2012: Immanentize the eschaton and join the Black Parade

[Sepia]

Some times I wished Paris Hilton was one of the survivors and the times I wish it I'd really like to know how much or how little went on inside her head, we could have sold her the idea that she was the first Eve and how far would she have taken it, thinking about a first Hiltonian empire spanning all over the world or would she be sad because of the disfigurations her body had to endure in the ever-going childbirths?
We'd have fuckcity, a new breed of royalties and demi-gods, seeking our answers in incest as so many other blueblooded had and the thought had crossed our minds that this was a new shot, it could be something entirely new, we could create the world we dreamt about when we were sixteen, going eighteen and we would have done if it had happened then but our minds are filled to the brim with all this lovely and seething hate, frustration, hollowness and anger. We could have built up something shiny and beautiful, building it in his name, telling the tale of jesus christ and we'd see how many who were able to interpret the story after twenty odd years. This world cannot be salvaged, cannot be saved. We doomed ourselves a long time ago when we took the stars from our hearts and put them up into the sky.

The sea is never changing. No froth, no winds. It doesn't feel like the sea, it feels like standing at the edge of a small lake somewhere in the heart of the world with nothing stirring. I leave it behind, my beloved sea and I turn towards the heart as I drive, going for the inevitable plateaus, the old dream countries where indians still linger and still gather the bones of their ancestors and douse them in cheap bourbon and roulette plays. The sun has gone down on the mighty empire, the sun has set and there is nothing left like visiting your friends in a little college town where there's no cold, no frost on the windows and we can peep through with a cup of coffee in our hands and a freshly lit cigarette in our mouth. We can look at the warmth going off from the children, the lovely bastards that they are who doesn't play by any rules as they haven't learned them and who doesn't care if there are rules inside this world, they simply move by the force of personality and warmth. Even the jaded soldiers go melancholic as they pass the city in a train.

I try not to think. I try to take as much drugs as possible whilst still being coherent to my own mind, stick in the zone, the comfort and safe. I try not to believe it, I hope for it to be a joke, I hope for it to be something else and I'm going low, my thoughts are going low as I drive on, gun on no longer stopping to check out the cars and the only signs of life I see are the cars that still smoke , attacking my nostrils with old memories and a feeling of being trapped inside your parents closet looking curiously for anything while they come in and fuck. Someone once told me they've gone through their lives like this. Admitting it while stupidly drunk and whistling the next day that they don't belong here, they've never belonged here. Wrong address, wrong colour, wrong time and wrong place.

I speed for detroit.

[Sepia]

The drugs are catching up with my mind and I descend further into illuminated apathy. The comedian, the comedian stopped dead in the middle of a joke in las vegas, well aware of the state of the world but little caring. I've been trying to recollect how everything used to be but it's hazy, it's almost gone and I can't smell anything, I can't smell anything growing, I can't smell life nor the shit or the mud or the life, this life and now these dreams that come to haunt me, invisible vultures circling over the car and the highway and I see everyone's lives played fast forward for my eyes but it's not mine, it's theirs, every little life I hated or loved or didn't know about, everything's there and there are these pillars of light going through the sky except they aren't there, fata morgana, my only friend, only you can bring me here and I the thoughts are alleviated when I stop the car and vomit. I fall asleep there.

Have I told you of the sky? I always figured it would be the classic brimstone, quite close to the way they have it in the matrix with thunder and lightning or fire raining down. Perhaps green clouds surrounding us and a mushroom cloud somewhere in the horizon because war never changes. It's pale instead. Like an infected wound, going white and growing pale, not exactly the colour of someone who's been on a slab for a while but it's more the colour in their eyes when they themselves hear their deathrattle, never thinking it to be true. That broken panic. Those broken eyes and broken limbs and broken minds. Insurgents bowing their heads to the firing squad, apologizing before the bullets hit.
I know how it looks, I've seen it many times. Everyone has seen it or done it.  Every time you made the compromise, every time you backed off into the wall and gave them what they wanted, those are the heads dressed in this world under this bleak sky, making me certain that the four horsemen would fit in somewhere in this scenario. The sky looks like the way you've lost and you suddenly realize you've lost all too much. The stakes were too high, the sky is a bleak witness bought with baubles and guns and it keeps silent but it's a silent that makes you sweat, makes you nervous because you're aware that death is the only person to have ever understood you.

Detroit caught fire. All the concrete, all the iron and glass caught fire. So many rappers that will never be able to rap about bitches, blunts and fortys. I wonder if the new Leonardo da Vinci was among them. There's a gas station and a little liquor store here. I get out and walk inside, passing over crisps still a little warm to the touch, still with a dash of the scent of kebab and over to a rack marked Champagne before picking out the only champagne between various selections of cava, frizzatos, astis and a few australians before I head over to the glass section to be severely disappointed by the lack of wide glasses, settling on some rather dull and cheap for red wine. I pop a pill and wash it down with the french bubbles as I get drunk on it and I find bliss before I fall asleep on the rocker on the porch.

I dream of eyes. Or, I dream of things that have the same functions as eyes, feel the same way eyes do. Everything is seen from the belly of some sort of cerberus machine, fat dog with drool and darkness downfrom, darknes through impossible angles, always changing like the squirming of tentacles, tentacles and no drums but all is darkness. Sanity doesn't thread here and something sees me, sees straight through me and knows me like noone else ever have, like the perfect soulmate dragging you through life as a fourteenyearolder. I know what it is. I can't understand it, but I know the truth about it.

My lids are open but I'm not awake. Somewhere in the darkest seas something arises from its' slumber. A lid is opened and far beyond the understanding I can hear the crying of dolphins. Every flipper episode I ever saw goes through my mind as it detoriarates even further as I'm brought to understanding as to why it was dolphins that were attached with bombs and I see the lab where it was first born and I've been there sometime, I've been in Innsmouth.

[Sepia]

When I was a young boy,
My father took me into the city
To see a marching band.
He said,
"Son when you grow up, will you be the saviour of the broken,
The beaten and the damned?"
He said
"Will you defeat them, your demons, and all the non believers, the plans that they have made?"
Because one day I leave you,
A phantom to lead you in the summer,
To join the black parade."

A morning begins, dusk fades and I can see the whole of America opening its mouths for me. For us, for any survivors. And it's one of those days you so rarely have, when you wake up five minutes before the original plan and everything moves frictionless and you feel lucky and happy and you see the world in a new light, you understand more, the pink, the matrix trend and a desire for social recognition and you rave through this day with the soundtrack from the cartrip over, no rush since there'd been this accident and a touch on the arm from the cute barista, some extra change in your pocket given to a bum and you look up with a smile and there are these doves flying upwards and the sun, the sun is beautiful and adds another layer of god upon it all and you get this sneeking feeling that the emotional life of the day was sponsored by fanta, hot topic, youtube and mtv and as you gaze up at the 36th floor you realize you want to go to work today, you want to make a difference and the happiness makes it durable, makes it work, makes you go through your day with shitty dime a dozen bands and you know you want green day to play in your wedding and the game in your funeral and you know what it is to be down in the hole.

I don't know where I'm headed, there are signs all the way but I can't read them out  because I'm no longer in control, riding on the backside of my cortex, going autopilot  to some weird german new-wave and I keep wondering what will happen if I hit a tree and I'd really like to feel that before I die I think perhaps it's the male equivalent to the female giving birth, men getting drunk and driving around town, looking for a tree that'll survive the crash.
I think I took one too many because I'm no longer inside my body, I observe it floating above it, it's dizzyness making me quiver, the fat bouncing on and off and everything seems so simple from up here, every little aspect of it but I can see inside the cells of the tissue, the bone and the fat and somewhere it feels most like home but there is a symmetry inside them, a low, earthly hum.
A silence most natural and I don't know what's going to happen and for a few seconds I hit nirvana as the car

begins to clunk and it makes sounds one isn't supposed to hear before a lovely highpitched hiss. Steam rolls out of the hood and I see all these figures, all these people inside the steam as the Hillman comes to a stop. Lowering the seatbelts, mindlessly grabbing a few blankets and a prerolled before lighting it before falling asleep with it

making your mouth taste like ashes in the morning. The car lives and I'm driving back to where I've been, closer to the sea and I get this feeling that all the mouths in america open up to me, welcoming me home to a pink frosted cake and fake china with your daughter who cuts herself on her thighs and on her tits as to not get discovered and your son, a dangerous mind, intelligent and cynic, cold and with a belly filled with spirit but oh so little heart and you welcome me home, the prodigal son as we sit and talk about the weather and darlene getting what

as I drive I can feel something further down the road and when I get closer I hear this tune, low, mostly bass at this point before I get Closer and there are these shacks with light and there's a marching band on top of one of the smaller shacks with a flat roof and they're playing oh when the saints but it's slow, the pitch is the telephone terrorist way making it seem like they're playing amazing grace and as I sit on the hood there are tears streaming down both my cheeks and I get sober as you get when your daughter wants to make porn for the rest of her life and I weep and vomit and cough and cry and shout and then there's this complete loss of control as I black out.

Then I freak out, as my eyes becomes suddenly aware of everything around me and everything looks like some mmo where I stand over my corpse and there's this pretentious ominous sound in the background and in my brain I see this flick of someone brushing the corn with their hands and it's blue and dark and desolated and cold.
Reality explodes in impossible directions like pixels being torn apart or the whole ending of 2001 or something with a similar thought pattern, my eyes turn back, inwards, away from the horror but I can feel the presence and as I get used to the idea, the eyes flip over again, a low arab stands before me and he is no longer a human.

[Sepia]

"I profoundly admire Aldous Huxley, both for his philosophy and uncompromising sincerity. But I disagree with his advocacy of "the chemical opening of doors into the Other World", and with his belief that drugs can procure "what Catholic theologians call a gratuitous grace". Chemically induced hallucinations, delusions and raptures may be frightening or wonderfully gratifying; in either case they are in the nature of confidence tricks played on one's own nervous system." - Arthur Koestler

There's darkness at the break of noon and there's this distinct smell of tea in the air, bacon, beans, miso, fried tofu, eggs and a half turducken as this location where I'm currently at, where I've taken to only smoke as I get fucking paranoid, seems like any second some retarded spastic will run out of the woods and scream the othaahs ah comin but I'm getting ahead of myself because this is some weirdball setup here, the whole attraction is run with one of those old and cozy wheels down in the river and so everything works. I see movies and eat and drink and think that this is the perfect monument, the perfect tombstone, self-sufficient into eternity.

There are lots of guns in the workshop. It's a little church, devoted to the symbols of manlihood. It's man saying grunt before scratching his balls and cocking his gun. I've never held a gun but I've always seen them on the tv or in another fictional reality. A hand can be used as a knife and a handjob could cost you your life and this is where it's at. You only have to make the fist, the gun will do the rest and the desert eagle makes me shake with memories, costume parties and bad b-movies, troma, steven, arnold, jean claude, bolo and sly, fuck you were bad but Bruce Campbell, you were awesome. You did it and I smile as I piss into the barrel of the gun, holding it over my head before spraypainting the last sign of human culture still alive.

The next day I wake up, there's a transvestite named Paul sitting in the livingroom, the table littered with my shit and lots of open pillboxes and Paul, whom I yet do not know says

thank fuck I found you I aven't had drugs for nearly a week and I kept getting crazy out there, seeing him, seeing something different each time but it was the same guy and he was this little arab but you knew he was something else and I haven't found any other cigarettes except for these shitty marlboros and other crap mass produced death DEATH but god I feel so much better but I haven't had anyone to talk to for so fucking long and I smell like a dead fish left to rot and it's the speed really that jacks me up so I was looking for some weed but I found none, do you have?

Something shatters inside me and I get that vomit when you swallow it again because I didn't imagine really anyone else surviving because I had believed in those voices you hear before you realize and I though I was the only one, the truly chosen one in this bizarro plan nine from outer space reality and it all came crashing down, someone snippeting the thread keeping the papier mache dragon up there and I go upstairs and get the weed and I make two, one for each of us, lighting serial and he doesn't leave spit on the paper so I guess he's okay and he's cooling down, he hasn't said much since his outburst and she seems quite understanding and intelligent, yet distanced. Polite. A cold politeness. Making you remembering you that you are a bug and I ask how long she's been working as a dominatrix and she sneers and makes some disapproving sounds before she hisses four years through her teeth, oozing with smoke and revulsion and she lets go. Hi I'm Paul she says, Peter I say and she goes down on the couch and I tuck her in and put a pillow under his head before I get this flash of eating somewhere, somewhere where it smelled like patchouli and weed and cats and we were gathered

gathered at the table, golden buddhas leering at you, dreamcatchers and cats in abundance and there's this big turkey on the table except it ain't really a turkey, it's made from tofu with the love and care of ten people because they believe the height of a mindset is to imitate.

Paul's pretty. There is no attraction other than the meeting of old friends and he seems introspective and a social recluse by own choosing or design. She gets happy after showering and we sit and see old movies, going on raids to homes in the vicinity, pillaging bad b-movies, porn and arthouse, reliving every human moment after mankinds extinction eating stolen food and drugs, smoking stolen tobacco and relaxing, living in a bubble that's protected by a fine selection of cheap champagnes in one of the trucks outside and going through the stuff in the shack we find their storage in case of nuclear explosion and even more meet, lots of cured and smoked and salted stuff that would last longer and there's even fucking cheeses down there and we grab some guns shooting at cans and bottles and it should have been my sister and it could have easily been.

We dance and drink and occasionally converse as we pout our lips and sit in the tropical garden, watching the desolate planet. Rhythms were working hard in our nerves and we were coming up, coming down now, headed for somewhere else, dreams come and children too, loss of control and faculty and we go to bed like siblings drunk on poor red and we dream, we dream of a little arab with kind eyes.

[Sepia]

"I'm like an American princess."

- Paris Hilton


It's when you wake up in the middle of the night that it hits you and it hits you hard in the most terrible places. The feelings one always have bottled up becomes a volcano and your head is thick in the middle of the night, understanding little, no thoughts, only desires and needs, a need to take a piss and a need to crawl under someone elses blankets afterwards and just feel the rhythm of a heart that's not your own. Milk and cookies perhaps or that delicious leftover hamburger and some cheddar, a few tomatoes and some salt. No buns and nothing that needs to look pretty, the house is silent and you're alone. Still almost dreaming, approaching the witching hour of chefs where esthetics doesn't matter anymore, nor does the blending of tastes, just meat and fat and fresh. Small bits of cooked flesh to stick in your teeth and that feeling when you get so thirsty you can't drink fast enough.

It hits you.

Everyone you knew that you truly loved are gone and while some will always be collateral damage in a social or apocalyptic setting and they're gone, you've been writing them out of your feverish dreams and nightmares. The disease is going away  and every aspect about them fading, like dead jedis in infinite darkness. You get these thoughts then, these are what is in your head as you become aware through the mud and the dying flames. For once, you know you are alone in this world this time around you know noone will ever understand you now and that is the only thought of any worth flowing through your broken skull and you grab a cigarette, the portal going out of your misery and hanging onto a fragment of home and the brushed stroke of your mother against your cheek and in the exhalation you are alone again, ashamed because this was what you thought you knew and you repeat the mistake.

I always wished I lived in a city in america, like they did in the movies. The contradiciton of a country built with blood and iron and all the remnants of the old world and it's still the old world where we dwell and we're waiting down by the docks, hoping the mayflower will come back soon. It is my dream and for as long as I can remember, I've had it, even now in my semi-amnesia, the dream lingers in my mind behind an echo of blue smoke, rising from my cigarette.
I get out on the porch and I wank and as a lot of faces blur just outside my eyes and go through eachother, forming a vast reptilian creature made of women of all complexities and races and I fuck it in all their holes and sockets as I grow desperate, re-use all my childhood fantasies and all my childhood tricks before I spread my dead little children out on the fields as an offering to the first god to come to the scene of my immersion, the first god to come to my aid at the sound of a rock hitting bottom.

Horror fills my stomach.

[B_M_W]

goddamn.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

This is some good shit, yo.

[Sepia]

Simone de Beauvoir, here are your lesbian lovers.

Wrapped up one christmas was Alice B. Toklas' cookbook in a gaudi paper and the first thing I did before giving thanks to my old aunt was to check the letter H and read about the hashish fudge Toklas had gotten such infamity from and something swelled inside as I read what was needed to make it. I thanked my aunt, proceeded to read the little anecdote attached to it and it made sense that it had been given to her by Brion Gysin. That age. That timeless age, the last jazz age when politics went hand in hand with cocaine and speed and demanded change, not the following years when politics were argued about high as kites and sex was always in abundance because people were too tired to listen and discuss, keeping the facade, keeping the trend alive, trying to feel that change is happening somewhere, keeping the face up, keeping the smile up, letting the chin drop.

The meeting with Paul reminded me that I've always had a curious fascination for transvestites, movies about transvestites usually clocking in at the top of my list, dear hedwig, dear priscilla and my darling rocky horror. The glam, the perfect illusion. An illusion I could actually live in without feeling a desire for something else, keeping up the pace with vodkatonics, gintonics with a slice of cucumber, glasses of port (if hot, add one icecube) and countless bottles of pernod before going on stage and handling your nervous breakdown with grace because you don't want anyone else to see it and enjoy it and your heart hardens as you harden as we all harden, a crossdressed christ shemale in chainmail, our armor shining and beautiful.

One hundred years since Simone was born and don't get me started on the ridiculousness of birthdays but this was infact the day she was born. Yoko Ono turning on the feminist cam, doing handheld dogma movies with danish subtitles, retards running around in the bleak garden. de Sade sits somewhere in the shadows, brooding gloomily and outside the window of our hut, two russians walk past, talking vividly, heading for the zone.

[Sepia]

But what is the meaning of it all shouted the first monkey into the night. What is there in this world of slumber, lazyness and decay? he shouted on, rousing most of the monkey population. To give birth shouted monkey 2, one of the younger mothers in the flock. Yes! cried a younger male, a male filled with ideas and monkey 3 continued with:

That which is most important is to continue the cycle of rebirth. As the spirits from our ancestors once were us, such will our offspring be us and there is life eternal. We must sustain ourselves, breed from out of tribes to ensure safety and we must continue our fathers' creations.

Monkey 1, clearly having given this thought, said But that goes in circles! We sustain ourselves to sustain our selves, and we do not sustain ourselves to pick life like a ripe orange, peel and it its contents raw, juice dripping from our grinning faces. We do not even speak of it!

Monkey 4, which had not spoken yet, raised his voice and said There is no meaning, no purpose to what we do. Atleast, there is no masterplan, there is nothing up in the sky, no ancestors, no nothing but there's meaning and there's purpose in the small things as the philosophers named them ages ago. There is purpose in love and meaning in hate, picking food and building huts, there is purpose in safety and meaning in freedom. There is no more than what you see laid before you, there is really nothing to interpret for under our fur lies our muscles, our bones and as they function, do we not function? What differs the fur from the blood?

Peter had read to Paul, who had been sitting completely enthralled the entire session, nodding and making small sounds, emitting small quirks and it was weird as it was obviously some form of trust or affection but I never got women of any kind. There was beauty in him, something fragile but not like porcelain, more like the cracking of a windshield, not exploding but more broken, more broken of some kind. Paul is one piece that is not in fractures but in scars and I believe him to be completely deranged or I'm getting way over my head paranoid but he's so normal and not as in my normality but he's just so damned normal.

She cooks but we never talk about it, switch days and it's very peaceful and it's so beautiful, it's so scary and weird but it's so beautiful. It's glorious to sit outside in some kinda of mid august type weather without the wind, without anything to interrupt the perfection of it, not even the sun. The clouds glow in a dull way, illuminating the land in a warm tone, everything feels like a polaroid from the seventies and it's all very weird but so natural. It's like real good gelato or a damned good cake, something from vienna. So sweet but so refined and so good. This life is like a brioche.
We enjoy eachother and the lack of eachother, she sits much in the hut, reads and watches movies and I'm sitting outside, gazing, watching and drinking because there's this feeling for the first time in my life and it's filled with hope, it's filled with glory and beauty and this terrible meaning, the awful sensation of something beyond us existing out there or in here or somewhere. There is hope in my stomach and there is fear too, much fear but I see it, I feel it and I know this isn't the time to have fears, this is what we've been trained for. This is a new perspective and it's quite disorienting. There is no point anymore in having any fears, nothing is really important now, there are no audiences and there are no loved ones and I think this is where I understand that about you die alone because that this is how you die alone. This is how I have to die alone or die a coward. Both of us must live alone. We've probably both done it before but this is another league. I fall asleep and as I begin to snore there's this sound of hooves coming nearer, unrhythmic, doesn't sound like horse but more a camel, one of those mad camels they have for you to rent, old bluecollar camels watching the sphinx every day and they run that stumpy way like a cat with three legs.

The dream is filled with colours and with floating corpses hanging upside down. I begin to fall, watching windows as I pass, descending, no feeling of air rushing but more like an elevator, a glass elevator and I simply arrive in a room. It was where I used to work and I'd been called into the office of the vice president of the company, the owners son. I was an illustrator and the son had no taste and he liked to parade it around, he was this little magnet of fear, expecting obedience like an old world king and loyalty above else, a powermad baron playing houses against eachother, dividing and conquering. He'd summoned me because I'd drawn a very pretty but still nude image of one of the biggest soap stars in holland and as he showed me what he felt was wrong I found myself agreeing with him and I copied what he said exact and I woke up, sweating, vomiting over the side, feeling firty, feeling the filth covering my body.

None of us clean up and it has begun to smell. A tangy thing in the air. We sit and drink one night and we don't say much, look at eachother, look out into the air and we look at our little den filled with dirty cups and filthy plates, kettles used once and set aside, soon going empty but nothing really sticks to the teflon and we've grown into decay, eating burgers with fries and little else, zits are beginning to pop up and we're more irritated in our stares and sometimes Paul talks loud or yells something when she's in the bathroom and one night I pack the car, make us something we can have along the way, juice, frozen goods gonna thaw out, trying to find something that doesn't feel like fat and sugar oozing from my pores. We drink heavily that night and after a while Paul is knocked out and we drive on. We leave our little burrow and it will fall out of our memories in two days for it was a home, it was bright and it was pretty and kind. It was beautiful and not really our cup of tea.

[Sepia]

We drive past torn landscapes and this world is translucent, this world lacks substance, leftover sets from family comedies scattered around the landscape and this is the world we made. It makes a little bit proud but mostly filled with shame. It makes me see and accept what's going on here now, further into this beast of revealations. This was what we made, our epitaph became our actions and that janitor will always be known as monkeyfucker and it's dead now. It's an awesome feeling, it's like a choice you're going to do will finally make any difference for anything. Not that everyone else is dead, I have control I have clear vision I have godsight.

There's little to look at. We stopped by a small town and went out to fill gas and just watch, seeing the victims of pompeii out in the streets of hicksville, virginia. Here are the weirdoes, the monsters under the bed all exposed to sudden daylight, catching a vampire unprepared and carved in every little one of these statues is a message, is meaning. Profound meaning is etched in this humanity as humanity itself was etched unto the mad prophet so many years ago.

It's a misunderstanding. It always is and always will be. The prophet knew what he saw the day in yemen. He knew where he was headed because life had already unfolded for him. He controlled the illusions and was able to move quickly, making some people thinking him cursed when he suddenly appeared but all beheld Alhazred as a wise man, a man one could trust, he was the mender of the city and his heart was big. There was something about him they couldn't set their finger upon, these intelligent, wellspoken and humble servant of the town. One day, many of the inhabitants of the village woke up from their slumbers, early morning with several huts on fire, Alhazred was out with water but his candle burned more often now, every hour of the dark hours there came light from his study and he became more reclusive, still taking in strangers but not seen wandering anymore, no more talking to the beggars or the mayor because something was eating old prophet Abdul Alhazred and it wasn't evil, it wasn't good nor light or darkness. It was a human hunger upon the heart, a hunger one finds alone in the skin deserts and Abdul had throd down the path long ago, the hard path, filled with rocks, scorpions and snakes, filled with dread and guilt, filled with fear and uncertainty.

One night it consumed him. Vanished into a colour beyond time together with the towns infants, the prophet disappeared, earning the nickname the Mad Arab after his works had been reviewed by the proper authorities. Abdul Alhazred was never remembered save for in whispers, echoes but his prophecy rang truer for it had no purpose. The scripture, tossed into the streams of time, an intelligent memebomb on it's way.

It feels like rain but it's not.

[Sepia]

The tears roll in from the heart of the country and reminds us. Reminds us on who built this, reminds us why they built it, the tears that form an avalanche. Our stomachs were grovelling, Paul was uptight on bad drugs, still with the mindset that the drugs would get her away from it all. The drugs had always shut it out for him and how many other countless scores of people who had their lives too filled up or too empty and just wanted to disappear. The drugs helped her in a fashion as it helped me it its fashion. There was no future anymore, there was nothing to rebel at anymore. The drugs were still good but they were no longer needed. There were no gazing eyes, no scrutinizing looks, we didn't need the drugs as we'd needed them before but Edie Sedgwick we were and Edie Sedgwick we'd become.

Paul was becoming increasingly paranoid, not because of the drugs but because there was noone who was after her. Everyone was dead, everyone had decayed into oblivion, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his dreams. He didn't share but we had this mutual intuitive understanding. We knew who we were in our own minds and in the minds of the other, two performance artists re-enacting a clockwork orange in a warm and vibrant laura ashley home.
We passed towns and townships, looting what we needed, grabbing what we wanted. Our lives were hollow now, more hollow than before but it was a relief, sunday morning dressing up in what's the most comfy thing before sleeping the day away between poor action movies and stressing about work the next day. Like that. You feel like shit and can indulge yourself a whole day, stacking the pizzaboxes with the rest of the filth before spending hours hating what you do and why you do it, looking at those few discarded dreams you let go because there had to be a sacrifice somewhere along the way and you'd wish you'd never listened to your parents and got that education, that stability, the apartment that doesn't smell like cigarettes and pot, that doesn't smell like there's been a week since someone took out the trash and the drain in the shower is visible.

We should have died somewhere, should have taken a wrong pill or stepped on the wrong platform, expendable as we are as we were and would always be. Like everyone before us of our mindset had been. One of the few conversations me and Paul had was about the world and how we felt it repeated itself, none of us knew what we were talking about on a factual level but we knew it, gut and instinct told us that we knew this. You read in the books or on a wiki about people you admire because you do or because you're told to admire them, write an essay about them and you find that they were misunderstood their whole lives through and died alone, penniless and was then appreciated so many years after that. Then they formed our history, posthumously.
Some times they were forgotten, forced into obscurity, a Mad Arab standing on a soapbox in hyde park shouting revealations for all to hear in a dead language. Passers by watching him for his beauty and his charisma, thinking he's a performance actor, standing there meaning every word he spits out from between his teeth and you can see it in his eyes, where passion and hopelessness mix and intertwine inbetween eachother, an old death for an old man.

[Sepia]

I can no longer feel the sea. It didn't feel like the sea when we were at the sea either but there was still the water, a sense of connection between everything else. Connections are easy when there's the water because you know your body is filled with it and you know how it feels, rushing in over your body as you submerge and for a tiny second you see the maelstrom you created with a few hairs cropping up at the surface before you return once more gasping for air and not because your lungs are all worn out but it feels so good. The taste of air when you've been denied it for only a few seconds, a few minutes is impossible to describe. You'll have to have done it and you'll have to appreciate it.

The air isn't stale here where we drive, stopping at every little town give us that dosage, give us those dreams. A basement where the air is rank and the walls smell like sweat and old sex, bedspreads clinging to you out of disgust. There! The worm is inside the temple, the worm is inside the apple, digging through our hopes and hollow bones and it's the same worm as in the bottles but we've always preferred it dead.
Paul is fascinated with the apple he found. Still green, still pretty and waxed up it's on the dashboard, gently bobbing and when it falls over she turns it the way he placed it the first time, this little brown asshole turned toward her just waiting for something to pop out of it. We drive in silence and I catch myself glaring over at the apple, glaring over at Paul where he sits, gaze fixed on the only colourful object seen for many miles. We sit and wait for the worm.

We pass towns that no longer have any names and cities where we can still feel the residual warmth of human civillization grabbing in the air for something to keep them afloat, keep them close to what they had once when they were alive and when they mattered to themselves. We go on for a while, we've gone on for quite some time, the amphetamine makes me uncertain about how long and how far but we've gone too long, my jaw is starting to ache from too many cigarettes and too few words and we'll be stopping soon, we're stopping soon and we stop by the gas station and stretch our legs, Paul wanders off. This is a weird part, this isn't really america as I knew it was, it feels like there's moors everywhere in all locations, reminding me about an american werewolf. The chills hit me in my spine making my legs go jello, the most nauseating experience in quite a while, lack of sleep and food and water.

Then there's a scream from out back.

I gather myself and run, stumbling and cursing and completely out of air after the first ten paces and I see Paul's back, I see her body going limp down into the grass and there's an object somewhere in the distance, two objects connected by something, a blur in my field of vision, two people sit a mile away and one of them get up. It's a woman. She stands over there, looking at me, terrified to some degree, the dodo meets its first human and gullible as those birds were they wanted to sneak up and get a hug but I know who she is already, I can feel it in her gaze. I walk towards them, panting, limp and numb. Something old crops up in my mind, it's a memory but it's not mine, there's someone there, a face gauzed up in a hospital bed slurping soup that's already been chilled, a doctor comes in and asks me or the one in the bed how I feel and I say I feel numb and the doc chuckles and says You can't feel numb because if you're numb you can't feel anything, You'll have to be numb.

Be numb. Be numb. Be numb.

Numbly I walk towards them. There are two of them but my eyes catch these colours, small flies in the field of vision, too hungry to stumble on further but it's not me stumbling further, I have resigned, let loose of control while my body moves on, step by step by step and it's an old man and a young woman playing chess on an old oil-drum and they know who I am, they've both seen me before and she
she is what I was waiting for, she was the dreams I had before turning twenty and the dreams I forgot after I turned twenty. Everyone falls in love and it's not a hard thing to do but to crawl from the wreckage, to crawl away from that - love is like hate here and now and then about that because it's easy to hate, it's hard to hate well but most people regard hate as an instinct, something you do without control, a temporary lapse in identity but once you've begun your crusade towards love, towards hate, only the most stalwart and knowledgeable will be able to turn away from it or see the hate and love for what it is.

I stumbled and fell infront of Mary and Abdul.

[Sepia]

We were the doomed, those filled to the brim with the hopeless hope. We were kings always in our own rights, children raised and born when the world was good, when everything that went down went down in an orderly fashion and we didn't need to care, everything had already been arranged for us, everything was so transparent and we saw through the eyes and brains of the masters of the world and we saw so many things that were wrong and we were burning with fiery passion in our teens, goldenboy members of the far left or the far right, having seen a light and achieved illumination/transcendence in an early age, red stars or white swastikas, extremists in every fashion before mellowing out in our late teens as we learn of compromises and what they are and think that our minds are being reformed and not revolutionized and we begin to understand the significance of a white wedding and we're smart and we're clever and we see that our despised system sometimes are right and we follow them more and more and the life of work and your own time superimposes themselves as a crashing frame through reality.

Sometimes, if you want to do what you really want you become what you hated so many years ago. It is an easy system, a most cleverly deviced memetic bomb, given as a token, a burden. You become what you hate. You become what you loathe, despise, you become what pisses you off, what makes you bear a grudge. You become what you love, you become what you cherish. You become every feverish dream vision you've ever had and you've become the woman in the wall. You become the truest motherly love and the gentle caress from your father with pride in his eyes, you become everything you've ever adored, the poster of samantha fox in your brothers room which you were too old to take down when he left you and put in your own room, too shy and too aware of eyes.

Oh, come you masters of war, masters of the world, we see through you, we see and understand and contemplate and we know you. Like the chlorine we wash down the drain to keep the hair away, to keep the worth of our apartment up, too old to desire a life without routine and unforeseen consequences. The problem is that we've seen too much. We see your masks and the face underneath it and we know their significance in your minds but we see no difference between the mask, face and the muscles underneath, we see no difference from your kabuki costume and the tissue and fat lurking 'neath your surface. In the beginning, there wasn't the word, it was the deed.

Your life passes before your eyes before someone kills you. Sometimes when you should have been dead. His name was Abdul Alhazred and he had died in Yemen thirteen hundred years ago. His eyes were pale like those of a blind man but with a fiery passion or desire, he was the eyes of the black man playing the piano in that old movie and he was the devil at the crossroads, buying souls for blues. He was the blind dude in the end of return of the king and he was so much more. He was Rasputin and he was Rob Hobbs and everything else you wanted him to be and his voice was gentle but rusty, he was marlon brando and Tallulah Bankhead. He was the fear in every extremist mans eye for he was unnerving, a colour out of time and space.

Abdul told stories, he told of the prophet, Howard Phillips Lovecraft and spoke of him in a bitter way, for Lovecraft wasn't the finest of prophets but Abduls tone became warmer when speaking of the offspring, the offspring of Lovecraft, because there had been more prophets in either knowing or unknowing ways the last century since the prophets birth than ever before. We had idolized our prophets and created different cults, different sects using wrong words for wrong concepts. The Necronomicon, a translation he spat upon were the keys to picking everything apart, but not like a knitted sweater but more like a devastating game of chess, a complete rearrangement and he spoke other words, the words of angels, words of command and they gave their understanding, completely unquestionable. It was the calculation of the meaning of the word, an essay on that famous sentence, in the beginning was the word. It was the sounds of demons and angels whispering to us while our reason slept and it was Control. We were a species that was able to not see ourselves as we were but only through metaphors and images and he told us that everyone had been infested, everyone had words that would spurr meaning into their lives or make it spin so fast that you lose contact with the center. The most fitting of images is that of man as a machine, man is operated on binary. Everything is 0 and 1 except that this to our understanding, to those of us who aren't genius, this implies that man is indeed a machine and thusly errs the image but it is the closest he can present us with now, the more radical of ideas he says he has told us in command will reveal themselves later if we grasp their concepts.

[Sepia]

We're bowie, starmen climbing towards an unknown galaxy filled with peace love and understanding, dreams collapsing in on themselves as we see the hippies first with their nervous breakdowns, this wasn't what heaven they'd been subscribing to, this was off, leaving a foul taste in their mouths but we keep going, filled our bellies with ecstacy before we hit this part of town, taxi on our way out into the suburbs where someone has a mansion he got off his folks when they died, tragically in an accident when he was five and it's a three storey place out where people usually are rich and we catch the scent of the place when we get there and we peer out at the skyline sipping something in champagne glasses that's far from champagne but it bubbles so it's okay, it's good enough for us as we delve deeper inside this place and find the basement, furbished sometime in the 70's and all is dark and the fake teak surrounds us, a little bar in this house.
Our host is on the other side of the bar, mixing vodka with club soda and a little slice of cucumber for taste and he has the most drunken smile and we love him back, we smile and hug and mean it for the first time this tonight but we pass on further, cheap drinks in our cheap hands, going well with our cheap clothes but it isn't us that's really cheap, it's those over by the table who're overtly flushed, with cash and job and pretty ladies but so cheap on style, so cheap on everything that ever mattered. I'd dream my dream and say it wasn't always for procreation and I'd dream that same dream and say that we'd gotten further, we went away in style, a whimper filled with colours, 2001 ending abruptly.

We didn't follow the style and we can keep the style but we weren't here for the style, for the lovely fashion of it all, we were here for the drinks and the booze, we were here for the cocaine, the weed or whatever anyone else was holding. We were always here for the drugs and for the entertainment, the escape from our lives and into yours. The clean and beautiful people which you never really were but for us, in our minds you were. When we were broke we drank up what was left of it or spent it on blockbusters and drugs or drugs and food, never buying a ten kilos package of rice, never buying enough ramen to last a year, never to conserve the money for a time of need because we aren't here for the need, we're not here to survive on what we need, we've gone away to do what we want. We'll die in a time of need and we know that, man and woman alike before we latch onto someone to keep us in a balance, who'll be there when we fall and who will always misunderstand why we fall but they'll have a hard voice and smooth hand, to teach us and to forgive us. To love us.

[Sepia]

we are the sickening dreams of our former selves, yellow withering trees which follow the streams with their roots, covering the ashen lands. We were on our way somewhere, to a distant party filled with light and we roll into the memories of the locals, hitching dreams and hopes to a supernova, the world filling our bellies, solemn oaths in our minds affecting noone but ourselves and our hate, this lingering process of limbo.

We see the fags off the street, we see the gay on their shows
We see the women off the street, we see the plastic in the studios
We see the men off the street, we see a world that drowned in itself

everyone was bickering
everyone was bickering
everyone was

None came shouting at us, none came shouting at them, the horrible rooms inside in which we slept where we discussed an age of reason but a blind idiot gods spawns found us in our sleep and gave us our dreams so we would no longer in mediocrity, the pinnacle of our society and civillization, where we were doomed from the start, where every seed that sprang forth from the black and dreary world were plants and life of gray dust disintegrating at sunshine's first touch

The motels disappear along the road and we see various game running around the hills, majesticly, the deers and the lions running wild and we don't hear the choppers, we don't hear the jeeps and the lookouts are all abandoned and there's no smell of ketamine in the air, every shell we see is rusty in the land of broken glass

we move softly and quietly through the bars the pubs and the lounges, disappointment reeks in every room, to and fro our ghostly shadows where they discuss as we discuss with the same ferocity with the same meaning where we sit and talk and scream about our  hollow lives and how we should lead them, uninteresting ethics and morals out of the way before we move on to the intuitive and what we gathered through life and as we share our esoteric dreams the neighbouring table share theirs in their mediocrity

highbrowed we are, a term not important for ourselves but for everyone else, coining us, giving us these definitions and we called you the filth once and you will never let us forget that you were once the plebs, the forms going out of focus, a shadow cutting through and we meet in our apathy

yours for what is around you and ours for you

how many nights have we sat here speaking of these things, thinking these thoughts and hating eachother where we meet with broken backs and shoes filled with sawdust, the
swivel where we agree
            to drink

ours was always the problem of your lack of understanding, ours was the problem of misunderstanding where we see you go through life with struggle as we all do but you, your lovely wives and children, husks like yourselves or like us the contours of your faces are the same, spiriting away what was left of a gray zone untill only the black and the white remains and one blot goes out on the radar before we vanish on top of it our discussions growing thin, our circles never complete and we fall more silent

and listen to your discussions and something inside us stirrs, something inside us begins to live, That Which We Always Hated

we spout the piss we'd fought, drinking
   with our new brothers