RJ Williamson

necrocacophony for fun and profit

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Hello! My name is R.J. I'm a poet, writer, lyricist type thing. I write weird short stories and the occasional evil wizard rap. I've written some material for burialgoods on YouTube, and a lot of other stuff nobody cares about. So, here's the deal. Every few days, when the fancy strikes me, I'll post some old stuff, and some new stuff, and I'll reblog a few things. Ask me any questions you like. Let me know what you want to hear poems and stories about. Let me know what you want transcripts of. There's a lot you haven't seen.

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The Cabal Grows By The Hour

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Remember last time, when I told you all "The next one is gonna go crazy?" It's coming. It's actually been in the cauldron for way too long, gathering energies a lesser wizard might call "dangerous" or "uncontrollable" or "fucking insane." Burialgoods finally put the finishing incantations on it, because he knew when it was done, and not a moment sooner. You'll know when you know. See ya when I see ya, wizza.

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awakening

there are red splotches on my white pillow and my sheets are streaked with blood; I'm tearing myself open at night scratching off scabs in my sleep dreaming of men drowning one another in a tangle of white arms and blue faces and I can't see the wounds behind my shoulders, and under my arms, and beneath my hairline black under my fingernails, with some red now they've stopped healing, stayed open

and I think finally, finally death is catching up to me I've been teasing him for so long playing hard to get, but he's noticed me my pace is slowing and he's picked up and my lungs are heavy and full of water, my legs are numb with pins and needles and my arms are tired and white - R.J. Williamson

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I Miss the Movies (Country Roads Parody)

lyrics by R.J. Williamson Harry Potter Was a wizard But some goblins Got 'em by the gizzard Education, Hogwarts isn't free After graduation Had to pay the fee

Counting gnomes, Take my bones To repay My student loans Mount 'em in ya Dioramas Take my bones, Counting gnomes

Do you hear the Rolling thunder? Do you come From a land down under? Like Mel Gibson Wandering the land Driving in the desert Kicking up the sand Dusty roads Things explode Mad Max 3 Thunderdome Master Blaster Tina Turner Thunderdome Dusty roads A Jedi Knight in the desert, he's called Obi Wan A hologram finds him in a galaxy far away, Takes along a farm boy, with a feeling That he needs a ride to Alderaan, yesterday Speeder floats Can't avoid Troop patrol Looking for droids But not these ones, Don't need to see 'em We can go Move along Take me along Can we go To the flicks From long ago? Not the new ones Tried and true ones Can we go? Take me along Take me along, I wanna go Take me along, I wanna go

[pup-purgatory]

via

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Even in my own mind, I cannot decide if I am a poet or I am nothing. Both lies are compellingly honest.

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Phantasmographia

I wonder if ghosts can touch each other, or only scribble notes in misty mirrors and windows they hope the other ghosts see?

- R.J. Williamson, with thanks to L.V.

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"I can accompany you no farther. Where you must go now... I cannot follow." *my mom walks into the lingerie section of the department store*

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That broken-hearted search to know and be who you are.

Finding it, losing it, being wrong about it, being right about it but failing anyway, loving it for the wrong reasons, hating it for what it puts you through, hating yourself for hating what you fought so hard for.

And in the process, not being, not becoming, but making yourself into what you already are inside, not because you cannot be anything else - but because not being what you are is too painful to survive, no matter how much getting there hurts.

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Best of a Bad Generation

R.J. Williamson

He's a ghost, but so quotable A baroque poet who wrote bespoke jokes Nobody knows, he's too broke to be wiki-notable So broke, no tokes, no smoke and no potent potables

Sober as the eyes of God upon us, eyes of the audience are watchin' him It's sink or swim and he's drowning and running out of oxygen And on his way down he's clowning on your entire empire again No retirement, still trying to find a nine to five, so go on dyin' then

The best of a bad generation, a pale imitation Facing the fate of a nation that hates him Great expectations but no aspiration to chase The fake stakes as the world overtakes him

An inspiration to innovate and fuck around with your narratives With enough temerity and arrogance to subvert survival imperatives When the profit calculations of his nation's corporations say His existence is insufficient to pay for this operation

He knows what his station is, don't be silly His only vocation is lyric ability Profits don't arise from streetside prophets And profitability is your only definition of progress

And the definition of insanity is trying again In the same way when you're just gonna lie again Tell the next gen they'll inherit the sky again Run the clock out, die and start the fire again

How long until they notice they ain't accounted in your calculus No comeuppance in the numbers on the checks that you bounced on us The greatest heist in all of history, crash civilization and split Buy island bunkers with your billions that won't be worth shit

He's rambling, he's off on a rant and off of his meds again Get him back into bed 'fore he says sum' to piss off the feds again It don't mean nothin', he's nobody, graspin' his hands again Grabbin' a mic that he sees in the air, it ain't there, distractin' him

Strappin' him back to the gurney, his journey's approaching completion Prescription injection, his treatment is legal and clean, the procedure Approved by insurance, determined to be efficacious and cheap, anesthesia The easiest method to treat every patient is put 'em to sleep and delete 'em

He's a ghost who wrote jokes that nobody knows, He's too broke to be wiki-notable Forgettable prose, he won't be known as his whole cohort goes The best of a bad generation, but potently quotable

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here from A.P.A.B, I just wanted to commemorate your lyricism, this shit goes NUCLEAR and while BG's performance really puts the perfect finishing touches on it, your wordplay is unmatched. it's so good

Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoyed it. That one started as a joke (really, the whole evil wizard rap thing was a joke from the beginning and snowballed from there). Sometimes BG and I just go back and forth spitballing lyrics and what makes us laugh, we keep and refine until it sounds good. Every once in a while, a comment drops an amazing one-liner that we know we have to include. There's a lot I want to revisit from A.P.A.B. if I get the chance. Magic carpet joyrides (and maybe some drive-by fireballings), the secret of the Sacred Sirens, the deadly Inverted Solar Flame, and of course, the infamous Potion of Resist Arrest. There's a fine line between expanding on the lore and just reusing an old joke, and we'll do the fine tuning to make sure it lands in that sweet spot where it's still funny, still interesting, and still goes crazy. BG is a hell of a lyricist too, and we argue all the time about who's better. He thinks I'm better than I really am, and I think he doesn't appreciate his own genius. Our styles are pretty different, and if you pay attention to the writing credits, you can see where his lyrical style differs from mine. His lyrics are intricate, with rapid-fire staccato flows that disorient you and leave you not knowing what to expect. My lyrics focus more on setting up wordplay and double meanings for a punchline or a satisfying sonic conclusion than on complex rhythms or technical flows. Sometimes, one of us writes all the lyrics in a single clip and just one of our styles shines through - but sometimes we play off each other and you get to see both.

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Came from the godmade horrors beyond comprehension vid from burial goods and i just wanna say your poem was awesome!! I really do love the specific and visceral imagery it portrays! I was wondering if i could use some of your poems for a short comic?

Thank you! Burialgoods really made that video a memorable one. It's definitely become my most famous poem by far. I don't limit transformative, creative use of my poetry that's already out there (there are future works I may produce under more restrictive rules, so I reserve the right to publish, and restrict publication, of any work not yet already available for free on the internet). That means you can use my poetry you see here on my Tumblr, or on YouTube, for creative works of your own. Please link back to me, either at this blog, to the post of the poem used, and/or to the video on YouTube, if it's one that burialgoods has performed. Thank you for asking, by the way! I appreciate it!

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Hex Knife Co-written by burialgoods and R.J. Williamson Beats and rap by burialgoods Mixed by burialgoods and Sagely_One

[Intro] …in the city's upper districts, where nightly attacks have the nobility worried… …with reports describing stabbing murders leaving no blood on the scene… …that some kind of cursed artifact, or possibly multiple… …city officials say wizard crime is again suspected, as calls for a curfew… …the wizard menace needs to be contained! …the killer or killers remain unidentified… …that panic is unwarranted and the situation remains under control.

[Chorus] Got a dagger in my robes and a minion on my right I'm looking for a reason, got a plan for tonight I bought a cursed dagger from a dude down the street For one gold piece, I got some freaks I wanna reap Dagger in my left hand and a homie on my right I'm looking for a reason, like a bitch I wanna smite Concealed on my body as I'm walking down the street I got a place to be, I got some freaks I wanna meet

[Hook] I got that hex knife, send ya to the next life (…I'm now being told that there was another blood fueled rampage last night…) I got that hex knife come and get ya neck sliced (…and the city guard still have no suspects in connection with the crimes…) I got that hex knife, send ya to the next life (…paladins suspect demonic pacts may be involved…) I got that hex knife, come and get ya neck sliced (…all peasants are urged to be home before dark until further notice…)

[Verse] Stalking with a purpose, if you see me you're a witness Hands in my pockets, on official wizza business Homie got the itch to kill, we gon' make it personal Gnomish crafted wand concealed, counter-irreversible Focused recast trigger blast drops my mana to the floor Swig a mana potion flask, drop it, I got 20 more Charging up a hex, who's next, I'm invigorated Itchy caster finger, next wizza gets incinerated Memphis wizza shit, if you want that bag I'm holding it Gold we roll in it, wizza weed we rollin' scrolls in it Smoke I'm blowin' it, if you toke then start unfoldin' it Fitty for a dime of dank arcana stank, we stolen it

[Chorus] Got a dagger in my robes and a minion on my right I'm looking for a reason, got a plan for tonight I bought a cursed dagger from a dude down the street For one gold piece, I got some freaks I wanna reap Dagger in my left hand and a homie on my right I'm looking for a reason, like a bitch I wanna smite Concealed on my body as I'm walking down the street I got a place to be, I got some freaks I wanna meet

[Outro] I got that hex knife, send ya to the next life (…confirmed that three bodies, believed to be low level witches, were found…) I got that hex knife come and get ya neck sliced (…were drained of all blood, sources say dark magic traces were found…) I got that hex knife, send ya to the next life (…we're now recieving reports that the body of a known werewolf, has also been located…) I got that hex knife, come and get ya neck sliced (…warning that if you see a dagger wielding wizard, do not approach - run!) *** Note for anyone looking to post lyrics to Genius or elsewhere: these are the correct lyrics. There is a typo in the official video that went unnoticed until... well, until I just noticed it now. Thanks to everyone who made this track possible, especially Sagely_One, AKA the Time Traveling Gnome, who helped immensely with the final mix. This one was fun to write with burialgoods, who just started spitting lyrics one day; and we riffed off each other and brainstormed until it looked like a song. Then we basically freestyle flowed at each other until it started to sound good, and then BG retired into his wizard tower for a couple weeks to cook up a hexed beat in his cauldron. He brewed some other beats and rhymes for a future track that is forthcoming (with no help from me, but keep a scrying sensor open for it) at the same time, because he can't just do one thing. He has to divide his energy like that - or else the tower's arcane wards wouldn't hold. With Sagely's help, he eventually emerged with the track you now see presented before you, and I think it's a banger, if I do say so myself. The next one is gonna go crazy, by the way. He's become too powerful to be stopped.

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The Poisoned Chalice

R.J. Williamson

If you are willing to listen, I offer a sip from a poisoned chalice.

Of course, "Life isn't worth living." Life isn't a transaction.

In the grand totality of all existence there is not enough pleasure to mollify all the pain of life. To justify it. To pay for it and set the balance over even and into the black.

To think of life transactionally is to cheapen it, and it makes one bitter, envious, and shallow.

Transactional thinking is poison. For any living being, the cost of being alive never adds up. The pain always outweighs the pleasure. But if living beings were supposed think in this way and make such an assessment, all life would end. Animals aren't capable of having such thoughts. Humans are, and they should not, or they will cease to exist.

Isn't that what poison is? Something that is inherently damaging in a way that can't be mitigated, and so must simply not be allowed to enter the system, or it will cause death?

The mathematics are undeniable. Following them to their conclusion has only one outcome. In a purely transactional view, pleasure minus pain is a negative number. So no pain and no pleasure is a material gain of assets. What those who realize this and come out alive on the other side understand, is that it's missing the point.

It's only a net negative if you think of living as a transaction, and that's the wrong way of looking at it.

Zero isn't a balanced spreadsheet. Nothing is nothing. Pain and pleasure are both something. And life is more than just those two somethings. Life is everything. It's not a ledger book of positive and negative moments - it is every moment of experience, every interaction, every relationship, every discovery, every thing that happens to anyone and how it all comes together in ways that are more than the sum total of themselves.

And it's not worth all the agony, the loss, the hardship, the sadness, the unfairness, the mourning. It's not supposed to be. It's not supposed to add up to some level where you're "better off" for having lived. You can't experience gain or loss without living. Thinking about nothing like it's something, like it can be "better" or "fairer" or "less painful" than living is nonsensical. Nothing isn't better or worse than being alive - it's just nothing.

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Shower thought: Sourdough starter is basically a pet shoggoth you keep in your fridge.

You follow an arcane formula you pulled out of an ancient tome (or the collected essence of all human knowledge, with the aid of a scrying device) to perform a ritual that creates a squirming, amorphous mass of life. You feed it, you give it a little water, and it bubbles and burbles and grows and shrinks and changes shapes. Occasionally it tries to escape, or outgrows its container, and you have to brutally cut its tentacles off.

But then you mix the tentacles with your other ingredients, bake them and eat the results.

And that's also how it reproduces. So you're creating, cooking and eating a baby shoggoth.

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It gets worse: We've done this for thousands of years, and it's knowledge passed down from mother to daughter. By feel. By smell. Most men in modern times don't know anything about it. It is an ancient pagan ritual of life, death and rebirth. A sacrificial homunculus created to give birth, and die, and be consumed, and be revived over generations.

It is older than any current religion, older than iron, older than the written word. It is as old as agriculture, which means it is arguably as old as civilization. It is an ancient and inexplicable thing that most people have forgotten about, but it kept mankind alive through all the ages leading to now.

It's exactly the kind of horrible secret one of Lovecraft's protagonists would discover in some ancient family crypt, scrawled in some frenzied notebook taken to the grave by his grandfather, only to go mad from realizing that his family has been - bakers - for generations, stretching back to the neolithic era, and this unspeakable, ancient thing is still alive in his ancestral home, breathing, growing, hungry - and he can smell it in the air. It smells like the fresh bread his own mother baked for him as a child. It's inside him. It was always a part of him. And he is the last of his line. He must contain it. He must bake it. He must eat of its young.

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Your thoughts: Efficient. Ordered. Effective chain of command. My thoughts: Anarchic. Nonsensical. No discernible hierarchy or structure.

You see, my dear, you have tuned your mind to function, as a machine functions, toward a purpose. My mind is a primordial soup where thoughts fight for dominance. From birth, they enter an evolutionary struggle where they live or die based on their own inherent strengths and will to exist. Your thoughts are manufactured products of a careful assembly line - they do as they are told, as they're created to do. My thoughts emerge, bloody and wet, conquerors, their teeth glistening with the entrails of lesser mind debris, and go as they will, not as bidden by some mere "functional" consciousness.

(it's agony in here make it stop)

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