Messages

"You will never understand
how it feels to live your life
with no meaning or control
and with nowhere left to go." - Common People by Pulp


In the holy machine where we worship the old and the few, where the dormant screams are heard for millennia across barren cities and drier lands, where the grass smothers like glass as ancient feet put one in front of the other as the holy machine opens up, reveals its rose amid the rubble, celestial shall they walk upon us, dreaming like we are as we walk through life but not believing anything for no age ends and no age begins, we are still in the dark ages, we are still in the renaissance we are still figuring out the same questions that plagued them then and will plague us till we all are dead, till the last light has been turned off till we have answered the questions ourselves

and moved on

Everyone comes into their proximity and through some unknown beam of memetic qualities, they are ideas, questions and concepts to be carried with you, some will find them by religion, others by popculture, most by philosophy, some by science some by insight others by drugs some in a downward spiral others going up but the questions remain like infatuations or a particulate pretty face or cute ass, we carry our emotions with us, we carry our questions and the answers we know in our gut but not the phonetics to describe the silver city, afloat on splendour and made holy by the machine or the city of dis, nestled close to the heart of all mankind for hell is in our hearts, hell is where rebellions will be sat into motion, hell is where those who descend ultimately will ascend, hell is chaos, hell is friction, hell is emotion while the tower, ivory white is doomed to fall to answer a question

Who am I?
A collection of meat blood and bones, an animal of intellect but an animal still- I have a craving for something more that most likely will remain with me until my death, Who I am does not matter, I like everything else has already been interpreted, weve already gone through a different machine and I am me only as far as your own skillset of references go

What was your face before you were born?
How were my emotions, how was my frame of mind before I had that shot and brew or before I smoked this joint, who was I when I woke up this morning? It was a beautiful morning and I woke ahead of time and it felt like cheating because it wasnt part of the plan, it was free time to marvel in the fog before coffee and cigarettes take it all away, I think thats the closest, those twenty minutes as the world wakes and your light isnt on and nothings on you just peer outside and you know you are invisible and none else have woken and here alone in your god-time you gaze at the unborn masses

Will the soufflé collapse?
Yes.

Here is our midlife crisis, coming onto us like mortal men twixt the monsters of Crowley and Spare battling the nephilim in the middle of our lunchdate with the girl that was quite hot back in community college and here we are brought back to Steve Reichs cave as we talk to the bartender on how much a sidecar is with the various brands and his words are wrapped around the items coming out of their mouths, one future wrapped around the face of a distant past, here

We used to have trolls here, in the old days they lived in the parts of our hearts where mystery still exist or did, like they did, by the still lakes and the waterfalls or just in a clearing, a ring of mushrooms where each witch would partake every moon, where the lesser creatures in the night would make mischief in it while every fable visited us every year, at least once we saw them, waving them good-bye like old relatives whom we are not sure will be living or somewhere else, in the nothingness or in his dreams in his belief, all will turn gray and all gray will fade and I think we are beyond ends and beginnings now, childrens tales told by damned souls working for a buck, we are onto something else, we are moving furthur along the edges of the known, where reality is newt gingrinch telling the world that in eight years if god permits the moon will be made a state in the land of the free

We had trolls for the longest time, our silent partners in the rise of our nation, from being kinda good at pillaging way back to being in unions with elder brethren who understood the world so much more than us but then it hit us and it was trolls in specially fitted scuba gear that found it, many dying and never compensated and they were around but growing uncommon as a different age dawned, with their frequency being replaced with a louder signal, never nothing but louder

Soon, the forests cleared of the elvenkind and what is actually typically norwegian but none will tell, it was in the furthest trenches the opposition was fierce, older stories and ghosts, older nisser, vetter, haugetusser and the old knight, Ridder Vold, Knight of Violence whom would haunt the graveyard, killing passers by as he did, collecting the gold to pay passage on the river styx or perhaps the cover on the houseboat

The last trolls were the trolls that ran the subway in oslo, they stayed with us into the late eighties before they also vanished, creating the ghost of their station now only seen in bigger ad campaigns


There are still trolls here, some are sleeping and waiting for warmer times, others have passed on, their stories truth on with them and some await being born and some were birthed and active now but the distillation of knowledge is something we will never see, printed in schoolbooks 70 years from now or the information is just injected into your left eyeball, giving the never-ending Empire what it wants as it seizes your temporal lobe and you lie in blissful agony in a tank filled with LCL and the world is at your fingertips and you know who you are and you know you will emerge victorious as everything emerges and you know you are their black swan and youre playing it cool and humble and there comes the seizure again and youre heading there now, you are moving through thoughtspace to the allnow where all matter is condensed into time and no shadows are cast, by some seen as a swamp, a mesa or a plateau but youre deep in the dark heart of mythologys

There is a fire in the sky and fireworks in the rain, here we were, the masses gathered to watch and participate and rejoice and be overcome by it, the sensation, the death of it us meager men and women scratching for something. Lost but none know where, there are shadows here, dreams are uneasy and uncertain but we know that god is watching, we know he sees us, we know he becomes us as our transition comes and every interpretation of death will now be sat to eary december twenties and there are probably many peope that believe it will end and more will come this year, the gathering of crows looking for their profit, smelling their pound of flesh but will there be a prophet, will there be a Promethea to usher in the end of the world?

Some say we are the shadows of four-dimensional objects, others say we are the lost colony that ventured out from kobol, some say we are the future and that the end of the world is an evolution in the sense of the mind because we use so little of it some say it is when the river of souls intersect with our reality and we meet them all, all the dead gods some say it is the wrath, the reckoning, others say it will be nuclear but all of them believe in the disintegration of our civilization

How many hope that it is the end?

At times I hope for it, I long and yearn for it but that is a passing darkness mended with coffee and cigarettes, a bite to eat or something else trivial, like ants we specialize and we are monsters now, we are shadows being trailed and now everyone might question themselves how we are going extinct but none will ask the heavens above if we deserve it

If the world ends it will end for no good factual reason at all but that will never matter, we will cease to be in that apocalyptic moment when Terim and Tarim join again

Do we deserve our death? is the question that will not be asked because it cant be sold or bartered with but just based on myself I would say yes and if I look around it feels more and more that this feeling of deja vu and it is a future memory and a bullet in the right place in the right time can change the world

The brightest smile was what held us back, was what held us- there, in place. We do not know where we are going but that has never been a point, it was never a point until we had burger king talking to us about individuality

in a whopper and in us

I can see the reflection, it works, we are it, like punk was supposed to be something different but if you want to remake jazz you have to make it unsellable- there can only be one component in it and that must be its soul

Some time in the future I will lie next to her and I will ask why me and I will remember the answer I got, sixteen and tender but in such a love, such an undying passion, filled with the broken, filled with us and their hearts

We are not ourselves, I is an illusion and the silliest of them all, tried by philosophers and sci fi authors to find and define us, what we are, what makes us us and what would in the end unify us and Philip believed too much in the human condition but in the end, the good will not prevail and it is not because greed is more than good but we were never supposed to be sentient, we should never have left the trees but like a virus

we did

We have been here for so long, who remembers the ancient history? According to some, we have been here for six thousand years, others, a lot longer but lets fly with the six thousand, lets say we had four thousand years of civilization before the son of god was born and now two thousand years later we still find his lyrics viable in our society, still people believing that the world will end in a little over a year still people who believe something is sacred in this world, still people who believe in the profound,

the love

you never showed nobody other than yourself, hi, this is us in a handbasket being enveloped rather than developed

You walk in a different street on a different continent it will work out in the end i tell myself, it will not end as prophesized, it will be different like our difference, a connection I failed but still there, passing through the world, shallow as the hearts that wear it, never forget that you are one of them and in fact, I would recommend everyone to sell their soul at least one time during their professional careers just to see, to watch what you oppose, to remember it upon your body and to see the failure that makes the cogs turn the wheels spin for mediocrity is what is, what makes but it does not really matter

like us

They are beautiful now, perhaps they have always been perhaps it was a different eye I used, perhaps I was someone else with different thoughts when I saw them for the first time, I might have changed, I might not have changed only realized that I have or should do or would do or could do

I have a recurring dream where I write a poem. The dream and the poem are always different but the title of the poem remains the same, I am a child of four, nothing more

Im going to watch my nephew as he turns four and I will answer you if it is sufficient or not but I am

a child of four, I will die a child of four and there will be no mother but no parent should outlive their child, they should never, it is the opposite of what should happen it might be me being conservative but bear with me, it might be the worst emotion I can imagine, that and or giving birth, I mean I can understand the love and the humanity of a future growing but there is also something more there, perhaps it was put there by hr giger, perhaps it wasnt but some say it is a disease

They say addiction is a disease and some say we are a virus, others will say anything so they can be portrayed as important and intelligent and some will just do something they are good at, do something good at their computers and they will be nerds but they will ask you

what can change the nature of a man?

and then they will present you with one of the most important experiences of the nineties and to me personally, it shows you only learn anything useful

there should be love, meeting us here at the threshold, the combination of worlds where men and lizards meet but the shadows are broken, the veil is true, it is true that all meetings end with departures but how those feasts will move and shatter the world and how a game of thrones will happen before we end

before we think, before we are and all dreams lie jumbled, lie sacred like lies and dreams but always closer to the lie, the lie to sleep, the lie to wake, the lie to dream, the lie to live, the lie to work the lie to exist the lie to love the lie to fear the lie to do because truth is something that hits us but it doesnt illuminate us, doesnt change us only make us into bitter comedians, thrown from windows, descending but not changing, dying, unchanged, knowing but unchanged

I know of worse deaths, I know some of the demons, they have sat with me and we have conversed and I have felt their nails like the first tendrils of mushroom making its way to where it is going feeling the tug of somethingmore, what michael bay calls the allspark that black stone down in mecca and the plateau of leng

As long as our evolution remains technology, no stories or experiences will be obsolete, everything will be the same or as solomon said, there is nothing new under the sun and you you fuckers you have said it, you have had it as a thought an idea and a concept but what if it was just a simple truth, told in the simplest of manners, where would your thoughts lead you?

What did you do when you found the abyss, when you saw the vortex and the maelstrom at the same time, watching you but with eyes more trained

There is only one road to hell and that is the one we travel and if you have to think about, what is there to fear for us in hell? A black sheep is still a sheep someone wise once said but you are allowed to choose and it is even sanctified by that dead dude who wrote the book and an ostrich or a czar can choose, it is the path with no choices that lead to a true hell

and some say the answers lie in a rock in australia, some say the queen of england has them or the bilderberg has them or mona lisa has them  just that someone has them, someone is possessing it all

like we possess the world, living ghosts kept alive by our ingenuity and our machines

Breathe. Breathe through me, you are me, I am your exhalation and the other one of us is you inhaling. Did we want a future when we sang no future, when the years didnt seem as real as they do now but now comes the exercises in breath. Here she comes, we can see her head now we can see it, the birth and the death, simultaneous creatures living in each others shadow, the same but different, yin and yang, a simple

I will die of a tumor first I think or a smoking related disease, yeah, that will fit the bill as well and it will be a hard one and it will be a struggle but as the machine fades

I will fade and there is a greater absence than when we were born and we seek the oblivion of memory, we seek the fade, the holy word and the indifferent world, the sensation of a hawk lifting from your arm, the sensation of the first plateau, this trip of life so beautifully unenhanced, so perfectly normal

Where would Crowley have gone? If he lived a couple of decades more, what if Crowley saw us through the war? Where is our world going where no one is seeing, where do we set aside our ideas ideals and concepts and play with the rest of them, giant retarded kids made of plastic, pliable

I am not who I am, I am someone different, something none have ever seen or will ever see but I am not me, I am me contained and I dont know why because all I would ever want to be is ethereal information, like gas or rain
I never woke up as myself, I was the body that Gregor Samsa once woke in, nothing more, a shattering of hearts

I was never me, I never chose to be me, I chose to be me from recollections of myself from when I was sixteen, what I wanted to be and what I remembered myself being because time is a bubble but I dont think the deja vus are memories of our future but we have those but they feel different, they feel worse, harder edges, a sense of dread and paranoia creeping up alongside them and in there the memory is found, in a flash but accurate like smell, this feeling like the first time

who is holding you except you?

When the warrior is broken, who will step in? Will it be the priest, armed with his faith or the magi, armed with his knowledge, will it be the whore, the uncorruptible, will it be the chef, the corruptible, the librarian, the waiter the assistant the janitor

Who will follow in his steps? Who will pick up the sword and continue the fight, who of me, who of us, all our aspects will accept what the warriors once did or are these traditions so watered out that when push comes to me, will reason win in the end? Even now? Is it reason that will break it as we realize we are somewhere else now and the warrior is no longer needed or is it madness that will tell us that they cannot defeat us now, now we strike those who wished for peace

but prepared for war

Like Hell attacking Heaven, here was the war born anew, within continents within unions within countries within counties, there is always something that we are looking at while doing our preordained tasks

and that is us, that is me and everyone I know, something that makes us human, a boring obersvation but a truth, no epiphanies or perfect epitaphs, no simple hits of wisdom, quotes of wit to be quoted for social redemption and popularity

it will end in grey, it will fade and blur out, it will have the effect of being cancelled out, disappearing into the shadows, mortal beings, astronomers astrologers three kings went to a barn and three men came out but this was a new god wasnt it why would the old gods want their servants those filthy stinking dirty terrist arabs to hail a new king or did the put someone else there had they given birth to a fake messiah these three men or was it witchcraft

something that didnt float, weighted down with stones, a splash is heard in the thames but never seen, what do they want to show us, intrepid ghosts of this past as they commit an atrocity to god

century after century

They chose, they made a choice, every cautionary tale you ever heard of made the bolder the stupider the riskier choice, the one with the most profit and so did every other tale you ever heard, the just landed on the flipside, the made splashes, there were no military style dives as we went for the pearls of life down the cliffs being watched by horny mothers, drunk at noon on goblets they wear twixt their fingers and they are practiced in the art of deception

but here we go, here go the ripples like when your toe shoots up through the water descending into air, growing in impossible angles but perfect

like a death

Let the heart here carry, let the nausea overwhelm you, give in to your fanatasies of fever, think of them as real and something that belongs and live life like that

Why? Why not? Every fantasy is true anyhow and none of this was made to last, the heart is not the disorder, the mind is not the disorder, no special part is, they say a chain isnt stronger than its weakest link and once there was a man who bound sticks together and gazed out to the italian alps, those majestic mountains, stirring and we weep

Everything is in disorder, everything is in order, we hear the story being told and we can see its contours but it is something different now, a heart pierced together by a stray thought, a bullet in the right place can change the world

but it has no equivalence when faced with the real thing, they say sticks and stones can break bones but words

words

are not a weapon but the pen is mightier than the sword like the number 8 so characterless but so eternal, brother I am sorry but we were growing, we are growing arent we, I hope so, I hope we have begun our descent, our ascent

we have no thoughts, they but flicker before they are gone, our concepts our minds our ideas bursting, with ignorance but we will make it before they do

They worked hard for this, it will come to pass, it will turn where it needs to turn, it will become what is needed, faith manages. Faith manages, my religious mantra stolen from babylon five, my illumination found in television in the 90s, a decade none will remember for its spiritual revival but the sum of what i have seen, the one thing not twisted to your own sick fucking ends

is a religious ideal in a fictional universe but I would vote for the minbari any day of the week

These are chronicles, like his but not in a form he would prefer, our sweet uncle Jens, bound but I think so of his own free will, bound to something he wanted to be bound to, attached to and I think he understood other peoples lives easier than he did his own if any of us ever did

three lullabies in an ancient tongue, three whispers never heard like a tree in the woods, like a face seen before unborn, unlife, this life, these heartbeats and rhythms, this happening here, this unlife turning to life and back again, a symphony of sorts, a sordid life, a heart hollering without a mouth but where a moth appears, fighting the eternal fight against the light

Hunger hums in our hearts,  we are here again, weve been here before, it feels like home but looks like something else but weve been here, weve been here before weve smelled this before but we always turn away

to the fear, to the darkness that we fuel with our wills minds and ego, no longer restricted but being allowed a few seconds with our head above the water

feeling the hum, being in the zone, given perpetual understanding while it lasts, here, moth, come fly to me, find me here in this stream, long forgotten but like any house Ive been to it has a desk and it is the desk of slothrop

I sit at slothrops desk, I know where this idea crept up from and it is nasty but it is an idea and I have done it, I have recreated his desk, there is no difference here between the fictionverse and reality, this reality

I have wings and a bottle of port, a shelf from ikea, purchased aeons ago still unpacked, still flat and very swedish, like witnessing the second thermodynamical miracle, right before your eyes and then taking that idea as your islay whiskey is derived of smokiness and flavour, being replaced by cold and water

taking that idea and applying to every thought about every process you ever had, friendships, love, work, ethics, morality hearts minds souls

yourself

I

"What can change the nature of a man?"
- - Ravel Puzzlewell

"Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts"
- - Brecht/Weill


Dum. Dum, dudedodedudedo, chords, chords in the deep. We are in the mines, we were always in the mines, deep under the skin of our earth and our consciousness, deep we were as we heard them there in the deep. The dwarves were dead, small corpses all around us, beards and nails that kept growing longer but there was nothing holy about them, dead children in mail, stout children but children still, children with beards and wives with beards and children with beards in cities with beards and countries with beards- we were deep down, we coud hear the echo, we knew we heard what we wanted to hear to make it all go further and delve even deeper into, into the fear and the monstrosity in our belly, we sought destruction and in it salvation and revelations, we sought an end to it all but we wanted more before we ended, we wanted to be more, we wanted to be all that we could be even if it were for mere seconds. If those were the seconds we would relive, the fear the knowing the thrill the sex the transcendence the ascendance the godhood the buddha the jesus the mohammed the rooster on top of the cabin, turning as the wind turns, turning black as a black wind blows

It feels like a sandstorm, the bird making sounds as if someone was torturing it, working on it bit by bit with a dremel and the sound of sand against glass, like chalky nails on a soul, cold faith baring its teeth, giving us the music to bury friends to and we listen to the records as we gaze up on the stars, the parts of her not yet dead but soon to be as all meetings end in separation and the final movement is death. You wont feel it, wont feel a bit, not a sting because you are growing numb, we are, I am. Battle it to care, ignore it to ignore reality, a solution to living life with friction but the numbness is creeping all over, the perfect entropic horizon covering all the lands, covering us in sand

birds

The birds are on our side as we drive onto into onwards the deep, hearing the drums beat, the feet marching perfectly and the beast in the belly has awakened and we are alone and we are unarmed, torches in hand as the great hall begins to shake to the thumps of feet and we try to break the rhythm, just to see what happens, we know this part of the story, we have seen it and lived it, we have dreamed it many times but with a different ending and some say an ending doesnt matter, that it is what comes before or what comes after but everything always matters, every little piece, nothing can be ignored for we are all intertwined through the randomness of objects, to it we owe our lives

Nothing else

Thank you

The world is white, spotless, free of dust and bacteria, a clean room where the future and past pass through and if man was bigger than he was he would control it. The problem with Huxley and Orwells dystopian nightmares is that it gives too much credit to us, to those who would govern, those who would hold the power and seize it but man is not bigger, rand was wrong in all but the notions of selfishness, man is less than we think we are, we are something less

We disappear between identities, label our friends in our minds phones and ims because theres so many of them now and perhaps in a few hundred years this is the time that sparked something greater than man but there is none driving the force through the ages, it moves along and is always there, in a bakers heart lies a musician dreaming and perhaps he seizes that dream and perhaps he succeeds in his dream, most likely he will fail because his concern is his audience, his peers, his images
He wants to give something back, a noble gesture birthed in him but did the same birth bring something else?

They say one should meditate upon what ones face was before they were born but I cant seem to recall what my face looked like two weeks ago, was there a beard or a stache or just a mess, three years ago, ten, how would you react if the you in the now met the you back then?

Questions tend to haunt. They grip you and shake you and toss you and you are under their thumb, they are masters of all, the key to the gate and the gate itself and as the masses break out and subjective important questions are on everyones mind, we would collapse. If everyone thought it through

Everyone is no valid tool of comparison

What do you do with the questions when they have you locked down, underneath fang and claw, an old friend seen seldom, always with a hard discourse, weird, changing because the conversations were lastly held ten years ago and things were different then but besides the mirror is the toilet and I sit crouched over it, vomit in there and my hand, searching for the little metal piece, that weird cross

that subjective truth

Open the window, let in the fresh air, feel it as you stand twixt it, for a few seconds it will last and then it will die and you will close the window, go into the bathroom, put on the shower, take a dump, groggily look at yourself in the mirror without ever before climbing into the shower where the water will bring your body to life once more and you will breathe one more, exhale, inhale, your memory will turn itself on and you will slowly and gradually become yourself and you will remember these hands, this flesh, this emotion, this will, this purpose, the reason that once was searched for but discarded once no desirable answers were found. This cold calculating intellect, this monster in the belly, growing its paws reaching from the basement, stretching towards the skies like trees, reaching the dust and the collected lives in the attic which soon will fade and give way for mystery, pieced together by the holy splendour of imagination but never pierced, simply forgotten

Like us all, having lived lives of happiness or attempted happiness, having not lived like vampires, dreading the sun, the fire that will set us all free but feeding, feeling nourished from the unwashed masses their blood tasting bland and ordinary, an idea we entertain as we dine, Lolita slides down our throats as we eat this once cow with a spoon and think of her as she stood out in the fields, grazing with those lazy eyes of hers, the mouth going in a circular motion and she had it, the thing we all eventually crave, oblivion and his brother ignorance but we know it wont happen today and the thought disappears as cut away Lolitas happiness, feeding it to ourselves, we know her name and how she lived and when her birthday was and next door are our neighbours and here we are, oblivion married with ignorance

The mirror is cloudy, steam giving the room a radiance, making it a holy chamber of preparation and on one side is a questionmark, scrawled what seems like aeons ago but you can feel the mark inside you, churning towards and unknown destination and you know the question, the banishing question that fulfills the mark that was made. When you rub the steam from the other part it is not your face youll see, it is a different face, a different shape and youll stare at it until the vapor clouds the window again and you write the question

knowing the answer without being able to say it

I used to cringe when my dad said that, no matter the context or setting, Here we are again, like every here we are were connected through something and it was, as I understood growing older, there was a connection but it was him, he was the connection, the thing that made it make sense but now, aeons later, here we are

getting drunk, hoping for redemption or damnation
getting a kebab, retelling what we will once see as mere distractions with a vividity we wil never find again
getting high, because it is what makes sense in a world where there is none
getting there, according to the plan we hatched the last time we really thought about ourselves and this world
getting dreamy, filled with tears of joy and extinction
getting head, the primal vortex closing
getting ahead, of the game, the plan and the direction

Here we are. Us. Friends. Gathered. Around a table eating good food, around a table drinking good drinks and every recollection is awesome and so much happened, it doesnt matter when we became what we became, we are it now and it is time we understood that. Of all the feelings and ideas, understanding is the one we will never need, understanding will always be the red headed nerd, understanding is the fourty year old virgin, understanding is never a prerequisite. What is understanding?

It is my curse. With my hand on my heart or on any book, I understand every little demented thing you will ever do, I will understand why you slaughtered ninety people to promote a manifesto, I will understand why we keep slaves and I will understand why the slaves revolt, I will always understand it when I hear your words, demented, broken and fucked up, I will understand you but nothing more

You shall not be turned from your road for it is your road be it thick and laid with gold or a dwindling path with torns, it is your road, for you we are just an abstract idea you might come to terms with as you see Emilys fog rising, death is the great teacher in any age, when you understand that you will die, when you know that you will die you get nothing else than that understanding. People change their lives to accomodate this sudden new truth, some embrace life and try to squeeze out the juice, others try to make it the best place and end up at the after parties asking everyone wouldnt it be ok if we all died now and is bummed by the reception

Death, I think, is something you only truly realize and understand the impulses your body sends to you and youre going to die, you feel it and I imagine it to be the ultimate catharsis but the idea of dying can be emulated, not in a very philosophical way or thought through, just the realization of that one day you will stop breathing, something as simple as that, an idea that will hit you as you take a shower or youre eating breakfast, reading the news or making breakfast to the little ones that roam your house and make your family but you have to sit down and you zone everything out, everything fades, turns to nothingness and you go blank
If you trained for that moment you are most likely buddha on the other side, if not, you have realized a truth so simple as it stares you in the face that you cant see it on the silverscreen, cant read about it in the daily news, a little wee realization like

every idea that takes root has a life of its own

truths are like dreams, we know what they symbolize but we spend the time explaining what we saw, not what we felt. its not polite

but here we are, still. Friends around a table, dreamers caught in the neverending dragon-chasing, nothing is sacred in our world, we thought it was but it isnt, not every catholic priest likes bumboys, not every loner will one day blow up and detonate part of the world

no chef will never tell you any truth except what is in his food

here we are, broken and at the end of the day something feels like it is emerging and as we go to meet it we fall asleep and as we sleep we are there with it, we have sex but like a dream, the physical is never really important compared to what we feel, who we become as we become more in our dreams, waking to the fresh autumn air and today will be a killing

we are, men and women of dignity, striving to find something, a constant, an anchor in this world as we stand on the overfilled tram, watching the outside before we step off and into our own realities and as we arrive at home we smell our hands that smell of the hands of thousands of others and we wash

yet some times, I wander, I think it is the only reality escape permitted wholly, the escape into the intellect, the creation of theories but I escape into it and feels like it is an escape because I know what I should do, I should bring the species further and in the end tht is all that matters, none will remember us in a hundred years or, in a hundred years we will compete with so many other ages that we have oh so much information on and as we drown our daughters and sons in it only a few will have been remembered and it is dumb luck if your thing caught on

are, constantly filled, overflowing cups feeling thirsty, that craving for sugar if you find yourself in a position where you drink aspartam or saccharine each day, every vegan that looks forward to a tofu burger will break within the year and every unfulfilling conversation and every unfulfilling relationship will bring you closer to the edge and perhaps you will learn that one day you will stop breathing or perhaps you will understand the difference of saccharine and sucrose and you will grasp a little bit more of the world

the world tom waits began to sing
the world where the power listened

in earnest

A word is said, a sign has appeared, the portents are in the portals and its all twisting downwards or is it up some say one others the other and its a matter of faith so noone knows, everyone just goes on the gut or their own stupidity, the fuel of believers in any cause be it filled with reason or logic or superstition, religion and politics, the belief in the system will one time create a perfect system, balanced by belief, by gut or stupidity and we will revel in ourselves as we reach the apex of who we can be before we have to leave our bodies behind and then someone utters the word

Unraveling the world like oppenheimer might have believed he did and perhaps he did perhaps he was the shatterer but the mercy seat is still burning, the truth is feeling small inside itself, hearts diminished, lies of dreams and hopes, the falseness of belonging, the sudden despair of comfort, the waking eyes of burning people, heroes being reborn as protection programs of computer mother earth, correcting or trying to correct and guide and save and protect, invisible except for in comics, fictionauts, making us living on pandora and his cashcow is our reality

all our walls break down and thoughts become shapes, concepts and stories grow into animals or men or something in-between the cracks, here is the end of the world, here is what that will come when the days seem like years because we live breathe information, injected into our eyes as we sleep or slumber in a torpor, trying to become old lord vlad, would he live? when his thoughts and stories and dreams become real to him, who will jump out of the window and who will remain calm, any ghost in a reality where good and bad are normal and both are symbiotic, a reality where

all the pretense is dropped

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1EBJSyNILNGMl_5-Uts3MDfdqN5k82eJxAJwZneiSn28/edit?hl=en_US


Something old this way comes...


Getting there, little by little, thanks for all the support.

Here is the mouth were monsters are bred, here comes hell and heaven and all that follows, a throat filled with thick lies and tears that would dive if they could but the ducts are dry and the cold has come, come creeping and shivering through our spines, the feeling of an end but it feels like an end with no beginning in sight, it feels like the warmth has slipped from this world, under feet of mud and bones, bleached by the sun and worn by time and the sun, fading into the dark country past the september sun, here is the cold, here is the snow

look, falling from the sky

a million constellations where none are the same and when we were young we learned that it was us, we learned we were all special snowflakes and we were, we were all so different, different shapes and colours, different tastes and smells hearts minds parents but not yet life, life came later as shelter broke from the storm, the wind howling with the rain beating and it felt like all the warmth in the world slid underground, disappeared into somewhere else, somewhere unreachable but we could feel its proximity like an old love or a mistake

How long should we sing these songs, how long should this lament fall upon our ears, how long should the old bones ache before we pull the plug, before we end it, old men and women in old homes filled with old death, a different world and a different reality than any we ever saw and it seemed so hollow and it was, boring and plain and we feared the day we welcomed ourselves into that house and we feared the boring and the plain into eternity until we were so obsessed with it we became it and as we proved that when you fight the empire, you slowly become it, the positive is also the negative merely reversed and the ideologies are irrelevant, all that persists and defines are the systems working, the routines, the motions already in place and the world grows cold in spring, the colours bleak, the voices hoarse, everything washed out

smelling like chemicals, sepia-like


This world should suffice but we are dying and in our death our grasp grows hungry as the calender is closing in on us, the end is coming and is nigh, hi rorschach. Our fingers are long and bony, the cold illuminates the dark veins, ending in long nails, turning yellow from age and as we dream our final dream we see the world as is, we see it continually, all the time, every moment frozen in time, every mental picture superimposed over the darkest dreams

we dreamed that we failed

that all was for nought