Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - Sepia

Pages: [1] 2 3 4 ... 17
1
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

2
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

3
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


4
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

5
Or Kill Me / Meditations on winning
« on: February 09, 2013, 12:30:09 am »


Wretched falls the songs from our barren throats, it is not our words that are sung but someone elses but with our voice  and theirs, ours, all, intermingled, here

in this instant that is everlasting, stretching across

"I am not one to be bought with baubles and beads, trinkets I have no need for and rum? Darling, know we make the finest drugs known to sentience, why would we want rum to get drunk when we can eat a flower and in four hours we will have quelled the american rebellion of 2127, sailed the sea and landed at the islands of Easter the day it was all coming together and we saw the pyramids where power dwelt, and we see where it dwells now, in the sunken city" - Oedipa Wormius, http://wormius666legacy.blogspot.com/

all known aeons, this is the moment but our memory is limited and as we die slowly, our memory fades further and we adapted to it like we do, like us humans do, we adapted and created, we made technology and from it stemmed our second evolution, there might be x-men and witchers down the road but they won't put us on the moon or further, when we've cultivated a civillization that should be allowed out into the stars or perhaps that's that moment when some of those bipeds jumped down from the tree and left it for tarzan, another man who reputedly found an emissary from the sunken city

The city lives under the shadow, we all chose to live under the shadow, we all chose to be free and we chose the shadow, we didn't think everybody chose it but the light is spotted and far apart and no light is without stain like shadows burn with intensity, our two-dimensional interpretation

Our lack of vision is what plagues this generation, we are blind to everyone but our selves but it seems the old greeks told this yarn ages ago and most likely some other more obscure civilization and they said it in an instant, a fleeting object through time that doesn't necessarily happen simultaneously but is part of all, is reflected, is shared

Our memories fade and we store them around us instead of inside us, pictures are taken, film is recorded, information is being gathered but, to what end?

6
Or Kill Me / Old Jaded Minds
« on: January 29, 2013, 01:53:09 am »
Jaded old minds; dive for us. Jaded old minds passing by us on the street, an aura of grey, a mist of heavy fog - shadows contain their illusion but their power is always carried on their sleeves as a mark and we see it and for us they are brutes, a remnant of an old world forgotten like it shouldn't be, we become illiterate as we dwindle down the path of self-realization, we forget how to read and how to write and we forget who we were and who we are and as we buckle in fear we hope that we will remember this moment when we break through to something more for it is the terror  that makes us feel alive, that makes

Jaded, old, fading, how do you take a part in it without being ripped into it, this frothing beast that waits at my doorstep and follows my every step into the real world, where war, famine and how to give yourself the best orgasms are the important topics in the greater reality, scrutinized and seen by those who came to power by protecting and telling truths but since then the world has become so much more malleable

Jaded old minds exist as a balancer to those who are young and arrogant because jaded has seen it all before and jaded don't care and in his age he believes it to give him free wisdom when all he gains is perspective but it is his belief  that will shatter the young, in an authorative setting the cold, hard belief will petrify you before dissolving you and you too will become old and jaded but for all the wrong reasons and you'll have to find righter ones later and it'll be the same shit you did when you were young but you've learnt now but you should never have remembered it

this is the edge, this is you breaking through

7
Or Kill Me / Meditations of the 5th
« on: January 14, 2013, 11:23:26 pm »


And death is yawning, three more to go, three more left before the world ends or is it a week, what does the end of time mean, where is our Eintstein this time around, where is the scientific superhero seeking data to the end of time or the end of the calender, three pages deep with tits, ass and half a space, all ye who clamour for the apocalypse:

Shut the fuck up and go home, go home to your families and your loved ones, find those that once loved you, find and embrace the light that lives in the hope in your sacred heart, go home and mend relationships, make up to brothers, mothers and wives, do not search the outside for what is inside yourself, you are the apocalypse and time is something more than linear but that time isn't for you, now you go home to find what you left and to figure out why you left it and then you have to re-invent yourself and it's not pleasant but it is a necessity to be able to survive in the conditions we find ourselves in but it is where you will find what you seek and the end of the world is just a distraction

Still not yet, a little while off, soon soon for doom doom, where the most secret of secrets will be hoped for by some few and some will hope for something better but most will not care and their action is right but the motive is off, wrong, erring on the side and people will drink and there will be parties and there will be indie movies about those parties and elvis costello will be in one of them and woody allen will direct another and life will march on and it doesn't necessarily end at rosebud


some people look good on pictures, they say its because theyre photogenic but that is a lie, the older world had it right and those that look good are the soulless beings, their souls are not eaten by the camera, envoy of mother earth who herself attempts expansion, to become a fully sentient planet to


Too many weeks later and the world is still here and I feel sorrow, sorrow for this world and its continuance and sorrow for I feel the King of All-tears for someone must weep for the aeon and it will not be us for we weren't made by gods, we were sperm shot across galaxies landing on a planet that could nurture that big glob of alien sperma, invading and terraforming, let loose the virus, let it loose, let us loose and up into the trees and let there be such a thing as collective memory in a different life because I want to be there, I want to see it and I hope I am right in one way but then again, I'll be ascended or something so I shouldn't care about inanity but someone must weep for the aeon that begun its end that first studio session, that first jam and the age of aquarius came but not it, but something changed like they say jack the ripper changed it, this world, this reality but the empire had already ended while the other was still infant in form but perhaps never in thought?

The world is still here- What are you going to do about it?

Steer us to different places, different shadows, mother, I am not here, we are not, collective we are but we are not memory, from the mesas we watch and we see the future as we saw the past, forever intertwined, there is no possibility of time being linear there is no

My skin is getting wrinkly, I see myself ten years ago watching the same hand while stoned and marvel at it, I see myself ten years ahead and I want my hand to commit murder, I see my death and the skin is almost flaking, old and wet and soft, I am falling into what I was, this baby-like substance merely hoping for something better, solemnly wishing for something better for those who are foolish enough to follow

into time, where light is not emitted


We followed shadows into time, we became what they used to be, what used to be our enemy, it dawned upon us that hate would not get us where we wanted but we forgot, once and we knew we would forget in the future, they told us once, the bright young things that came from education, they told us we should know our history so it wouldn't repeat and we peered upon them, looked them straight into the eye and told them that it wouldn't matter and that made them furious, thinking the way of the world in a different sort of matter, this was suposed to hold an ounce of truth but no such thing was held, who were we that day, that night, that end that shadow, coming succumbed to the end, wishing for it like we all would, why not hope for an end, the next paycheck will clear and it will buy enough for one month until the next fix is in

It wouldn't have been our mention but it came like it was supposed to, like the world was pre-ordained to for us to receive this now and like he said there is nothing more powerful but here we sit, and we are and becoming and a guru sits here and he tells us that what is above is below, that the solemnity of the fallen assassins weigh upon us, like once, one man before us had fallen and the tree falls in the forest while we sit on the mountain and meditate upon it, this is the end for us now, this is the sterling end, the destruction of holy but lo here we are, redeemer- only in name but never in nothing more, our souls, the souls you saved, not mine

We were the gods that peaked, we were the generation that would fly above, be something more/shuddered at starlight, we wanted to become digital and it made sense in this world, separated yet by years, the same sensation/feeling of drowning lingers beyond the years, it is the only anchor left of our humanity/what we carried from planet urf, the feeling that this wasn't for us, it wasn't for anybody but we let it loose and we never thought twice for it wasn't our burden like our our own was not this- but made and something more something more something more, something like going on stage after John Coltrane, believing,,

but not trying, never trying, cruising on belief but the ginger feeling of wanting to execute oneself never subsides, never forget that you will die and you will die alone but don't remember it all the time, don't believe in paulo coelho, believe in kahlil gibran if you must but don't and realize that it doesn't matter, you can change the world, you can become the next leonardo da vinci but in this age, why would you want unless you wanted to be a celebrity? Your ideas would be bought, gobbled up and the world would gain something new to buy, we do not live in an age of wonders

We live in the age of the individual but the individual is afraid, a fear of the world that was built, a fear of doing wrong in a world where doing anything would be right, an age of liars and a spiral pointing downwards, here we are, ending

We fear not the gaze, the eyes that never slumber but always pierce, that always become, shadows twixt doubts we are, dreamers hoping for a nightmare that makes sense, sense is the demon we never wrestled with but always accepted, because it made sense and we feel the presence of god with all ours but not with that, here is no defense but all is laid bare for the world to see, for the world to bear judgment, to become the more, intertwined and interlaced, becoming

Machine made flesh and flesh made machine, machine-flesh, flesh-machine machine flesh flesh machine, mother hear not our cries for we know you have no mercy for you are the mother, you gave us life and now you'll show us how to live and we'll listen, godmother of the high above, god mother mother of god god of mother

When the stars darken, when the old or unborn god reclaims his throne as it his, when the eye will turn upon us and madness or salvation will find us and the son of man is an illusion dwindling for the future is the presence yet more, here we are defining what will be, what is to be the now, future come find your past and it will be you, we will all be you, agent smith at a crossroads but nothing more, no shadows found

a god sits silently in his microcosm, all of time happens simultaneously, we are diverted as we are more, shadows happen as light happens, as fires set out upon the woods or the tundras or the jungles, a god is sitting silently

weeping

William Burroughs is spotted shooting a woman in the head on the 22nd of december, a cardinal is brought to the vatican er claiming to have seen the face of john lennon superimposed over old man ratzinger, Fernand Point is heard speaking backwards in german as he appears at the bar at el bulli, throwing his drinks and screaming merde and assaulting the chefs masturbating of a canister of meringue,  going for akimbo sauce pans, breaking every porcelain or high-carbon knife, showing them technique is nothing compared to hate or love and come morning none will remember, come morning none will remember Gautama Buddha sitting in the morrow light on a soapbox on speaker's corner, speaking and singing at the same time while Freddie Mercury plays the didgeridoo- the light is within us he is heard saying and Thich Quang Duc chants the same while he appears out at a palace in the woods, levitating above the main indoor pool as most of the 1% catch fire, a single devout flame dying in the middle of the dark woods

These are not signs heralding an end

These are signs heralding

8
Or Kill Me / watching porn and listening to godspeed
« on: November 20, 2012, 12:14:21 am »

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."
-Robert A. Heinlein


The more we grow the weaker we get the chains are never stronger than their weakest link as the italians showed us once, we increase in volume, in size and shape, we are bloating controllably and soon the drums will set in and cue the bikes with teenagers on them riding hard to traditional music and we see what Horselover Fat once saw as time _blends_ and in the background, behind the choirs and the bells and the drums we hear that tiny little voice telling us who we are before we disintegrate anew

Like the end of akira, there is our whimper, this is our growth, our mass, our creation and amidst it all our destruction our lives and loves our meanings and hopes, our prayers silent and retarded yet we are moved but not moved by, the sensation of a center not holding but will we release a blood-dimmed tide or are we that which slouches towards Bethlehem?

We try to scream so we scream in the night and fifteen minutes later we hear the sirens so we run and we try to forget our realities, we try to become a part of what we run through, we try to meld into the scenery we want our names forgotten as we melt into mother nature and we are her and none elses until we wake

up

We try not to accept our realities but we know in our gut we need them, we know why they are there and we do nothing to change it but we try to postpone it, we try to live like bukowski but since we're not him we'll never and it is a hollow answer to a hollow question and when the world becomes such a place, when everyone on this earth has access to a computer that can play world of warcraft VII and internet, how many accounts will exist? How many will want to escape then?

Here, it is built, sunk into the concrete and into mother nature herself, here is the fundament of the city, here is the blood and the grime and the mud and the flame, here all is unpure, all are unclean, this is our cradle and we never return save in dreams to see the mother-womb in its horrible beauty, to hear the incessant choir of the eternally living souls, fueling the engine that makes meaning, in the city of dis, in the heart of men

9
Or Kill Me / The land Icarus built
« on: October 25, 2012, 11:56:46 pm »


In a city built from blood and bone, in the high tower with its fundaments sunk into an earlier time, seeping and we like men, like the women we are the apex of life itself, in the bars built from problems and addictions- to drink, to live, both end with the same diagnosis, in the bus station where the tiles are made from hope for something better, unrequited and a joyful sorrow, the essence of arrival/departure, the mellow blue mind finds solace in departure since arrival is merely the accepted mind-state preceding departure, the state of 1 waits only for the fulfillment of prophecy, to become 0

Of the heart, the dying men know little, their hearts crude and simple, they are no longer the thoughts they were, they are some where else now, somewhere looking for something more, like the dying tend to, when life feels lacking or hollow or empty and everyone else has died and you were a shit to your family so they only stop by once a year now to hear your curse them but why can I see that you are a child playing adult, like me? Why are you blind to this, why isn't this something that is understood, didn't I get this from the fucking master mould itself, I mean, it'd be a pretty basic thing to possess, to be able to measure where you are and where the zenith is but then we'd have no stars, we'd have less illusions and less entertainment and sometimes something comes through that isn't what it says on the label but unless the system is there to support it, is a black swan able to live?

The streets are cold, they feel barren yet filled with life, through prayer and excessive meditation, dosed on lsd watching the dreamachine we see time happening simultaneously as we step outside for a dérive through the streets where jack once lived and ripped and built, built much of the city with his magic, his position, his chance but mostly cutting from left to right and we walk his streets, see what his mistress, his city showed him and await for her to show it to us, we await her signal or command that will show us   something deeper, a dream we once wanted excavated but most have forgotten by now, amidst her stones, each brick forged by michael and sammael and the mortar are the bones, the blood, the misery and joy of everyone who lived on them and loved on them and died on them, alone, waiting for the clock to tick

10
Or Kill Me / 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

11
Or Kill Me / prisons of personality
« on: July 17, 2012, 03:54:02 pm »


To pass stupidity among us, a leaf of hearts felt in this neverending life, circle become us and turn our hearts towards heaven. You were the guiding light, a shadow streaking among the stars, a dying flow, a destruction of ebb and daring but not for us, not for hope, a dalliance with oneself, a failed romantics' dream, shattered early in youth with the discovery that love does not conquer all and love as we might have been led to believe, does not exist for while it can and might, it won't when it is to be expected for both fate and random chance have a cruel streak within them and those who deem themselves worthy of it, those who lie in bed at night and whisper to themselves in the darkness, invoking their demons but not their angels, hoping for salvation but praying for damnation, yearning to be judged and to be released from the fetters of ourselves, feeling the generations weigh upon us, it feels less set in stone now, this age, there are no wars to build upon and we keep more silent, talk about what matters but isn't important to us, somewhere along the way we forgot who we were and when we remembered, we saw our lives as shallow broken things, devoid of what we once had filled it with, information we hoped would stay with us, information we could pull out of the top-hat like a white rabbit made of straw, alas
the souls and minds we once were lost in the twilight of subconsciousness and we remembered we were not builders, we are not builders, we do not carefully erect a new palace where our minds can dwell, we tell ourselves we can live here and it reminds us of when we were young and cared about a great deal of things, too many things that we let slip as we tried to think about Lovecrafts quote about adulthood and we ourselves turned into them, into it as we were looking a different way, hoping for different things, imagining how it would be when we became what we are, orphaned children sitting outside a derelict mansion, too tired, too exhausted, lonely hearts waiting for the proprietor to shoo us off, to be forced to walk the earth for another cycle, to see it all once more in a different wrapping but with the same underlying mechanic, to see all the marvels and the wonders with weary eyes
Boasting to none, telling none the tale

Letting dreams slip, words make everything simple, makes everything easy to see and understand and we pose as powerful magicians, technicians of mystery in a world where science is the god with the old religions in their death throes, waiting for the son of god to reboot the franchise and even though so many worship the trinity they will not worship His Son if he should arrive again for they've read that story already or seen the movie and they move against him before the miracles can root and set deep, there will be no ascension, there will be no touching of the godhead

Why here and this, these hands and these hearts, sinking in its own beauty, caught in our throats, expanding like, oh

Are we truly the children Arthur Clarke saw in his minds deepest hope or are we nothing but the carriers of the civilization virus?

What more should there be than eating, drinking and fucking? These are our parametres and faith in religion or science is our crutch- science will find a  way and god keeps watching over us, the bigger picture is reserved for the hivemind of scientists or the all-seeing eye of the lord god, the enlightenment of the individual is still aeons away if it will ever arrive and thinking about it, why should it? Information is not knowledge but information comes easily while knowledge does not, there is nothing tangible to show off, there is nothing we can photograph or blog about except passages, ideas and concepts but they are intellectual in their nature and ours is not, the age of science heralded the age of anti-intellectualism where we now sit, attempting to rub rocks against dry grass to see the holy fire once more

The silence shifts in the fragrant, mists pour in the early morning, summer something different now than what was then like a familiar face growing older, I used to love the silence and feeling the discomfort of those who never got used to it, an edge or a weapon with no apparent use at that age but now, an idea even more brutal, adults feel their shame when the french angels break their tingling feet across the divine floor, tufted toes spreading over the cold cemetery soil, time is weird, a derivé in a microcosm, where those six feet under recite their obituaries like mantras, their I AMs reduced to an interpretation, their souls and lives described in a readable fashion, written well as we browse them, convenient lies to make it work with the narrative, byte-sized and single-serving like death is in this age and as elvis showed us, the smartest pr move anyone could do, the last mystery in an age of science, le grande magique

We are all bathed in the light of reason in our culture, faiths and beliefs being defended, religious notions protected by rational thought and science in itself guarded by passionate intensity, every birth the beginning of a story, the beginning of something, this life emanating from the alpha and ending at the omega, our own personal reality where we die from public eye and are reborn in our own sphere of fiction where gods once roamed but no longer do, we banished our gods and our demons, locked them away from sight and thought, contaminants we'd never want again, a law  we passed on the battlefield that are our souls, everything super-natural and non-quantifiable, everything that doesn't fit within, the monsters that need a true belief, wrapped in fairytales, shrouded in  a mystery that doesn't tell you that something will happen when the penetrator becomes the penetrated, an  idea that can never be defended, only accepted and in its acceptance, a form of transcendence is found, something bigger than us exist but unlike the gods of scrolls and tomes, the bigger picture does not care, the icons and the symbols do not care of those whoe birthed them, like the stars and the sun and the void doesn't care, like we don't care about the whys of our children, our cats and our dogs

Vampires, werewolves, weeping stones, the sanguine tears of a wooden jesus on a copper cross, trolls that operate the subway stations, our oldest religions that  only the fringe can accept and believe, the miracles only the true devout can see, mad men held a prophet's power once like they held their affliction, a curse of   madness and wisdom both, revered like messengers from a god or a pantheon but seldom envied, they had power but not the power you'd want for there was a reason they held power when they held it, they didn't hold it because it was a thing in vogue but somewhere along the line someone understood the power they held and wanted it for themselves, gods were real once and walked among us

The faithful of us hear the outcries of the dying men, wronged by fate and faith, feeling nothingin these hearts of remorse, dreamers in a shadowed country looking for a way out when all the world wants in, we call them our shattered dreams for we play the tortured artists well enough, this world and this life, governed by the gods of men, feeling the fury heave in monstrous acts, where we comment and interpret, where we become those who are not us, the ones we'd never be as we crossed our hearts and hoped to die, we sit like mice on the porch, listening to the rain, nursing our tea and joints looking out towards this difference, this that we can never conquer, this that will never care if we live or die and as we understand the gravity of it, we weep and long for a greater order in things, a god to stay our hand, a miracle to make us believe, a gentle whip to keep us in line

All are lies like all men are liars and for some there is a war going on for truth has been replaced with propaganda and they say it is the first casualty of war and the war itself is seemingly never-ending while none have a clear idea of where it began, what first ancestral human to take arms, the reasons are most likely the same it always is, resources in a way, shape or colour that one has and another wants whether it be for need or greed. Of one thing all men and religions agree; the war ends in heaven, it ends in hell, the afterlife is where they are allowed to sleep, these are the lies I tell myself in sleep. Magic is real and faeries are real and the true anarchistic commune is real but to find it one needs to lose those twentyone, twentythree skiddoo




12
Or Kill Me / Random Debris
« on: June 12, 2012, 12:26:45 am »


"Life.. Life is like running when you were little and you won't remember it but when you see a toddler trying to wobble over to the smiles and cheers of their parents, that is what we're doing, we're still toddlers but we've learnt so much that we have taken other roles, some of us have tried to tell ourselves it is the meaning of life that we search for, where our lips seek when they are not sealed and some of try to map the desert or the mind but some remember the goal"

"Adulthood is hell." - HP Lovecraft

"Netley: "I just don't know where I am anymore"
Jack the Ripper: "There, there Netley. I shall tell you where we are. We're in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind, a radiant abyss where men meet themselves"
Netley: "I don't understand, sir"
Jack the Ripper: "Hell, Netley. We are in hell"" -
 - From Hell, the movie




His is the fear and I try not to be him, at first it seemed impossible, the concept of his persona was so off that I didn't see nor understand and he was forgotten, remembered later in a different world and a different time where it feels like life both connects and severs and my hatred for him resurfaced, my agony of even knowing anyone of his caliber and slowly but surely and six feet deep somewhere Horselover Fat whispers the Empire never ended and even deeper, at the depths where we will find atlantis and mu HE shudders a moment in waking and sensitives the world around feel the apocalypse growing and no word is heard from the vatican. For the second where he wakes, we see his Empire


"No light is here emitted" - Austin Osman Spare, Promethea


No moorish man, not an othello, not a iago, his own. His own destiny, his own fights, his own road and like his roads it is magical, he strips the mystery from everyone but the stage magician who will still leave by the third door and reading his ideas, his interpretation of magic makes magic sense and it's weird and I never could find myself to believe heartily in something because there is too much shame in it, a fear of blindness, an instrument of a will more dedicated than yourself because there's atleast always one more dedicated and more ambitious than yourself, and the fear of the blind men that dwell in the one-eyed man's kingdom where life is very long, the fear is that I should not know myself but thinking I do and the shame of belief in an age where our idols become younger for each day and everything is watered down into something primordial that holds everything that needs to be held but nothing more and there is no soul anymore, there's an x factor, there are no balls and there is no hair, there is nothing but plastic infront and on stage and this is our hatred for reality, so deep does it descend through us that as we accept it and wake to it, we take a country and then we stripmine it and then we move on, this is our nature as we bring the subcultures into hyper-reality


They fight holy wars, still. Never-ending wars found from old texts speaking of a never-ending war. Everything profound written are empty words when spoken, giving reason to a cause that has nothing to do with theirs. I can hear their shadows even here, so far from that civillization I hear their shadow-drums through the night and their zeal overwhelms the cricket but the vibes are no longer good

I wish I could see the light but all there is, darkness. The sun is released from exile and as it explodes onto our planet and onto our faces and bodies and cocks and cunts we expect to react like we used to but we're not, something changed while we were looking the other way, something dropped or someone, the ball that keeps on rolling and while we were different, someone got a strike and it might have been me but noone knows because how do you ask about that from someone however dear, I lost something in a haze that used to make me me but now it's not there and all I can feel is the perpetual dread of never-ending existence, please help???

HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the ftaghn, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire

13
Or Kill Me / The last frost
« on: May 29, 2012, 01:18:32 am »


The last of the cold, the last of the dying season is ending and hope springs to life once more, the promise of summer, the kiss of a sun seldom seen only heard through the ages, the rock of these ages, the monsters in the living room, crept up on me when I was a wee child and something grew, something started growing then, an old cancer, a new idea, a heart stopping and waiting for the green man, we've all had days when we're just sitting there, waiting for that man, hoping and dreading his arrival, not realizing it is ourselves

The asphalt is pale and it seems like winter is still here, not feeling the full truth of spring but a make-believe a pretend and nothing really ends sinks in as we understand what is happening, we are samsa but it is the world outside us for we are caught in the belly of the whale and as we live our lives and bide our time waiting for our mother who have protected us for so long and given us food and shelter where we have found love and the meaning of life is still what georg samsa saw out of his window in the world where franz kafka wasn't a freak

Something we'll never know because we do know the devil we know and it will be our undoing and our civillization will collapse from it but then, we went out the way we lived didn't we, isn't this what we should strive for? Wouldn't that be the most just representation of who we were or who you are and if gods lightning did indeed struck and if I died as I lived, I'd die in my sleep

Not like Elvis or Hendrix who seemed to die according to a plan, pawns shifting as the sun tortures us with a few beams, surrounded by clouds and the world feels like it has little silver in it but is doused in water or kerosene leaving this membrane, unshatterable except by understanding like you walking up to tell him you love him and him saying

The last frost comes always after a period of warmth, so we shall not forget our true hearts, the lumps of ice embedded in the oil that pumps through all of us, it's not enough that we got lucky, we're being smug about it, we're being good

monsters playing to be people, before we had one god we had many, now only brought forth to explain metals of various kinds or burning churches but are we men or are we the trolls of past ages learned to walk like man? Did we come from his third way, was that our birth into this?

14
Or Kill Me / Æon
« on: May 10, 2012, 11:06:57 pm »

The 23rd path

"There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying the stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying the stairway to heaven."

 - LED ZEPPELIN


""Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space,
And I will shew you ferlies three."

"O see ye not that narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it but few enquires.

"And see not ye that braid braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path to wickedness,
Tho some call it the road to heaven.

"And see not ye that bonny road,
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae."

 - The ballad of Thomas the Rhymer


"hell above and heaven below
all the trees are gone
the rain makes such a lovely sound
to those who're six feet underground
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone
leave me golden tell me dark
hide from Graveyard John
the moon is full here every night
and I can bathe here in his light
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone"

 - And no one knows I'm gone, T. Waits



The 32nd path

Heavy words descend upon our adams apples and knots tie in bellies and a man is said to be left standing after the invasion, he is questioned but released, never picked up by any of the locals and when the revolution comes he is the first against the wall but again he is released and is tolerated for his lack of actions. When the revolution has feasted upon its fathers and mothers and children, the revolution, now lacking what fueled the hatred turns into what it once was but more brutal, more sincere. The revolution learned alot about others pain and we are protected now, by the same gods, the same vaults and the same moat

Mother Guillotine, have you come to see me off as I escape your city and your enthralled henchmen? The skies are bloodred as is fitting with a passing like this for I shall see you never again and even though you were newly built and only recently used, you are an old monster and rarely do you stand in the sun, aye, but when you do you are horrible to look at, you are retarded compassion built for efficiency, you are the monster in the abyss but you are more importantly purpose given form, you are destiny manifested and in a world where they tell us god creates destiny, not man

You learned me alot, this is the city that never sleeps, this is the city of the morning, this is the city of the harvest, the sleight of perpetual motion, the curve as time seems to sag and then speed up and I can feel the interference and it feels like nothing else and the hum and the beat and the snare and the light, like being on e only so much more, so much more detail so much more reality stop ask yourself why and know the answer already, see, magic

Never magick or magique for those are barren words nested in hollow shells of the people that so hardly want to believe when there is not much to believe in and why would you want to believe in something so vague that few people take responsibility for what they've written about it, hiding behind dry pseudonyms, a mish of religion, philosophy and bible trying to become science as they interpret religion with science and science with religion and this is magic, when the penetrator becomes the penetrated when night becomes day and if you really want to read about magic, I'd pick up Promethea seeing it's excellent handiwork

But the city sleeps, the city doesn't yearn for me as the miles become hours and night turns into day and everything shifts and the world is hollow, there are no friendly faces among the fires, there are no warmth in the rain but we press on and after the second night of sleep we hear the sounds of the ocean, we hear the life and hope fills our bellies like the finest of champagnes and we enjoy the last night, having reached the future of what we will become, the something is planted in us, something new that most likely will fade and flicker but it is there NOW

we realize it doesn't really matter what happens now, we've seen it, we did it we lived up to our own standards, we understood the consequences of our actions.

Some men say the world ends whn two watery stones meet on dry land, some say it will be consumed by dragons, others believe a dark lord is rising in the east, some say it will happen this year, some say its already happened

Some say that in his wet tomb of R'lyeh, he weeps for the end of time as his æon begins

15
Or Kill Me / What the spider saw
« on: April 27, 2012, 10:49:36 pm »

We were jealous of you because you were so full of life while we sat silently waithing for our own death rattle. Later in life we would descend to hell and ascend to the sacred city, we would see all the reflections in the net and gaze upon the abyss, the eternity of un-never, the eternal vague magic of truth would be revealed to us, its significance, its meaning, its purpose and we would find it as

I walked out of the seven with a pack of smokes and a bag of munch and it had gotten colder, spring was nearly here and through the din of drunken children and tourists, the men of the bridge offering their diluted goods, the surest way for those who wish to wake up at the er or not at all and as I thought this I heard in a broken norwegian dialect I love you and I've never heard anyone mean it so much, the desperation and longing equally genuine. There was no love in her voice and there was little hope, there was the hard cold guilty conscience hitting you coming down on something bad one of the boys on the bridge said would rock your world

There are no dreams anymore, there are no roses, dropped by protestors, crushed by swat, picked up by people in employ of the salvation army, there are no dreams but there is work to be done. Perhaps that is the time ending, the abscence of the youthful yearning for something more, always more and different and new and change and hope and fear and love and god and murder and all and everything of potency, the smell of rose, the multifoliate life

There is work and work is always good when it extends your being but I guess it has to when the shifts are 12, it becomes part reason of life of meaning of this, brave new world that I gaze upon with fresh eyes again, reborn once more amidst the din, making status and filling out lists, making plans for work

In lifes long corridor where we the dying men walk

Pages: [1] 2 3 4 ... 17