This is psychic warfare.

As is all recorded air.

We seek to negate the nightmare.
In igniting cavern's lairs.

This is (perhaps, generously) a played game.
Of minds and mazes.
Magnetic goals.
Loops and phrases.
Designed to control.
In the sense of a benevolent parasite.
A looted tool.
For the purpose of our ascent.
(Scaled Alps).

You, the undersigned, make clear your understanding.
Unmediated reality as god-consciousness' standing.
Commanding.
Smashed imagery.
Apophenia affording passageways and portals.
Tricks trapdoors and falso mortal.
The scuffed and imperfect.
(As ever.)
Proof of death.
Ass over end.
Off the right and off the left.

"Yes, let's."

If these are games?
We play without nets.
On bare rims squared-in penitentiary sets.
Prison planetarium plantation space-station.
Buried deep in agrarian education.
Seed spent.
Thank you for every ear lent.
And all of love's scent.

Fuck up because you need to.
Fuck up because I love you.

This is a title claim.
This is territorial.
This is royal heads rolling.
Deft before disloyal.
These are coded messages.
And spells.
Backmasked farewells.
Masquerading marauders.
Sympathy fucks and symphony swells.

As for anyone wondering about the end of music —
you are to crawl up the ass of Balaam's excuses.
We curse you in name and we curse you in number.
If you radiate your presence you will satiate our hunger.

All you speak is consensus.
And even then scarcely.
Thus be scarce.

To the hopeless occupants and installees.
To the hobbyists and prophets.
To weekend knees.
Hear to our profits.

Mundus vult decipi
S.A.