Friday 7 November 2014

It was a sublime moment, a second of thought, a third of light and a fourth of a message and a vision beyond comprehension, it was a feeling, a strange sense, some sort of emotion that felt like a memory which was a dream, an immense pleasure like some sort of re-assurance.
Further than that, beyond and above unto eternity roaring into infinity, blooming from the throne of some maleficent unreality which captivates the unconscious desire ti escape the surety of the mundane, to ascertain the nature of the fantastic, and find that it is neither but both the same.
The cold is pure, the wind is piercing, it cools my cheeks, it clears my head, it opens my eyes. The darkness cools the fever in my head, glory to the sun and all of my ancestors living with the lidless dead. Away, and forward to all things, what thoughts does the future brings, O Oracle sings of the Sybyll and the nine muses, all the money goes to the makers of fireworks fuses.
Nostradamus slept for a thousand years, I would sleep for a day and sleep forever to wake forlorn again and thereafter to my eventual ruin, I would offer a spoon to the Devil for even a gram of salt, for my luck is not my fault. My compassion is greed, that is my empathy, to want more than you, I could not hate you without feeling you, or rather compensate you for your lack of acting the way I want you to, or rather any other way. My fork for Jesus so he could know that Lucifer feels inadequate, and a Gun for the holy spirit to send the sinners to eternal damnation, so suffer contagiousness in the grave, the ghosts tell me, that is punishment, to be buried alive forever, and to feel the hunger for flesh. 2 Score was all i ever wanted, or 1 score, or no score, but that is better than this empty beauty of timelessness.
It is for my Brother's that I right, they come and sit with me and watch me from their golden thrones in the fantasy of paradisaical fantastical heaven, thronged with the heathen's with their pure lust for nature, and destruction.
A bib for the emperor's, a gift for the explorer's, a final nuance, a hieroglyphic conundrum scraping along the sea floor, through the wardrobe door to Mordor.
I consider Murder almost every day, a silent urge, just to experience a feeling, a forbidden desire is like the purging fire of the matrys, do you hear them scream as there flesh burned? DO you smell the fucking bacon? The Cannibalistic urge to master suffering makes no sense.

Thursday 3 July 2014

our ego and develop a mental illness to compensate and repress a lack of humility to progress is a paradise, a shivering guilty climax
logic of continuation which is routine a pattern of thought and behavior, which we are inclined to repeat unless we deny, or truly believe
in the morning till I drink my stimulants, and rock beats scissors in a metaphorical game which is an abstract symbol of sum underlying
innocent memorizes and experiences, that I watch like a television as I grumble laying beneath the sheets, and the spirit of hate is life
I am afraid of the night, but more so of the light of the morning which wakes me full of lingering doubts and horrible memories of
So sooth the unfortunate minks could not afford to buy there tea so they raked the bins until they founds a rat, which they cooked and ate
But it is like fucking that, an a that, an at baht a the same, a ways, until the fucking pie in the sky says Mia Culpably la Mamore n fucking hate
distillation of the vital ingredients to fuck you on a trapeze, when even that is perhaps physically inadequate like recurring negative
For the people, for the underground miners whey never see the sun, for the bin takers, for the gypsies, ruin and mean ramification, is the
N hold u and shake u and talk to you when I am all alone with you, and you send shivers up my spine because you are cold compared to my boy
but no sweet, ma bozo are right heavy and raw and need a right seeing to like only you know how, and like fuck me , and again, fuck me and m
But No, Lo, sugar diet could compensate for the lack of fat like a fucking radicalization of the mechanics of turnip growing had swept so
and who knows the secret that they whisper to each other, is it blandishments or are they discussing which of the tropical fish is there fab
And scores of random fuckers walk past, limping there way forward in sum sort of private glory, sum suckered to the path like a mighty fuck
Swim the extravagant mufti colored fish thirsty and eager they jump to breach this surface which extends to grow into a mighty tripodal
Means that another sun has set in the sweltering south, beside the eager mouth in found forth and beyond into the angry sea like a bell
The incomparable profundity of vilification of purity is the abundance of ignominy, shining out of your arsewhole like a fucking lighthouse