Flowers of paranoia
I prepared some powder from the root of the Mandragora officinarum,
grinding its human-looking features into a fine dust for consumption.
The anguished poor always make a fine meal.
For days after I sat in my damp Hortus Medicus, enraptured by a small vase filled with flowers of a most demonic appearance
With eyes wide open, i inhale the scent,
the ardent pollen turning into a sweet, sweaty nectar
extracted by the humid wind of an intense midday sun.
I begin to think, surrounded by bright colors and fantastic things.
I was hoping in advance that the drug could take me again to another world.
One where all my problems were wholly eliminated and so earth, my earth,
could become a paradise and peaceful island.
Within minutes, after this long reflection, a shadow covers my body.
Something cruel begins to move just beneath my flesh, like roots in the soil.
As the thorns ensnare me, I enter a familiar private abyss,
Though this time it is accompanied by the smell of rot.
I am rotten! This skin; these bones, veins and muscles!
My putrid blood, which smells of chemical warfare.
A thousand bodies, left for days in the sun, would not be as repulsive as this one.
My dear friends and colleagues have abandoned me to the cellar of my own hate.
They think Magick is dead. Lacking the spells to produce their fantasies, they cling to the sinking ships of modern life.
Magick is a foam, exfoliating the filth-sensible ordered world from the bodies of the pure of spirit.
Through the sparkling froth, a gateway is opened where the acolyte enters the satisfactory realms
of illusion, washing away the sweat of world-anxiety and cultural enslavement.
Things spin fast, the bonds holding me together are spread further and further apart,
Like a universe at the end of its life.
Are friends real?
Days pass. Weeks pass. All in quick succession.
None of the fragments of my broken life have been found.
This plant, with its glimmering smile, scares me like the fear of death.
There is no enchantment. Dirt has been burnt from the earth and turned to polyurethane.
Scientists work on corrupting the soul of life, turning beautiful creatures into perverse abominations
Wire and simmering plasma distract our Hanging Garden.
And there will be these signs in those times?the sun will be blotted out like sackcloth,?and the moon clothed as with blood.?The earth will quiver and the sea,?and many people will fall.?In those times there will also be fallacy on earth;?a son will renounce his father, and brother his brother,?and even a friend will deceive his friend.
The false alchemists pretend to turn trash into gold.
To me it seems that what opens the door for others.
breeds hate in the marrow of my bones.
The tentacle-slaves of Empire continue to multiply and
grow ever more greedy. Though its innumerable sensory
organs grope at power and wealth, there is a Rock
which it will never overturn, and from under
which its destruction will come.
Hate only makes me stronger.
I conducted a quick survey of my peers, and found that we had all been infested by this most insidious plague.
Like rats, we climbed on top of each other in great piles of our own filth, assembling the disjecta membra of our existences into hordes of significance.
We scratched and danced,
Sniffing paranoid our putrid scents.
Some attempted to sell their trash or their fluids or their bodies,
While others looked on in feigned disgust, selling advice covered in pancake make-up.
Charlatans, spreading a false gospel. Hiding in great dumpsters, they preen for one another and lie through blackened teeth.
The Living death quickly closing its fist over the urban centers of an entire planet.
"It looked completely macabre, you could barely see the face. I was conversing with him, and it was like speaking to a mask." A friend said to me.
He died along with Europe.
He died along with Love.
In all of this heartbreak, a voice spoke in rumour:
That I, The Last Scientist, should work on a cure to restore the world.
Tell me your secrets. Ask me your questions. Nobody said it was easy.
Restore this world? Why?
I want to see the end of this mania.
Let the bloodsuckers kill the carnivores, and let the bloodsuckers starve in a garden of incest.
Sweat-Pearls drop down my forehead.
The vase in front of me contained only three flowers, turned paranoid by their horrific environment.
A rose and two orchidees in full blossom.
What greater delight is there than to behold an earth appareled with plants as with a robe of embroidered works,
Set with Orient pearls and garnished with the great diversity of rare and costly jewels stolen from the hands of a tyrant.
I had a dream of a mythic band of youth.