everybody is relatively happy on payday, until the mistakes start
becoming the overwhelming theme, but how can we be so short sighted when
the tendency is to manipulate each other?… thinking ten steps ahead
seems to be the mission, but few people are taught with the skills to
plan things appropriately… the mutilated remains of unique appeal,
catapulting a way out of his swill, born with a bad karma bent over by
god… everyone says that they are willing to sacrifice, but more often
than not just paying lip service to avoid any real response… we are the
receptacles for delight and hatred, the questions for reasons, and
co-mingling with other beings in other directions… the band is vital
entity as a handful of unique beings with traits influenced by every
other part of the world, but quickly in the dying age as we rest on the
toilet of the future, straining to push that potential energy past our
cheeks… we realize our place in subtle movements, pristine moments that
force us to provoke and confront our mechanical role models in place to
perfect the craziness again and again…the difficulty is emotionally
bound, these territorial entities within our life-borne forms, and then
the delicious interlude, dudes… that feeling superseding the mood, the
bliss appearing just before acknowledging the food, and this digestion
of the world we see today of all days in any ways as we please to taste…
even with all of the shit and the waste, to experience something with
curiosity rather than nothing makes us great, but wondering more if we
can outlast the long and drawn-out wait… the foolish aspect to this
reality we hold so dear is necessary as unforgivable as stupidity can
be, it is a needed element in the acceptance of reality for what it is,
but it would only seem as if we dance to the pied piper on the surface
of the thought… only confronting the rare issues head-on, but it takes a
certain quality of graceful instinct for courtesy and respect to move
before your assumptions, the magic comes later and of a timing specific
all its own… the binary sequence radiating throughout us all and our
cosmic knowledge, the elements of physics and the fantastic display of
reality, but also the necessary understanding of what it is to be
concrete… holiday wasted zombies fill a street, but these zombies are
still part of the work week swinging thing that creates the swirling
suck that amasses some many souls, the workers within the hive mind
mentality to feed the false queens… leaders that fill the default needs
of nations next to utterly neglected vessels once the few resources are
tapped out by the vampiric commercial fangs, fingers and tentacles in
everything, tricking the populace into believing the lies for just a few
more goes-around-comes-around motions for the sake of profit and
capitalist waste… even artists need to feed, the merely starving are
desperate for the change of posthumous fame, and with that familiarity
create their own vehicles into the phuture of existence… striking out on
their own for the history of the rest of their familial ties, in
pursuit of the sublime wretch of whatever happens to be left of
celebrity jeopardy by the time they become famous for whatever it is
they do, but sometimes this kind of singular fame can cater to the wrong
crowds…
