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Topics - Sepia

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1
Or Kill Me / God told me to skin you alive[edit]
« on: March 24, 2016, 06:40:12 am »
Weary, wonky, wanking were vixens


"5 And the Lord said, “Indeed the people are one and they all have one language, and this is what they begin to do; now nothing that they propose to do will be withheld from them"."


"."

When the long hard journey is over and we become one people, fully truly like actually and not like anyone with an agenda but when childhood ends and we transcend/ascend/descend nothing will be withheld from us. Bearing that in mind we begin to explore what lies beyond, who knows what is left of mother earth at this point but thats not important now, important is we go out into it, beyond, we work together to become something more, doing something very human and we go out to explore

"...a terrible beauty is born."

Becoming the terror, we have learned so little, a child's hand tinkering at the piano, skilled and knowing, somewhere deep inside the hairy trombone something resonates, changes and the moment of grace is broken and the child resumes, she begins her journey on a broad broad road.

"...Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up she was shitting brown water. The more she drank the more she shat but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew".

A house of cards will fall or did i mean a house of cars i cant seem to recall anymore, theres and impertinent impediment in my speech prepared to give a speach to find those few out of reach and id talk about her fanny but its more of a peach ripe for digging in your teeth and god god grant me sleep

To keep the dream from fragmenting without us knowing what it is anymore. A shudder, a click and a halt, something loosening, a heart stopping, a soul churning. It was supposed to mean something, it was supposed to become something but it wouldn't grow on its own, the tree wanted to die but we had to keep it alive so we ourselves could live into something new, pupae is all we hope we are, underneath all the dross that forms and foams on top of our lives, we hope that we are inherently good, it's not we do, it's not who we are but what we will become that makes us able to move through the dredge of our lives and the smile on our faces is a cold one, like a waiter asking you in a broken language if you want another refill


2
Or Kill Me / fuck you america?
« on: March 05, 2016, 12:34:04 am »
Coming from a country where much of its population emigrated to the holy land, I've always liked you, america, I started young. Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge and many more of the citizens of that fair city whose names I'll never learn in american was part of me then and will always be, one part of soul indistinguishable to any other parts of soul.
Then I learned to love to hate you america, for a radical young guy in a safe part of the world knowing nothing of it, you were easy pickings america, every rant after a few stolen beers would always begin with those who lived on you america before we found you, if you gave me a time machine in your technological splendour america, I'd travel to the time before you exist as you do now america because I think you were quite beautiful

I think its a game america what do you think?

America, I love you as much as I loathe you but if we're talking america the ideal, america the symbol, the man in the tophat top hat top all I can do is say fuck you america because you're the america that's gonna do it, you're going to vote for Donald and put him in the white house and I actually think you're going to do it you're going to put him in there america

I don't know. If you manage to do it, I'll sit safe in my safe place and I'll pity you who live there but after that, fuck, america I don't know what to do. I won't be able to take it seriously, america you've gone some pretty dark places but this is more/new/f'taghn, america will you do it, america how insane are you?

3
Or Kill Me / It was a dark and stormy night
« on: February 12, 2016, 01:20:31 pm »
It was a stark and dormy night
It was dark stark lark;firewood/fireworks but not in rain

Fuck you thats  what, fuck you. Like that, peeled like a glove or an onion

dubito  cogito


I am the cancer ascended from life/I am the life ascended from cancer/I am in my life the definition of my death/In my death I will live my life/I am the stranger and the one strong of mouth/Shadows and songs is wherein I/


What if I never left the country called chaos? What if I never left the country called order? What if these frames of mind only come when you do not expect it and when you seek the chaos it never is what you imagined, the road through chaos where I drove my mind watching everything, observing, taking notes for future reference, future use when I am no longer in the country chaos, when I have transcended the limitations imposed upon myself by myself and the old whore, nature/nurture, then I will sit in a salon, open-air, smoking the most obscure and esoteric turkish tobacco, in my smokers jacket, twirling my whitening moustache, knowing my crows feet are seen by them all, wearing a pith helmet and welcoming them all to tell them my tale

It smells like saccharine, it feels like plastic as we pick up the pieces of this, the debris, the kipple the ejecta of intermingling realities and as we debate the authenticity of our lives and these realities as they emerge and become the superstructure we all are a voice rings out: Do not fall in love. Love wakes the ancient beast, the yin to its yang, the proper hate, the burning hatred. They've been dormant for so long, both love and hate, I remember them, how they felt before I felt it again now, a sun kissing you as you emerge from the waters, feeling reborn, I remember them, the feeling you get when you did something you knew was wrong but you couldn't help it, you understand why you did it but you hate yourself for it and you diminish yourself, you become nothing and when you know you are nothing, you try to ascend once more

I shouldn't have fallen in love with her, there was no reason to, things were going smoothly and I was detached from their reality but I had to get involved, something inside me that is dead but not sufficiently, not sufficiently stamped out, still there, sleeping in its ancient chamber in that damned city, rearing its head once in a while making me not forget about love or hate, making me think about god, about murder, turning into what I once hated. Is this my ascent, an initiation that never ends? I used to be smart, I used to be so fucking sharp but give it years and it will die and you'll become a whiny fuck yourself unless you stop doing and start thinking, reverse what you did to yourself the last few years, to connect is to sever

I shouldn't have fallen in love with here because I wasn't in love with her, sure, she has a great ass, she's kind and warm and we share some interests but I wasn't in love with her until someone told me I should be in love with her, we'd make a nice couple. That was it, that was the summoning. Envy jealousy greed lust but most of all despair

I shouldn't have fallen in love with her because I'm in no state to love nor hate

not even you

4
Or Kill Me / She
« on: November 14, 2015, 01:01:26 am »
He
He
He
He
I
He
He


He tries to see. He tries to see, he tries to see himself. From the inside, from the outside, he tries to see with his naked eye, with his third eye, with his dreaming eye, with his living eye, his dying eye, he tries to see with his good eye. He tries to see what others do not, he tries to see how this world is built up, how his world is built up, he tries to know who he is, not knowing if he wants to know.

He tries to become someone he isnt because its the most standard template. He does this knowing he has become what he hated, when the first bricks of metathought were lain, laid put the foundation of what we became. This is his being, it is where he began and he realized it then as he remembers it now, not where he imagined ending up and no revising of the original thought, no process, only elimination, no hearts squeak as he pass them by

He tries to prove that he is no-one, he tries to die a silent death among the countless other wageslaves, he tries to be less pretentious. His death like their deaths are not silent but as the poet said you die so slowly that you think you are alive and death is on no ones mind. He doesn't have to pretend hes jolly, hes been good at that for too long, it feels ingrained, taught but not in any conventional sense, more like crows feet trying to open

He sees her and he knows something old has stirred, deep in a forgotten sunken city. He thinks about magic, he thinks about two paths and the inevitable third, the impossible one. Faerie, Atlantis, Mu - the desk of slothrop, all here in this heart, something changes, something old but very young emerges, time turns around and he describes the situation without taking control of it, every nuance every detail, he is watching, detached as his life goes by

I try to die for part of me knows that I am dead already and death only feels like a province of the living, a continuation. I feel like its hell sometimes because I havent been doing what I should have done lately, the original plan, youre turning into too old but not old enough, it feels like hell when I forget the words, I know theres a word for exactly that in that context and I know how to use it but I cant for the life of me remember

He doesnt know where were headed, he doesnt really care, in his youth he did but he was quickly disillusioned, partly by choice, influenced by outdated literati but he knows the way goes furthur. f'taghn. He thinks about the old fuckers, the bitter shits that made his mind, he thinks about the books he never re-reads and theyre from old, from whence everything began

He goes out, on his little balcony, in his pajamas with a knit beanie on his head, its november and the cold is coming but not here yet and hes just standing there with his little doobie and he looks out and most windows are dark


5
Or Kill Me / Ironic distance(mi kommer for å ta dæ)
« on: August 15, 2015, 09:07:15 pm »
"All Scientology churches built after Hubbard's death include a corporate-style office set aside for Hubbard's reincarnation, with a plaque on the desk bearing his name, and a pad of paper with a pen for him to continue writing novels." (Retrieved from Wikipedia 090715)

And darkness, darkness and all the whores: Shining beacons making yourself think in the opposite of direction of where thoughts flow, making you think that all the things you think you need you don't and here is your uselessness, getting lost in thought thinking about the thoughts, calling it cognitive dissonance when in reality you have no idea who you are, you've never had any idea of who you are, who you really were and you knew this in your gut as you wrote dissertations and rants, ramblings with an ironic distance leaving a saccharine taste in your mouth but spouting shit mouthing words, you never knew who you were, you developed yourself too quick, too soon in areas where none else went so you grew the weirdness of thine own mind from that and you wore it as a badge for all the wrong reasons because really, you didn't have any you went with it, you tried to construct this person you were not and the irony was lost on you then as it dawns on you now and you feel old and stupid but hey you know it sorta fits, there's a symmetry there cuz you were young and fucking smart, smarter than anything else of the rabble that roused around and you looked down on them but you didn't want to be that so you wrapped it up in friendliness and smiles and you were genuine but for all the wrong reasons, there were none, you were afraid and you couldn't bear to bring yourself to that, you couldn't see those eyes in the mirror and accept the truth

you couldn't accept you were something else than what you had constructed so you let yourself slip further while what you did what you thought were that there was a schism between your brain and your body, the meatship indeed and you were only the captain, slip and slink and slither further into the shadows and do not wake up, become shadows, you aren't even weird, you're just a sad little man now, sad in this darkness you've built yourself because now you're finally starting to understand how the fuck the world hangs together and you're missing something now, something everyone else either have understood or never understood as a question because you've thought a lot of thoughts but they never really got you anywhere, did they?

you can keep waiting and for a while you'll do and you'll understand that it'll never come, it'll never be there and when death come for you, you imagine you won't regret it but there's nothing there but hope to hang it onto and death: my shadow, our shadow, will it be what you imagine, swift and in sleep or will fate say that wishful thinking will get you nowhere and there you'll lie in bed and die as you lived, one inch at a time, nothing profane, nothing holy, nothing more than a wasted life like all others lives that pass us by, nothing more than the shit we come from, the shit we are the the shit we'll become so new generation can sow the seeds upon our rotting carcasses, re-redoing our mistakes, becoming ourselves once more yet again, reborn in all senses but the soul, every action the same, every misstep the same, every lack of learning the same

you peer out the windows and despair when you look upon at this here humanity but you can't really see it for shit through the clouds and up your horse imaging you're fighting windmills, thinking you're part of something more, something otherly, you know that for everyone else it's the old culture jam adage of eat buy consume die but you, the one eyed-king in the land of the blind you're part of something else, something more, something holy gleaned from the pages of the masters you alone worship


aren't you?

6
Or Kill Me / e/n
« on: May 31, 2015, 09:28:17 pm »
3 cigarettes to tide me over until the day ends. That used to work, I mean it still does but of necessity, not by choice, what did you learn living like all your dead heroes? What did you gain that those that did didn't and what were you depraved of and how has it formed you? 1000 words by tomorrow, yes miss thank you miss, become me miss, lets become you miss, take me with you miss, enlighten me miss, show me nirvana the silver city and hades miss and I will show you the dark hearts that throb under neath each city

shit, I'm getting old, feeling like whats pumping out of loudspeakers everywhere isn't even music but perhaps it's actually not, it's still marketed as and sold as but perhaps it's a metamorphosis and the Samsa I hear from soapboxes might wake one day but where should he go? brother brother, something more is required, something more is needed and I can feel the release and though disperses like commas and we are free once more as we enter the battletrance and shield ourselves with our knowledge as we delve into the comments sections of youtube gamefaqs and every right wing news outlet planting seeds in our tongues before we forget our language forget our idea forget our id ego superego forget our being as we ascend;

we have travelled to the underworld to the world where dead voices scream their hatred and bile angry ghosts cursing the living based on the old idea of but theyre doing it and were not so lets complain and we have been in the eye of the only storm we have seen the abyss the nether the vortex you see when you close your eyes after having seen something bright we have seen the eye of sauron up close


reborn we are ascending through the tree of life that religion thing madonna has bracelets for and we understand the profanity of it and we understand what it could have been and as we turn through and feel blue there is no sensation of surprise

reborn we are, ascended we have, death we have seen life we have talked to and everyone says the same

7
Or Kill Me / e/n
« on: April 23, 2015, 12:21:47 am »
Sink thine roots deep says the master, sink thine roots deep and let them drink, let the harvest of hearts show the world how we built our world, this world, separated from theirs, reality and all its facets, all the torrents, the chaos and the order. People are arguing in the streets, violent cries heard ricocheting, we try to scream more and louder we try, our hands are shaking while we tell the stories of life, nervousness and insecurity travel from our spine permeating every part of our selves, bubble-shaped forms connecting souls and dreams, we used to be brighter, we used to be more than this but the shadows claw at us as age becomes the enemy

Our lips form questions but they fall before the leave us, leave our mouths and minds empty and dry like a late indian summer, dried out grass underneath our feet, rasping like like old men telling dying stories, crow's feet baking under this pale dying sun, chirrups, crickets screaming with their dying legs, a cry for help as they slit the veins in their legs and take one too many

We lack the calm we should have had (by now), we feel antsy and lost, staring into a darkness we've seen so many times before, a withering vortex clinging to us and we travel with it through the darkened lands prophesized by the master

8
Or Kill Me / e/n
« on: March 26, 2015, 10:38:38 pm »
The iron hand crush'd the Tyrant's head
And became a Tyrant in his stead. -- William Blake, The Grey Monk

Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster . . . for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. -- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

To fight the Empire is to be infected by its derangement. This is a paradox; whoever defeats a segment of the Empire becomes the Empire; it proliferates like a virus, imposing its form on its enemies. Thereby it becomes its enemies. -- Philip K. Dick, Valis


You become what you hate and this is the truth of it, some will never become it and they'll never need it none and some will not understand it, as with all paths set by thomas the rhymer, we will enter them all and intertwine them in our lives until we no longer know what path we are on, unless you do. I used to think of life as this robust thing, watching my parents toil away, their days set by an unseen hand, every day the same but with small variances, something shifting, now like a koan, observing the mountain that is then isn't then is but it seemed too little, not enough madness, not enough new or different or odd or weird, too few impulses to live a full life on

And then you age, at first it feels like maturing so you go with that, 24 turning 25 feeling you want to be more of an adult, want to be taken more seriously than what you self have gotten or what you deserve so you go with it, you mature and it feels like you've reached a plateau but therein is the most grotesque of lies told by both the demons and the angels inside your mind, never forget that old and ancient saying, initiation never ends for any and all initiations ring true and will never end, progression is never halted even if it feels like it, this I should have learned instead of putting my head in the sand, to separate the intellect from the emotion, I thought I could, 22 and invincible

23 and ignorant, an ignoramus but so full of life, the desire for life, the desire to understand, never the resignation of apathy, never the despair of hope, looking at reality through tabloids eyes and laughing a drunken laugh without a trace of melancholy or sadness, we were different men and women then, my friends knew what they wanted but I was sure it would all work out in the end, I was me without compromise but somewhere in there you stopped being yourself didn't you, you forgot yourself so much and where you were that when times were good and resistance was non-existant you stopped doing what defined you, you stopped the core from turning, you stopped writing and you became just another schmuck on the line slinging food, you did your job well but you were sated, you sat and smoking weed wasn't the answer

And Now, one year before you will die, if the dreams from a particular feverish week aeons ago will hold true or will you fulfill them yourself, you understood something in your fever then but nothing you could put into words, an intuition of reaching something akin to critical mass, you can't go into your thirties asking what it's all for, what the meaning of it all is because it shouldn't matter or you should have found it by now, you should have learned when the party is truly over or when it is just biding its time to make most people go home to the dross so the remaining people can gather in the kitchen, drink red wine and smoke cigarettes

the neighbors are banging at the door

9
Or Kill Me / Oinos (WiP)
« on: January 21, 2015, 12:01:26 am »
So, here we are. At last, again. Once more,

again

The maestro is cold around his heart as he begins the count, One!



A thousand departed friends but mostly it's me, the dear departed, dead in any way that counts, not counting six feet, yet, but I dream of it when I stare into the air from the rooftop balcony, there's no view but there are buildings that aren't too bad at the eyes, giant behemoths of steel and glass, filled with new pride, the building is a sharp thing, an ugly object, towering over its predecessors like a playground bully, the new and shiny, the old and decaying, the buildings someone sits on in an up and coming area they say and the building are old so they have to keep the façade and instead of fixing, they're doing what they have to and wait, they're waiting for the house to die so they can eat its flesh and give birth to new houses, stronger, better and improved, more streamlined

Summer whimpers out as the colours gradually fade, something is moving out there but I'm too stoned to accept or understand it and I sleep, autumn arrives and passes as there are only five leaves left but winter doesn't come, there are weeks of cold but as the year ends, we're still waiting [little bit more on the peculiarity of weather]

[bit here about new years party, musing over new years party]

[anxiety, buildup, sustain - a bigger/big one on the party itself, watch fear and loathing scene, walt whitman]

[meeting of Bababababababalon, arrival and departure, should re-read that instead of reading forward the foundation you shit]

10
Or Kill Me / Tweet for twats from @olau5wormiu5
« on: October 15, 2014, 10:11:06 pm »
And the sounds, oh the sounds, my friend Rabbi or habibi as the locals say it, the sounds of hell itself is remarkable and like lsd if you have partaken, oh, on a communion wafer, haha, my my Rabbi that is some powerful magic, but, the sounds of hell cannot be described anymore than I could describe to you the missing letters in our alphabet, the sounds themselves fill pockets you never knew existed inside your own mind, it takes your perception and  most who are led to hell's gates finds sanity cumbersome afterwards, making hell truer to its word and world, people who resist the madness are made to overseers and as there is a ladder in life and in heaven, there is one in hell and everyone habibi tried to climb it, god has no power when you're the 1% and they all topple and fall like demons and angels do but if you should be in the vicinity Rabbi, take a tour of hell, not for the sights but the sound

That missing alphabet in your life



11
Or Kill Me / a chylde of four (jacket made from a mad cow)
« on: July 30, 2014, 08:38:26 pm »
and we break as we open and the cracks are all visible, now, we fall apart as we find the connections necessary to become further and we are a whimper, we are a bang and we birth ourselves as the shotgun feels heavy, feels hard, feels wrong but there is someone else telling something else, call it a demon and they have called it evil but what other shadow can emerge from the doubt of action, a part of us not yet comprehended, not understood, something vague but I'd say that one little voice screaming yes in a choir of no is what makes us human, makes us all Walt Whitman

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)






Prepare for braindump:




They go out chasing the heart of saturday night, dew heavy upon the city’s shoulders, summer disappearing, waning into the hours, feet filled with the joy of youth, of life, coats and shirts made from hopes and dreams, hopelessly worn so that someone might recognize their significance but the ritual is when one dons the armor, the small spells, the small well-wishings, the small hearts drawn with with two hands that could have convoluted into prayer or raised as an angry fist when realization sinks in, death

To connect is to sever, our minds say as we pass the lines with people waiting to stand next to eachother, to feel the exuberant warmth, the joie de vivre, den varme døende gleden, we become the people we meant to stray from but having we found their positions lacking, there were parts of their souls we missed and we were the only ones so we emulated and built you into us, incorporated the missing part without knowing, without knowing what really happened to us, happens to us as we delve further into this, this explosion, this disarray of contemplations feelings reflections thoughts that we try to put together or we buy a book of someone who found the way and the sale of snake oil is up and the prices are peaking, the one man cult has never been so easy to attain and the light shines so fiercely

Fire is the bright, glowing brimstone, sulphur following us through the night, it’s election year and cultural imperialism has taken its roots and god how I hate the ads, we still haven’t gotten to american standards but we’re getting there slowly, eroding or as your dead president said it when he talked about the corporations that had been enthroned and we live in an era of corruption, not like they have in 5th world nations but corruption need not change much before the laws written to combat it are used to prolong its existence and most wealth is aggregated in a few hands but at least we’re not a republic

The sirens sing their miserable songs into the night as honest to god working men go out into the night to drink what they used to drink when they were students and drank all the time and shot booze meant for girls or cough syrup best suited for the elderly and they glare at everyone, their predatorial instinct, the biological imperative ascending, searching for their long lost love of saturday night

The sirens sing their miserable songs into the night as honest to god working women go out into the night to drink what they used to drink when they were students and drank all the time and shot booze meant for girls or cough syrup best suited for the elderly and they glare at everyone, their predatorial instinct, the biological imperative ascending, searching for their long lost love of saturday night

How useless this life is when we pray for god to appear every saturday night, as insects do we scuttle smelling eachother, making less of an impact than we are willing to admit, the swan song of a bad animal


The happy people

or

The future resides in the hands of Lizzy Caplan

and

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn



Behold! The custard, how will it set once it has been released from its prison of cold metals? Will it melt, behaving as if in a mouth or will it refuse to exit, delight in the protective shield or will it do as it is told? Will there be too much? Too much heat, too little heat, not enough steam, too much steam or you threw the fucker out the second you realized this wasn’t for you because you couldn’t bear to wait for it, the development would take too long, nothing would be gained from standing there, lying there shaking uncontrollably, hoping for death but knowing something worse will come and the custard sets and sits there perfectly, like a vulgar voluptuous glutton-pope

Pope wyrm, pope paed, pope poor, ipope, hipsters driving around in popemobiles and I love them and nominate them for parliament simply because they do things for a reason that may be stupid but they don’t sugarcoatitandthey seem generally interested, they seem like decent folks that do stuff and when I meet them we howl, burning still for the heavenly connection

The bubble burst the burst breaks, the wicked bad will follow, time come, become us, one-faced three legged kittens made from dreams and nightmares alike, preying on hope and living off the heart that beats under the surface of this rugged chest, this rugged earth, this rugged heaven, this rug Ive been sleepin on, waking but not seeing, being but not dreaming, becoming something extended of me, a connection into a heart, a dependency of drugs, dying hours becoming days becoming weeks becoming months becoming years becoming thineself, born again as pope wyrm, lacking vision and interest, so many have passed through this mind and more will so make space, make room for the whole host, make space for them all for they are coming, through stages each one will come

Behold! A tiramisu, does it contain custard? Why/why not you said to me as you stepped through the rain but it was memory overlapping reality, a disconnection==to connect is to sever, the thoughts roam, too many, too cluttered, I need a reboot and I need them to step up their game and convert illegal dollars to taxable ones to pay for the suits in all guises roaming the streets, preparing to become the 51st state. The world feels cold and autumn ends too soon and soon, soon it will be slippery, be cold to the bone and the darkness will linger for long and thus commences the season of trying as hard as possible to feel alive, fell, alice in a world, square down in this-

descent,

wanting to live and breathe on saturday night, saying let me take you to the apocalypse baby, let me help you break on through to the other side, those words you have chanted and your subconsciousness is waiting for you, you can’t hide up in the light forever for darkness will come, invoked or not but atleast at the end and light is nothing without darkness and the apocalypse won’t be the world ending, the building destroyed, the explosions bigger than texas gluing you to your seat, it won’t end in 3d, it’ll end in a fourth or fifth, depending, perhaps up to the 32nd, the end of the world will occurr in your head and something changes and it will be the most dreaded change and it will be fought against by everyone whom has something to lose because there’s no market, there’s no buck to be earned and all to be lost and that is the truth of humanity, this is us, hva en har syndet har vi alle gjort

some will say it is god or his terrible revenge but fuck that, god’s terrible revenge is already here, something that isn’t is because of the minds of men- we live in an age of liars or did we always live like this?

Election-year, this year, the infernal cabal gathered and talking talks, smoothening moves, pandering to the masses, the christian party paying homage to world-famous massmurderer anders behring breivik by reinstating christianity as the dominant religion taught, showing our white fear for islam like the good white soldiers we are because he was right in that there will be a war or several regarding it, it’s been a while since a big good one hasn’t it? Time for a new one, time to water the roses the way they should, soon we’ll hear it I think, and and and a cultural minister that has no competence regarding that field except for sports and various aspects of sports, she spends the rest of her time in board meetings and I’m thinking Allen Ginsberg had the most right and his america is all our americas, our own personal hells of america and I didn’t vote for this shit



He built his fortress in the ice, he took solitude and externalized it and another one built his fortress to contain himself spilling all over the plains and his fortress is our fortress, one question, one puzzle to entertain the husks of immortality, what can change the nature of a man, what will change the nature of men as man asks himself the question every time he is born with every incarnation lurking in the back of His head, our head

The genderless child, another anti-christ spawned for a different age, this sensation these feelings, not to let them linger for reason to grab, like a young man discovering his own personal freedom, his own sense of direction in the world, it an oyster or a peach ripened and handled with velvet gloves, how I wish I could converse with that man, sit with him and share a bottle of wine, to hear his thoughts once more before they will slip like sensations into the abyss of memory where all of import is preserved, when you realize that the world is not binary, the duality we exist in is merely the frame that allows our ideas of reality to manifest, as childhood ends we will extend further from the logic of two sides to a coin or two sides to perception of time

Do we see these dreams, do we become these thoughts, these personalities, when did the first night of frost pass us, leaving potential in its wake? The what ifs we accumulate over lifetimes, here is presence bleeding into the daylight, waning little by little, come to us our conqueror worm, our conquering worm, our wyrm

Shadows cast by light, why do we write? Why are there so many volumes in every attic and every basement of forgotten pain, forgotten joy and pleasure, why? Why do we stop?

Why did we even start? Why did we begin to go where we are, where we will go, the heart lies somewhere else, somewhere darker than where we began, where we started to intertwine, to become and alter ourselves after the needs we saw and the needs we felt, some say they hope for something more, something deeper, something none can tell what is but something in the lack of something better, something more, some prey for chaos, some for order, they always hope for something that is not what is for the grass will always been greener, there is no difference between us, all of us, remind us that we will die, alone and into the shadow

I try to see the beauty and sometimes it will reveal itself but usually there is none, there is no beauty in a world of hollow and I blame myself for hoping for something more, let me tell you of shadows and light, of demons and angels, of dreams where every ghost will walk by, my home has become a future tomb, I am my own walking coffin, I am the death that will eat away at the edges, I am the hope of despair, the dark futures you dream guiltily of, the fictions none else will know but where you know you become yourself and it makes my stomach turn but we know it to be true, to be us, this is me, this is us



and god understands, he

a drunken man dressed as santa rumbling through the streets, pissing on fire hydrants, screaming to every kid he says that he killed santa and hes wearing santas skin and people are shocked, appalled while I understand and wish to do the same, lacking the balls, I dont even know how to blow smoke rings, doubt fills me and my fingers want me to stumble and my brain has shut down everything I need, a blank slate receiving from our alien overlords or from the sleeping master underneath the waves, underneath our consciousness and as some saw santa as the coming of end times, I would be hoping more for the end of these

12
Or Kill Me / saturdaynightandilive,
« on: September 07, 2013, 12:13:43 am »

They go out chasing the heart of saturday night, dew heavy upon the city’s shoulders, summer disappearing, waning into the hours, feet filled with the joy of youth, of life, coats and shirts made from hopes and dreams, hopelessly worn so that someone might recognize their significance but the ritual is when one dons the armor, the small spells, the small well-wishings, the small hearts drawn with with two hands that could have convoluted into prayer or raised as an angry fist when realization sinks in, death

To connect is to sever, our minds say as we pass the lines with people waiting to stand next to eachother, to feel the exuberant warmth, the joie de vivre, den varme døende gleden, we become the people we meant to stray from but having we found their positions lacking, there were parts of their souls we missed and we were the only ones so we emulated and built you into us, incorporated the missing part without knowing, without knowing what really happened to us, happens to us as we delve further into this, this explosion, this disarray of contemplations feelings reflections thoughts that we try to put together or we buy a book of someone who found the way and the sale of snake oil is up and the prices are peaking, the one man cult has never been so easy to attain and the light shines so fiercely

Fire is the bright, glowing brimstone, sulphur following us through the night, it’s election year and cultural imperialism has taken its roots and god how I hate the ads, we still haven’t gotten to american standards but we’re getting there slowly, eroding or as your dead president said it when he talked about the corporations that had been enthroned and we live in an era of corruption, not like they have in 5th world nations but corruption need not change much before the laws written to combat it are used to prolong its existence and most wealth is aggregated in a few hands but at least we’re not a republic

The sirens sing their miserable songs into the night as honest to god working men go out into the night to drink what they used to drink when they were students and drank all the time and shot booze meant for girls or cough syrup best suited for the elderly and they glare at everyone, their predatorial instinct, the biological imperative ascending, searching for their long lost love of saturday night

The sirens sing their miserable songs into the night as honest to god working women go out into the night to drink what they used to drink when they were students and drank all the time and shot booze meant for girls or cough syrup best suited for the elderly and they glare at everyone, their predatorial instinct, the biological imperative ascending, searching for their long lost love of saturday night

How useless this life is when we pray for god to appear every saturday night, as insects do we scuttle smelling eachother, making less of an impact than we are willing to admit, the swan song of a bad animal

13
She saw the future in a bowl of soup, green puy lentil soup with smoked cusk, dots of creme fraiche, dill oil, chervil and croutons, she ate in silence, rain was outside, light summer rain and I peeked outside as I finished my salad, seared off whale, baby romano lettuce, mayonnaise pink with pigs trotters and shaved local hard cheese. I was about to ask for coffee and avec when she saw the future

She saw the future in a cup of tea, laves of earl grey gathering at the bottom underneath layers of milk curdling, slowly but steadily as she drank it from one of those big tea cups, slurping all the while, she saw the future of the empire in an old imperial, smiling when she saw the future

She saw the future in the clouds, summer heating up but not yet there, she walked ahead of me in the proper satanic fashion and my eyes were transfixed on her legs, not so sleek as they used to be but they had power, the power of certainty and age, lithe and filled with grace, filled with violence in every step, so beautiful, I got a nazi girlfriend and she can see the future and there

she sees it again

She sees this; me- dead in five years like Munchs vampire, black and white tiles on the bathroom floor, the red seeping twixt them, illuminating the three strands of magical belief for those who wish to see but the janitor won’t understand the cleaning lady won’t understand the girl next door won’t understand because it’s like a sleight of a the hand, you’re watching too closely at my deceased thing, my lack of the 21 grams and the pints of blood that made me alive, the nothingness I could be, prop me up and zap me with electricity once in a while, water me like a plant, I’ll be your real doll, rotting away in the living room while you open a can of surströmming and prepare for us a feast

She sees this; me- dead in five years, the loft of an old warehouse, yuppie places underneath my feet as I croak with my ipad to my chest, the last jump I ever did was never off a building but the atonement for imagined sins and slights, waiting for a sign from above that I was right, right all the time and I took too long to pick a pigeon to carry the message, getting lost between shades of grey, black white but I sent it and then I decided in my own way to die if god would not have me, I should die of starvation and thirst in my own apartment and I did, there would never be anything more, just us

I see it; this- I see the dream and the rude awakening, the black swan in subconscious development, the truck that hits when you see it coming and you think you jump out from it but there was a different one there, gå utenom sa bøygen, take the road from here, the first or the second from what you are and the third, the third is why you want to be, when to exist, the third leads further than what we can find here in the dross of our shallow lives and civillizations, our hotels may reach the clouds but the silver city is further from us, soon a fading memory, a priest tied to the tracks and in the distance, the sound, His fury

Signifying nothing, she said, dreams she said, fictions and everything is a fiction told from one person to another, they may be true and they may be false but there is nothing definitive about nothing, we are all streams of ideas and concepts stanzas arias connecting and interacting with eachother, modifying eachothers information, recalibrating, calibrating, connecting, severing life death she said this is getting boring

14
Or Kill Me / Three trains/thoughts/tinker
« on: May 09, 2013, 11:29:08 pm »


There is no diction, no struggle, not in any traditional sense, there is just the cat and the box, there is only a word. At a crossroads do we meet for the first time and since, we've only kept on meeting here, there, as old friends or more aptly, old enemies. There is no need for love to understand but we shared that too, you reminded me of Walt Whitman and you made me feel the multitudes instead of the anxieties of dissonance. We walked for a while at each crossroad, you and me and we were linked, somewhere, six fathoms deep, an old anchor suffering of entropy under the white dunes of the black ocean and once-tugging us further away the drift towards shore for seven hundred and seventy seven men, women and children, purchased for baubles, protected by the divine creator as slaves.
I always imagined the images that came when we spoke to be yours, I saw you as someone struggling with all of the senses/disciplines, mine one was merely the word and in trying to understand the word I tried to be the word before I realized that there is nothing more, there might have been a word at first but every hope and yearn we crave for something different than a planet filled with bad animals, some external presence to tell us that thing we've felt all life is just this

I abused you, called you names and wished you would never exist, I threatened you and I courted you, I did everything I could think of that would make you break the way I wanted you to but you took it all, every big cock in every orifice, we filled you to the brim and we tried to poison you, I tried to poison you, to turn you more like me but I think you knew it was childish folly for if you became like me, we  would no longer exist, we would no longer have a reason to exist so we would cease. When you acted indifferently to both my hate and love, I did the most sensible thing ignoring and denying you but when you weren't there I felt no peace, no sleep but I did not know it at the time, others came and made me feel good but the instances became instants  and there was a hole

Stranger- I'm a stranger here myself, on an old worn down bench in a cemetary two men sit, appearing as collages of their lives, they themselves long since dead, the writer and musician sit amongst the dead talking of life and we came upon their crossroads once and they talked of change, the idea is the most powerful


"You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:
you made the horned god your own:
You stood behind him on his throne: you called
him by his secret name." - Oscar Wilde, the Sphinx

That terrible crucifix to wear, silver to protect us against vampires and werewolves and the cross to remind us of who died for our sins unless its a fashion statement- a rememberance of the torture and its probably been done before but not worldwide, I feel old talking about respect atleast for an incident that spawned some of the most malicious organizations and systems, despicable and vile monster trucks headed down that broad broad road, paved with  gold, talking in newspeak with leonard cohens voice as we tread it but it doesnt feel solid, it gives, like water encapsulated, a membrane a cell something alive and in a sense aware but not sentient or the other way around but its been here before, we've been here before, we've seen this road from far away, we've taken it a couple of times and we have fought those who have taken it at other times and we are the history of these two roads for those who know the third road

take the third road and as they pass the veil, their hearts cheer and everything resonates like a cataclysmic apocalypse of the mind, 2001 played again, played backwards and inside, outside, bubble-shaped, kaleidoscopic

The third road is the hole in my heart, you did the sensible thing and didn't wait, you came with godsight and you saw where it was headed and I could not see it but what you saw I understood as you passed behind the veil and your eyes were no longer mortal but I saw you as you passed and writing of you makes it like you're dead and in a sense you are because there needs to be an end/beginning sequence but death itself is so passé in a world where we will all survive as gifs and swfs, reblogged more often as the world gets interpreted through Moore's Law

There's pressure, there will always be pressure. It doesn't have to make sense, none of it, it just has to appeal, remove language from the equation of reality and pass into the halls of enlightenment for words as they say up north, is wind and listen to the wind and look for the warmth underneath the fallen city, what undying god toils there? What does sense give you that you couldn't get before, what horrors are chained in the basement of your soul all because of restriction, the walls should curve, heart should stop racing and the brain should regain control from the blood and the you, with sense or without, pressure. Points produced from the tiniest of pinpricks, building the Invisibles from the rubble of bill&ted, in battery-life none can hear you whoa dude, in damnation to dormancy dwell, this is a lesson but none to be learned, wisdom travels in a discreet fashion, like a virus, like an idea but time is biding like the true god we all know, dormant- shots are fired on the outside, the echoes are heard from the walls, from the backs of our trolls, through the echoes of our waterfront in progress, telling the sad tale of yuppie-norway come 2010, although the opera is more beautiful now and when it turns into detroit and robocop walks the streets, it will look pretty cool so that's something, this is a lesson, there is nothing to be learned, this is reason and treason nestled together like two young gay men under spring break, turn the valve, release it, smoke weed and listen to quas or drink beer and watch a game but release it and transcend where you sit, be reborn in this heavy world, so filled with kipple and dross, teary eyes lost in the rain and something, calling, becoming, you


15
Or Kill Me / Of prophets, time, death
« on: February 28, 2013, 12:02:41 am »


Headed for the future in a length, waves crashing, here we're dying, here is, here is hope for a different something, here is joy, here are waves crashing, here are rhythms dying from old blues, they say it's about jazz vs rock'n'roll or they say it's usa vs ussr and all contained within their pages is one story, us vs them. The world is not complex, if it was you'd never feel at home and you wouldn't be, at home, you'd be what Brion Gysin said about himself, wrong colour, wrong shape, wrong time, the bad animal is at its worst when it is in the wrong

The only certain thing about our future is our death. If we've already seen it we won't know until the end, unless that is alzheimers or any other affliction, ending our understanding of reality before the connection is severed, to connect is to sever like the man in the comic book said, before he gave the president tits and announced a new day of tomorrow, zero democracy before he himself is killed by a monkey, a possible incarnation of Nyarlathotep and the world is revealed to be protected by those who can cope

Nothing more, nothing more we're headed to, if only we moved from life to death but you get these gut feelings, like someone changing the matrix but it's only time, killing you slowly but that is the kind death, time is your friend and will follow you through every linear, circular, piscesformed perception of time there is, a hologram is formed from the fish of Jesus and the map of reality exists and if we could have handled it, we would have seen it all simultaneously and everything would be so different but I think old man Gysin would fit in there a bit more

Northern Africa whisper their names, it is said that from Alamut you can see the three prophets approaching, Brion Gysin, William Burroughs and Brian Jones and their master receives them, the secrets of hashishin to be applied for literature, for music, three prophets on the old land where someone once came, Nommo, Old Ones, someone passed through all veils and embedded itself like a virus and was that old secret the antidote or another part, like an ayahuasca concoction, the furtherance of His coming, Would to God that all the Lord's people were Prophets

The christmas past, present and future- the further evolution of the shoppingfest that is christmas come October, when all time is christmastime, time will unlock and and

What we need is a new Jesus, in any form or fashion, but we need him now, 24/7 J-Bib style, we need the harbinger of the terrible new aeon and we need him on youtube, we need him streaming dota2 on twitch and we need him out everywhere so our gluttony can never go sated, we need a new prophet but we need a new new kind of prophet, we need the end times, we need a god for miracles to again happen

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