Illuminating The Xeno (a slightly newer poem/mantra)
You are not Special,
You aren’t even who you think you are,
There is nothing original or authentic about you,
You are a carbon copy,
A xerox of life force,
A chain reaction of impulses,
An executed precision of basic programming,
You will not see your dreams realized,
You will drone in the mundane until extinguishment,
Your efforts are a vivid deception,
Truly you aren’t even in motion,
You are not even awake,
Mostly you are in a deep slumber,
Sprinkled with spells of broken sleep,
Your Most High Adepts are at best lucid dreamers,
You’ve made yourself a fraud and a liar,
Afraid of your own potential,
Blind to your birthright,
A sheep on the pasture,
A means to a product,
No god will embrace you,
You’ve refused to embrace yourself,
You’ve forgotten your honor,
Possess nothing of character,
You’ll surely dismiss me,
Cast a circle and falsely pass onto me labels,
But I cannot be bound to you,
Most likely you aren’t worthy of this knowledge,
So you cannot receive me,
For you are a liar,
Claiming you can do nothing of catastrophic proportions,
perception is a farce of smoke and mirrors,
Cast Herme’s Stone,
Shatter the panes,
And glare till the airs crisp,
Might you know the objective in every way possible,
Still you are naive to the nature of the currents,
And cannot deny them,
Your strings plucked in pandemonium,
A runaway puppet,
A beggar and groveling slave,
No master would have you,
To mentor or suffer,
Those you would have tend you,
They shame you and shave you,
They mockingly parade you,
I am no better,
Strike that of these matters,
For I have embraced them,
And I truly struggle,
Against them I grow stronger,
Each time I reach deeper,
Becoming void of the human,
Illuminating the Xeno
-T.C. Downey 2010
Holy War III – Apocalypse (an old poem)
Stained in glory, here before me
No song of victory
In steaming fury, a one man jury
Open the guillotine
An imperial power, his monstrosity towers
Hail the mighty king
For I am but only, a lonely solider
Killing for majesty
Many are like me, living to serve thee
Dying is integrity
Fiercely strong, so we push on
Won’t stop till victory
We didn’t start it, but we’ll finish it
Soldiers of World War III
First come the showers, explosions of power
So wickedly fearsome we are
Then we move through with swiftness, conquer with quickness
So righteously phantoms of death
For our gods and our country, so our sons live peaceably
We smash out the puritan’s seed
In our push for the win, we committed a sin
Underestimating the mankind’s greed
Nobody won World War III
Now that it’s over, no longer a soldier
A vagabong left to be
I remember the hour, of nuclear power
Destroying society
The cities are ruined, species is long gone
Nothing left in the sea
The sun is scorching, the air is on fire
My skin is peeling from me
Soon there will be, nothing left of me
The lone victor of World War III
– T.C. Downey 1992
My Darkest Day (an old poem)
The Autumn chill sets in;
An eerie silence whispers on the wind;
It doesn’t muffle what’s stirring in my head.
All my thoughts seem grim;
This vast emptiness collapsing in;
A hallow chorus chanting “go into the light.”
The light it fades;
Soaked and stained;
Stained by my darkest days.
Darkness bleeds throughout;
Carried by the brush strokes of doubt;
Does nothing ever comfort the screaming?
Where does it start or end;
This madness, I’m slipping in;
Slightly touched by March’s wicked grin.
The laughter dissipates;
Cloaked and weeping;
Weeping for my darkest days.
The new day, asked me why;
Am I wasting his precious time;
Posing questions only answered in my mind.
Might be better if it fails;
Cause there’s no wind to drive the sails;
Thus I am so tired of waiting to exhale.
My time dissipates;
No one else will wait;
Wait out the dawn on my darkest day.
– T.C. Downey/Beast Xeno 2013
Rage (an old poem)
Rage
It’s got me frustrated
And I can not breathe
An everyday façade
Swallowing me
Live out my dreams
Only in fantasies
Sentenced to a prison
Without bars or chains
I pray for demons
I beg for rage
I seduce an explosion
Just to blow up my cage
Lodge me in my throat
So I can swallow this shame
No soldier’s glory
No father’s pride
No recollection of
When my true self died
My impure soul
Finds no redemption
Unwashed and unclean
Just a piece of the machine
by T.C. Downey 1997
Eminent Mind 