Crushing the Camel

What’s the frequency level? What schematic vibration are you operating from? High or low? Middle ground? Flighty or dense? Kittenish or fierce? Extreme points of reference coalesce and burn at the edges. Houston, we have a disruptive problem arising in the form of allegorical metaphors running amok across the pages of literary diarrhea which are passed off as being purely ingenious, quizzical, fantastical and kaleidoscopic in their wide array of viewpoints from which to peek at the dirty little secrets kept tucked beneath the covers and the ugly old agendas swept under the rugs. Pull out Pandora’s box and rip that bad boy open. Or is it a naughty girl? See what awesome amazements may transpire. They say there is no turning back once the lid has been popped. Like a virgin trying to stuff a cherry back up her vaginal apparatus. Or a spooge of sperm swimming against the stream to force its way back into the urethra. These things just cannot be allowed to happen. Fate and destiny mutually concur in uppity unison that forward momentum is the only possible way to reach the future. Getting caught up in shallow, shady, overly sentimental reminiscences about mistakes committed in the far-flung past is no way to reach a critical mass of progressive change going forward. We mustn’t turn back now. Set the sails. Light the ignition. Evolution or bust. We’re coming home.

Catch the wind and suck the air out of my lungs. Taste the antifreeze deep in the tar pit trap of my soul. Sweet salvation sings its rusty song in broken razorblade lyrical form. Scratch against the metal gate until the wires snap, split and hiss as they cut into the putrid, blistered, mechanized, skin graft tissue. Splintered bones and weak-willed glands are the downfall of homeostasis. Dirty and damned. Betrayed for a lousy sack of coins. Silver musty kiss of death. The smell of ecstasy alchemically mixed with the horror of hell’s wrathful vengeance brings about the total collapse of sanity. Faltering before it falls. The sinful lust of the snake bites with a venom heretofore unparalleled in this garden. No antidote. No fingerprints. The perfect crime. The mangled victims. A species in decline. A valley in the cycle. The hope being lost. The truth treated as a foe. Fiendishly fractured fundamentals fail to function in proper formation. Spiked graphs glitch in reverse osmosis. Everything pulling back, wrapping up, and coiling within itself. Implosive catastrophe. Alignment askew. The tailpipe end of the exhausted fumes. No remorse. Pigeonholed and held in contempt. Sentenced to serve in the bowels of a forgotten dungeon. Locked up. No key. Starved and stripped of all dignity. Salvation becomes a foreign concept. Demons laugh and spit in the face of honesty. Devils cry and make the most of their acidic tears. Tortured souls sweltering and suffering in angst and agony are offered no relief, no release, no redemption. The savior came but was quickly lost amidst a crowd of trendy disbelief. Martyred without a cause. Mocked and left to hang in solitude. Sold down the river without a basket. Drowned in an ocean of mechanistic materialism.

Worldliness is the final straw that breaks the camel’s back. Once the soul is given over to the temporal illusions and physical trappings of this world, there is no turning back. No saving grace. No second chance. The energy is lost forever. The path of redemption cannot be found. Born again, my ass. Keep playing that card and see where it gets you. You fucked up. You’ll die hard. Just like the rest of us. Get used to it. Get over it. Or get inside it and play the game. Hack into the system. Dive into the matrix. Deep in the core. Dirtier each time. Face the facts, Jack, you are broken beyond belief. And no prayer is going to lift you up to heaven. No angel wings. No harpsichord. No pearly gates. No first class seat next to the throne. You made your choice. Now get in the mud and play with the worms.

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 You can also watch and/or subscribe to his YouTube Channel Read other articles by Scott Thomas, or visit Scott Thomas's website.