Author Topic: The land Icarus Left  (Read 474 times)

Sepia

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The land Icarus Left
« on: October 05, 2012, 11:18:44 pm »



The monotonous reality of non-personality, the disintegration of identity related through the disintegration of lost memories(clinging), the shudder in the awakening of desire and with it, the desire for blood lest we forget we are bipeds not god's chosen, god != man and we shouldn't strive, bipeds should be bipeds, sing bip bop in the streets and parade our segways through the ocean of skin and flesh sweating to keep the asphalt flowing and accepting, a man takes a peach and bites it open and shows it to a girl, but the world of it all is moving, transpiring and going through now, heading out for different terrain, where gods and shepherds meet to converse under clandestine umbrellas under trees in caves where people go to meet people and they want to be seen but not by the greath filthy masses, they want witnesses, not truth while their recount the events from the first day and watches the pattern, thinking they have cracked it all but they forget like people forget, we are not god's chosen, we are not god's we are not we are not what you think we are, there is no meaning in anything unless you put it in there and make it meaningful, you are an animal, a bad animal, hva en har syndet har vi alle gjort, you are an animal in control,

if desired



A man comes into a bar, sits down and asks the bartender for a shot and a brew and as the bartender hands him the drink he notices the patron is quite pale and shivering, sweating cold asks him if he is ok and the man takes the shot and he looks up at the bartender and a tear forms and he says Next week I'm sixty and today my husband of more than thirty years tied me down to a chair, forced my eyelids open and drugged me with hallucinogenics and as I peaked he shot himself in the mouth with two barrels


Drumroll

Curtain

No laughter

What is a joke without a point? Is there a relevance to a story that isn't a story but something lesser, something more mundane than poetry,

broken, like the mirrors we dive into each day, trying to see ourselves in the lens, hoping to catch a glimpse through the looking glass but the glass is hard and cold, black and empty, void, devoid and silence slips through the timeglass and the sand is gathering, a vortex at first, devoid of time it fills before devoid becomes the void, fat and confused but bathed in the radiance of a future coming to bloom and here is our birth, here is our wonderful kingdom, our dreary lovely place that we will love and hate and accept and it is the last part that will drain us and leave us dead unless we get out, past the river and the tracks and into the forest, into the hills away from where, there is nothing here holding us, there is nothing we can't abandon there is nothing precious there is nothing holding us back but us

None, one more victory for Mister None. The war is here now and we heard the faint echoes earlier when a lad ran around saying he was sent by king arthur himself to tell the story of war, of victory of violence of vengeance of voraciousness of v of love of him, you and me, but most of all about Puck because Puck is one of twelve gods assigned to this world to influence it and they say he built the milksnatcher from a komodovaran and a signed version of lavey's bible and that's the real conspiracy, the eschaton as immanentized by Puck

The land he left and what did he see, up there, soaring, peering, not feeling the sun but as the goats sing in the mountain, everything that falls down, eventually rises but there is no up, there is no down, not here, not in mythology, never in mythology but he saw us up there as if we were more beautiful, part of something more than the everyday, than the reality, part of something less devoid
Everyone will always be too late