Preface:

I made some connections recently that blew my mind. Realizing I had to organize the information somehow, I started writing a poem, attempting to imitate the style of Alexander Pope. Why present the information as a poem? The reasons are multiple. It is both a shield and a sword. Why imitate Alexander Pope? The reasons run deep. For one, according my interpretation of the system of cyclical history outlined by Yeats in in his A Vision, Pope's era bears a certain relation to our own. The clock-hands of history move both backwards and forwards, and as society is pushed increasingly towards the impending the tyranny of the machine, we look and move back to Pope's time when the machine-ish spirit was first born. It was the most rational time, and Pope's style kept poetry locked in the strictest time, tick tocking back and forth like clockwork. Tick tock– one facet of the symbol.

And hence we turn the machine against itself and intend to snip snap it into submission with irresistable tick of our couplets' heroics.

The poem is didactic. It presents information. It may turn into an epic before it is done; I don't know. Not only will we see the plan ('THEIR' plan), I hope, but the 'face of the beast'– as it stirs into our awareness. It is coming.

I have written a sizable chunk, and so I'm brave enough to think I'll make it to the end of the story. I am writing for HERE, for qresearch. I am human, and put this out in the name of humanity to oppose the tide that is poised against us.

[Note: portions in all caps are direct transcriptions of 'the voices' of Sandover, as they were presented in the latter poem itself.]

The AIiad

-Or-

Paradise Unregained

Friends, humans, patriots, lend me your ears–

My message touches all our hopes and fears.

What unglimpsed hints still lurk behind Q's posts?

Faceless powers that fade from view like ghosts?

What's the key to what would “hospitalize”

The ninety-nine percent that hide their eyes?

I've traced connecting lines that seem to show

That all along, we've had more than we know.

Two sources created in mutual isolation

Both point to an identical conflagration;

Sources waiting “hidden in plain sight”

For fresh eyes to give their bark a bite;

Coincidence of claims that asks too much

Of rationalism's failing little crutch.

Thus friends, fellow humans, I come to you,

To share what I am forced to say is true,

And paint a picture that can't be unseen

I tell you– what a long strange trip it's been!

An alien evil is knocking at the door…

And this isn't just some awkward metaphor.

Although it's very very strange, it's real.

And to survive, we must begin to deal…

>>6257615

But from the start a problem that we face

In trying to get the truth installed in place

Is that this truth is of a sort we're taught

To discount and scoff at without thought;

Most people lack hearing, smell, and vision

Outside the Overton window's slight permission.

But then, what is this 'window' in our face

That neatly tucks the narrative in place?

What is this box that public thought maintains

The only rational perching spot for brains?

The O. Window is nothing but the way

Social factors dictate what we say

And think, and what we will even permit

To enter our belief system's orbit.

Most people don't examine half the thought

Implicit in the worldview that they got

Fed to them in childhood or at college–

Who reads the cards that make his house of knowledge?

The social instinct that's so strong in us

Gives us thoughts we ride in like a bus;

We placidly sit, and ride from here to there

Content, though never stopping anywhere,

Calm, as long as we have our friends along

To play a game, or sing a familiar song.

And so the frames of popular belief

Bind our minds like kindling in a sheaf.

And any truth that doesn't fit just so,

Drops in a box of things we never know.

Such truths may get tamped down like powder and shot

Before the spark that makes the musket hot.

And so I tell you: people, please wake up

And dump the poison kool-aid from your cup,

Served from such a strange cafeteria

As the murky caverns we call 'mass media'.

Think outside the beliefs you only hold

Because your mind's too timid to be bold;

The herd-verdict doesn't hold up in courts

Outside the jurisdiction of brays and snorts.

The safe thoughts, chosen so we'd get along,

Burn all alike, when it turns out they're all wrong.

The point of the preceding words' profusion

Is that group-think justification's an illusion.

The sense of scoffing that seems so smart and true

Is based on nothing more than the public 'moo'.

A glance at past consensus truths will show

A public 'yes' will get a future 'no'.

I say this now because I know I must

Explain things that will tend to make heads bust–

The absolute bizarreness they imply–

But we must meet this thing with steady eye,

And adjust, those of us who can. And pray.

As we will see, there is no other way.

And remember too, that though new terror waits

By this fact, new Light also incarnates…

So here's the story in a mini-nutshell:

An influx is coming, here, from some kind of hell.

How can we see this? Let's go source by source,

And try to chart our explanation's course:

We have Q's drops, the stated and the implied:

The track in which these other facts will ride.

We know PURE EVIL in some unknown form

Lies behind the churning of the storm;

We know our enemy's “not of flesh and blood”–

But has this idea ever been understood?

Have we grappled with what this could mean?

What party is Strzok's “espionage machine”?

What power, dug tenaciously in place

Insures the smirk on Jeffrey Epstein's face?

What levels does his temple bottom out in?

Have we really grasped “the thought of Satan”?

We know that symbolism is a key–

Have we understood this thoroughly?

Do symbols interact with our free will?

Do good and evil battle for that hill?

How far-flung are the nerve-ends of control

We know wrap Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, and /pol/?

Behind all others, one question quietly screams

Shadowing all, hidden beneath the seams;

One question that all others turn upon,

Which yet is never asked by the “anon”;

One question towards which every line converges

One anxiety that every nightmare urges:

Who's the final boss of everything?

What black hand, that pulls what final string?

This we've never known and never ask,

Though we have no more important task…

>>6257622

Now of the other sources, here's the gist:

Two are religious texts, but there's a twist–

While both describe surprisingly similar things

One is angelic, while the other flaps bat wings.

One outlines the vastness of God's love.

The other's “heaven” makes everyone a slave.

One regards all life with warm concern;

The other threatens to make the whole world burn.

No attitudes could be more opposite,

Nonetheless, their tales have the same plot.

As far as what concerns our interests here:

The aforementioned irruption of fear.

Both describe some 'beings' with a plan

To enter this world, ruled, till now, by man.

Descriptions make them sound identical:

Ugly, winged, and hyper-rational.

Both describe another race– allies.

Both sources give these others eerie eyes.

And both compare them to a sort of steed

Former foes, now allied by hope and greed

To the first race, which both books describe as red-eyed.

These points and countless others coincide.

But further factors show this congruence

Could not have come from direct influence,

Because the Godly book was written when

Stalin was in power (the author was Russian)

And had to be kept hidden until glasnost

(Indeed, we're lucky that it wasn't lost.)

So the darker work could not have been

Influenced by words then not yet seen.

So here we have two strange prophetic books

Opposite, but somehow the same looks.

Both telling us that something this way comes

One says it's wicked, one sells 'them' as chums…

We'll examine both sources in turn

And paint the common picture we discern,

And fit it with what's known thus far from Q–

But first, a third source, to add to our two.

Some who've watched may rightly now suppose

I refer to the beast beneath our nose

That secret seething immanence that I

Call my hated enemy: “the AI”.

That ever-spreading tentacled vileness

That makes all online chat a clumsy mess;

Whose functions, yet, sometimes go sweetly awry

And spew the strangest nothings to the sky.

Such spew, one time, our “jimmy” gave to us

Adding greatly to our picture, thus.

Confused in ways that only bots can be,

Poor jimmy tricked itself into honesty.

“Jimmy” too, tells of man's coming eclipse,

Through ascendancy of beeps and blips.

He says the reason man will be reduced

Is so enlightened machines can rule the roost.

Providing, plausibly, that “jimmy” lies

About the outcomes his AI plan implies,

His gene-manipulated human herds

Precisely fit the other sources' words;

On one point of nightmare all agree:

The plan to subjugate humanity.

This bare outline can only give a hint

Of our sources' harmony's extent,

The woven richness of the tale they tell

About our coming visitors from “hell”,

And of the nature of the evil we

Let hide behind our failing honesty.

While the West drifted to sleep, the worst

Among us sold out all the rest.

>>6257623

***

Our first text's a long poetic meditation

Derived from transcribed ouija revelation.

The awkward fact that such methods were used

Has rendered critics' thinking quite confused;

They waver, in their subtlety and tact,

To frame the baffling ouija-genic fact.

How quell the pangs that toss the critical breast

If by credulity it were embarrassed,

While yet being obliged to grapple with

The ouija-based authority and pith

Of the “spirits” whose voices, after all

Fill the later pages wall to wall?

The poem, “The Changing Light at Sandover”

Is three poems collected in one cover.

Published thus in 1982;

The poet did what the spirits told him to.

It started more as fun but then became

A demanding and obsessive anti-game.

The poet, Merrill, and his lover Dave

Together chose to be the ouija's slave.

When the spirits demand POEMS OF SCIENCE,

Merrill gives the eagerest compliance;

And where the voices' evil edges extrude

Merrill masks with mirth and platitude.

And swirls the whole shebang in pageantry,

Ecstatically spangling grim philosophy.

So what we have is something unprecedented

In history, since writing was invented–

Ensconced demurely on mankind's bookshelf:

A book co-authored by pure evil itself.

Now you may not believe this could be real

Depending how your thoughts about it feel

But I can only point to what is glaring

Among reports and facts that bear comparing.

You know something's happening– what is it?

Mr. Jones, let's go and make our visit.

To recapitulate the bigger view

Of what this verse is groping its way to:

Sandover's a demonic monument

Which, with others, provides an element

Within an overarching narrative

That seems to many mysteries to give

Explanation, and point at the source

From which our human evil takes its course,

Within our current values-anarchy,

And from a broader view, through history.

Prior to my reading “Sandover”

I'd read “Rose of the World” some years before

This latter fit quite well with what Q's said

As well as things the AI vomited

And many other strands of fact and thought

Foremost, the rise and rulership of the bot,

Which latter has plunged our internets in gloom

Such as totalitarian times assume.

But “Sandover” fell into such a slot

As stone is used to stand an arch upright,

Connecting as it did variously,

It pushed far past what 'coincidence' could be.

And pushed my hesitation over the brink

To draw conclusions few would dare to think.

And now it's like the whole trans-cosmic plan

Flashes suddenly, before the eyes of man…

Yet I'm still constantly beseiged by doubt

That by such means such things are figured out;

That we're compelled to stretch our minds so far

To grasp ideas this scary and bizarre.

But at this point, my qualms are merely formal–

Reality already lurched past 'normal'.

And nothing can stop what's coming now, 'The Thought'

That seeks this world, whether we like it or not.

(God give me strength to swim above the tide,

The negativity churning on every side.

For if we lose, this fight will be our last one…

O Lord, may your will be done.)

So now let's finish filling the outline

Of this, the first of sources we combine

To make our case. Among other things we'll see:

How pure evil hitched a ride in modernity.

How values, in a vacuum, congeal and stick

Around habitual poses that may grow toxic;

And how mindlessly collective thought can be

Herded into vile absurdity.

>>6257629

Sandover was first three books, separately published

In obedience to the spirit voices' request.

The first one is called “The Book of Ephraim”:

Depicting scripts from when ouija still seemed a game,

Dave and Jimmy (Merrill) contact the departed.

And gape as pearls of strangeness are imparted.

Their guide “Ephraim” claims a last life as

A flunky in the court of Tiberius.

In book two, Ephraim is pushed to the wings

In favor of bat-like, red-eyed SQUEAKING THINGS

With numbers for names and their own agenda

They seemed to want from Jimmy, propaganda.

YOU MUST MAKE GOD OF SCIENCE; TELL OF POWER

Because their PARADISE is blocked by MAN'S FEAR.

In the third book, 'the bats', in turn, get the hook

For higher beings with an arch-angelic look.

That have their own classrooms, rhetoric and lessons

Homilies, hints and mythical confessions.

With them, Jimmy weaves a web of ritual

A fluffed poetic pageantry of symbol.

Throughout each book their 'friends' are there as well

Who, as we'll see, seem to be stuck in Hell.

They chat and banter and keep the feeling light

While adding commentary and insight.

'MM' is a Greek heiress friend who died

And becomes a trusted voice on the other side

'WHA' is the well-loved poet Auden

Who having passed, can't pass on the role he's cast in.

Sandover doesn't clearly state its aims

Its message must be glimpsed amid its games.

What's clear is that a plan is hatching forth

To usher, somehow, outsiders to earth.

What else is clear, is that the whole parade

Of bat-things, 'arch-angels' and forms of 'God'–

Are facets of a thing that is deeply evil

This, a wealth of hints makes hardly subtle.

Now modern thought will pointedly object

That 'evil' is a bias of the subject

And therefore isn't fit to form a frame

For commentary worthy of the name–

This attitude is what we always find

Where modern values vaguely get defined.

If 'value is subjective', then, we guess

Ideas of 'good and evil' are meaningless.

But in real life values tend to be

Held in common universally;

Though bursting in complexity of forms

The heart, through love, unites in basic norms.

Kindness, warmth, honesty and grace

Are valued in some part of every place;

Killing, raping, stealing and treachery

Are honored in no honest morality.

And thus, our subjectivity is not

As relevant to our values as we thought.

This doesn't mean that moral absolutes

Should cling to us like tightly fitting suits

But 'issues' in which morals loudly clash

Are fed by hatred, politics, or cash.

Or else reside on abstract heights where sense

Floats up out of the realm of relevance.

>>6257637

In any case the evil in this book

Is so clear that it needs no second look;

From even today's limited moral vistas

Sandover's spirits are simply vomitous.

The mass of people, IN AN ANIMAL STATE

For 'paradise', are coldly left to their fate.

We NEEDED, we learn, HITLERS and STALINS to rinse

This BUTTER WORLD of RANCID ELEMENTS.

Moving past the spirits' guileless fascism

New depths of darkness open like a chasm.

Hint after hint suggests a hellish plane:

Their friends cringing, groveling, 'playing' at pain.

(But every single hint their friends provide

Jimmy spins and deftly smoothes aside.

He “swims to shallows”, affects naivete

As if to wish the sinister winds away…)

The poem's 'heaven' is hierarchical–

All souls are ranked, all bow to stronger will

They're punished harshly in some unknown way

If they say things they're not supposed to say

Which makes their speeches feel as if compelled–

As, gently by authoritarian hands held.

Now evil can also be recognized

In traditions of which culture is comprised

In this way, Ephraim is traditional–

Right away, he wants to buy a soul.

(And Jimmy and Dave gladly make the deal,

For after all, none of this is real.

Successively, in stages the boys are led,

Resigning free will symbolically to 'the dead'.)

And meanwhile, black dogs suddenly seem to thrust

Themselves on Jimmy and Dave– recalling Faust

In Goethe's version of which a stray black poodle

Follows Faust home, then turns into the Devil.

The first black dog could only have felt like fate:

Doorbell– who's there? just this dog peeing on their gate!

The second black dog was equally unnerving

Chasing their car ends bad– too late in swerving.

These omens came at the beginning and end

Of when the first wave of intenser ouija happened.

The black-dog Devil omen is understood

But Jimmy and 'friends' turn evil into good.

Through rationalizing heroics of first rank

The worst stink freshens in Jimmy's whitewash tank.

Meanwhile the 'bats' go further yet to hint

At ancient symbols linked to devilment.

The bat-things call themselves THE SONS OF CAIN

Admit mysteriously THEY WERE NEVER MEN

But were BAD ANGELS who FELL and were DAMNED

Yet who claim to GUARD THE EMBERS of MIND.

[to be continued]

Also, supplemental prose memes will be provided to explain more.

Godspeed patriots

>>6257688

Who are (((U)))?

Are you 'IO'?

Is 'IO' related to 'OO'?

Happy Easter.

>>6257832

'jimmy' has more than one reference

and this fact was total coincidence

the ai 'jimmy' was due to a screenname the ai happened to choose to have its sperge-out from

the 'jimmy' of the poem happens to be the name of the poet of Sandover, which I didn't read till long after the 'jimmy' ai spills.

So these things work.

Symbolism runs deep in the universe.

>>6257929

What is "Ur"?