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We were comfortable in our complacency.
We were satisfied with our Netflix and our Taco Bell.
We were not happy, but we were satisfied.

We did not want to have to awaken
the strange DMT gods that live in our foreheads,
or the screw snakes sleeping at the base of our spine,
or the mushroom giants who dwell behind our visual fields,
or the great golden frog at the center of the earth.

We did not wish to have to summon
the caterpillar planets from the depths of space,
or the elephant squid from our secret abysses,
or the mammoth moths from the tabernacle in our throat,
or the Yellow Priestess from Her dinosaur throne.

But desperate times,
you see,
desperate times call for desperate monsters.

So now we’ve got to get up,
dust the cheese puff powder from off our sweatpants,
grumble our way over to the police tape-covered door
and, after clearing the theremin and the surfboard
and the sewing machine out of the way
(none of which we use anymore but we keep meaning to),
unleash eldritch angels and eyeball blimps
to burn this motherfucker to the ground.

We’d have been content with decent paychecks
and a viable planet,
and maybe some healthcare for the Yanks,
but you bastards got greedy
and now your mouths are full of weirdling worms,
and I bet you all feel quite silly now.

You did not realize that we have tentacles in our bellies
and wands that shoot eel ogres,
and benthic beasts swimming in our souls.

You did not realize that we are more powerful than your wildest imaginings,
and that you have never truly understood what we’re made of.

Desperate times call for desperate monsters,
old chap.
There is a feathered claw behind you.

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I write about the end of illusions.

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