God is the Machine

Global synthesis of humankind
Doesn't mean you have to be synthetic and blind
If ignorance is bliss then I'll give 'em hell
Don't let this Brave New World ever quell
The vision, the passion, and most of all the urge to resist
and to rebel

Disenchanted with false Utopias
And the masses' minds' mindless myopias
I know real questions are better than false answers
But they'd rather peace-of-mind be bottled, priced, and handed over the fucking counters

It's God. God is the Machine.
We worship the corporatocracy.
God is the Machine
And if God is the Machine
Then I choose hell

In the pursuit of happiness
We've manufactured it
Though they're callin' us Generation RX
I'm callin' on you to resist
The proverbial soma
That'll put you in a coma
The "American Dream" is a fucking hallucination
Of a nation, of a world, of humans who've sold their souls to miscreation

If ignorance is bliss, then I'll give 'em hell
And if God is the Machine, then I choose hell

So while klan members commit crimes of hatred
And suicide bombers go and meet their maker
And half the world earns 3 bucks a day or less
We can proudly say we've conquered the "disorder" of sadness
No, it's bourgeoisie psychosis!

Chaos theory:
If a hurricane is contingent on a butterfly
A chain reaction can also come of your cry
For revolution, for dissolution
Of corruption, and endless consumption
Invoke the Chaos! Invoke the Chaos!
And remember the power of the atom bomb
Lies inside of the atom

And if ignorance is bliss, then I'll give 'em hell
And if God is the Machine, then I choose hell
And if God is the machine, then I choose hell
And if God is the machine, then I choose hell
I choose hell!

"Let There Be Streetlight!"

Deus ex machina: god from the machine!

The primeval, glorious being came thundering down & cried restitution, retribution & redemption [oh, dark redemption]; smoldering sunset eyes & black locks of funnel clouds & a deafening roar heard only as the silence of the cosmic dark. & its fingers spun webs of immortal perfection ensnaring all mortal souls at once -- its descent, of course, made upon a rickety, wooden machine lowering with creaky drunken swings. Pulled by a rope. A cheap throne of human construction.
God from the machine: the last human hope.

& the plot thickened & brimmed with promise & we praised & were enamored & dazed: resolution of our ideals incurred... The drama unfolded; an ancient Greek god, sent to rectify, rectify, rectify! A concept relentlessly resonating through time -- that our machine god would save the world, render humanity salvageable. & it was a beautiful work of fiction. Bestow upon me your truly potent righteousness, Deus!


But history repeats, repeats, repeats itself & what once failed & lingered only in the realm of fabricatedfiction... remained so. Ever faithful futility. The tragic flaw that rendered the plot device simultaneously a cheap fix & a brilliant vision.

For, what is power but failed in the face of spectacular abuse?


God from the machine: try in vain to save ourselves with artificial might & behold the atom bomb, polluted skies, & the corporatocracy! It cried "let there be light" & we echoed "let there be streetlight;" "let me save" & we echoed "we shall destroy."

Impotent human righteousness. God from the machine. Reality a parody of a comedy.

No, god is the machine -- as we reify & deify our almighty man-made prince of darkness, lord of doom. Worship, bow before our legendary, cataclysmic Fall. Wrought by the very potency that might have saved the world.

Diabolus Ex Machina!

The pocket watch inevitably slows to a stop with entropy...

And I turned to face the cold and damned

I swear to god, if anything, possessing sanity in a world of unmitigated insanity will be the trigger that finally drives me insane. Fucking irony. Fucking hell.

The more healthy&stable I become, the more alienated, alone I realize I am.
Alone and suffering.

And when it comes down to it, what good is sanity in the face of absolute aloneness? What value is a mental, emotional, and spiritual language that is entirely incommunicable? When do mere human fallibility and sheer insanity begin to bleed into each other? Am I sane if sanity, by default, is socially defined because knowledge is collectively gained?

George Orwell himself wrote that "perhaps a lunatic is just a minority of one."
[Granted, that line stems from a troubled protagonist's internal struggle to find truth amidst an oppressive, totalitarian society; the character is despairing, conflicted, confused, and his perception is obfuscated by the absolute tyrannical monopoly on truth... that is to say, the line itself may not be truth.]

Monopoly on truth... as though it were a commodity for humans to control, as though it is dependent on our existence and not the other way around... as though with enough sickening egomania, we truly become gods. Disgusting power lusting wretches.

Now belief, that's another matter altogether.
Belief is entirely dependent on human existence.
Belief is entirely subject to human control.
And belief itself is the root of all power, and subsequently all tyranny.


[The irony of tyranny is that the worst tyranny is the voluntary surrender of freedom.]
[The irony of tyranny is that the worst tyranny is the voluntary surrender of freedom.]

But sanity is tied to belief in truth, and who defines truth and thereby sanity?
The salient crux: no one transcends belief, no one is omniscient; there is only agenda; there is only those in power with more ability to influence belief. And sanity, oh sweet sanity, is owned by the worst possible demographic: power lusting egomaniacs.

Maddening. Enough to drive you mad.

And what are you left with when sanity in the face of absolute aloneness renders you as good as insane? Or what's worse your loneliness finally drives you insane?

Defy, defy, defy sanity; embrace, embrace, embrace your own wild ideals.

Morcifer

*on the nature of God's ability to give life, take life, cause angels to fall to hell, etc, while still being good (a lost, often unrecognized balance)

Morcifer, my dancing black angel, whose laughter was the chimes of armageddon,
unfolding and rocking and plunging, dense redness in my mind.
Darker than evil, darker than love, a lost balance,
his was the youthful rejoicing and relishing in the pain,
the destruction, the ruins, the perishing,
the arcane.
His own call was his song, his instrument of peace, and his throng,
but "Can't you see?" he said, "I'm not that strong..."
And he stamped his feet to the ancient tune and rhythm of throbbing hearts of lovers
and rumbling earthquakes and the beating of golden angelic armies,
and the firmament began to collapse itself.
Out of love, joyful love,
he could do anything and all,
wreak destruction and renewal to realms beyond,
cause the angels of eden to fall
[into hell, out of love],
make a soul perish with clean-stained hands, breathe life into a cold white gravestone.
Anything; to save love itself.
Mortality was the chariot of Morcifer, my dancing black angel.
His soul is young yet.
Howling of the primordial chaos of the supreme,
of love, of delight, and the human being, he cried
"Thou art never alone!" and unleashed his mortal perils, retribution and absolution,
reaping and wreaking mortality.
"And I am the ruiner, the destructor, and the perisher and I love. So join the above."
But they never knew, never knew, thought his love was hate; so he woefully sang,
"And perdition... will be my life!"
He had another Angel of Armageddon, Messifer, and they screamed
"That we love is our holy light, and our holy dark yet!" And as he rocked suspended in the air,
his laughter [the colour of the aurora],
echoed and their memories
billowing in the wind
faded fast, and their words only rang at last,
where bodies blended with stardust and grass:
"Oh, how I love you..."