Riding the Wave

Weather all storms. Eventually the sun will surely shine. In due time, after negative karma gets washed away, a feeling of purity and cleanliness will be felt. Radiate truth. Deconstruct lies. Banish wickedness. Embrace goodwill. Charity of the seven seas. Cross any body of water to reach the shoreline of inner peace. All paths lead to paradise.

The methodology of madness inherent in the diabolic nature of sleaze balls is easily recognized once one becomes hip to the game. The con loses its novelty and the veil of validity wears thin. Snap, crackle, pop. Extinguished in the blink of an eye. Vaporized skin when the meltdown commences. Vanity is vanquished when the only reflection which remains staring back in the mirror is skeletal in nature. Liquid plasma in the end times. Force de jour rips the rails right off the hinges. Train swerves. Metal bends to the whims of a furnace inferno. Hot under the collar. Burning at the core. Maniacal in the deepest pit. Down low where the ugly things dwell. Surfacing to play tag with those souls that didn’t pass the final test. Judgment day arrives. Scales and hearts and feathers. Which item weighs the most?

Veins that pump sludge. Rock hard arteries stoned to silence. A body in shutdown mode. A computerized mainframe gadget gone gonzo. Hijacked and hammered into the grave. Mistaken identity of the loneliest slave. Crash course in the cliché that life isn’t fair. Whosoever believes in the bizarre manifesto of the thief that lies in waiting will get just what they so richly deserve. Broken promises and ceremonial obligations of forfeiture. Taken, stolen, ripped asunder. Cast away. Dragged down by the chiseled millstone. Wrapped around the neck of prejudice and bigotry. Profiling a typecast martyr hung upside down and inside out from the withered tree of ancient lore. Suckling on the dew drops and sap stains. Crisscrossing through the fields of doom and despair.

A generation of masochistic, broken brained, nihilistic storm troopers. Ready to bite on any line that has a fat juicy worm attached. Hooked and sunk. Good little lemmings lining up for their next feeding at the trough. Swine in the circus. Erupted out the cannon and sent flying to where no safety net has been erected to catch the fall. Tumble. Ever downward. Descending in dissension. Turncoats and traitors to the cause. A miraculous course of events that blackballs the reindeer games and sideswipes the futuristic trends of a technocratic elite gone completely loco while festering in the bunker beds where they set up shop after pressing the red button to release the dirty hounds of nuclear holocaust and loosen the final restraints of a public charter that now rests in a tattered state of sludgy decomposition in the sewer stream of what could have been but now never will. Sayonara. Bon voyage. Fare thee well, ye lost interlopers of evolution and brazen backbiters of human adaptation. Feast now upon the radioactive rats of your own creation.

A flawed design that only gets worse by the second. Time ticks away. Clocks shout out mangled missives of mass distraction to manipulate the manufactured mechanical consciousness of four-eyed predator drones that swarm the ominous gray polluted skyline. Heat seeking missiles set on automatic. Itchy trigger finger sadism. The Beast System getting its wicked kicks from the disgraceful art of breaking ribs and genetically altering the contextual content of an entire species’ natural DNA development. Chromosome miscalculations. Monstrosities on the loose. Wild packs of mangy feline fascists. Half alert. Half comatose. But one hundred percent apocalyptic and retrograde in dimension. The long slow crawl back to the beginning. Brought to you by the fools that shucked all the oysters and issued maddened decrees from ivory towers. Out of the muck. Into the fire. Unstaid desires cripple the victims of disheartened lunacy. The moon pulls. The tide shifts. The water crashes upon a bloody shoreline. Salt enters the wound. A victory march for the loser brigade. Tight formation. Dressed up in silly uniformed costumes for the blasphemous pageant. Adorned in skullcap toxicity and lapel pins forged during the massive mayhem. Peace prizes awarded to those with the most kill shots. Primetime slots assigned to corporate garbage bag repositories who can spew the most propaganda in any given five minute segment. Sponsored by death pill corporations. Side effects of a world gone completely insane. Children lined up to receive their live virus formaldehyde shots. Just a dab will do you. Mercury poisoning in every cavity. Dense disillusion. Dastardly plots of eugenics based atrophic annihilation. Anything for the dirty dollar. Sell your soul for a pat on the back from the oppressors. Mass Stockholm syndrome. Boot lickers. Bottom feeders. Yellow cowards. Pant pissers. Scum suckers. Thirty pieces of silver and a kiss of death. Lips to cheek. The mentally weak and spiritually challenged inherit the earth. But for how long? This satanic kingdom can not last forever.

Hold fast to courage. Stay resilient to the just cause of God’s greater glory. This is just a test of the emergency broadcasting system. Do not be alarmed by the fallout waste that has polluted the flesh of mother earth. Do not fall prey to the zombie hordes that roam the streets seeking their next neck to bite. Do not lose faith in the plan. Do not turn your back on the prophetic scripture writ by holy men. Do not be tempted by the black spells cast by the downtrodden masses that want only to drag you below to the depths of their depravity and destitution. Nay! Bow your back. Stand upright with a straight spine. Sing outward with the song of Selah. Praise the Most High and dance through the cemetery during the long night of swords. A white dove cometh. A new age is born. Utopia of liberation. Value the steadfastness of those who weathered the storms of the past. Their efforts are not forgotten nor lost upon those of us who wait out the cancerous circumstances of this modern tsunami. We ride the waves of the furious tide and welcome the chaos, knowing that it brings a higher state of emergent order in its wake.

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.