To fuckland be damned.

this is the new space for protein pacification, polar particles in the real time thermodynamic state of being our burdens to bear, and this is the evolutionary throwback with details like the extra long tale where it shouldn’t be… becoming roving packs of social Darwinism making wrongs instead of rights, as following Haeckel’s recapitulation theory at large in diminutive perspective as the hordes of the mainstream population, and our embryonic journey has yet to finish… as the tail might recede into the coccyx to form the modern human, the living idea moves through substance into yielding at the developed being, but the most sophisticated part in the brain develops last which leaves the question how many of us tend to be least likely to adapt appropriately?… our society founded on archaic hearth wisdom from aeons ago when Ouranos was first castrated by Cronus, rites masking as wisdom used against us by these social purists and selfish pursuits, and mocking the real people in place of a daydream that may never come true again… a remark on Lamarck before the soft inheritance of these traits comes true for you too, as you are now absorbing them through a brief scan with the help of acting as hosts to these various equivalents of cultural genetics, but your mind might as well act the unyielding membranous barrier to selectively choose the ideas most vital to adapting to a specific awareness… epsilon children in the twilight of our enlightenment period, and so now comes the need to learn and retain what experience we come away with, before the whole ‘sky-is-falling’ scenario comes horribly true for us all… come one, come all, come frequently… this is not a game show, but the real of the real where every dream must come true in order for immaterial laws to supersede the human needs, the atmosphere around us swirling like the artificial flakes in a snow globe… always wanting the ideal measure to take the place of our own impartial and impatient selfish super seeds implanted to make the most impact over all the basic generations of self, whether of our own tribe or not because our plant needs to grow further at any cost, but that price has always remained ambiguous until any factual effect has long come under display through the naked eye… the absorption through human osmosis of brain tissue, as shone through the prism of the intellect and analytical faculties, and projected from the absolute of humanity’s motion whether in the carved rocks or gilded towers of glass and steel… constantly in the sequence of pushing things past the metaphysical (astral and etheric realms) and physical layers as though the source were a heated plate, and we are the bubbles boiling below the surface of the water waiting to rise, the experience of our lives encapsulated within that bubble of time and space as we burst forth into the next state of being once the metaphor breaks loose of of its ideal constrictions…

Sunday before last.

it takes very little to secure a future in this world, but when one doesn’t sense the type of sacrifice it takes to bring a particular reality into quick appearance, all kinds of havoc and mayhem shine through the veneer of plastic false politeness through idle chatter… a delivery of free random verse about the various possessive ways wicked to the good character of the social beast that the human animal can be when there are few rules applied to these interactive situations requiring the being of human, civil and calm to better assess the activities derived from the ‘party down’ mentality, but few realize this is the primal tent pole sticking out of the ground… underneath the tent we are presenting a revival, or perhaps more aptly the devival of authoritative powers that be, their choice made long ago consistently upheld wrongly as a standard for no reasoning or great ideal other than controlling the populace by and large to make us a herd for consumption of whatever sort deemed worthy… the fall of vast corporate motion through the factories and commercial farming to be replaced by the digital realm as overseer, the central force purging the world of its heavy burden of blame and waste, but better organized before becoming greatly fucked up in any grandiose manner by our own unwieldy desires… the repetition of stories made up by the convincing strains of characterization projected forth like a mission, the strength of the individual tale wrapped inside its characters, and it is Here that i find myself on a solo plane in my reality bubble… the imaginary yields but singular fruit at times, and usually when no one is looking directly at the product created, the energy of the audience transferred to charge the magic needed for the person to be pulled in by the merits of the storytelling alone… but the reader is no mere hermit nor necessarily a powerful magician with the abilities to define layers of symbolic meaning, there is no lack of expression for those who commit themselves to the goal beyond the glory, we thank the gods and kiss the feet of whatever forces we wish to appease most in our lives… torturing ourselves through a mass production misery that thinks it is constantly expanding, distracted perhaps enthralled by our effects on other people, but we need to see the possibility for growth if there is ever any way to get beyond these skeletal structural remains… some would prefer to argue in other rhetorical directions as though we are merely the servants to our senses, and we remain subdued by our fetishes for control in this experimental place that has yet to really pan out any serious statements of intent, as the hive mind tries to subvert humanity through the attention given to public cultural icons as it is turned into celebrity fascination to force a pulsating conformity onto the populace…

Meeting cEvin Key.

don’t get me wrong, it isn’t as though i disbelieve in community, but i am highly disagreeable with mainstream thought as i feel i have been sold-out by the nationally-endorsed educational system in power since it was first established and remains the very same repetition of information until the freethinker has to drop-out sooner than later… however, this is only the lead-in segue to my tale, and this is thanks to all the people involved and credited to making my good time possible… let us begin Here, A-boy contacted my love through this internet contraption and its accompanying software with Email connection, but this leads me to enlighten you as to the start of this groovy relationship between us all as well… we had met A-boy at the Nny Ppy show in the warehouse at the height of drunken complexes unwieldy on my part, she remembers distracted anxiety alert in the ballroom there, but it was certainly more intense at a later date when we met A-boy again at the oHgr show held at the same place… this is where we all shared our interest for the industrial music scene initially, late in the night separated by time and space after everything had closed, but the waking luxury accented our real freedom even more after the bullshit… again, we see the Nny Ppy at this venue with usual souvenirs bought, but with a distinct lack of discombobulation enough to reach out and see them further out in another city… the variation of interior and atmosphere made all the difference in comparison with the previous place, and A-boy was a completely alright soul to get to know sitting to the wee hours in a drunk madness, especially in lieu of all confusion in after party shenanigans that only cEvin participated in… it is Here that we find the flag interlude where i vaguely explain my gifting process, in the course of meeting one of the two Kevins after the oHgr show was when the courage hit to give him the flag i had created with the help of my workplace, and i bought the materials and the pattern i made and handed it to Kevin at the same time my lovely handed him the beautiful Gnosis I book… flash forward to the above mentioned after party where the other one of the two Kevins was personally, but perhaps i am mildly mistaken where i gave him the other flag, and this is the ‘cool’ detail i find… Kevin (oHgr) has the sewn applique nylon 2foot by 3foot flag with the recent logo for the group, while Kevin (Key) has the solvent print 2foot by 3foot flag on flag material where the elder ‘SP’ logo stands askew from the newly revised ‘SP’ logo with the band name underneath, and he says that he has it in storage and not out “in flight” after i asked where it was “flying”… okay, so A-boy is in knee-deep in the scene, and gives my love updates on what comes our way… the last one before this one was with cEvin, spybey and western, and it was Here that we got our souvenirs autographed… hmm, and it could also be the place i gave Key his flag or not, not sure really right now… well, A-boy came into our neck of the woods and gave us a lift to the Numbers outing cEvin appeared at this time, but it seems no one got paid at all for that gig i learned later on… tough break because A-boy was tremendous with his skills between all the various personalities, but i believe it took a recognition on all of our parts for it to have worked out as such a meeting as it did, though enough of this crap spew waste from my fettered mind on to the tissue of the issue… the four of us get there after the emo band, and we stand there against the wall watching twin grand-span screen televisions that vary channels, she and i began drinking at this point… the dance was on and what began with one spinning gothic lad soon became a large mass, but i restrained myself to head-bobbing and foot-tapping until the real performance later in the night, and as the club closed up its doors… A-boy was busied with getting great footage as he was renowned for between my love and i as we get out very little, and it was because he aided the performers with finding hotel accommodations for the night that i believe we met cEvin Key in person, it still gets me really something weird inside… i was very envious of his herb stash waving right in front of me within minutes of handing him my tri-bass logo in black adhesive vinyl, and my question was answered again within minutes of a back and forth between backstage and dressing room where talk of papers were passed around by a vinyl-clad mistress who remains unrecognized to this day, he was very kind and there were dual instances where we could have hung out longer that didn’t work out… i guess we were still standing in the fan-dumbstruck dimension as we sat listening with deaf ears to the album Key put out years ago that i bought that night, smoking the last of our herb laughing about what we would be doing with cEvin right then at the hotel, and our friend A-boy and everyone else involved that was never met nor named in this conversational affair made the more magical of quaint slight connections between artist-music-audience…

the Slow Children.

the dangers of becoming part of the robotic massive that utilizes the human form so casually, mimicry of the half-asleep sub-dermal programming in millions of random numbers, but this does not make your future any better… instead it makes your empty worthlessness exist by leaps and bounds against the grain of real time urge for necessity, and you decide firmly that there has to be a reason worth the time and the effort spent to maintain a particular lifestyle, however false this might really be in all actuality… trite self-delusion of ultra-human-type literal mind, to take heed to take warning, and come out of the whole ordeal as though the sparkling clean maestro of the eso-meta-physical… nothing cures the whirl of social anxiety like the dual effects of herb and lager… this too slows function rationale down a little for the jester to become the more efficient in being annoying and obnoxious in the extreme, as the conscious mind relaxes in its logical pursuits, and the passionate soul would rather overtake the emotions of the carnal beast… the sluggish inner dimension blown wide open for the furnace chamber it is, the heart centered at the top of the ribs, and the pulse a dead beat rising in rhyme to the reason twisting the corpse alive… the labyrinthine threads through which the needle eye accepts only a few, the straws that break the camel’s back, and your mother becomes suddenly struck awake and alive as well… up through that rotted birth canal which we all jettison through, the womb has no other choice than to obey the fist, this the where the creative purge comes in handy, so-to-speak… the Slow Children are not necessarily retarded children, but merely socially unacceptable mental cases to some degree, this is the haunting realism to the situation currently prescribed the vacant mind through a spastic reflex media… condemning the softness with a militant edge, the soldiers who know nothing and want for nothing other than the next fight, and the excerpt for straight uni-dimensional reality that has underlined “conform or die!!!” is too perfect a mantra to be real in the grand spectrum of all wavelengths together… at once reborn and born for the very first time Here on the mortal plane, at first the mindless sensate vessel oblivious to the world at large, and then in the the next phase of life as creatures learning to cope with all the various cruelties inherent in this fleshly gore… these strange commandments control and condemn the soul to harsh and unyielding rebuke, devil’s advocate i play to wield the persona with the particular graces of charisma and spectacular faith in the ways i work the judicial system, but i am not going to accept just any certain reality that makes too many things a simple rotting finale to the whole process… the family togetherness is what i am looking for when i think of my pet projects, many ends of the same concept holding the uniform appearance intimately connected, but maybe my hopes are too far set into the future…

Dandy lyin'.

trying to break through barriers that build the stereotypes that plague the intense interactions between people, formed at first as a means of defense, and then turned into masks to seal others away at arm’s length… scurrying past the gated fates, an exit to one aspect of life to enter another state planed and scraped away, tipping the scales in favor of return to the state of intuitive strength… the matted mane of hair in the eyes, the stage opened up wide as you try and fail to hyde the syde that styles your pryde, but why even seek the need to obfuscate the mind’s eye?… with all the weight we each carry, it is an impossible act to accept and admit when one is corrupted through being another chemical missionary, and the company pharmacopoeia tries to sap the brain and energy necessary to break the cycles of pain… to generate a thought from the organic transmitter lodged with electrical impulses to run the circuits, chemical mechanisms moving without word, but merely the right frame of insight to guide an escape through the days… from either end of the gamut there is an unresolved tension that creates the dynamic between the matter-bound beings on one hand, the immaterial souls on the other residing in the ephemeral deep, and the matter-dwelling spirits in the middle of this cosmos in constant flux… even as the trick of the pilcrow is remembered by some to be utilized to start a new train of thought, but Here it all comes together as one thing, the literal substance of the real… the senses reveal the jumble that surges through our minds, like wild dogs trying to tear a peace for ourselves, with stars in our eyes we walk a thin line… unable to see, feeling out blindness, but what drives us but the madness to strive to do better things… feeling dead inside the zombified stride of hollowed out wallowing in pity and frustrations, using up the vital energies of others too close with concern for ignorant pleas, but feeling either the stunned or stoned modes of the human disease in functional persuasions lacking straight-forward communications… the reckless abandon into the feckless microcosm, the soul or spirit is random as we are filled with some idea of the essence, and sometimes i cannot believe it has come to this point… why the human animal reeks of the immature opinion, the assumption beyond question, and why life has to seem neat or clean or simple?… we are all at fault, working with what we are trained with, and letting others know the superior standard common sense has arrived… the awful ways that work into fits the weaknesses we work our lives to fix, those subtle silent floating patterns baring dread fruit to despair their minds again, but no art works as hardly ever as the art of art itself…

Authority vacant.

only to become completely unnerved at the moment’s notice, the cells are weakened as the authority is vacant, and reamed with the likes of the worse of them… some goal appears as if to automate our own need to be lead around by the leash, the other humans are too tired of becoming the bad guys over and over, and the shape of natural needs motivated underneath the seeds laid deep… the incredulous tick-tocking, non-stopping drive ill-bent without substantial relief, but to whose hands are upon the wheel moving us forward?… usurping the collective will and then taking us into the sun, a heartbeat away from our doom, but we don’t run instead we dive right into the wave as it hits us… the solar instinct burning hatred into us as we squint our eyes one by one, grabbing for a piece of that once shining now rapidly fading bit of dreaming, but sleeping too early does not come cheap for the weak or the burly… a runt-sized roulette where the russian spins in fits, someone has been shot by the gun, but the fun isn’t over yet until you get the joke… some have placed a bet, and others are riding long-shots that will never come around, until the brink of collapse has become the main overwhelming fear for many of the denizens in this pit… scaring thoughts that override the system in place to survive and react, but what some would consider the goal to protect, is actually a bid in the game we all seem to be playing in… the catch is that we never win, unless one of us can subvert though not break the system, and cannot understand the rules except for the particular few bred and named as the heads of state and all progress… no one to guide us into the positive vibration, which isn’t to say that the concept lacks credit, but few people believe the liars aware of some truth… the empty look in our eyes as we open up to reality in the context of another human being, as the abilities to damage the intense directions through lax diction to fake the first lines in another song or play at words, but wondering loudly with an instinctual character creation facet puzzling all residual abysmal feeling and thought-form… ‘away-away… you fucking, crevice-faced cretins with your device-driven hardware… negative spiritual energy suckling upon my creative teat… allowing me to crave the same on the same plane as the rest of us today, if only if, and the positive flow of gracious calm and restraint glows and within me i feel the sane… the fire inside my heart glows deep, the muse rendered through a sick infatuation, but yet the muse reappears again in disguise of mirth and a-muse-ment… the raptures of laughter in a simple place… let the sick who want to eat, chew, and let the the masques of the mighty fall by the wayside as the giants loose themselves upon this collapsing cage built through fears… the energy to suffuse the panic and public opinion of the people with a dedicated circuit that loops over and over until the switch is turned off by a licensed technician, or the use of a shamanic position to quell the fury of by gods unleashed through the manic, spastic memes viral like disease to assume there is meaning or proof… the cries of the carrots appear differently through the many millions of ears and other organs of sense’...

Fitting manic write.

i have almost seemed to abandon the odd scheme of the tentacle penetration scenarios, but with yet another new learning for the trial and tribulation of testing, this new test pattern is incorporating all my stories… utilizing two full decks of tarot cards, as complimentary tools to one another, but in the various multitudes of dualistic forms as representing the twin forces in nature… this is an exercise in characterization, one of my weakest suits in the writing game, but i can begin to make a dent in configuring my characters… this is what i plan on using the tarot decks for, in proxy for the dichotomy of the real that reveals itself slowly, but also as an item with dynamic transference from the imaginary into the revealed… a subtle but powerful re-invigoration of the literary arts, to inject my characters with pronounced traits instead of being personally blanked by the lack of unique quality to my personifications, but this is part of the new challenge to some degree… if it works out well, you could be seeing more finished stories, but i wouldn’t want to intrude on bringing your hopes up on behalf of my work, sometimes you can get lucky if you really try at something different for a change… my new system is rather simple this time, and definitely hits some of my weaknesses hard in the guts, not only utilizing the tarot cards in character development… i have a new timing belt developed for my advantage, instead of giving myself so much shit for being lazy, i have figured out a scheduling orientation that just might suffer the trick… and it is just vague enough, read adjustable, to come up with many different ways to apply the bloated corpse to my haphazard attempts at literary justice… the jurisfiction of other authors’ dreams become something more than themselves as we begin to see them all quite a bit differently now… anyway back to my new system, three “days” of the week are devoted to writing, just writing and no particular slow mulling over the manuscript that could be considered editing… if anything notes just need to be made more frequently, the process of bringing concepts together, and linking them to one another through the connective tissue there somewhere… the next three days are for editing, and can be for any number of the stories that i am working on, so watch out… i do think i will start with the “tentacle-raped” scenarios, and finish those first of the utmost need, with the fairly unpolished ‘Toys’ stories getting some practical attention… on the alternate side of my art, the musical muscle i need to flex more to get better, i am throwing this too into the same system… the first three are practice-oriented days, working more with what i know, and trying until i feel confident in the consistency of the motion and feeling translated… the next three days are constructed around songwriting and composition of mainly my own work, but also for the greater purpose of understanding the work as well, finding it necessary to track the challenges as well as the ideas in order to gradually learn what to do what feels right… the last of the seven day struggle is basically a freedom-to-relish period in the artistic vision...

Pausing cautiously.

he culture that cradles one when they first wake up becomes the cannibal saint training you the survival games we play, as though the purpose really is so great, but it is epic on many scales and layers as we master the personal disasters that plague one throughout adulthood… pushed on by the inflicted ideal of the state, another dog thrashing about leashed onto the sleigh, and we are all Here to move the monument which has become our crazed cultural icons… to admit my submission to a whole wide world that knows nothing of me is to prepared for the return of that energy, the hologram selves await the gathered initiative to move, and a deep-seated urge to swipe a position between the ridiculous and the absurd to gather up the nerve… that quotient of eclectic electricity without violence, but signify the act covertly in the presence of others, unhindered by curses nor criticisms thrown my way… the baiting and naive atrocious at lying to deceive, an aid in covering the evidence of hideous faces beneath the veneer, and with opinions filtered in by poll to await the occurrence of some unforeseen script error… to catch the cryptic statements in a safety network as they fall from thin silk, the trees unreal growing to root in our fetal zeal as the stumps grow out into leaves, and blown out like the knees as the aged threads become frail and slender without a mender to fix the seams… so now one must walk with a skiff, or at least some kind of structural support in place of the whim, dimwits with small minds challenge the fixed wedge as it wears thinner still… to give up too quickly is “retard”, or i’m sorry, to be retired… making us no better than any other moron among us, which we are anyway you slice it even if you defend yourself otherwise, and nearly everyone seems utterly blocked by this polarity of spirit… to move too quickly in a direction you wish uses velocity of state to make one numb enough to understand the new information, but polarizes those who have no idea of the range of experience within their vapid opinions based upon other opinion yet still, it seems as though no two ends of the same scaled and visualized spectrum would be able to be connected… however, it is this bizarre attraction between the opposites that literally reacts by pulling their frequencies together, and can be utilized in favor of true will if there is an earnest desire to learn and to know things unknown… what secrets on the issues of compromise and working collectively can be gleaned from the interaction between Here and there?… the eternal dreams can cast themselves aside for the greater good, but can we as human beings ever concede that we affiliate ourselves with more than the betterment of our works, some motion inside the circuitry created by this charge between polar forces… a reaction slowly melting down into one state of reality bent on dominating us through the back door in the dark of night, even those zombie agents of other things walk down the streets in daylight now, but do we can we even really see as we need to see?…

Pigs on the march.

they step right up, march push crawl, right up on their knees… well doesn’t it make you feel better?… jesus the warlord of space/ time Here, he siphons the soul energy of others, absorbing and suckling to reconstitute himself into incarnation… a mutant warlord to overtake our collective consciousness with old school brutal fury, relying on that primal sense of vague intent just to rule and conquer, and killing off those whom will not convert themselves to this new world order soon… the fish bears the sinister dreams, a myth predisposed of a good-natured disguise to break the bits to compartmentalize the truth into sequences of controlled mob mentality, and create a populace in fear and panic… to stuff it up inside of our pants to make us feel the electrodes used to fry our primal urge to dust, kill the rebellion, and come away richer and more developed than the rest… the elite of the consensus suck bringing the void in through the whole in the cosmic rectum, sucking the shit out to give to those who cannot commit themselves truthfully, and then the sludge finally gives way to becoming the compost to make life better… used and plagiarized as the excuse for a mechanical god to rule by systemic infection, the proletariat portion without a care to rule themselves, but giving over all goods and services to the noxious powers-that-be only to realize that the world in which they live is created by their own hands… everyone wishes to be an authority for themselves, but with certain forces limiting the extent to which the information flows to us, taking the fiery flame of hate too far indeed… trying to fake out the outsiders by making them think that they want to be like the rest of the cannibal culture eating its young, taking the learning human brains to replace them with some tainted mythological tissue-washing procedure, and robotic forms a-droneing along with the banshee’s cries in the night… i am glad the rebellion keeps surging ahead, and maybe i will be one of those to reveal the real behind the glamor, one of the astute consciousnesses that are required for the bulk to move… the better destination is there somewhere… maybe the ideal rapture is a religious state of berserker mode that possesses the zealots under the jesus lizard sway, a reptilian beast training the others how to kill in his name, and the ghouls in his command turning into drool-dropping blood drinkers with zombified creature features… taking the ritual too far for a martyred impurity that the deity claims is unfit for human development, or i should say that it is the will of the “masters” of religious exploitation, making their disciples and devotees take arms against one another with the goal of population control at the top of the listed plans… the hidden agenda allows for the shadows to grow and move beyond the massive dark force that spawns this horizontal bandwidth of evil, the deviltry emanating from the anti-bulk of the beast as it drift through human ages, and those on a vertical plane leaving trails of their dead behind to feed the furnace of human souls… recycle, reduce, reuse…

Thanks, khet.

the Alchemical soul.

alchemy and astrology and even the sciences of speech try to exactly define a certain range of information, even as the studies may try to negate the distracting details that connect one field to another, but the focus comes to involve the wider spectrum of results no matter what the empirical study may show… psychology and alchemy linked as per Carl Jung, and now i am slightly pioneering correlations between color theory and gnostic thinking, horizontal and vertical planes as they relate to physical and intellectual growth… colors and sounds all seem to swirl together as aspects to a greater whole, but is it a grandiose soul at work within us, or merely the eventual coagulation of all information into one authority?… i am not the scientific ‘Merican i might seem to wish to be, but i realize that i have a brain that can analyze and perceive things on a larger scope than the subjective person i am, even as i also come to realize that all those things are the same being Here… how to reveal anything without saying too much, i wonder?… first, there are so many patterns that tracking all of them together is virtually impossible, but maybe this is why we keep advancing over the technological cliffside like cyber lemmings… through to a virtual sociology where there will be equal features between each mind linked to one another somehow, but not necessarily a viral strain creating polyps in the doomed, because that is so much the dire tragedy of today… we are all composed of the same materials, and within the rarefying pressures of time and space, we may find ourselves being utilized by the soul as any other instrument… capable of the great deeds and epic catastrophes of our age, but whose future potential lies unknown and undeveloped until a transition occurs which allows the soul to manifest, those catalysts that liken themselves to incredible power… we are allowed access to this significant awareness of things that only now makes sense to us, this physical core that may at first seem totally disposal, and the abilities to affect a material world irregardless of value or direction… however, soon the soul must realize that these tangential escapades become interpreted as a “game” to a particular sort of “player”, and becomes “won” after enough time of sustained intent…

Vibrating colors.

all are based upon the all-too subtle vibration of particles that irreversibly make up all of matter, and the same is just as true with colors and sounds as with any other objects, even the subjective objects that we are… linked as strings or chains, even consciousness on the grander scale becomes like this, and all these “strands” are woven together… as we grow and die, we capture the various pieces of information that our own unique filtration systems are able to perceive through the murky cluttered view of reality, and these bits and bytes are data that our random access memory can incorporate into the living understanding that we each are capable of becoming… as particles start, they begin existence as ideas or memes in my theory, and gradually incarnate as other humans that interact and learn from each other, and maybe consciousness acts symbiotically through us, as the chills race down our collective spines… thus further adapting and sending that conscious experience outward to the other open receptors to collect, but each individual filtering process becomes shaped by that early experiential data that we all collect from the social machine that our parents and grandparents have conformed to since its inception, these are some of our starting ‘A’ influences… these strange particulates of mass and volume can move at either the pattern which allows for a greater opportunity in avoiding unnecessary collection by beings who will dismiss those vital ‘emes’ of myriad purpose, adapting to a selective and progressive course, or through the flexing and swaying limbs of the random wave pattern… now almost everyone falls into the latter category merely as a model because of a foolish certainty we have come to feel we know it stands for inner clarity above everything else, and even if that is to the exclusion of respect to other viewpoints, how can anyone be expected to play these obnoxious mind games?… the social circles seem to loop around and down the neck, at which time the noose is pulled quite hard upwards in a jerking fashion as the head tends to snap, and the neck breaks if the idiot trapped inside gets lucky…

Lost in new innocence.

i figured that maybe i would try to manage my artistic projects in the interim, and i played guitar and sang like a rock star then, however it was unorganized even as i noted that i needed to keep that feeling together in memory so as not to lose this potent realization… that was the feeling of not constraining the feelings into a bubble in my chest, to not lose the overwhelming sense of well-being i wanted to feel whenever i played, and i soon accosted myself with thoughts of what had happened to bring this moment….i cried then with the guitar in my hands still playing to the music… the sick feeling finally hit me hard, and all i could do was lay on the couch in a daze while viewing bits of shows i wanted to see, i grew restless again though… in and out of slight bouts with unconsciousness as sat there, but i was never ready to pass out yet, though there are bits and pieces i don’t remember to the movies i saw… however, i will not forget that inspiration hit like a brick upside my head that day, and it is going to carry over to many more days as they come….of that i am sure… i do wonder where the next step will take us, and if we are all truly ready, probably not this time around… although i believe there is always the chase to move about within the time lines of my characters, perhaps developing a more profound sense of being for each epic movement of their limbs, and maybe this could be seen from the perspective of the conscious ants we are from below… a sight from the shadow spots just behind the eyes of titans, the mind as low to the ground as the feet perhaps, and then we listen as the roar grows louder still… the thunder beneath the feet of titans, but suppose there is a fatal flaw in this wider view, this overwhelming noise and titanic vision becomes a veil enveloping our senses to distract away from the nearing end of a particular phase to life as we know it… some, and they are too few, see it for what it is and cannot stop repeating the message…

Food the distracted.

the squeezing point of pressure even as some aspects of my personality are not like me… mistakes are the blanket i seem to warm myself with, the negative reactions coming like white hot explosions of emotional weight, constrictive and limiting the reasons for growth… feeling as though the material i waste is really my own, but there is no real way of knowing how true that is right now, even intuition seems a faulty system to derive comfort from… but what comfort can i really derive from the system in place, when a helpless and despondent sensation overwhelms me, and it seems as though the world is brimming with ???… is it consequence that seeks me?… the pull hellacious from unfamiliar territory?… the thoughts and emotions and actions are always interminably linked in some vital way which propels these ideas forward, the pursuit of cosmic philosophistry, which would be the composing of confusing and contrary questions competing for completion… but even that says nothing except for the self-fulfilling prophesies built from the bottom up, the primal urgings from the forms surging through the creative mind space, and ask nothing in return which might mean something if you are working in reverse… sometimes i feel like my intuition is fucking with me, but i know even that is purely psychologic, because there never really is anything to fear except being afraid itself… it would seem that no man, or woman for that instance, is an archipelago….but we are links in the chains of that i am certain… as the ancestral matter gets carried away to the bottom, or perhaps floating to the top, creamy like a foamy head mocking all serious and relevant proceedings… this is the mayhem i inject into reality through my words, the morphemes acting as the morphine to soothe your ills, and to show you insight from a new and bewildering point of view…

Conquested regret.

clouding out other voices instead for repetition of the wrong things, answers to questions never asked by anyone, and always in all the wrong contexts… hard to believe, but i feel as though i shall finally have some life energy that is my own, that isn’t linked through time and space to anyone else stranger in future strange lands… do we keep the seed moving so that it carries us through to the other side with it?… or does that just never matter in the grand scheme of cosmic madness prevailing?… the raw and unyielding words sting and scar as they fly out and away, trying to pressure cook the whole lot of us in an infernal stew, and making the melting pot boiling hot to scald the unfortunate ones… the emotions cannot appear objective to me, and my system of organizing those thoughts sometimes shatters any previously held personal expectations of stupidity, my blindness allowing others to see themselves when it is their time to open up to the vision… there are very few people really trying to understand themselves in any way that will make sense to the outside world at large, but the past has given us the works of scholars and thinkers who posit similar enough arguments that it certainly adds to the magical parallels in synchronicity, the possibility of a probability within a probability of possibility forever into the infinite… speeches are made by the orators who can handle the pressure, but sometimes the song has to be sung and there are no other singers but you, where we are there is only the ‘show’… the display for no one in particular, but for your willingness to include yourself in the chaos i need for positive change to occur, without risking the skin once or twice there is nothing of note to stand up and look forward to…

the Sleeping god calls.

this cthonic rage cannot abide, dude… the naps turned to thoughtless rampages through a universe internal fraught with falling buildings and screams somewhere deep, so deep it touches a nerve of fear that madness makes me piss myself, but are those just the heartbeats in my chest radiating outward into my head somehow?… are my dreams really my own, or am i some mad dreamer among the many, hearing the call of the sleeping god?… the twisted car wreck of analogy representing the limited actions in a person’s life, but the “driver” of the soul feels helpless to combat these horrible options even as they are self-imposed hurdles, tests to ensure loyalty without questioning the ideal authority… paradox tries its best to throw us off the path we are on, no matter how far the progression has gone, but through true will alone one can defy any siren songs at the exclusion of hearing everything altogether… the words can always escape our grasp if we do not seem to manage the focus enough under the duress of people’s attention, at times the individual breaks down when a constrictive flow of energy comes to an end, and a burst from the chest becomes an appropriate expression to spill forth… game over, man, game over… not everything the voices in your head say will make as much sense as any of the rest of this, and sometimes a person just needs the rest to make up a direction and go forward, this is the optimal risking behavior to really understand… few people understand their primal intelligence and reconcile that with the logical intellect that anyone else would define as general intelligence, no one learns through classes alone on effective reconciliation between mind and body and soul, and few symbols will ever openly reveal themselves to those unwilling to let go of their predispositions first… there is no transition without letting go, the raw amplification of nervous energy can make the mind yield impatient results...

Devil's printer.

i do more than merely fetch inks and type, and kill myself by the solvent stink, i also create flags and banners from scratch… something my supervisor doesn’t do, and the others i work with are far too busy to be able to do my job for me, the printer’s devil at work perhaps… maybe i am some lesser aspect, or greater aspect for that matter since we’re being hypothetical, of that patron demon of scribes Titivillus while i work the printers role Here… it makes wonder how much of this is the living mystery play about it, that fascination we see glimmering in others eyes as it does in our own when a gratifying vision comes into view, and it seems only a matter of time before the vision becomes real and takes on the life of its own… the villain fills my shoes sometimes, it has only recently become my assessment of the situation both at home and at work, but mainly when i have figured that work mode was the focus for this frustrating energy to begin its journey… where i work i am one of five now, and i am the only one to fit the role of the production artist, whatever title that would be… my supervisor knows a little bit more about the actual printing games that business-people play, passing the bullshit around until something actually works to size, but his managing of the printers could fill most of what i do… the other side to this situation, one of a few sides i might add, is the seamstresses who do the bulk of the manual labor throughout a day… since there are three working now, much gets done in a day rather quickly, and only occasionally do i have time at lunch or break to do any writing or reading… i feel like now i can combat the rest of those inane feelings and habits mocking my resolve and integrity towards my work, with the idea of a printing demon gremlinizing my abilities, it seems far easier to avoid the pitfalls i normally associated with trying and failing and wasting materials… if i can afford to tarry this in my favor, then maybe a raise doesn’t seem far off the scale, but we must have patience to guide us further than we think we can go….distance never really matters anywhere you are now… sometimes the greatest gift is the present of your presence, as the sleeping rest through the drifting lapping waves of struggle, and i wander dreamily shrugging as though the intent were ‘i cared and this is what i get’… to call this place a hellbox where all the wasted pieces fall, and then taken to be melted together to fill the machine again, to make more phrases with which we speak and chatter together… we still utilize this grotesque adaptation of a system to further plunder and suck from a cruel world...

the Green Eight.

gagging reflexes possessed as the man i am eats those live cockroaches chitinous shells attached to their backs… dribbling from the chin… we eat our dumb, the silent majority paying homage to the flimflam man in His dreadful stays of thought, improvised on a whim to make the others squinch in their seats with disgust… a casual assuage most tormented… spinning retards into fits with a subtle sullen glamor from the hands of the fish, bleeding and wounded as the blood hits your lips, and the charity as you put your brother down so they would not have to live through the shame… these filthy things are not meant for sweeping gestures, like bugs under skin we crawl and cause itches, but there are no willing ones to scratch us all… although time might forgive us our sins and transgressions, there is no matter always the immediate while still living by no means easily, but most try to think a few steps ahead in the greater attrition rate of it all at once….that, we might wager, is the everything of existence douching us in the faces with an antique reverence for the aging crusty distractions… the dust and flour gently falling off the features as it cakes to all the little hairs along the lashes and brow ridge, the little caption reading above the head is a quotation of lyrics, and then the full throttle punch in the guts just under the ribcage… the heart and murk lies buried just as deep as the rest of the instincts, scraping the bottom of the barrel to dredge the best little bits up as the brains paint the ceiling, but is the exposure all lost to that final expulsion into the air… the fire that was singing and ringing between the ears just moments ago as the smoke rolls out above, and the body drops to the floor… eight green painted fingernails as the coroner zips the bag closed, the room is cold and the scars are permanent as lights are turned dark, and there is nothing left but thoughts to abide while the soul rests distant but still alight… was there ever really anything left?… or was it all just a series of facts?… the poetry translated through a tormented scripture… no, just the repressed buttons and switches and levers that resist the finger, we down play the mutant suffering motherfucker unaware… off-street it all adds up to the oddest lots you could ever care to throw in with, those distinct faces, resonant with a stroke of luck, the fateful fucked-up shindig we convince ourselves is a hell… do we deserve to feel this gastric suck, that enslaves the ego to supervise and undertake, the critical measure to break down and digest the deceptive replays of memory?… the storage space to think our own ways into existence from afar, the self shooting from the stars doesn’t have to be there, but the rest of it shall always remain there inside that planet over there… the burial backwards, the concept of old age at the present as the present happens to be middle age, and then looking back into a past of vague childhood woes… the youthful college daze before this working life, all the weirdness attached to new experiences as the memories steer toward the overactive center called home then, but even further still we traverse the hike into the winters and summers of budding self-discovery… where do we go that we never seek?…

Busker don't?

melting us further together into one cohesive lump… an undulating sweaty lump of coal burning up in the furnace of progress… though that doesn’t mean that one cannot afford to pursue the dreams in their own head, the life abundant perhaps, but maybe also the luxuriant sedative effect of the capitalist dogma working on the side of “law and order”… the weight presented by the rest of the natural world pursuing a sort of profound chaotic conformity, where the intentions of the living creatures compliments the solid and long-lasting linearity of horizontal extrusion into this material place, and the taste of the visceral instinct waivers all objective exactitude that our minds might inspire… we relate ourselves and our experiences to the other person, but it is up to them to incorporate as they choose with the information we push their way… i have listened to the rock band Husker Du, but not as extensively as i would have liked, my musical self-awareness came with metal rock music however… as i read more about their history, the more i digest into memory, and start to synchronize with their intents as well… makes me want to want a Husker Du phase… though as the rest has unfolded, now i am presently hit with the dilemma, and feel the absolute need for resolution… the call to write and harness the song to express the condensed version of my recounted details, themes may vary, but i can implement the acoustic guitar and my voice in many of the endeavors i wish to follow… i have devised a few covers to polish a bit to a more unique quality, a few original songs in the drafted stages, and my handy acoustic-electric bass to whittle the time down to stubs at the end of bloody stubs…. this is a bit of the exaggerated word, though, nonsense to the layman urge to understand… i have folded my arms to a certain extent, and find it difficult to interact even as my heart deeply wishes some transition beyond this absurdity most abundant, to convey a couple of interesting points before i fade to dust….perhaps to counteract some detrimental plunder of potent creative wanderlust that deserves the merit of valid recognition… still what can Busker Du be for me?… i am truly curious how far that exact pendulum will swing, i am merely on one end of the kinetic strand connecting idea to human as translational tool, but the performance needs to clear my head… to play my songs somewhere Here close by, busking on the street corner or open-mic night for small amounts of plundered coin, and is this the part-time scale that will please?…

This ease.

distracted by the perpetuation of the current mythic operating system, and realizing how it has been corrupted by others without any regard for future innovations….sustaining the dissected unit for robotic fulfillment while the endlessly youthful side waits for the opportunity to render something worth hanging around for… read two Casteneda books with more on the plate, but now working through a copy of Space/ Time Magic by Taylor Ellwood, thin book but i have only just begun… still trying to figure out what keeps me going onward, my love the only floating raft, but still taken from granted by the immature mind… maybe the ego, as it clings to the surface deceptions, tries to take everything too seriously… there is very little fat in my head, not enough to keep the portal open forever, but where a disposable vessel becomes breathing humanity is where the real person is at… all of us potential warriors and sorcerers, the more mature visions resurrecting a vital truth, but is it by true will alone or through the many narrowed perspectives….the relay as the signal is sent out and comes back a pure energy with all hope for the positive return, but an inner preparation and focus to be ready for the negative return… i am a believer in the chaos buffering against us all as we grind ourselves down in the fires of our own motion… i believe in a mystical shamanistic side of life that drives the demons away when we let them, but our thoughts can always take on new dimensions even if we aren’t the one to think them so thoroughly out, expanding further under the auspice of the unknown outcome… to gauge and weight the situation, the ritual of balance in the midst of this whirling thing we are in, and there is so much to make happen before the light extinguishes from the eyes… from mathematics and the divination to perceive the variations as they wash over the milky opaque film as it is played by the players like a game, and no gestures alone seem to fulfill the semantics either…

Well tainted acception.

my pursuit to quash that negative connotation to happy that the mad world implies into being, but it isn’t just delivered in the disguise to make you writhe, the disgust brimming in your eyes as though you yourself have had the tentacle from hell penetrate your mind’s eye well… you leave yourself over-protected and jaded in this day, absorbing the tainted is the only way to outlast a grave display made from our ignorance, and you cannot help it as it is not your fault that the system has fucked us all to some degree or another… are there any other systems like this that require the harbingers of a new age to be as ignorant?… i would hope not, that this might be the only “hell” we get, but that is mere speculation until the great revealing for oneself… this place Here is still all about the wrong topics, is it not?… i leave only you to truly decide, the catastrophe is always there in the wings to make the life most harrowing apparently, but that time is for us to figure out on those isolated individual paths on which we are born… what may appear as the cesspool might actually be the wellspring from which all we ever will require realizes itself into the world… a background dim of noise surrounds the devotee on the task set by his mood, and all the world’s devices seem distorted and lost due to the fading distance, that connection between us and them tossed to the four winds… defying the logic and reason needed to shuffle about this mortal coil, i am just as wounded as you all, and curiously glare at the wandering scar that i have become… a deliberate void from which disturbing arrangements are composed and projected in one swift motion, with a tendency to over-flourish the remains of a statement whether i wish it or not, and take care not to count my perspectives ‘too true’ because they are shone from the mind of one more cursive of the creative….few of these pinpoint captions can really hold sustained value… this quantified vessel on which these memes are bound to sail inside, flowing through with the shifting, thumping sounds behind this skin…