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Topics - Sepia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the neighbors are banging at the door

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That missing alphabet in your life

Or Kill Me / 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

Or Kill Me / saturdaynightandilive,
« on: September 07, 2013, 01:13:43 am »

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

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 wonít understand the cleaning lady wonít understand the girl next door wonít understand because itís like a sleight of a the hand, youíre 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, Iíll be your real doll, rotting away in the living room while you open a can of surstrŲmming 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, gŚ utenom sa bÝygen, 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

Or Kill Me / Three trains/thoughts/tinker
« on: May 10, 2013, 12:29:08 am »

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 passť 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

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

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,

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?

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

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


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

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


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

Or Kill Me / The land Icarus built
« on: October 26, 2012, 12:56:46 am »

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 dťrive 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

Or Kill Me / The land Icarus Left
« on: October 06, 2012, 12:18:44 am »

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



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

Or Kill Me / prisons of personality
« on: July 17, 2012, 04:54:02 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 derivť 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

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