Thursday, November 19, 2015

Walking Days (poem)

walking all the way down a writer's block, trotting blindly past windows.  perhaps once skipping the cleansing rinse, all still while whistling the tune to someone else's viewpoint, pizza corner talks.
he paddles that heat on summers in city's slicked pavement rushes, through acknowledged shadow traffic.  bending the words that wrote final destiny with the blend of the music of celestial churches.
talking out loud to an anonymous ghost, shaking in his hands, in his naivety also born intuit.  headed straight into it, conspicuity, immunity through the dark shaded doors, morbid menace between nights off work, again shifted to slide through these cages' cavernous tunnel systems.  lost lines, paid never again.  patches of truth behind eyes lies our connects in a network of burning field fires, unidentifed corpse crop circles.  falling objects, failing subjects, thrown in garbage.  feel tight, over the smaller, blowing out old candles lit, and let the lights of little wildflowers raise the schools in the gutters for the poor child, children, their stolen poverty wars on our perpetual perverted peripheral thievery.  conniving concise bravery amidst the inevitable brevity in our worship of the beast's offering of fierce fears.  this lord of the flies, he's not known to be mysterious.  run across dumpster fiends.
don't act like you've never been scared, or you'll sure die to dare.  i fucking swear in the beaten air.
concrete walls, and not those cliffs on sunny fantasy castle barriers, ships building the factories of frozen future graves.  we were drowning, while laughing, but dying, while writing.  oh well.
temporal hell permanent ghetto of the mind.  the bubbled skin from burnt belief.  peace's relief.  buried in eternal sleep, the threat of age and the imminent prophecy awaits, it beckons, quell culls.
so, they say walking forward streets is alright.  taking each step easy is always good for the soul.
forever let the spirit never miss a thing.  somebody out there is usually always right, alright.
but if you ask me, birds and butterflies, the sky through waving leaves or the golden blood of moon glowing shining through the bluest gusts of autumn, winking stars.  friends let friends kill the time.
they paid the rent, too, the taxes, they go to work for that big man.  servants to a faith down the road.

Monday, November 16, 2015

Still Can't Do Shit With A Moose

still can't do shit with a moose, you might as well go to hell or heck
nada nil nada nothing, fifty percent, the filthy fifths kept me flexed
20-20 30-30 go 50-50 bets on the best yet, yes, let the vet's vest vex
but the moose blows the whole horn, naked bitch jizz down her legs
if you think i didn't ask for sex, then kids must a just miss the guess
referees check out the full court press, tailor dry clean thread heads
fishnet neck, fed and fled what's said, i'm only allergic to my death
you can't handle your pets, knock bookshelves, and kick out guests
i can't help but see the planet as the opposite sex, or fuck much less,
a bitch ass little racist white girl, jealous of her ex, naturally threat,
getting lit quick, first hits, kissing, like it was never even missed
then sitting on hills, rolling down on fields, demons playing fetch
within clouded memories, maladies are melodies in evil harmony
a familiar territory out the following riffs, trespassed on remedies
as senses begin to lift, colors drown down, forgotten in symphony
canvased like a draft, been said i pictured the glass like past affinity
passing off the dirty devil in a flask to mix with the hash and dabs
hitting ceilings to catch a feeling, til i'm high enough to never crash
waves of ghetto vibrations still echo in my mind, tripping road side
flowing through the whole night, blown out show lights, hold tight
I’m smoking the marijuana that you morons all want to, piffing it
a bad hoe won’t support your chronic, call her all alcoholic, infin it
watch anonymous sponsors record her shots of watermelon vodka
slut her butt and tits on the strip out, while the spitters rip infinite
used to make music to amuse the retards. now art's too smart for it?
you expect to get rich in it, while they brainwash out intelligence
how we got autistic dudes hopping in the leotards for the bit parts?
actors heart foods and leopard farts, resonated margin on flash card,
resonate burn under armor, birds belong in porno, not driving cars,
or ever a corner where we serve harder than curbs high on harbor,
elevated arbor, shining monster eye, destruction, when i'm in 100,
it gets hectic, life without ethic, lost minds distracted on attraction,
attention all spot squads, if not a god, i got devils, drum dumbies,
bucky ducky, dunnies done d, so sunny funny with them monkeys.
sunday laundry room money, i'm ugly dude, puppy poo, munchies,
blood moon, grungy goons, gather ganders, golden goose druggies
sing swan songs in swampy gutter pools, raunchier than hand soup
and when it's all said and done, kid, still can't do shit with a moose.

at five years old i began piano, escaping with keys to the ghetto
after four years of training on classics, i made my first concerto
i was never into paintings and drawing, except comic book art
but over time i mastered all instruments except strings and guitar
i never was fond of singers that strained hard on their vocal chords
the female vocalists, the rock bands, they seemed more total bores
but rhythm of percussion that i learned at the after school functions
translated exactly into the current daily topics of local discussions
persuaded by peers, initially, and not with any reason other than that
i started to formulate early bars of poetic rhyme, syllabic formed rap
the name that i chose was decided on right before my first writings
that came with the hopes of high school initiation and cyphering
however, then came the positioning of myself into a new outlook
instead of progressing this form, i regressed back into punk rock
over time, i turned back to writing, only coincidentally therapeutic
the theatrics of the world were less vital to me than my amusement
music was all natural, my lyrics were ahead of their time for sure
although i stressed all the elements of hip hop, an inspiration pure
breakdancing, paint tagging vandalism, turntablism, battle cheers
i gained confidence as well as acceptance and overcame my fears
my retirement was because i had decided to never sign to labels
i ended my career to become the world's all time greatest hater
i couldn't stand the thought of my talent being cast aside as puppet
but in the end, my masterpiece's value stolen, and ego was the culprit
and you still can't do shit with a moose, because it's pop bullshit

Wednesday, November 04, 2015

Texting-Bluetooth Zone (short story / joke)

I was standing there, texting someone, when I saw a lady walking up, waving, saying "Hello!" and at first I thought that she was on a bluetooth, because my immediate reaction was that she couldn't be addressing me, because I don't talk like that at all, and it would have been completely out of character for me.  So I turned around to see if anyone was behind me, and there was another lady, who began breast feeding the first one.  That's when I remembered that I was in an adult bookstore, so then I started trotting right towards the door, and licked her asshole.  I sometimes have to leave my comfort zone now and again.  It's like outside; if you never go outside, if you never laugh, and suffer, you die.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

THE TOP 88 Hip Hop Albums

ASAP Rocky - Trill
ASAP Ferg - Trap Lord
Asher Roth - Asleep In The Bread Aisle
Berto The Star - Members Only
Bobby Shmurda - The Revolution
Chance The Rapper - The Juice
Chief Keef - Finally Rich
- True Religion
Childish Gambino - Because The Internet
- Royalty
- Sick Boi
Cory Gunz - Datz WTF Im Talkin Bout
- Son Of A Gun
Diplo & Gucci Mane - Free Gucci
Drake - Nothing Was The Same
- So Far Gone
- Take Care
- 0-100
Drake & Future - What A Time To Be Alive
Earl Sweatshirt - Doris
Fred The Godson - Contraband
Fredo Santana - Trappin Ain't Dead
French Montana - Ain't Worried Bout Nothing
- Live From Africa
Future - DS2
- Pluto
- Squares Out Your Circle
Game - OKE
Jadakiss - I Love You
J-Hood - Don Status
- One Love
JR Writer - ET
- The Return To Greatness
Juelz Santana - From Me 2 U
- God Will'n
Juelz Santana & Lil Wayne - I Can't Feel My Face
Jim Jones - Harlem
- Hustlers P.O.M.E.
Juicy J - Stay Trippy
Kid Ink - Full Speed
- My Own Lane
Lil B - BasedGod Velli
- Basedworld Paradise
- 6 Kiss
Lil Herb - Ballin Like I'm Kobe
- Fazoland
Lil Wayne - Free Weezy
Lloyd Banks - Beamer Benz Or Bentley?
- The Hunger For More
Mac Miller - Best Day Ever
- Macadelic
- Watching Movies With The Sound Off
Machine Gun Kelly - Black Flag
- EST 4 Life
Meek Mill - Dreams Worth More Than Money
- Mr Philadelphia
Migos - We Don't Speak Brokanese
Murda Mook - Street Smart
Nipsey Hussle - Crenshaw
- Mailbox Money
Rich Homie Quan - Never Go Back
Riff Raff - Birth Of An Icon
- The Golden Alien
- Summer Of Surf
Slim Jesus - Drill Time
Soulja Boy - The King
St. Raw - Outta Town Hustla
Styles P - Super Gangster
Travis Scott - Owl Pharoah
- Rodeo
Twyll th` ChyllTyrant - 1ST
- The Album Of The Year
- Cyphertyrant
- The Elusive Moosi
- The Mixtape
- Rawmeggedon
Tyga - Careless World
- Hotel California
Tyler, The Creator - Cherry Bomb
Vado - Slime Time
Waka Flocka - The Turn Up Godz Tour
Wale - Folarin
Wiz Khalifa - Blacc Hollywood: The Mixtape
- Morocco
- Rolling Papers
- We Dem Boyz
Young Thug - The Hubby Tape

Friday, October 09, 2015

The Legend of VADERFANG

Vaderfang & Bladerbang are a part of The Crooked Dead Man Saga, as well.  They are beast kings that are eventually released out of the other dimension, a second time.  After the fall of OVERLORD TYRANT & Crooked Dead Man/ The Omega Devil, Vaderfang & Bladerbang, the Chief Warlords of the Other Dimension, and two kings of the army of beasts in the first attack, are released at the North Pole at the exact moment of the Antarctica battle that destroys both OVERLORD TYRANT & Dead Man.  POWERBOY, once more, must use his infinite power source to battle the monsters to death.  The beasts in the first saga are cat -like.  Vaderfang & Bladerbang are both wolf and bear -like.  The final showdowns are through Russia, and Italy.


Overlord Tyrant is the demon sent from hell to reclaim the soul of Crooked Dead Man.  He has the powers of flight and invincibility, as well as super strength and super speed.  Part of his gimmick is that he can only communicate to humans through blood writing, which he can spray off of himself because he is a skeleton-and-muscle demonic humanoid.  However, his weakness is his Contract, in which he must destroy humankind by concentrating on all offensive efforts against him, even if it would allow his own death, specifically by Crooked Dead Man who has the unfortunately newly discovered ability of invisibility, only from the demon-vision of Overlord Tyrant.  However, because of his war with Illuminati, and eventually his death and reincarnation as Devil Omega, his former self is mostly remnant cyborg parts that can still be seen by Overlord Tyrant.  Abandoning these parts, he is again in a pile of zombie blood and guts on the ground.  However, by working with an undercover ex-Volyoom Team member now working out of the middle east for a citizen-resistance cult, called G.O.D. "Global Offense Defensive" codenamed "Wali Wigz", he is able to hack old cyborg parts and attempt to retake the world from Overlord Tyrant, who conquers mostly by destroying all police and military, leaving civilians alone, aside from the accidental casualty.  Wali Wigz rebuilds pieces of Crooked Dead Man and adds enough of the Omega Devil strain to the remnants to resurrect Crooked Dead Man once more.  Overlord Tyrant and Crooked Dead Man meet, finally, on Antarctica, and destroy each other, ultimately ending the "Crooked Dead Man vs. Overlord Tyrant" Saga.

Saturday, October 03, 2015

Hip Hop Dedication Verse

Suppy, big brother, yo, what's the deal?
I hope you're doing aiight
I'm just doin' my thing, living day to day life
You taught me the whole game, now we play alike
You taught me how to win, shoot guns, movin' wind
A lot of shit still going on, sets is holding on
My heart is ripped off so I keep your name at rep
Sittin' there, sippin' Hen, just smokin' on em sens
My album is finished in, four, fifth, forfeiting it
Tryin to get my mind right
Get my life back on the right track
Walkin' in streets dressed in all black, sockin' sacks
We see our own death coming, and it's no turning back
Long as I see this way, thing's ill will be turning up
The world told me “Slow down, Chyll," but Tyrant's good
I get on my mic and rock, like someday you'll talk back
Where we're speakin' of God, when facing hard frustrations
And in solid dedication, help form up the Rap Foundation
Thank You Hip Hop

-lil cease & Tyrant

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Three Guidelines of Life

Make the community happy.
Stay away from other people.
Let yourself enjoy the world.

Pets, Kindred Spirituality

In the past two years I have adopted two stray cats, and helped taken care of my old standard poodle.  Late this summer, turning autumn, and into the early parts of the fall, I have found a self-reflection.
Between the clinging skin steaming sweat to our body, in which the blood pumps the warmth of love, and in the entire global circulation of winds across the plains of earth, to night's watching eyes, skies dotted bright through the darkness, and segued against the residual static between the suns of the living solar systems there is a kind of effect on the human mind of natural concurrence, imperfect longing to belong in a universe that was built to reject us.  Partially responsible for our faith in these religions of mankind, and then as well for the artistic regression from creativity and self- expression of social anxiety as a young boy, into the illusions of memories lost in older ages.  The basis of numbers as a factual informative unit as to the telling of our experiences, strengths and weakness, and eventually the outcome of our perpetual survivalist's tragedy in midst of the ever flowing ebb doing of the same wax and wane as our moon's muse's to the seas mighty fallen grave.  The eventual density integrated by us, in time lines of history, mere instinctive hereditary tradition, or divine intervention for purpose of the betterment of our culture and humanity?  Or yet still, is it all for the commune to a higher sense, and are we all only teachers of manifest destiny to but future civilization?
Late in the summer, between the solstice and equinox, the loss of sensory in detail, and correspondent retention of material gains through the year's hustle and grind.  These all still founded by the genetic code that was inherited through a hostile and forgone environment of the past.  Harrowing the heroes of our modern current of time travel, the independent sentient being that forages through life only to find the needlessly endless supply of infinite nurturing, closes behind gate after gate, as garden after garden, restrict the prohibited immortality that a human mind would intuitively seek if given its now eliminated Eden.
Though through tough thick and thin, easy and strained, we strive for a niche and placement in the schemata of the divine plan, and we sometimes may seek the companionship of another life to help us achieve real reason to return to the simplicity that is a necessity of life, the dependence of belonging. There is a divine and omnipotent reason for every step that we make, the revolution of time, and in entries that we each individually make into karmic reality's time line, the reflection manifold is sought so that we can establish, each day with the rise and fall of the stars on the horizon, the same foundation that was told in the Old Testament, God said "Let There Be Light."
My pets, the people who have value to me as friends, and my society and community, all are pivotal to my enjoyment of the world.  The nice things in life, I share with others at leisure, so that energy may be rejuvenated during times of stress.  Even if it is only an animal, my pet, my friend, myself, I know that this will carry with it the amount of my purpose that God intended, to carry in Him.

Friday, September 18, 2015

Tyrant Time itunes download Review

After the retirement of Twyll The ChyllTyrant, the remixes that continue to make his lyrical expertise memorable, vary in degree of artistic value, and although this may be considered one of the more important feats of the Tyrant discography, it's action to close the chapter of writing that was the Tyrant in UnderGround rap, in Time, is the embodiment of a perfectly flawed characteristic to which the rhyming poetry of the multi-talented ChyllTyrant, is inherently strengthened through the creative expression of wordplay as his glass window, through which we see the artist through the perspective of anti-hero.  A glimpse into the inner workings of a mind within the streets.  Like the car ride you might apprehensively take around the way, the music is guidepost to the enterprise of The Crooked Empire C.R.E.M. & Association.  Assn.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

DJ ChyllTyrant

At the end of time where natural light diminishes due through powerful pulsations whose causation was creation of id.  Ego’s heartbeat of the positive atomic energy, against mentality of negative spectrum.  Neutrality is the guiding code for fate and fantastic leaps of faith.  This suspension of disbelief, as if written by a swift hand, improvisation in boredom’s lonely culling back to the earth whence we come.  Dreams interwoven through subconscious and unconscious in unison and seamless interpolation, in divine instruction, instinct and intuition.  Good and bad are mere constructs contracted by populations of humans known as civilization, used to integrate a heavily embedded belief system into ethical effect.  One cannot walk through life unhanded or as benign to his own existence, lest he become starved or ill.  These are the effects of civilization, of a system of true and righteous cultural beliefs that extend to empower the mass, serve and protect the people, and never to control the minds of it’s public, to only allow the individual’s demand be heard as it heads into physical battle against death of populations, being becomes non, as positivity would be drained and negativity through past time’s perception of reflective nature inherent in itself through which the endless sleep commences in eternity.  The heaven that is above is a waiting period, the return through the cypher, as one, through the whole of existence in retrospective entirety, fulfillment of the divinity of God, and hell is the afterlife’s infinite potentials, combined with every other living entity on dimensional universal biologic and botanic essence, whose main mission in the world’s escapade through destiny, is to relive the same life, reincarnated, forever.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Grim Reaper (poem)

death the skeleton
of the old man guides us
inter-universal time space.
the river of negative resonate
the pool of self-denial.
inner peace at the temple shrine
you are the ass.
you are the shit.

Saturday, May 09, 2015

The Rhythm of Life & LIFE Lyrics

It’s not as hard as it looks, some guitar hooks, getting her hooked, maam pardon the fucks. I give the rhythm something it’s missing when I barred it up, I guess I’d let out the fresh sounds off the top of my heart. Last days Lampshade shadows through the switching lights. Fixing them nice, yep I’m rich with the pipe. Get right. Or I might shift like a slide. Don’t hit your head on the hard cover of bucks. Parking lot garbage truck I’m parking a lot. Garages on barrage, when wetlanded the blocks were a swamp. You could say it sort of flooded when the darkness poured out da cups. But I think it’s just the lost wishes that never saw love. Because as hard as I look, it’s just a star on the dusk. Then I think it didn’t dawn in you still, you do the wrong thing and keep it on until, If you thinking what I’m thinking, chill, that’s why we only live once, father to son is why I’m giving it up. homies good. artists such as us are guardians into the garden of life. Water in hand, starting it up, I throw splashes out the air crafts. Blowing on that astro. Growing out my afro. I’m higher than the arch on the lamp posts, swinging wires like some kicks and some spare tires tracks, hitting kids with their crack, crooked is a conglomerate, now onto the facts, note wax, poetics drip out my throat when I spit liquid rhythms in raps, reflected it black from refracted fragments that lasers race fast and catch, laced with the cash on my face. and the soft in the safe is midnight made.  

that’s what you lack, that’s laughable that’s what you lack, that’s laughable that’s what you lack, that’s laughable really doe, your only friend that’s what you lack, that’s laughable creative spark snap on battle hill cannonball smack smack on the villain twyll army camo maps and backpack skills it’s the soldier field, where we hold and steal steal hold stronghold, and open seals really doe, it’s posed as long and stolen real I’m not sposed to belong, not golden deal My rappin tone is capitone is baritone is all in one channel o satchmo saxophone really doe, why you gotta teelee phone why you gotta be alone, you gotta really know really doe, it’s the really o.d. in a o.c. cali strap, o.g., go alley cat o.z. aiight really doe, it’s the really o.p.m. old poetry master your only friend laughable that’s what you lack that’s natural but lackin that nations station is the battle hill that’s natural that’s what you lack that’s natural but lackin that nations stations is the battle twyll that’s natural astral celestial that’s natural natural that’s natural natural that’s natural gotta know who you actin ill, that’s natural my passion is that of lingerie candles animals tender gentle sexual that’s the love handle swag so natural it’s ritual for the virgin to get window silled and that first impressions are minnows still in a distant condition… they move thru to the water’s edge suspicion of da voodoo buku, now I’m the envy of the princess so my second memory is a vision and endless extremity of the human sinner hymen skin thin for a first born dinner humid summer simmer, the daylight dimmer the redness of the sunburn conveys a picture of lover’s of the work unpaid, the Sunday that someday, one way or another me and my brother, live off the garden guarded by the cherubs of mother’s misfortune or another, night underlying quiet stars and while outside the violence riots war I remastermind the tyrant’s czar And combine leviathan poseidon and abbadon Azazel in the fallen star… Callin the gardens rotten scar But it’s only natural It’s only natural Aiight Ok Aiight Ok I miss u livin free for the ocean, return with the tide Ride free life helter skelter slide My omen, amen, amendment so omenous prayers and nursery rhymes aren’t aknowledged even I’m out of college, I’m in the streets now Into a broken promise and slated repeat now I’m out the mountains, into the deep now People seem to think that what maintains is sleep now I’m rapid and active the passion of wave crashes Collapsin avalanches and blazin the ashes Rain in the chasm, blood stain mattresses Brainspasm the anti-matter and antecedent Accidentally impregnate imagination Off artificial insemination thru reverberation In light seminal compression on the animate Primitive levels of elevation to the element For the kids thinking that water exists are slighted By the enigmatic zero within the hydrogen fire Confined by the limited sphere of air That’s encircled in the fear of the spirits ubiquity Where, the rarities and antiquities are uniquely Tears of charity’s and liberties of responsibility Freedom of choice, thereafter reason for noise Freedom of choice, your voice… Freedom of the water, the chaos of movement Freedom of the water the chaos of movement The music The freedom the music The freedom the music The music The water Do it It’s my mission statement that’s physical bangin Criminals and murder mischief, intrinsic language This is the vision and the fishin is anglin Angels collide visages of the finish’s vicious changeling Ripples aftereffects as well as energetics Electric current within the verbal semantics An array of vocabulary composed fairly simplistic Symphonic arrangement of continual ballistics Statics say that satirists are jus statistics of physics Holistic nonsense for the mentally molested Have the kid arrested, I’ll ressurrect the dead Well connected like necks chests and heads the only medal you got comes wit a ribbon I’ll pop ya wit the eagle into another dimension yes it is metathiz yes it is metathiz get it back yes it is metathiz quick to dead a kid presidential status quick to election pick veteran sick, ghostly superstitions disconnected static to the electrician this forcefed genre of horsceck culture orchid ghanja for ultra horrific sepultures honor the face of the promise land on the grace of the honest man, hot god damn i'm the kid that said it first bred to thirst so my gesture as the jester is head first bled for words, worse, i'm dead for verse dead on birth rest dirt resin the earth and I’ll press up hard if your daughter’s white burn her chest wit carbs and water pipes yes it is yes it is metathiz get it back


nightmares with zombies, vampires, or monsters.

monsters can only smell you, and you will be able to defeat most of them before their minions/possessed humans come ambush you and the survivors.
zombies can only see you, and you will be fucked.
vampires can only hear you, and you will be able to find somewhere to hide with the survivors, for quite a while, until one of your companions slips up and makes noise.

monsters get theme music, imported from your daily real life.
zombies get dream-morphing abilities.
vampires get horrific both auditory and visual special effects.

ghosts are usually people you know in real life who have died.

Friday, May 01, 2015

CAPTION FOR THE NIGHT (the best poem ever written)

beers boomers and blunts
bass bumpin in the basement
what you know bout that (boy's on fire oooooooo)

I live 6 feet under the ground
And smoke til I'm chokin
i got double the trouble
you're a fucking bitch
you want to spit with me I'll have you in a box six feet under the ground(BIG TIME)

COPYRIGHTS 2005 Twyll The ChyllTyrant

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Anti-Theism Beliefs

yourself as the number one person whose eyes which we see through. alpha omega, death as polar opposite from conscious life, lead by our inner conscience. environment one, versus the infinite potential polarity, planet z. this is the planet to which also i describe as our best as well as our worst possibility in inevitability. zombie planet. i have come to my own personal qualm with this zombie invincibility of a 100% saturation of planet earth into demonic reality in conceptualized imagery only imaginable by the human mind for it's supreme sentient mentality as self-absorbed heroic ego. the less living portion of the mind, to which is adhered zombie potential, is the non-transaction reaction to personification of soul. although the spirit may be weakened, therefore, humans survive through the success of independent nature in righteous command of the universal constant which is god. that is why pain is trivial, death is infinite, and life is merely our reflection in genetic divine artistic time usage in the proverbial celestial omnipotent condition of self against the comparative narrative that is our singular lives. reincarnation through to zombie life must be recognizable, thus, and i have attributed such anxiety of intervention from divinity. this is the ability of a life-nurturing body of elements to feel itself. instinct, and intuition, working cooperatively to progress evolution and achieve a natural peace and balance to the relationship between what is symbolically the trinity or trilogy of sensory time, space, and potential extinction...
this is essentially the essence of my theory of anti-theism.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

'Tyr's Fall': "The Ascent"; 2015 excerpt

Tyr was not standing, neither was he sitting as he watched the world below and surrounding him.  He watched with patience that came from blindness.  He sought out the different charges of emotion that ran through the thoughts, which soared upward in a constant barrage of feelings from the creatures in the whirlwind ascent.  Souls of generations that surged him with constant charges of trust, love, pain, hatred, came and went.  In one ear and out the other went cries of lust, of fury.

 Tyr was the catalyst.  His creation was that of utmost importance, the single barrier between imagination and reality to the people of Earth.  Time, was not the contingency that one would expect, however, in the catalyst’s eye.  Not that he could not determine the very instant of a soul’s most pleasurable sexual sensation, nor that he could not awaken the hunger and fear in the eye of a single child on Earth.  It was his duty, however, to regulate the emotional sphere of Earth.  This was all that he had for almost as long as he could remember, ever known.

 His being was an ancient, ancient one.  For at one point he had been very strong, and capable of quelling any individual thought process on Earth.   There had, indeed been pieces of history when his reign was supreme and where man and animal had co-existed in complete harmony.  Before his son Zeus had taken the threshold of war and faction of human spirit to new levels, Tyr had long awaited the opportunity to really execute his authority over man.

 It was one common fact at this point, that war was imminent on Earth.  A catastrophic war that would rip the fabric of time and space.  As an Elder God, Tyr was ready to play his part in the fantastic war.  He had long ago been a part of the planning committee.  Here, the Elders of the Ether Realm laid out their separate pieces of the united outline to which Earth would be forced into recognition of its great Gods, of its untold horrors, of its warped existence which had been the creation of the Eldest and Greatest Of Great Gods, Elohim.

 Odin, the once great Elder of War, and the God responsible for the burial of thousands upon thousands of human bodies was still unfit for the task of such a catastrophic war on Earth.  It had been earlier augmented that Tyr would be his successor.  However the Greatest Gods, whose identities always seemed on the verge of revelation yet forever hidden in shadow of darkness to the Elders, who in turn were but shades and hues to the Lesser Gods, gave specific instructions to which the exchange of powers would take place.  A sacred monastery had been created eon ago for the purpose of such a battle of immortal souls, at a Mount Zion, which the Gods were instructed to build with one specific location.

 Both immortals, Odin and Tyr would ride the skies upon each other’s backs and like a tumultuous and unbalanced doppelganger, would collide upon themselves in combat.  Together they would sear the sky magenta, the ground smeared with blood.  Devastate, together they would scorch and smolder hundreds of humans.  They would run and when they would run the earth would quake.  As they yelled out in anguish of battle, the angels of the immortal army of Earth would cry.

The only recognizable flaw in the plan was Zeus, Lesser God of Fear.  At request of Tyr, to Zeus was left an undecided destination in the catastrophic war.  Tyr knew of his son’s spells of imbalance and anger, being that he was God of the human emotion of Love as well.  He was only uncertain of his son’s final movements for the fact that he had blocked out any retainable memories of his son’s fall from grace after the fall of the Greek empire.  All he would choose to know was that his son had made his decision either for or against him.  Besides this, Tyr was ready, he had already made arrangements for a Protector God to be transplanted on Earth to help him if need be, Aeolus, the Wind God.

The Half-Gods had long been relinquished, and the Lesser Gods stood all watching in awe as their armies of angels began polishing their blades with anticipation and impatience.  Tyr only existed to see the outcome rise upon the moment.  His entire being wound slowly down the whirlwind advance of souls upon his Temple of Godliness.

The time was ripe, rising like a full red moon over the grassy plains, skyscrapers, and mountain ranges of Earth.  Tyr foresaw many perils of the conquest of Earth.  In one day’s time, his son might lose his existence, forever, if man ceased to exist.  He also, as an Elder God of Earth, made no mistake of the other potential participants in the final battle.  Man and God fighting, fist and foot, blade and bullet to the last fallen combatant.  The darkness was ascending.

As the darkness lifted like a curtain of Greek tragedy, Tyr knew that his conquest would not be without possible pitfall and trap.  He knew, for instance, that Netherrealm’s leaders had been changed up quite frequently in just the comparatively recent past.  His distrust of the realm of Hell was due, for as the God of Emotion, he was one of the initial creators of the Netherrealm, where unwanted souls stay.  He knew but one thing, the reigning God Hades, who had been banished from Heaven for misconduct, was a foolish one.  The Least of All, Lucifer, was decisively still lurking somewhere among the shadows of Netherrealm, in all his disgusting, unimaginable ugliness.  Where the flames had yet to strike their sharp flicker, Lucifer, eternal foe of mankind, was surely waiting for some escape to set claim on the souls that he had desired for along the centuries, possibly even rendering Hades an Earthly mortal, or even more dangerous, try to escape for himself to the Earth Realm to set his own bids among the Gods for the remnants of Earth.

Tyr thought all of this through the darkness yet ascending, higher still, and as the whirlwinds of souls began to become more and more distinctly human, and the smells of Earth began to warp his senses.  He could smell at once as the ocean rose below him the blood of a million soldiers falling under sword and gun along the millennia of melee.  He saw at once the rise of Roman coliseums, and the fall of the World Trade Center.  Almost to Earth Realm, now, as the darkness steadily increased it’s rate of secession, he could hear Zeus’s cries of loneliness and fear.  Was it illusion?  What was it that his own son was hiding?

Lightning struck Tyr at every angle, time ripped and stood still.  This was the beginning of the final stages of his transconfiguration from Immortal to Mortal.  The ground began to rip upwards toward his feet faster and faster.  The mothers of Earth, fathers, the sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, all who fell to the whims of insanity, amnesia, the flashes of desperation, the depths of Apocalypse and death’s scythe.

A tear fell from Heaven.  Tyr caught it in his hand and grasped it close to his chest.  As the last of all the mind-blowing whirlwinds slowed to a halt, and the darkness dissipated into flashing bits of floating debris-like chasms, Tyr looked up once more to the Heavens.  His final war cry of complete betrayal of emotion, his throat bellowed out the name of his Father, who he would remember this one last instant, forever.  One last transconfiguration of mind remained.  A voice from Heaven made one simple request:

“Tyr, the time was nye, and do not give up faith.  The ascent has ended, the descent yet remained!”

Almost as soon as I felt the breath of life, I was dead.  As quick as the earth instilled it’s nutrients, it stole them back.  I remember just a few things of when I was alive, and although I could relay them at quite ease in a more comfortable setting, I am not at that certain capacity, yet.  Yet to explain what I’ve seen, I will continue.  I remember another one, who somehow resembled me.  I remember a light, and I remember three wishes that were allowed for my access to the light.  The wishes I have forgotten, but of which I made my final pleas with the light, I was never to be redeemed of life.

 There was a brief moment of inspiration between the light.  It grappled me and threw me which way and that.  I was without honor, without courage, without power at all.   Merely a child caught in a raging storm.

 In the light, in the thrashing and caustic light, which had controlled me from what seemed like years away, I saw the extreme continuity of motion amongst the living soul of Earth.  With one word, I learned to speak.  With another, I learned to argue.  With a motion, I learned to walk, and in turn learned to fight.  With all the beauty of the world at once, I learned the intricacies of seduction.  I learned to betray, at the sight of holocaust.

 When I reached out, I was grabbed by an archangel, Michael, who led me into the World of Gods.  I could see so many beings, guided along in a calm passionate world, by unseen forces that seemed to have always been in place, always strengthening.  Some seemed negligent of me, others merely turned a cheek, left or right, and the angel led me by arm through a vast field of others.

 I learned at an altar, and prayed at a sink basin from which sprung a fountain of evanescent cleansing spirit.  When I drank, I learned of my ancient past as well as my future.  I was taught not to think, or follow instincts.  I was taught intuition.  It was a glorious road for salvation that I sought, yet almost every God and even angel would only look at me haplessly and return often a shrugging complacency.

 I would watch the story of my brother as it climaxed and fell all day.  No thoughts would ever cross my mind on how to change the eventual outcome.  Only a slight tickling behind my eyes that burned as time wore on.  I would watch the world spin on it’s axis, and I’d watch the holocaust of Judaism all night to stay awake.  I consequently lost my need to sleep, or move.

 It was all in preparation.  That one day would come, one day that would release my soul once more.  The Elder Gods would come to see me, and lay with me, cover me with their arms.  Their old musk still runs through my mind.  I wanted only my brother.  Here in their solace, I would often ask and query.  What was the meaning of life?  When would my chance come to return to the Earth I longed for?  Who would I be...  Who would I have been?  Why did I have to die?  Alas, for naught, I was only captive.

 Then, the Elders would leave, all but one who would gaze at my eyes with pure unfiltered agony.  I knew for the longest time that this was to be one to remember.  His essence would catch up to me, and it would be all revealed at an appropriate time.  But his desire struck out like two jagged knives.  Every night when I laid down to sleep, I prayed Elohim that he leave my chamber.  To no avail, he stayed and stayed longer, gazing into my eyes with a hatred until I would cry.

 His hatred, almost as strong as banished Hades, was it intended for me?  The angels, who seemed to only want to protect me, appeared completely at ease with his being.

 It was a long time in the Ether Realm, before I realized that a God does not have shape and form.  It was a long time before I realized that I would never speak with any of them and be answered.  My lessons became more and more gibberish, incomprehensible.  It was a long time, yet still, before I realized that I would never be reunited with my soulmate.

 One morning, I awoke and the Elder who stood by my bed waiting for my rise each morning pointed toward the dark corner where the “Terrible” one stood and watched me sleep.  He was there, but something was different about him.  I immediately felt such envy and anguish that I stormed out of my chamber.  Everywhere I went, the one I called “Tyr” followed me, and it was soon I realized that I was not in motion at all, and he was only standing watch longer.  I threw myself again on my bed and, frustrated and confused fell back to sleep.

 Only once did I awaken.  I recalled some lessons, as I stared back angrily at Tyr, eyeing him directly in his unformed face.  The Elders had said that one could be completely free from sin on Earth and still never make it to Heaven.  I wondered what had happened to my brother I had left in our mother’s womb when I died at childbirth.  The Elders had insinuated that even Hell had it’s escape routes.

 Tyr had grown closer to my bed, and was steadily approaching my side.  Unafraid, I turned on my shoulder to face him.

 “Be quiet in thou dormant stance.  Thy vacancy here as a pure soul would be more than welcome in the Netherrealm!” I yelled, as he grew up closer.

 When he was inches from my forehead, I saw something I had never seen before in his eyes.  It caught me off guard, and I was startled until I peered closer.

 “He’s there!” I gasped, and closed my eyes tight.  I could still feel the heat of Tyr’s glaring eyes on mine.  A tear fell off of my eye.

 I wouldn’t awaken again for quite some time, and when I did, things would be far from normal.

“Fucking pigs can fly.  When they spit that sperm out right?  Fucking pigs!”

 “The pussies are a bunch of wimps!  I want my money!”

 “Fuck that!  I’ll shit down your fucking eyeball socket, you ugly turd.”

 “Get off my dick!”

 “Look at him, all proud like a baby...  Sitting there like a damn saint.  Like we aren’t out here busting ass.  I’m fucking tired of this shit...”

 “When that one’s head gets nice and limp, I’m gonna skull fuck him.”

 “Tournament of hot damn champions?  You all saw what Hades fucking said.  Fucking hot damn champions!  Real champs!  I could blow one of those chumps over with my smaller ball.”

 “You fucking said it, damn straight.  Bunch of pansies if you ask me.  My cock has more muscles than their entire arm!  And I’d assfuck the shit out of any one of them by the way, they would be crying for-“ SMACK!

 “Hey look!  They smacked him!  Burn, bitch, burn!”

 Hades, the reigning king of the underworld, was seated on a throne of dragon skeleton.  Blood was dripping on it from above where there were several hanging corpses.  He was barely more than a skeleton himself, with a shawl draped over thin, ashy, cracked skin.

 Hades knew that the Apocalypse was coming for Earth above.  It was his intention to use Tyr’s advance to the lower region of Earth Realm from the Heavens along with his guides’, adversaries’ alike, to create a temporary wormhole in the fabric of Truth and Time.  At this vantage point he would be able to summon the power of his kingdom, to duel with the Ether Realm on Earth.

Presently, a tournament was taking place in the inner ring of Hell.  Hades already had his minions hand-select a chosen few warriors who were fallen from the grace of God to fight to their deaths.  Of course, “death” was a relative word in the land of the undead.  No longer man, of flesh and blood, these warriors were without soul and had nothing much to lose, and a lot to gain by being released back on Earth.

Where names had been forgotten long ago, each warrior herein was given an emblem of a creature found on Earth.  At the moment, there were only eight warriors left.  They wore the marks of burned scarring.  For the recognitive purposes, they each were assigned an animal:  a Tarantula, Eel, Cobra, Python, Centipede, Toad, Scorpion, and a Lizard.

Hades thought and thought, weighing every angle of this advantage he had stumbled upon over the Gods.  Of course, he would be expected to have had a terrible time, for his negligence had lead him to these last hours to make a final decision on a plan of attack.  Per the usual, things in the Netherrealm were fast-paced, bloody, and perilous.

The minions raised the cages in the arena of Tarantula and Cobra, who leapt, both, simultaneously from their crouch positions to combat.  Tarantula swept the floor of the ring and flames sprung underneath his foot, but Cobra evaded the attack with a jumping high right kick, which connected with a stunning cheekbone blow, sending Tarantula flying into Eel’s cage.  Eel, a witty and collected man, took his chance and grabbed Tarantula by the arm through the holes in his cage.  Viciously, Cobra began to pound into him with low blows to the ribcage.  Before breaking every rib, Cobra bit off the man’s nose and spit it at Eel.  Eel hissed, howled, and released his victim, letting Tarantula fall to the ground grabbing his falling guts.  With a loud stomp, Cobra succeeded in annihilating Tarantula’s skull into the burning embers of the battlefield.  The minions jumped and held him down, dragging him back into the cage where he would wait for his next battle.

As Scorpion cracked his knuckles in the cage, Hades was hatching a bit of a fury of new plans.  After seeing the mortality of Tarantula taken at such a quick pace, he was determined to have a back-up.

Hades motioned for one of his devils to approach his platform.  The minion did so, objecting by spitting on the burning, bloody, and beaten body of Tarantula on his way over to the throne.  Hades almost cracked a grin, but hid his pleasure.  Instead, he threw the minion against Tarantula’s emptied cage into a jutting spike.  Immediately the ring nearly doubled over in hideous laughter, sounding like the frightening howls of dozens of ancient beasts down the hole of their prey.

The devil grabbed the spike from behind him, and wildly spasmed his limbs off of it.  As fluid fire quickly spewed from the hole in his shoulder, he maliciously licked his lips with a forked tongue at the other devils who were still screaming in laughter.  He began again towards Hades.

Hades had, by the time the devil arrived, perfected his plan.  The bones of Leviathan on which he rested were his inspiration.  He realized that he knew, from the time that he had spent in Hell, only one thing; that ultimate devastation of Earth and the Gods was his entire being and also his ultimate goal.  He wanted to release more than one beast at once to scourge the Earth.  He desired a dragon.

The devil stepped towards the throne.  Hades glanced around and signaled for the next fight to begin.

As the two warriors battled, Hades quickly relayed his idea to the devil.  They had long ago won a tournament to collapse great Eden, and had retrieved a serpent from the gardens.  They had it in Hell, but were unsure of where it had been left to prior their command.

“Lucifer might know where the serpent is, master,” the devil whispered secretively.

“Yes, but how will we locate Lucifer?  One such as him has always been a wily devil, and a bargainer.”

“Perhaps Mephistopheles will be willing to assist us?”

“Mephistopheles has always held a trick up his sleeve as well-“ Hades began, as Eel’s forearm came flying past the throne, nearly swatting him on the head.

The devil turned about face and hissed at the battle’s champion, who was being escorted back to his cage.

Hades stood and waved at his minions as Scorpion re-entered his cage.

As the demons dispersed from out of the inner ring, Hades sat back down on the throne of blood and bone.  Time was pending, and the stench of a fallen God began to warp the arena, bending the fires’ flames, creating vapor lines along the walls.  Hades put a forefinger on his chin, and his middle on his thin, cracked lips.

The war would be a great one.  The entire Netherrealm was charged with impatience, aggravation, and a stuttering lust for Earth’s green pastures to once again return to barren rock and lava, not unlike the Netherrealm.  It was an exciting time for the demonic domain of Hell.  If Draco could finish where Leviathan had begun, they would surely be successful in conquering the realm of Earth.

 Lucifer himself started his tracks.  Lay still a moment.  His dark body became part of the shadows of the wall.  All that remained was the stench of The Beast.  Covering the fecal odor of The False One, and Minotaur of the Ring Walls.  He had made a plan of his own while waiting in the darkness.  His Beastly shape made into but a pattern of flame.

Huang Di’s loom was of yellow hues and great red circular shapes.  His nimble fingers bent on and off the fabric as he prepared final touches.  His life’s work would seem tedious to most.  Life, as an artisan, was not at all as exciting and full of flare as one might expect.  But his work was magnificent, defined with perfectly wound and weaved threads that garnished unimaginably beautiful garments.

 From the each of the first dancing rays of sunlight a morning awakening that would slight the shades of his countryside windows, blowing fresh breaths onto his closed eyes, to the grandest of golden rays that on sunset every evening, brought close to his long meditations.  Huang Di was a modest man, taking in all.  Long ago dispelling Godship, for the more humble life of servitude, he was much more accustomed to his current mode of labor than he had ever been to his reign as Emperor of the Zhou Dynasty of Ancient China.

 His loom, which was hanging from a rack carved from Dystillium, was positioned in the living space of his three-bedroom house.  Dystillium created much of the small hut he inhabited.  The glass windows always were kept shut, except in the afternoon, when a slight breeze would blow all the way through to the kitchen where tea would be coming to a boil on his stovetop.  The loom would twirl and wave in the wind, and dance to usher in the rising moon.  A new loom every two weeks, consistently was his rate of production.  He would sell the crafted cloths at often most meager prices, dependent on only the rise and fall of tea prices.

 His need to consume any nutrient was extremely minimal, yet he still appeared as only about an 80 year old man, despite his long lifespan, which had lasted for millennia.  Most of his sustenance was extracted purely from the air which would rise and collapse in his lungs during deep meditations every evening, and from his afternoon tea, which he drank exactly on schedule every day.  He was old, and fragile, but quick still.  Sometimes in the morning, he would lean through the window of his house and gaze out upon the river that streamed by his garden and, in total wonderment and awe, observe the fish that would dart through the waters.  He knew that he was old like the rocks that played for wandering fish, a hidden oasis of feeding.  In this way he knew that he would always be available for his peoples’ guidance along the flowing river of life.

 He had a long time past created his own haiku, in ode of life and the fish in his stream:

  A failure follows
 Autumn by first fallow land
   This is the flow way

 Satisfaction to Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor, would be as simple as hearing the grass blades bend outside his cottage in the evening, sunset by teacup, or sitting alone, studying his ancient library.  Huangdi Neijing, his book of medicine, had in the past been handily ready for consultancies.  Passersby, often hungry or beaten by severe weather, almost always could receive proper anointment from the right ingredients and mixtures at the hands of the once greatly revered cleric.

 He also possessed the original Book Of Shadows, which collected dust along the side of his shelf, many scriptures of Siddhartha Guatama and Mahatma Ghandi, the Necromonicron stood alongside the Illiad, Metamorphoses against the Tanakh, and many Western classics stood all having been read and re-read over again.

 Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor, was still now.

 He had sensed something of a physical birth among the antiquities of beings on Earth.  Something familiar was stirring in the afternoon glare, as the sun began it’s soft shade against the horizon.  A thing of great beauty, that he could smell and hear move like a delicate mantis.  Yet, the being was fully charged with such lustful spirituality that he almost arose to his feet from his embrace of the yellow loom.

 This wasn’t a human soul that he detected.  Not at all, but at the same time, not very much different.  While knowing that he mustn’t be alone in this study, that people around the world must have realized the shift in metaphysical balance, Huang Di nonetheless shut his eyes, contemplated what was coming.

 The weather seemed to change quickly, drastically, disturbing him as he sat and meditated, but he only knew this through his extrasensory perceptions of the environment.  A big storm was coming.  Horizon light was escaping the air of his countryside, and he still was without full knowledge of what shape and form was amidst the otherwise calm world.  He strained to capture the being’s essence, but it was moving too fast, darting from here to there, turning the planet upside down with aggressively charged beauty.  It was almost certainly female in essence, he concluded, but could not do much more to understand than that.

 Suddenly, he was startled into deep lucidity, and was overwhelmed with a barrage of premonitory images.  What he saw would be for sure, impossible to find tangible, but he felt certain of the power of complete chaos on Earth.  Demonic imagery of war and fire rushed over him.  Desperate sights of man against greater powers, a leader that would rise among them, an Apocalypse to humanity, craziness and insanity, finalizing in the frightening collapsing of Earth Realm.

 There was a knocking on his door that persisted through the dream-like meditation.  The knocking seemed to grow louder, and louder still, until it broke him from his spell at last, and Huang Di jumped to his feet.

 “Who wanders my yard, there?  Who stands at my step and startles me so?”

 “It is I, that does so, old one.  Open for me, you have something in your possession that I have come far to seek out,” said a man’s voice from behind the wooden cottage door.

 Huang Di made to move over towards the silhouette formed window to see whom it was that was banging on his door at such late hour.  But he stopped; for the light outside was so dim that he was unable to even see the stream that flowed by, although he still heard it’s current rush.  He lit a few candles around the living room, and remained calm, collected.

 “What is your name, then?  How have I known you by?”

First there was a lengthy pause, a clearing throat.  Then, a deep entrancing voice burst out;  “It is I, the one called Odin.  I am here only myself, an old man such as yourself, with but a single, simple request of you.  Danger lurks, old one, and it is safer inside than out here.   Please, be kind enough to give your kind service.”

 Intrigued by the man’s courtesy and politeness, Huang Di approached the door with cautionary steps.  However, with reproach, took in his hand a dagger from off a hanging golden harness in the unlit entranceway.  As he walked, he stashed the dagger in the back of his gi, on his hand embroidered white belt, which depicted a small yellow lion with a curling orange tongue.

 “Now I will welcome and open for you, but be sure Odin, I have studied well the ways of the Gods, and know exactly who you are, and, too, where you stand in this coming war.  I will indulgently sacrifice my body and life for a cause that will lead to the protection of my people and land.  This I say, while knowing that yes, our ways are soon to change.  You are allowed entrance, then, only in anticipation that as a chameleon strikes a fly from through the shades of it’s surroundings, so does a leader emerge from a crowd.”

 Huang Di swung open the door, and peered out into the swallowing darkness of the storm.

 There was Odin, standing affront a pack of wild and fighting wolves.  The thrashing between the wolfbeasts was not unlike a raging storm itself, and Huang Di was cynically thinking that these were one of the primal reasons for the coming onslaught of weather creeping overhead.

 Odin’s dark blue cloak was loosely tied, and sailed in the blowing wind at the door.  His hood covered his entire face with black shadows that danced in the light of the candles inside the cottage.  Still safe inside, Huang Di was almost angry with the man, for bringing his wild horde so close to the abode, but withdrew from the entrance and allowed Odin in, despite his concern.

Odin stood for no longer than three seconds alone on the step, only long enough for the candlelight to brave past the old man and to shine on his covered face.  He was unspeakable in his elderly stature, decrepit even, and fantastically marked by battles.  Along each cheek, swinging under each eye, even the corners of his mouth were all scars that created zigzags and caught shades of the darkness upwards against his brow, which was high and wrinkled.  His left eye socket was black, an empty void where an eye had once been.  His right eye was dark blue, the same color of his cloak, and his iris was blood tinged and veined.

“Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor.  I have traveled far already, to see you and your spectacular assortment of antiquities,” Odin said as he began to step over the threshold and into the house.  “What I seek here, is of utmost importance to my mission.  A Golden Compass that-“ the candlelights blew out as Odin closed the door behind him, “-could be noticed even in complete darkness of the Ether Realm.”

Quickly, Huang Di reached into his pocket for matches.  Anticipating a fight, he checked the position of his dagger, and drew out a brightly flaming matchstick from inside his gi.  Not so afraid, anymore that this old man posed much of a threat, Huang Di turned to the side and lit the stove.

“I am but an artisan, I can not imagine what a Golden Compass would mean to a traveler such as yourself.  However, if you wait in that room,” he said, sensing the urgency in the man’s voice, and pointing towards the room with the hanging fabrics, “I will take the time to allow your inspection.”

Odin slid, as if suspended in stasis midair, towards the unlit room.  From out of his cloak, he pulled an ebony walking stick, as he sat down on a rocking chair that stood facing away from a side window.  Huang Di walked through the doorway of his unlit room with the burning matchstick, lighting two hanging candles on either side of the doorway as he went.  For just a brief moment, all that was heard within the small living area from the bleakly dark bedroom was a low flurry of papers being rustled, until suddenly, there was a small creek, and the sound of a small wooden box being closed up.  Then, Huang Di returned behind the doorway with book in arm, and a toy-like box engraved with another lion’s insignia.

“I have here, the Bai Ze Tu.  It is what lead me to suspect your identity, as well as foretell your destiny, with certain insight.  Are you familiar with this scripture?”

“No,” said Odin.  “I am not so interested, however, in my destiny, as I am in the identity and location of a certain God that has come to Earth.  His name is Tyr, and he has arrived this very hour to defeat me in battle.  It is my duty, and obligation to meet him for the final conquest to begin.  That is why I need the Golden Compass, for while he was granted the wish of having a guide, I was old on this planet when the coming war was first conceived in the hearts of Man.  I have walked this world for century and century, with only my beasts by my side, whom I know I mustn’t let alone for too long, lest they take to their own agendas and begin devouring human flesh and blood.  You see, the matters and actions that are pending here, are of complete necessity.  We must move guiltlessly and purposefully with grace and rapidity to the final hour.  Hurry, then, old wise one, show me the Golden Compass.”

Knowing that he had the upper hand, Huang Di continued, “Tyr is a mighty God, Odin.  Are you sure you are ready to face him?  He has the power of all emotional charge, all mental aggravation, to devastate your forces.  I have seen the outcome of this war, in a premonition.  Just as you began knocking on my door, I was enraptured in the revelation of what is to come...”  as he started again towards Odin, “Yes, you may see the compass.  I will coordinate it for the positioning of Tyr, and allow you to carry it with you on your journey.”

Odin’s eye lowered to the box in Huang Di’s hand.

“Say no more, wise one, Yellow Emperor, Huang Di.  I am the one responsible for your immortality on Earth.  You have powers comparable to a God, now that you are closing in on the time span of existence of Man.  The dagger in the back of your gi, it is granted the special magical ability of bringing the dead back to life by it’s bearer’s command.  You must use it with great care and exception to bring back three of Earth’s greatest warriors for one last fight.  Let your wisdom guide you, carefully.”

Huang Di’s eyes widened with surprise.  He slowly reached to his belt and took out the dagger, which was green and had the crest of a dragon on it’s handle.  He had only used it to cut tealeaves, and had never before used it to fight a mortal, much less revive one.

 “My master!  My wish is only your demand, and my labors are of love, now, for you,” Huang Di said, kneeling before Odin.

 “Then, we will be successful in our mission.  I’ve always known that I would be able to trust you with such great sorceries.  What will transpire between now and the end, will be redemption of the Gods to Elohim, the Greatest of all Greats, the Eldest and Wisest of all Gods.  Mortal man, with his constant contract of dilemma of life, will be freed forever to recognize Him.”

Sometimes, in the course of an era of human endeavors, enterprise, and progress, through which man has endured, and kept faith in God above, a leader has emerged that is marked from birth, through heritage.  Other times, another leader is formed from the ground up.  Still again, fate may swing her arms to the balance and a great leader is born, that through generations has come to such greatness and durability of spirit, which is unalterable even by the Gods themselves.  Reincarnated souls, trapped between Hell and Earth, were always greedy of these spirits.  They were of the same kin, and yet if a spirit seemed ready for Nirvana and entrance to Heaven, the spirit was usually assigned an unsavory life.

 This is the more telling side of every era of humanity.  How leaders are chosen, is as pivotal to it’s success, or failure, as it’s economical status of wealth, or environmental prosperity.  This is the telling side, as well, because of the fact that this particular generation’s leader would be among the last great ones, and that the leader would arise from between the ashes and dust, dirt and mud, hunger, blood, and oath of purity, truth, would create one of the most incredible tales ever told.

 The man called himself Tank.  At 33 years old, his original birth name was Matthew Briggs, and he was born of a mother named Felicia Jackson, and a father whose name was Johnathan Briggs, who’s mother was Theresa who died at 55, and father was Henry, who’s own mother was Victoria who died at 81, and father was Lester who died at age 72.

 The man was named Matthew because his father and his brothers and sisters had become greatly devoted and prided Catholic Christians since the death of their mother Victoria.  Henry made sure to this, although most of his sons and daughters had primarily gone along in their lives to do not so great things, and later he stayed at Sunday service afterwards every week to flirt with the other patrons of his church.  Henry also, kindly, made sure that his son, Johnathan who had left his old estranged girlfriend, Felicia, and gained the custody of his son, Matthew, had a place to stay.  But in due time, would regret it, as soon Johnathan fell into the same game of cat and white mouse that stole Felicia’s soul and life long ago, shortly after their unsatisfactory and violent courtship, and during the long court custody trials that ensued.

 Matthew was now an ex-marine of five years who had come home to Los Angeles to see his mother poverty-stricken in a run-down tenement in East L.A.  She was foul in stench and crack cocaine had tore her skin, stretched it out so that she was barely recognizable under her stringy, unwashed hair.  She had gone mad, as well, and would be unintelligible for most of their initial rendezvous at a local diner.  Instead of embracing her son, she would only embarrass him, clawing at the inner sleeves of her worn out sweater and denim jacket.  She accidentally coughed once in his black coffee, and her nose was running wildly.  Tank soon politely rose out of his seat and gave her the hug he had been waiting to receive and hid his lie when he told her where he’d be staying in the city.  He silently told himself that he would return for her one day, but didn’t want to see her this way, and was humbled and nervous that she’d run him out of house and home if she knew where he was residing.

 That was nearly a decade ago.  Since then, things had gone well, then slowly tapered off into dismal for Tank.  His father would disappear from his life after cancer struck.

Tank was the name that he had earned in Marine boot camp, but he had then used for street credibility, and a reference among the other members of his gang.  He hadn’t seen his mother in four whole years, since the one time he had driven up in a Cadillac along a prostitute-ridden side street of the Southside and watched as his companion handed her a bag of coke out of his car window.  He pulled his hood up, and lowered his sunglasses.  Hiding watering eyes, at the exact moment of the hand-off he was already pulling off, going directly to the uptown basement party where he had intended to get laid.

 Tank was 33 now, though, and he was on his way to becoming homeless soon if something didn’t change.  The gang scene was crawling with informants, or so he had believed, and his old set had crumbled under the weight of a fierce police crackdown late in the last decade.  He had been beaten and brutalized, as well, during a big drug raid gone sour, where he had evaded being caught with coke, only to get jumped outside of his friend’s project building.

 “Gangbanging ain’t what the shit was cracked up to be,” he told a young gunner one morning outside of a corner store.

He quickly realized that his words of advice were only going to fall on deaf ears, possibly encourage rather than discourage the young man.  He wasn’t even sure what the words meant, himself.

 Los Angeles, the City of Angels, would probably be his resting place.  Probably just another veteran’s name engraved on a wall somewhere, was all that he’d amount to.  His thoughts had grown horribly morbid.  He’d even given a clean shot at employment in the last couple of years, and had lasted only six months of real work between two different jobs.

 But Tank was still without serious threat or worry.  He was a survivor, and he still had his gun ready in case an old rival gang picked up on him.  He still walked with a big zip lock bag of marijuana hidden in his boxers wherever he went.  He still had his rosary around his neck, and he still wore his red bandana, even though he had long ago left the gangster life behind him.

 At a high seven feet tall, and weighing only a bit under 300 pounds, Tank was a big, big man.  Intimidatingly large, and mostly was still muscle.  He had short hair, which grew longer on his beard.  His voice was deep, and hoarse after nearly two decades of smoking.

 This momentous day of reckoning for mankind, although unforeseen by Matthew, happened to land three days before Tank’s 34th birthday.  Today, it was raining in L.A., as well as cold.  As the rain poured down, Tank was standing out on the stoop of his apartment building.  His dress was of a camouflage hooded sweatshirt, and blue jeans, a pair of boots, a red bandana.  He was melancholy, watching a group of kids walk down the street, a young multicultural group of students across the road.  Reminiscing the long passed times when he was young as the students, fresh on the streets from his first jail bid, charges of conspiracy and affiliation that would be the only charges he’d ever have to beat.  It had been an armed robbery, and manslaughter for his youthful comrades, and he’d gotten out early for good behavior.  He had only shortly thereafter enlisted directly into the Marines, barely having passed through a certain amount of scrutiny that had resulted from his rap sheet.

 The Marines had changed him, physically, drastically.  Nonetheless, on his return to the street life, his mentality was still solid, hard as a bullet.  He had never been one to rob or steal, although he had been urged to, and he had stayed clean off the drugs that he started selling.  He never was too flashy, besides the new Cadillac that he had bought at age 27.  He had recently sold the car, his prized possession, the year prior, used most of the money to live off of, the rest to start his weed selling career.  The Marines had been a quite good idea as well, and he had been paid very well for his six-year stint.  He had been nominated for promotion to Lieutenant, but had retired as a Sergeant.  Tank still didn’t like to talk about the time he spent in the Marines, with anyone.

 Suddenly, the wave of nostalgia thickened and like a riptide he was brought back to a small room of an old, abandoned building near where he stood right then.

The strong scent of the incense was still lingering, and he remembered the old woman’s words, “Your kingship will be as a plague on your family tree, and will stem wicked leaves.  But be brave, eat not of the foreign fruit of perdition, until you are ready...   It is by all means your war, boy...  The time is nye, in the sky, the time to die, time to try, once by and by, by and by.”  Her lullaby was sung gently, like a mother he never had.

“The Muse...  What the hell is going on with me?”  Matthew thought.

As a taxicab pulled up in front of him, Matthew Briggs began to lose concentration.  The rain was coming down hard, and as he turned around, he wondered what his life would have been like if he had stayed in the Marines.  He slowly opened the front door, and took a keycard out of his pocket.  He began to point it towards a sensor near the handle before a woman pushed out through the entrance, allowing him in.

 As he started up the stairs to his studio apartment, he half noticed the lights in the stairwell flickering off for a brief moment, flashing back on as he grabbed the rail.  The nauseating but familiar scents of urine, chicken, cigarettes, and a faint smell of marijuana pervaded the air around him, combined and outbalanced each other between levels of stairs.  When on his floor he saw a man banging on a door, yelling to the other side slews of obscenities, he presumed another domestic dispute.  When he reached his apartment, he looked back and the man was angrily walking away, shaking his head in the dank hall.  The lights flickered again against peeling paint in the hallway, and the sound of his television set leaked out of the door as he pushed in his key and opened it.  Once inside, he shook off his boots, and started towards the kitchen area, to put down his gun, which he grabbed from behind his back.  Tank stepped closer to the table.  Before he tossed his gun down, he made sure the safety was securely in position.

“One helluva day.”

The moment the gun landed on the table, spinning, he sighed out loud, deep and heavy.  At the moment the gun’s barrel pointed at him, the Earth cracked.  His building collapsed, and Tank was buried beneath tons of rubble.

“In the end, when all things have come to a close.  When, what is the emperor’s riddle becomes as the snake’s tail coils to it’s mouth.  There will be moments of pure ecstasy and elation.  The bears will awaken from the deep slumbers of winter and charge the plateaus with fury, the lions will crawl from the dens and spring into motion towards the terrific prey that lies just behind the tiger’s eye that is destroying inhibition.  The nights will become blood fire, and the days will be scorching hot.  Anger and vengeful bloodlust will fall on the greatest men, and the meek shall inherit the earth to be burned down by the blades of the wicked.  The rising tides of hatred and ignorance, will be pooled and ripped towards the collapsing of the machines.  The labor fields will become battlegrounds to the rawest of bones, burned by a summer plague.  Ghosts will rue the rushing forces of good and evil, delve into holes made of lost wishes, and without scruple, terrify the men and women.  Boys and girls will be sacrificed to their lesser good, rape and murder will become as epidemics to the Earth Realm.  We will ascend to the forsaken’s side and collide the powers, forces and combine our own vengeance to overthrow those that oppose us...

 “When I have wondered if I could I ever once again walk on the Heaven’s plain...  To reunite the water dog with it’s owner has often transcended even to myself, one without will.  Is it mere fancy or has the awakening begun?  Upon this discourse I have pondered many moons.  I’ve heard it spoken in ancient tongues; ‘the time is nye.’  Let me say here, now then, It has begun.  To Ragnarok my aides and sorcerers, generals and warriors, we will march as one until the last body has fallen.  Until my return to fortify the kingdom, go now my minions, return will be the satisfaction of Ahriman’s Sacrifice.”

Me (poem)

It was a long wait...
Like all are at this intersection

i was under the influence of your emotions.

i sat in silence, watching rain fall.
you looked sad, but determined.
through endless thoughts
like unwinding kitestrings
of indecent places, with unfriendly faces, i prevailed on tour.
it couldn’t be further from truth, i don’t regret leaving.  only coming back ever again.

It's The Love
so don't blame it on fate, when our passion is always raging.
that our blood mixes, our stories would prove.

My arms are reaching for you and i can't see you in watches never worn.
millenia maybe again.
frightened and abandoned.

Here, where family is no longer familiar,
where fame is a feeble replacement. 
on a road
that twists to the very place we met.
i wouldn't look at the street at all,
but i'd run across the highway.
looking on to a sunnier side of the tracks where we'd be happier. 
instead, we've reached a checkpoint, and it was where our car stopped and we did not.

the other rules that we broke were too long for these rotten epitaphs. 
too short of a battle was given up on!
You told me that the empty pillow ate at your conscience. 
i can see why, even when i am asleep.  eyes closed,
i realize dream after dream of our embrace. 
first and final.

"c'mon girl, gimme a hug.  u know we both need one."
we need one:  us.  and a hug is just a symbol, simple, simile, smile,
because i like you, and that's a sign.
i thought of you when i made all the mistakes i did make.
Will she still love me?
is the only thought that crossed my mind.
in recent years i've solved algebra that would make einstein shrink.
but it is right in front of us. 
the answer is before the question.  what are you looking for?

i know what to hold faith in, though.  it is the eternity that i would wait to see you.
but while eternity seemed like a promise, it was only a sequence of events.  unfolding like packed clothes.

i can't believe it.  but i need it.
i can feel it in my bones that were made strong,
but they were made, nonetheless.
and the powdered hand of my sculptor.
and the steadied eye of your painter.
to watch each other only at distance was never intended, yet we pretended,
and yet now we do not.

So we will wayside falter, my brave eyed lover.
So we will wayside falter, my brown eyed mother.

Then, by the canal will be a chosen path.  leading to where i can always call home.
and our adventures will continue.  Lord knows.
only a spark missing, where so many are bountiful.

You are beautiful in every sense of the word.
and too many sent to the world miss you, gone.  i swear to god.
i am lieing awake tonight, however late.  and i miss you too.  and these worries are real.

As we turn the next corner, my starvation is sincerest.
but that's why i'm always searching for the right things in all the bright lights.
both to say, and to not.

Someone is keeping count of the infinite time that you sacrifice. 

i am.

1ST Album Review

awesome Pure Hip Hop. UnderGround from the heart, Independent in every single way. The Crooked Empire & Association also known as Twyll th` ChyllTyrant is the modern equivalent of Julius Caesar, or Plato, Shakespeare, or 2pac. Good job. Electronica and Rap, meshed seamlessly, uniquely, and with lyrical expertise.

The Best Joke Ever Written

i was working on new material and was thinking back on how when i was sick i saw the doctor and he said that a lot of scientists are saying that you have to take care and pay attention to your face, because it's all intertwined and related inside, it's literally all connected, and science has told us this because we know it's your head.