Author Topic: a chylde of four (jacket made from a mad cow)  (Read 1759 times)


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a chylde of four (jacket made from a mad cow)
« on: July 30, 2014, 09:38:26 pm »
and we break as we open and the cracks are all visible, now, we fall apart as we find the connections necessary to become further and we are a whimper, we are a bang and we birth ourselves as the shotgun feels heavy, feels hard, feels wrong but there is someone else telling something else, call it a demon and they have called it evil but what other shadow can emerge from the doubt of action, a part of us not yet comprehended, not understood, something vague but I'd say that one little voice screaming yes in a choir of no is what makes us human, makes us all Walt Whitman

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

Prepare for braindump:

They go out chasing the heart of saturday night, dew heavy upon the cityís 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 dÝende 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, itís election year and cultural imperialism has taken its roots and god how I hate the ads, we still havenít gotten to american standards but weíre 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 weíre not a republic

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

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

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

The happy people


The future resides in the hands of Lizzy Caplan


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

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

Pope wyrm, pope paed, pope poor, ipope, hipsters driving around in popemobiles and I love them and nominate them for parliament simply because they do things for a reason that may be stupid but they donít sugarcoatitandthey seem generally interested, they seem like decent folks that do stuff and when I meet them we howl, burning still for the heavenly connection

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

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


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

some will say it is god or his terrible revenge but fuck that, godís terrible revenge is already here, something that isnít is because of the minds of men- we live in an age of liars or did we always live like this?

Election-year, this year, the infernal cabal gathered and talking talks, smoothening moves, pandering to the masses, the christian party paying homage to world-famous massmurderer anders behring breivik by reinstating christianity as the dominant religion taught, showing our white fear for islam like the good white soldiers we are because he was right in that there will be a war or several regarding it, itís been a while since a big good one hasnít it? Time for a new one, time to water the roses the way they should, soon weíll hear it I think, and and and a cultural minister that has no competence regarding that field except for sports and various aspects of sports, she spends the rest of her time in board meetings and Iím thinking Allen Ginsberg had the most right and his america is all our americas, our own personal hells of america and I didnít vote for this shit

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

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

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

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

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

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

and god understands, he

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


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Re: a chylde of four (jacket made from a mad cow)
« Reply #1 on: July 30, 2014, 09:39:12 pm »

The shadows grow dry as realization dawns that one of the greatest hacks of all time was in the right, was in the know, adulthood is hell. Bleeding, we pass from street to street, turning like romeo in that old song and rodman looks old hangin with his bro, being the fucked up fairy princess of a new millennium and as the kennedy question haunted us, this new is ours, what happened to the uncle free us denis, free this world denis rodman, write out the pain and the shit and the filth and all of it, become the spirit of freedom you were meant to be, become the embodiment of your country free them, free us, free us all denis rodman, denis rodman I hear youíre spearheading peace talks denis rodman is it true you and the uns will go to maui or is it bali or where will you go, will you go to Mauritius so kim can hold a dodo and inspect its skeleton?

denis rodman, the world needs to know, the world demands to know what you know denis, fuck your world peace we just want the stories so we can rehash and aggregate them, tweet them and put them on fb like a badge, turning them into memes and image macros, denis rodman the world wants to know if you are willing to become the new lolcats or have you already marilyned too far, are you, denis rodman, the next

denis rodman, the world needs to know, denis rodman, which is the true god, denis rodman, what belief will get us to the most comfy afterlife, denis rodman, the world needs to know, denis rodman will you be our ganesha, ushering in this new age, denis rodman, will you help us end hunger, stop pestilence and de-arm war, denis rodman, could you get Guru to interpret What keeps mankind alive? and get him on national television doing this, denis rodman, the world needs to know, where is the bus headed?

too confined, we will die in our hearts, our dreams will wither and despair, hope is lost and the children will carry us no fruits, the apples turn to frost and glass, the dry season is upon us, the words go repeat in our minds, our tongues twist and our minds; too - the words for the seasons remain the same, death becomes us in another fashion, our hearts go to the lengths of its depths and there is no forest, only trees and the gods will look down on us, or from us, the trees, faces carved by children long ago, their meanings long ago forgotten and it is only us, lingering in the silence left as someone closed the cellar door, our throats feel dry as the world will open, the hearts descend come, mother, father - i have seen you in moments of torment, Iím so lonely I could cry but I have no mouth, you have perverted everything you believe in, no I have I have I am, I canít say I am because I donít know the words that come next, there is no such thing as I am because I am not but what I know I am is in need of re-reading Cerebus and so should you

Blisteringly, we dance and we become, dragons in the mist, vipers in a holy church, a toad crucified for the true god, dreaming down below, get thee behind me satan, I am not my brotherís keeper, I am but a child of four, nothing more, the extent to my understanding of this world, this reality, this section of time, I end this heart with a heavy sigh and the gods themselves smile and see upon me, as they cry in their tongues for fouler mouths to be fed, dreams to be gone, hatred in the hearts of heated men, governed by the gods, devout children will be left in the mud, asses reamed, hearts torn anew, reborn small children, reborn chirstians and nothing of it is right, tradition keeps us in check, tradition makes us who we are, gilded children in dwelling cages, heart and hatred but to mind

when they promise safety, it is at the expense of freedom and there is no such thing as a free lunch, please recall

please remember, please donít forget again, itís just a game, remember Bill Hicks and remember that he was the second one to die for your sins or as he said

I left in love, in laughter, and in truth and wherever truth, love and laughter abide, I am there in spirit.

We forget ourselves, diseased as we are, we can feel the tissue surrounding the bone but it is not within our own command, we are delving into darkness, the old familiar whore, once more, one more time for a while, not the last but the years separating the dives grow longer and time becomes more fucked up, more broken, petering out?

the aether aethyr, forgetful should we drown in sorrow, long do we grow as we tend our gardens, their hearts not intertwined with ours, no purpose, no rhythm, nothing to do but wait for godot and you lie to yourself, that shit never really worked but youíve been doing for too long, opening scene of preacher, they say we end in hell but we are in hell, the war is between us and heaven and as it appears through eyes of pragma and lenses of dogma

youíre drowning in your own shit, you brought it down upon thine high self, you commanded these torrents, this tempest the boiling swamp in which we dwell, and swell as others are damned as us, feeling paranoid and delusional and as we come closer to the date, everything dies, my netbook, my fridge, soon everything will be dead and what was the word for it, kipple?, everything will be kipple and i will be king

and in death i breathe, raggedly on dry leaves, held be these special tweezers that some cat got made in morocco and when he was down there he hung with the beats and communed with abdul alhazred hassan i sabbah, all our favorite fictions, the sky is cracking and dogs are barking and old tom good old tom is still there and he remembers those dreams weíve all forgotten making us blue and turning us darker as we spiral down and see the intersections and crossroads, gŚ utenom, and we did, weíve been straying for a long time and sometimes it feels like i stray as an individual but sometimes it feels like weíre all chasing our tails, trying without knowing, not stopping to pause and construct a question but mow on into obscurity

Spring comes and it should like warmth was radiating, was permeating was becoming, me, scissors tear the fabric, reality shifts and we see a different world we never thought possible, weíve been here before, weíve seen this place beofre and weíve thought these exact same thoughts, last time I was 17, the circle is widening, creating ripples, we are riding on the edge of one, a ripple rippling forward into summer, into death into birth, birthed into something more and something else something, words become jumbled, we lack the words to describe the entirety of our being or our dreams or visions, dream shrug and become me, see the signs for what they are, see the hearts wirtten in the sun, become the sun, become the hearts of what was, what will be, shadows come drift with me for a while I dun no where Iím going or where I was but thereís nothing much else to do is there?

Maya Angelou dies and the spirits say return to form, return to void, your presence is squandered in every day, not in labor to become god-man but in labor to buy house food love comfort security and anyone who tells you there is something else lies, these are the trades we make and in the middle of the bartering we live, we live in a null zone where all is form where all is void and this is where our dreams escape to, where our lives are lived as we die so slowly that we think weíre alive, stealing lines from an excellent debut, misplaced meaning puts us where we want to be, sheltered, shadowed and hidden, the whining orchestra heard in the background and the sounds of mother earth so much closer, sirens, drunk men and women screaming into the night, shots are fired fireworks cuz theres no rain, a voluntary rape is heard, believed to be from the outside but I have no mouth nor do I have any right to pierce the serene silence, to find reason to exist, to feel the warmth of creation, to emit light

where no light is here emitted

shadows, shadows. shadows once more, they speak a language, familiar to me but also strangely alien and the world flickers as reality crashes, where once man stood hope left, once, acceptance took its placeand things whereno longer strange, werenolonger strange, agent?

Everyone will always be too late


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Re: a chylde of four (jacket made from a mad cow)
« Reply #2 on: August 04, 2014, 06:00:37 pm »
Oh, crap!  Sepia's back!