Messages

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

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

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




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

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

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

please remember, please don't forget again, it's just a game, remember Bill Hicks and remember that he was the second one to die for your sins or as he said

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


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

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

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

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




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


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

where no light is here emitted

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

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 city's shoulders, summer disappearing, waning into the hours, feet filled with the joy of youth, of life, coats and shirts made from hopes and dreams, hopelessly worn so that someone might recognize their significance but the ritual is when one dons the armor, the small spells, the small well-wishings, the small hearts drawn with with two hands that could have convoluted into prayer or raised as an angry fist when realization sinks in, death

To connect is to sever, our minds say as we pass the lines with people waiting to stand next to eachother, to feel the exuberant warmth, the joie de vivre, den varme døende gleden, we become the people we meant to stray from but having we found their positions lacking, there were parts of their souls we missed and we were the only ones so we emulated and built you into us, incorporated the missing part without knowing, without knowing what really happened to us, happens to us as we delve further into this, this explosion, this disarray of contemplations feelings reflections thoughts that we try to put together or we buy a book of someone who found the way and the sale of snake oil is up and the prices are peaking, the one man cult has never been so easy to attain and the light shines so fiercely

Fire is the bright, glowing brimstone, sulphur following us through the night, it's election year and cultural imperialism has taken its roots and god how I hate the ads, we still haven't gotten to american standards but we're getting there slowly, eroding or as your dead president said it when he talked about the corporations that had been enthroned and we live in an era of corruption, not like they have in 5th world nations but corruption need not change much before the laws written to combat it are used to prolong its existence and most wealth is aggregated in a few hands but at least we're not a republic

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

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

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


The happy people

or

The future resides in the hands of Lizzy Caplan

and

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 wasn't for you because you couldn't 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 don't 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-

descent,

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 can't 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 won't be the world ending, the building destroyed, the explosions bigger than texas gluing you to your seat, it won't end in 3d, it'll 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 there's no market, there's 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, god's terrible revenge is already here, something that isn't 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, it's been a while since a big good one hasn't it? Time for a new one, time to water the roses the way they should, soon we'll 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 I'm thinking Allen Ginsberg had the most right and his america is all our americas, our own personal hells of america and I didn't 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

They go out chasing the heart of saturday night, dew heavy upon the city's shoulders, summer disappearing, waning into the hours, feet filled with the joy of youth, of life, coats and shirts made from hopes and dreams, hopelessly worn so that someone might recognize their significance but the ritual is when one dons the armor, the small spells, the small well-wishings, the small hearts drawn with with two hands that could have convoluted into prayer or raised as an angry fist when realization sinks in, death

To connect is to sever, our minds say as we pass the lines with people waiting to stand next to eachother, to feel the exuberant warmth, the joie de vivre, den varme døende gleden, we become the people we meant to stray from but having we found their positions lacking, there were parts of their souls we missed and we were the only ones so we emulated and built you into us, incorporated the missing part without knowing, without knowing what really happened to us, happens to us as we delve further into this, this explosion, this disarray of contemplations feelings reflections thoughts that we try to put together or we buy a book of someone who found the way and the sale of snake oil is up and the prices are peaking, the one man cult has never been so easy to attain and the light shines so fiercely

Fire is the bright, glowing brimstone, sulphur following us through the night, it's election year and cultural imperialism has taken its roots and god how I hate the ads, we still haven't gotten to american standards but we're getting there slowly, eroding or as your dead president said it when he talked about the corporations that had been enthroned and we live in an era of corruption, not like they have in 5th world nations but corruption need not change much before the laws written to combat it are used to prolong its existence and most wealth is aggregated in a few hands but at least we're not a republic

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

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

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

I'll always be here. The rest I will never be able to keep up with but here I can hopefully give a semblance of something back.

She saw the future in a bowl of soup, green puy lentil soup with smoked cusk, dots of creme fraiche, dill oil, chervil and croutons, she ate in silence, rain was outside, light summer rain and I peeked outside as I finished my salad, seared off whale, baby romano lettuce, mayonnaise pink with pigs trotters and shaved local hard cheese. I was about to ask for coffee and avec when she saw the future

She saw the future in a cup of tea, laves of earl grey gathering at the bottom underneath layers of milk curdling, slowly but steadily as she drank it from one of those big tea cups, slurping all the while, she saw the future of the empire in an old imperial, smiling when she saw the future

She saw the future in the clouds, summer heating up but not yet there, she walked ahead of me in the proper satanic fashion and my eyes were transfixed on her legs, not so sleek as they used to be but they had power, the power of certainty and age, lithe and filled with grace, filled with violence in every step, so beautiful, I got a nazi girlfriend and she can see the future and there

she sees it again

She sees this; me- dead in five years like Munchs vampire, black and white tiles on the bathroom floor, the red seeping twixt them, illuminating the three strands of magical belief for those who wish to see but the janitor won't understand the cleaning lady won't understand the girl next door won't understand because it's like a sleight of a the hand, you're watching too closely at my deceased thing, my lack of the 21 grams and the pints of blood that made me alive, the nothingness I could be, prop me up and zap me with electricity once in a while, water me like a plant, I'll be your real doll, rotting away in the living room while you open a can of surströmming and prepare for us a feast

She sees this; me- dead in five years, the loft of an old warehouse, yuppie places underneath my feet as I croak with my ipad to my chest, the last jump I ever did was never off a building but the atonement for imagined sins and slights, waiting for a sign from above that I was right, right all the time and I took too long to pick a pigeon to carry the message, getting lost between shades of grey, black white but I sent it and then I decided in my own way to die if god would not have me, I should die of starvation and thirst in my own apartment and I did, there would never be anything more, just us

I see it; this- I see the dream and the rude awakening, the black swan in subconscious development, the truck that hits when you see it coming and you think you jump out from it but there was a different one there, gå utenom sa bøygen, take the road from here, the first or the second from what you are and the third, the third is why you want to be, when to exist, the third leads further than what we can find here in the dross of our shallow lives and civillizations, our hotels may reach the clouds but the silver city is further from us, soon a fading memory, a priest tied to the tracks and in the distance, the sound, His fury

Signifying nothing, she said, dreams she said, fictions and everything is a fiction told from one person to another, they may be true and they may be false but there is nothing definitive about nothing, we are all streams of ideas and concepts stanzas arias connecting and interacting with eachother, modifying eachothers information, recalibrating, calibrating, connecting, severing life death she said this is getting boring

Making soups and fileting fish. Busy days in the galley, how are things here?

There is no diction, no struggle, not in any traditional sense, there is just the cat and the box, there is only a word. At a crossroads do we meet for the first time and since, we've only kept on meeting here, there, as old friends or more aptly, old enemies. There is no need for love to understand but we shared that too, you reminded me of Walt Whitman and you made me feel the multitudes instead of the anxieties of dissonance. We walked for a while at each crossroad, you and me and we were linked, somewhere, six fathoms deep, an old anchor suffering of entropy under the white dunes of the black ocean and once-tugging us further away the drift towards shore for seven hundred and seventy seven men, women and children, purchased for baubles, protected by the divine creator as slaves.
I always imagined the images that came when we spoke to be yours, I saw you as someone struggling with all of the senses/disciplines, mine one was merely the word and in trying to understand the word I tried to be the word before I realized that there is nothing more, there might have been a word at first but every hope and yearn we crave for something different than a planet filled with bad animals, some external presence to tell us that thing we've felt all life is just this

I abused you, called you names and wished you would never exist, I threatened you and I courted you, I did everything I could think of that would make you break the way I wanted you to but you took it all, every big cock in every orifice, we filled you to the brim and we tried to poison you, I tried to poison you, to turn you more like me but I think you knew it was childish folly for if you became like me, we  would no longer exist, we would no longer have a reason to exist so we would cease. When you acted indifferently to both my hate and love, I did the most sensible thing ignoring and denying you but when you weren't there I felt no peace, no sleep but I did not know it at the time, others came and made me feel good but the instances became instants  and there was a hole

Stranger- I'm a stranger here myself, on an old worn down bench in a cemetary two men sit, appearing as collages of their lives, they themselves long since dead, the writer and musician sit amongst the dead talking of life and we came upon their crossroads once and they talked of change, the idea is the most powerful


"You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:
you made the horned god your own:
You stood behind him on his throne: you called
him by his secret name." - Oscar Wilde, the Sphinx

That terrible crucifix to wear, silver to protect us against vampires and werewolves and the cross to remind us of who died for our sins unless its a fashion statement- a rememberance of the torture and its probably been done before but not worldwide, I feel old talking about respect atleast for an incident that spawned some of the most malicious organizations and systems, despicable and vile monster trucks headed down that broad broad road, paved with  gold, talking in newspeak with leonard cohens voice as we tread it but it doesnt feel solid, it gives, like water encapsulated, a membrane a cell something alive and in a sense aware but not sentient or the other way around but its been here before, we've been here before, we've seen this road from far away, we've taken it a couple of times and we have fought those who have taken it at other times and we are the history of these two roads for those who know the third road

take the third road and as they pass the veil, their hearts cheer and everything resonates like a cataclysmic apocalypse of the mind, 2001 played again, played backwards and inside, outside, bubble-shaped, kaleidoscopic

The third road is the hole in my heart, you did the sensible thing and didn't wait, you came with godsight and you saw where it was headed and I could not see it but what you saw I understood as you passed behind the veil and your eyes were no longer mortal but I saw you as you passed and writing of you makes it like you're dead and in a sense you are because there needs to be an end/beginning sequence but death itself is so passé in a world where we will all survive as gifs and swfs, reblogged more often as the world gets interpreted through Moore's Law

There's pressure, there will always be pressure. It doesn't have to make sense, none of it, it just has to appeal, remove language from the equation of reality and pass into the halls of enlightenment for words as they say up north, is wind and listen to the wind and look for the warmth underneath the fallen city, what undying god toils there? What does sense give you that you couldn't get before, what horrors are chained in the basement of your soul all because of restriction, the walls should curve, heart should stop racing and the brain should regain control from the blood and the you, with sense or without, pressure. Points produced from the tiniest of pinpricks, building the Invisibles from the rubble of bill&ted, in battery-life none can hear you whoa dude, in damnation to dormancy dwell, this is a lesson but none to be learned, wisdom travels in a discreet fashion, like a virus, like an idea but time is biding like the true god we all know, dormant- shots are fired on the outside, the echoes are heard from the walls, from the backs of our trolls, through the echoes of our waterfront in progress, telling the sad tale of yuppie-norway come 2010, although the opera is more beautiful now and when it turns into detroit and robocop walks the streets, it will look pretty cool so that's something, this is a lesson, there is nothing to be learned, this is reason and treason nestled together like two young gay men under spring break, turn the valve, release it, smoke weed and listen to quas or drink beer and watch a game but release it and transcend where you sit, be reborn in this heavy world, so filled with kipple and dross, teary eyes lost in the rain and something, calling, becoming, you

thank you and the other you

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

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

in this instant that is everlasting, stretching across

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

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

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

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

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

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

now I feel old

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

into time, where light is not emitted


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

weeping

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

These are not signs heralding an end

These are signs heralding

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


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

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

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

up

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

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

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

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

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