Silver Neon Thunder Phoenix

The Unidentified Flying Object is falling.  Quickly.  Parachuting downward from the heavens.  Earthbound with a message.  Laced with an agenda.  Sending out flares of warning.  This could be the day of the invasion.  Or this could be the day of the implosive flame up from within.    When the enemy strikes it will come from the least expected avenue.  As a parasite that has been holed up inside the guts, toiling away in the acidic nature of the swampy environment, taking its sweet ass time and planning a devilish assault.  When starved will attack.  Symbiotic relationship of the flesh eater.  Cannibalistic ritual of the downtrodden.  Hoodoo voodoo.  Animus in the jungle.  Released with a nasty bite.  Incisors and eye teeth.  Sharp metal precision.  Grinding to the satisfaction of extreme levels of detriment.  Determined and obsessive.  In the absolute.  To the maximum.  And then some.  Off the scale.  Richter smashes up the plates.  A hazy, groggy sense of mass distortion.  Dislocated and sent shuddering with shivers down the spine.

Did the whole world just get flipped over?  Did the alien bombardment finally commence?  Did they hit or miss?  Does the backup generator supply enough power to keep the lights on?  Or are we all left in the dark?  Who offers resistance?  Who takes a dive?  Who learns to swim?  Who drowns in their own apathetic sorrow?

The takeoff procedure gets lost in the madness.  Chaos ensues in all five boroughs.  Chickens with their heads cut off.  No captain at the helm.  Rats snitch and almost always abandon ship.  In a hurry.  Rushed toward mass confusion.  Pushing and shoving.  Every man for himself.  Like a pack of wild animals.  When did humanity supposedly evolve?  What was that missing link?  Who pays the archaeologists their grant money?  Which think tank sets the agenda?  Which institution pushes their plans?  Which teacher takes the bait?  What is the score here?  When will the dust settle?

All the answers are easily found.  But the solution never seems to be that simple.  Habit energy can be hard to break, especially when an entire population is addicted to the patterns of the previous generations.  Neuron pathways fire off with electric synapse signals, forming ideas which are allowed to freely flow.  As long as you’re inside the box, that is.  Try to step outside and you’ll quickly realize just how tightly constricted the whole system is set up.  No one escapes.  We are the hive.  This is the Borg.  Be like us.  Do not attempt individuality.  Those days are past.  This isn’t the wild frontier.  No one is allowed a novel opinion.  The television will tell you what to think.  Hypnotized by the delta waves.  All alpha males put into a trance.  Feminize the culture with chemicals and hormones.  Estrogen mimickers placed as Trojan horses in the plastic and food.  Puberty at six years old from factory farmed, spiked milk.  Teenage boys and girls enter the wild wonderland of gender confusion.  It’s ok to be gay.  Come on, get happy!  Just wave a rainbow flag and join the parade.  We’re all equal here.  Hell, you can even marry a horse if you want to.  Just ask Caligula.  It’s all about acceptance.  There is no depopulation agenda playing out.  No nihilistic death cult sentiments at work.  No reason to get uppity or cause a commotion.  We’re heading straight for the promised land at mach 5.  Heads down.  Hands on the wheel.  White knuckling it all the way.

Silver Neon Thunder Phoenix.  On the rise.  Through the night to swarm the day with candy-coated dreams of flying.  Soil to sky.  Grounded on the clouds.  Will-o-the-wisp.  Willpower bliss.  Intentions focused squarely on the divine cosmic proportions that perfectly align at the angle of evolution.  Kiss-kiss with the angel’s pretty face.  Lips protrude into the outer realms.  It’s all up in the air now.  Breathing in a rarified atmosphere.  Who has traveled to such spaces?  Who has flown such coups?  Who has thrown such parties?  Who was invited to the opening ceremony?  Who laughed with the jester?  Who had their head chopped off?  Who was executed on falsified, forged evidence?  Who took the frame job to the woodshed?  Who bought the farm?  Who sold the story?  Who got the scoop?  Who dug in the deepest?  Who skated around on the surface?  Who broke the ice?  Who fell in the lake?  Who got wet?  Who has mud all over their face?  Who makes lemonade when the bad news comes?  Who has the rosy side of the story to tell?  Who sang the loudest?  Who whispered drearily?  Who daydreamed through the whole event?  Who woke up alone and stunned?  Who was passed over by the procession?  Who joined the carriage?  Who fell off the wagon?  Who ended up in the alley?  Who loves the bums hanging around the fire?  Who prefers the penthouse suite?  Who would sell their soul for the silver?  Who would barter away all their gold?  Who took third place and received the bronze?  Who got wired up in copper?  Who plugged into the matrix?  Who got caught up in the hype?  Who jumped down the rabbit hole?  Who chased the dragon back to where it came from?  Who was ostracized for what they knew?  Who kept their head in the sand?  Who wanted the truth?  Who didn’t give a flip?  Who won the coin toss?  Who gambled on the future?  Who asked for an extension?  Who met the bookie on a bad day?  Who synchronistically slid away?  Who serendipitously found the rainbow?  Who went all the way to the pot?  Who danced with the leprechaun?  Who got voted off the island?  Who wiled away their hours in paradise?  Who shucked off modern day responsibility?  Who figured out the prime objective?  Who turned into a machine for the system?  Who kept their humanity intact?  Who found the kingdom within?  Who spread their wings in glory?  Who felt the grace rush through?

Sex, drugs and violence pave the way through the madness into the realm of whatever pops up around the bend.  When Hell freezes over and pigs fly, they used to say.  Well, now they can.  Pet oinkers given high security clearance and allowed on planes.  Wouldn’t want to discriminate against the swine, now would we?  No, sir!  That’s right, soldier.  This is the twenty-first century.  Political correctness at its finest.  We left common sense in the foxhole back in Vietnam.  Then gave it another black eye in the Middle East.  When it returned home as a veteran, we went ahead and put it out of its misery with a few well-placed bullets right through the forehead.  Execution style.  Mafioso special ops funded off the books.  Wipe your hands.  Put it behind you.  A few flags on the casket.  A few country anthems sung on the stage.  A few crocodile tears for the camera.  A few photo ops for the President, Prime Minister, Pope, and any other campaigning politician that may be in the area.  Now all is right as rain.

Heavy blow, king-maker, fatalistic, futuristic language bound to the contra agenda set up in the backlight against a frenzied forecast singing sideways through the raindrops, never getting wet where it matters most back in the moistness of the enclosure, wrapped up tightly and held closely to an integrated full dose.  Ammunition mercury shots laced with seedy aspirations sink into the depths of where the life force flows in abundance.  What does it all mean?  Hell if anyone knows.  But it sure grabs the attention of the high end rally points when the stage is being set for a lowdown brouhaha between all the flag-waving extremists and their sociological haphazardness.  Yea, buddy, ten to the dollar says the slaughter is on the way.  Run to your reservations.  Don’t count on fifty acres.  The Empire is mad as Hell.  Hornet nest swamp fever hallucinations bubble up to the surface and call out to the heavens.  True believers clutch their Bibles.  Charm the snake.  Apocalyptic Armageddon.  Sweet revival.   Basic survival.  Of the fittest?  Or the richest?  Maybe evolution now goes to the wisest.  Who’s to say?  I guess we’ll all find out soon enough.

Scott Thomas Outlar is a lover of truth and enjoys researching philosophy, psychology, politics, spirituality, and any other facet of consciousness in the pursuit of reaching a higher state of vibration. He also enjoys writing rants, poems, essays, short stories, and prose-fusion screeds covering such subjects. Scott Thomas can be reached at 17numa@gmail.com. Read other articles by Scott Thomas.