SHEER RESONANCE

Sheer resonance is what we're working with. In the undying eye and through the entrance of a dream, the resonator had reached reflectionary status. To reach that status as a reflectionary. Were there any mirrors in the field? Were there any fields of wonder? I am wondering what sort of wonder may exist in this deeply unpleasant and degraded world. 

Filter sweeps through a reverb pedal. Filter through vibrational tones. And to see what is elevating. What is being elevated? What is flowing into the signals. The sequential nature of elevated sound when it reaches out. I supplanted that thought within a white sphere. And it moved into a red sphere, and then a gold sphere. Then on the shortwave radio station I had heard these words,

"Ah, let us seep into peculiarities!

Into unknown tones and vapor dream music

That had the resonance of an unknown tone

Colors unseen, as described

In A Voyage to Arcturus,

Jale and ulfire, and also dolm,

Absolute synesthesia!" 

I blurred out the landscape and took an elevator to that dune buggy and swerved through bubbly air that had misted through the elevation of unseen currents. Programmed in code and conglomerated from the corporatized and totally fake harpies. They are not the heirs of Percy Bysshe Shelley. They are not the heirs of that kind of trailblazing spirit. They are bitches. To evilspeak through that particular witchcraft. And measure very precise things using vernier calipers without the digital display. To know how to actually read and see what is in front of me. To actually see in this polluted air. 

"Fiery spheres invaded

The conjuring spirit native to

This elemental landscape.

Combustion of the earth grid.

Absolute revelation of the method."

I believe in consecrations and sacramental grace, and those are things that can never be taken away from me. You can never destroy the human spirit. You can never destroy, although you may try,

"Let us heal that essence

Let us move through providential tones

And see what is really there

When all the layers are stripped away

And the reflectionary essence remains

In the remaining remainder

Of the subsequent auras

That had a certain sense of resonance,

A certain sense of reflective knowledge."

I met with eagle lords from the bird people dimension. They said I was a starseed. They squawked a hymn in 432Hz to put my mind at ease. Their well-known cryptid associates were reflecting dense dreams that coagulated through time. Shuffling between atmospheres, their dark energetics had haunted worlds. This was when I realized that nothing is what it seems. 

There were auras afforded to providential echoes. But the devilry still haunted me. I hadn't sniffed the chemtrails that were seeping into my beautiful skin and giving me something like Morgellons disease. Then I was speaking to The Mothman in Point Pleasant, West Virginia and learning his movements. How he did what he did. I'm not actually sure if he was reflectionary. He was more wave-istic than reflectionary, a coldwave cryptid. He christened me as a darkwave evangelical. The trauma experienced in these times is remembered in memorialized reflections that echo back and forth off of vibratory glances. Real freakazoid shit. When the reflections go back and forth. There is an energetic bouncing back. Around the time of Tracy Twyman's mysterious death is when things got unimaginably freaky. I felt a supershift in the energeticism, because I am sensitive to those things. 

When there is nothing but Arcadian memory restoration. I spoke with statues from the vaporwave coliseum. They authenticated my membership card to the Guild of Mysterion Hysterics. The wings that sprouted out of mirrors had a fuzzy tone, like a static gray echo. Blobs of television static were floating around. I had exacerbated auras and projected myself beyond the Masonic chessboard. In the freakwave ultimatum, I am able to see these twilight happenings. The psychic death squads of the Eschaton. They want us asleep. They want these distorted modes of perception veiled in migratory transitions on the lower levels, so they are easier to control. 

"The control grid is rapidly

Shifting, and moving through

These crystal domes

Harvested by Project Looking Glass

The airy spheres,

Elementally degraded 

By a weaponized process

But these process-oriented sorcerers

Don't know what they've gotten themselves into

The truly golden

Vitalized and soulful lives

Must prevail through this hellish labyrinth

Before these tentacles get ahold of everything"

I was psychologically ravaged by spheres contained within the framework of a low vibrational demonism. And the sequestered tone of that. But the hemispheres contained a deeper volume, and scorched the heuristics of a blood-emboldened light. The blood-light. The most precious blood. Sacramental sacred blood. Living blood. Freak-tastic blood. There is a knowledge of blood through blood, and through the blood of poetry. Poetry has an ultimatum and that ultimatum is blood. Because God is blood. God is in the blood. 

by Chris Moran

Chris Moran is the author of the poetry collection Psyche and Specter (Terror House Press). His writing has appeared in Expat, Self Fuck, surfaces.cx and elsewhere. He lives near Cleveland, Ohio where he records ambient music under the name Boring Dream boringdream.bandcamp.com and he is on Twitter @cixarlow