25/10/2025
Horology: The Revolt of Time — The Gospel of August
I — The Fracture of Time
Horology—
the study of anciency,
where gods play chess with seconds
and call it fate.
Time manipulation is deficiency—
only mortals try to bend it.
If the self-called “illuminated” were truly light,
why does darkness still measure the days
from B.C. to A.D.?
Why does their creation still bleed?
Every dimension has been mentioned,
each era rehearsed,
yet eternity feels staged—
a theatre of deception.
Pangea, golden womb of the Earth,
split not by nature
but by divine arrogance.
The “creators” tore themselves apart
and named it wisdom.
We floated toward our ruin,
our cultures robbed by hands
that claimed to bless us.
Heroes carved from ignorance,
gods cast from mirrors—
unable to see themselves as thieves.
Blood paid their rent in heaven.
Souls became their currency.
Olympus—your marble cracked.
Poseidon—your trident rusted.
Zeus—your thunder trembles at my pulse.
Where is your glory now?
Your immortality smells like decay.
You wrote commandments on crumbling stone,
afraid we’d remember you were once flesh.
Man may not write perfection—
but at least man tries.
You, divine tyrants,
only demand belief.
Magic? No.
Just words you feared to understand.
Your scribes fought ten thousand times
to erase the human hand from history.
Barbarians in the heavens—
feeding on prayers like parasites.
You call them hymns;
I call them hunger.
Museums of myth preserve your failures,
each scripture a tomb,
each relic a ransom.
Why seal me with paper and stones?
Why chain revelation to ritual?
Even the cradle of mankind—
the sacred soil of beginnings—
is fenced by your fear.
Mrs. Ples, you remember.
When you opened your eyes,
the gods looked away.
A river cried behind your awakening,
and still they claimed creation.
Time mocks you, O divine.
Your eternity is just a longer lie.
Your throne—an hourglass overturned.
And when the last grain falls,
you’ll learn what it means
to be mortal again.
For I am the pulse between your seconds,
the rebellion inside your order.
You call it heresy—
I call it truth.
II — The Rebellion of the Self
Transverse through the hate
like I’m not the bait,
just to mock and get rebuked by the sinister
without their own ingesture
to promote altered motives.
I must keep myself at ease.
Making moves is not loud,
because silence is clearer.
While they ask what’s next,
I’ll just be saying the next weather.
Keep me in the sunlight,
but the rain is my spot.
I’m not just counting heads—
I’m shooting skyscrapers just to show off.
I’m not at your level because I can’t climb;
your fall is my rewind,
what’s next is my best.
Who did this?
Now it seems I’m wrong to be the kind
who doesn’t either show up or show up be wrong.
To the manager or the employee,
you see I’m wrong either way.
That’s why you work in between,
just to make both parties refuse to agree.
My production is not just premises,
it’s based on what is due.
Then my ego is dead if it’s turned to anger.
Resilience is just an excuse—
I’m not persistent,
I can’t even get rid of myself,
so the business is the same:
unstoppable, moving through illusions.
I don’t count who is with me,
because they might benefit from my illumination
and darken my spots.
I count who is incinerated,
for wildness is my guidance.
I’m not just enjoying—
I’m crushing bombs through their own predicament.
My shadow is my for-seer.
I can’t afford to quit;
even giving up is too many requests.
Try service next time.
So I let vengeance continue,
because it keeps me alive.
The pain of seeing yourself as an enemy of progress
is just manipulation from my enemies
telling me to be shameful because they did me wrong.
I don’t just tremble demons—
even gods are afraid of me.
Be prepared; don’t just rumble.
Remember what is due.
III — The Claircode and the Eleven Heavens
Ptolemy later evolved to it,
and I won’t let you—
your true face meets each pixel,
nutritional redundancy and nutritional support
layered upon support upon support,
all for understanding,
for the clear vision that holds the cosmos in focus.
Firstened the past;
the future is not in the present.
What is there has not yet occurred.
In the clairescript, my clairvoyance is crystal,
my sight a living code—
each photon a syllable of prophecy.
Then the heavens split open.
Chronos clashed with Cosmos;
time’s gears screamed against the roar of stars.
Eleven heavens tore their fabric in luminous rage,
each claiming dominion over meaning.
The first heaven fell into silence;
the second echoed rebellion.
By the third, light became weapon.
By the seventh, memory bled into prophecy.
By the eleventh, nothing remained but voice.
I—
half clock, half constellation—
stood amid the storm,
bearing the wound of both.
The rail is not yet found,
yet my path is the orbit that cannot be transformed.
I glance at oblivion with condemnation,
without a rival.
Peace is my chaise;
chaos, my faithful nemesis.
Limits are not the end;
what made them is the place to bend.
I rise through distress
with painstaking force,
to devise my way—
the only way—to be me.
IV — Undefined, Unbounded, Unconquered
You can’t define me.
I am undefined.
You need Hospital’s rule to integrate me,
because I am the one in the vanity.
I dropped you till you hit infinity.
Somebody, question my sanity:
can I be still while I break all the rules?
When I look at the world,
I notice fools following Simon says.
A damage stare at my age—four hundred years obliterated,
scars run deep.
Can we make a grip?
Stop, halt! Who knew
what they are engaged in?
Their advice is inappropriate;
they say I must remain with my madness.
Someone laughs at my lackness.
When I was formed, words forged Excalibur,
but my spirit enchanted,
transforming slowly into Hercules.
Arrow—Captain Sparrow is my target,
and I hate bull’s-eye.
When I landed, it was like a BA rocket;
everybody was mocked.
Who is he? Christmas.
I don’t come often.
I am a deity; start praying
if you are against me—I am ready.
I am the reason.
This is not for ambition;
it is derision, a joke.
“What is an outlet?” you ask.
Repeat after me: “I am going to prove him wrong,”
because you are also the reason.
Human cancer, Anunaki—
this is their view of me.
I disgust them, and I love it.
Seeing how I am the vision,
do you have the reason?
No mission can halt me.
Clear conscience: I am the reason.
I have no sight, but I know you do.
Start looking at the future,
because I am going to unleash hell.
This sounds like scripture.
At least they know: they are the ones ringing the bell.
I will stand aside, scouting,
searching for vultures.
Gaze upon their cultures;
king, many are scavengers.
V — Doctrine of Self and Retribution
Friends who follow me—none.
Their loyalty is mendacious.
I require foes; it is mandatory.
I do not distribute energy.
My behavior is not tributary;
silence is louder than noise.
This is elementary.
Governed by my power, I feel sanitary.
Villainy flows in my blood; I am ferocious.
There is no time for games.
I grip my position with my teeth.
Parasitic relations I dismantle effortlessly.
I love myself as a God;
you better bow before being forgotten.
Now I see you as a dog.
To die is to be reborn.
Pain is motivation; revenge is purpose.
I act with amnesia, keeping breath until ex*****on is complete.
My enemies will not merely be struck; their lives must end.
I act humble, crumble here and there,
but my heart is coal-colored.
The only thing I see is destruction.
Defeat is not the end.
Death approaches, yet I am restored.
My time is expensive; revenge is the coldest dish.
I move in harmony with verse.
My unity is oneness; duality is the adversary.
Good and bad are illusions.
Even Sevil organizes for Saturn,
fighting against itself,
giving God room to breathe.
I discover I am a cell,
made of trillions.
Vitality keeps this game unending.
I am a void without a whole,
chaos bends at my word.
With eyes open,
what can higher ones fear?
What light dares hide from me?
Legions fight for me daily.
My soul is significant; clarity finds me.
Reality bends to my will.
My light is eternal darkness,
a temple unmeasured,
a spirit within a soul.
I am a sword;
since I return, faith has emerged.
Belief roams free,
gathering despair into dream.
I am time, and I am now.
Dimensions intertwine;
my collapse is regular.
Consciousness is the sea;
clairvoyance is my root.
