald Green;
Pictures of a distant past in which I would sit with my rancid team:
My merry band of wandering schemes,
Whose ****** would evade the law with ease;
And we would lynch ******* there—
Their screams would linger in the stagnant air.

Now I do not miss the Emerald Green—
Where I would sit with my noble team—
I fantasise about the line now,
And how I can make amends for my violent dreams.

What we learnt from the Masks:
What we did with our freedom:
What we saw when we took up the pen.

Shall we learn what we had learnt once again?
I don't think I could stand another night
Locked inside the shadows of Earth-den.

Subsequently, the Masks coiled around us,
And we set down our penmanship in the shade.
They beckoned us to sing, once again.

From ecstasy to anguish—
Now, tenfold, I fizzle out.
I have failed my task which was within,
That which I began again—
Had begun again— with the labouring chagrin.
And now it seems, evidently,
I appear as apparition,
Walking the gentle tides of doubt.

Burnished green,
Coloured crimson—
Reminiscent of the city of Dis.

Rising from churning seas of the onyx chagrin!
Carrying clandestine echoes of a civilisation within!
Dismantled— reassembled—
Delivering concrete messages to a futuristic kin.

Gaunt of the clergy,
Gaunt of the orchid,
Gaunt of a worship violation,
Conjuring apparitions of violent dissent!
The blue and the teal, they kneel, unseen,
Receiving concrete messages from a cardinal, unseen.

Sun bearing down upon the straining, emerald trees!—
Many eyes and many limbs reach skywards,
Towards temple steams.

Visions of cornea, the sin etched into blank husks.
Concoction: of-the-brain bouts of ephemeral greed.
Interlocking interlinkation: the visions of violent dissent,
Once more printed 'pon cornea-husk—
These are the ******* Imprints!
The rancid souls of subterranean devils,
Gaping, flat-footed, throughout the course of time.
The memorandum of a navigation substance
Used during rituals for the ascension of the dead;
An imprintation upon the dark entrance void,
Interlocking the locations of blasphemous dread.

My companions, forlorn, left Remus Primoid— disappearing like vultures into a Sub-Saharan vista of the night— and travelled back to Earth, missing the the life they had once lived. I, however, had no friends or family to sustain my sentimentality and decided to stay upon Remus Primoid, within the village of Tok-Tuu, hoping to create a life for myself upon this distant world.

In my fifth year as a villager of Tok-Tuu I was permitted to learn the oblong mutterings: sacred chants created by the pre-eminent founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy, who uttered these chants under his breath as he carved the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu, as well as the hidden statue of Tei Romuloid-Papatemuloid, the mother of all life on Remus Primoid, a statue hidden within the depths of the ancient tombs, situated deep within the catacombs.

The mutterings were as follows:

"Oblongboidoid, Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Boid, boid. Bashin-gore— I sustain my left foot. Boid, boid. Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Helmonstap-hablefoot, caress carefully."

Upon my learning of the sacred mutterings, I was initiated into The Society of Sculptors. Such joy I felt, in this, my fifth year, to finally be accepted, truly, among the people of Tok-Tuu!

Crawling sickness becomes coagulated insectoid
Writhing within hive-mind funnels,
Constructing ambivalent torture of humanity merging together,
Congregating the organs amidst shadows of arachnid dread.

Instigation copulation with the father of crawling dread;
He who copulated with the remnants of the Godhead and penetrated cybernetic robotnoid.
Robotnoid:
He who rises from silk-woven robotnoid— crawling robotnoid.

In the gloom of the Mindfear Caves, my chanting echoed throughout, and I could see the Seven Heads hovering before me as I uttered the Oblong Mutterings. In here I could become one with the land of Tok-Tuu and its spiritual soul.

Having reached the culmination of my meditations, I emerged from the caves into the warm breast of summer, passing through Tok-Tuu's ancient orchard on my journey home. There, seemingly by fate, I met an old mystic who was in the process of painting the lifecycle of the Bulbous Tree, a tree which grew into full bloom and expired in the space of mere hours. He introduced himself as Outside-Inwards Jenkins— a descendant of Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy— and had been cast from the village of Tok-Tuu for practicing occult techniques in the manner of the forbidden doctrines, using these teachings in the creation of his artworks.

"You shall become my pupil, Earthbeing, and accompany me on my iminent journey into the jungle of Vorboon, in search of the Abstract Scroll. Within its writngs are techniques that are crucial to my artistic progression, and I shall share what I learn with you. Once I have learnt the teachings of the scroll I shall finally be able to complete Emerson, The Great Water Lilly, and apply the finishing touches to my homage of Rotondo The Clown."

Our words had been spoken and I would begin to embark on a quest that would be of great importance to what was meant to be in a time when we would begin.

We began our journey in the evening, when the air was cool and the Bloodfang Mosquitoes were perched high in the trees. The jungle of Vorboon was dark and abstract, especially at night, when winding vines and hollow trees could lead lost travellers deep underground. I quivered in fear as Outside-Inwards Jenkins led me deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle. However, I still saw an inner light transmute within my mind's eye, morphing into the form of the Abstract Scroll. I allowed this image to guide my fearful heart.

He was a rigid sculpture of a man.
It was a funny.
He was bulbous and flabby with latent homosexuality.
All his futures and philosophies manifested as a crude, orb-like nose.
It all feels like a big humour-funny-jaunt to him now.
It still feels like a funny.

Behind him there was a gleaming sun.
His eyes did not point in the right direction and were bulbous.
He had no fingers, only palms.
His eyes bulged and did not point in the right direction.
Horizontally, a star shone from behind him like a window into a grey and distant past.

When the transcendental died, Cézanne howled to the moon;
But Cézanne, he knew the truth:
He saw, in his eyes, that life could not die—
In his early work he displayed this truth.
But, he was corrupted by Camille Pissaro,
And his palette was lightened to boot.
Yet there still remained, on his most turbulent days,
Everlasting darkness that strained,
Winding its blackening roots.

God has drawn another Line.
It is the end at the beginning—
Of course, it was not commissioned to be one.
It did not start as one,
But has always been whole.
It was not drawn by a single hand;
It was drawn by many.

The Line, conceived to be darker than shadow,
Had subconsciously been crossed and over-wrought.
So we simply let it be;
Simply kept it separate— separate.

Guidance from God:
"Go now, go now, and connect the lines.
Go now, go now, and make contact with Ditko,
He who once dwelt within the highrises."

Upon this strange land we beheld organic structures of oblong intonation and mosaic, bio-organic design. The trees grew in irregular shapes, reminiscent of cones and gelatinous globules.

From the shadows, the honourable Nipslip Cockhantuu now aligns with us!

Nipslip Cockhantuu would offer to be our guide— our emissary!— upon entering the sacred village of Tok-Tuu. He would be a conduit, as it were, between us and the strange customs of the Tok-Tuu peoples.

We came closer to the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu, its minarets looming before us as in the dreams of secluded architects. Birds of vibrant colours soared above our heads and danced in strange formations, communicating in a language close to our own. Upon entering the village, Nipslip Cockhantuu granted us the honour of rubbing his dark ******* before the statue of the village's founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy. Nipslip Cockhantuu's ******* were soft and delicate, possessing a gentle, bumpy texture, very much like our own human *******.

Such wondrous celebrations ensued! And we knew our arrival upon this strange orb was a success, and that there would be many discoveries to be made!

So amusing was it to see
All these faces smiling at me—
All their gaunt faces echoing me—
Dancing with restless chagrin.
All these echoes grinning at me,
Unsettling me,
Peering from downwards within.
Unlayering me;
Swaying with repugnant glee,
Brandishing a pound of flesh,
The consequence of separate reality.