Messages

The monotonous reality of non-personality, the disintegration of identity related through the disintegration of lost memories(clinging), the shudder in the awakening of desire and with it, the desire for blood lest we forget we are bipeds not god's chosen, god != man and we shouldn't strive, bipeds should be bipeds, sing bip bop in the streets and parade our segways through the ocean of skin and flesh sweating to keep the asphalt flowing and accepting, a man takes a peach and bites it open and shows it to a girl, but the world of it all is moving, transpiring and going through now, heading out for different terrain, where gods and shepherds meet to converse under clandestine umbrellas under trees in caves where people go to meet people and they want to be seen but not by the greath filthy masses, they want witnesses, not truth while their recount the events from the first day and watches the pattern, thinking they have cracked it all but they forget like people forget, we are not god's chosen, we are not god's we are not we are not what you think we are, there is no meaning in anything unless you put it in there and make it meaningful, you are an animal, a bad animal, hva en har syndet har vi alle gjort, you are an animal in control,

if desired



A man comes into a bar, sits down and asks the bartender for a shot and a brew and as the bartender hands him the drink he notices the patron is quite pale and shivering, sweating cold asks him if he is ok and the man takes the shot and he looks up at the bartender and a tear forms and he says Next week I'm sixty and today my husband of more than thirty years tied me down to a chair, forced my eyelids open and drugged me with hallucinogenics and as I peaked he shot himself in the mouth with two barrels


Drumroll

Curtain

No laughter

What is a joke without a point? Is there a relevance to a story that isn't a story but something lesser, something more mundane than poetry,

broken, like the mirrors we dive into each day, trying to see ourselves in the lens, hoping to catch a glimpse through the looking glass but the glass is hard and cold, black and empty, void, devoid and silence slips through the timeglass and the sand is gathering, a vortex at first, devoid of time it fills before devoid becomes the void, fat and confused but bathed in the radiance of a future coming to bloom and here is our birth, here is our wonderful kingdom, our dreary lovely place that we will love and hate and accept and it is the last part that will drain us and leave us dead unless we get out, past the river and the tracks and into the forest, into the hills away from where, there is nothing here holding us, there is nothing we can't abandon there is nothing precious there is nothing holding us back but us

None, one more victory for Mister None. The war is here now and we heard the faint echoes earlier when a lad ran around saying he was sent by king arthur himself to tell the story of war, of victory of violence of vengeance of voraciousness of v of love of him, you and me, but most of all about Puck because Puck is one of twelve gods assigned to this world to influence it and they say he built the milksnatcher from a komodovaran and a signed version of lavey's bible and that's the real conspiracy, the eschaton as immanentized by Puck

The land he left and what did he see, up there, soaring, peering, not feeling the sun but as the goats sing in the mountain, everything that falls down, eventually rises but there is no up, there is no down, not here, not in mythology, never in mythology but he saw us up there as if we were more beautiful, part of something more than the everyday, than the reality, part of something less devoid

To pass stupidity among us, a leaf of hearts felt in this neverending life, circle become us and turn our hearts towards heaven. You were the guiding light, a shadow streaking among the stars, a dying flow, a destruction of ebb and daring but not for us, not for hope, a dalliance with oneself, a failed romantics' dream, shattered early in youth with the discovery that love does not conquer all and love as we might have been led to believe, does not exist for while it can and might, it won't when it is to be expected for both fate and random chance have a cruel streak within them and those who deem themselves worthy of it, those who lie in bed at night and whisper to themselves in the darkness, invoking their demons but not their angels, hoping for salvation but praying for damnation, yearning to be judged and to be released from the fetters of ourselves, feeling the generations weigh upon us, it feels less set in stone now, this age, there are no wars to build upon and we keep more silent, talk about what matters but isn't important to us, somewhere along the way we forgot who we were and when we remembered, we saw our lives as shallow broken things, devoid of what we once had filled it with, information we hoped would stay with us, information we could pull out of the top-hat like a white rabbit made of straw, alas
the souls and minds we once were lost in the twilight of subconsciousness and we remembered we were not builders, we are not builders, we do not carefully erect a new palace where our minds can dwell, we tell ourselves we can live here and it reminds us of when we were young and cared about a great deal of things, too many things that we let slip as we tried to think about Lovecrafts quote about adulthood and we ourselves turned into them, into it as we were looking a different way, hoping for different things, imagining how it would be when we became what we are, orphaned children sitting outside a derelict mansion, too tired, too exhausted, lonely hearts waiting for the proprietor to shoo us off, to be forced to walk the earth for another cycle, to see it all once more in a different wrapping but with the same underlying mechanic, to see all the marvels and the wonders with weary eyes
Boasting to none, telling none the tale

Letting dreams slip, words make everything simple, makes everything easy to see and understand and we pose as powerful magicians, technicians of mystery in a world where science is the god with the old religions in their death throes, waiting for the son of god to reboot the franchise and even though so many worship the trinity they will not worship His Son if he should arrive again for they've read that story already or seen the movie and they move against him before the miracles can root and set deep, there will be no ascension, there will be no touching of the godhead

Why here and this, these hands and these hearts, sinking in its own beauty, caught in our throats, expanding like, oh

Are we truly the children Arthur Clarke saw in his minds deepest hope or are we nothing but the carriers of the civilization virus?

What more should there be than eating, drinking and fucking? These are our parametres and faith in religion or science is our crutch- science will find a  way and god keeps watching over us, the bigger picture is reserved for the hivemind of scientists or the all-seeing eye of the lord god, the enlightenment of the individual is still aeons away if it will ever arrive and thinking about it, why should it? Information is not knowledge but information comes easily while knowledge does not, there is nothing tangible to show off, there is nothing we can photograph or blog about except passages, ideas and concepts but they are intellectual in their nature and ours is not, the age of science heralded the age of anti-intellectualism where we now sit, attempting to rub rocks against dry grass to see the holy fire once more

The silence shifts in the fragrant, mists pour in the early morning, summer something different now than what was then like a familiar face growing older, I used to love the silence and feeling the discomfort of those who never got used to it, an edge or a weapon with no apparent use at that age but now, an idea even more brutal, adults feel their shame when the french angels break their tingling feet across the divine floor, tufted toes spreading over the cold cemetery soil, time is weird, a derivé in a microcosm, where those six feet under recite their obituaries like mantras, their I AMs reduced to an interpretation, their souls and lives described in a readable fashion, written well as we browse them, convenient lies to make it work with the narrative, byte-sized and single-serving like death is in this age and as elvis showed us, the smartest pr move anyone could do, the last mystery in an age of science, le grande magique

We are all bathed in the light of reason in our culture, faiths and beliefs being defended, religious notions protected by rational thought and science in itself guarded by passionate intensity, every birth the beginning of a story, the beginning of something, this life emanating from the alpha and ending at the omega, our own personal reality where we die from public eye and are reborn in our own sphere of fiction where gods once roamed but no longer do, we banished our gods and our demons, locked them away from sight and thought, contaminants we'd never want again, a law  we passed on the battlefield that are our souls, everything super-natural and non-quantifiable, everything that doesn't fit within, the monsters that need a true belief, wrapped in fairytales, shrouded in  a mystery that doesn't tell you that something will happen when the penetrator becomes the penetrated, an  idea that can never be defended, only accepted and in its acceptance, a form of transcendence is found, something bigger than us exist but unlike the gods of scrolls and tomes, the bigger picture does not care, the icons and the symbols do not care of those whoe birthed them, like the stars and the sun and the void doesn't care, like we don't care about the whys of our children, our cats and our dogs

Vampires, werewolves, weeping stones, the sanguine tears of a wooden jesus on a copper cross, trolls that operate the subway stations, our oldest religions that  only the fringe can accept and believe, the miracles only the true devout can see, mad men held a prophet's power once like they held their affliction, a curse of   madness and wisdom both, revered like messengers from a god or a pantheon but seldom envied, they had power but not the power you'd want for there was a reason they held power when they held it, they didn't hold it because it was a thing in vogue but somewhere along the line someone understood the power they held and wanted it for themselves, gods were real once and walked among us

The faithful of us hear the outcries of the dying men, wronged by fate and faith, feeling nothingin these hearts of remorse, dreamers in a shadowed country looking for a way out when all the world wants in, we call them our shattered dreams for we play the tortured artists well enough, this world and this life, governed by the gods of men, feeling the fury heave in monstrous acts, where we comment and interpret, where we become those who are not us, the ones we'd never be as we crossed our hearts and hoped to die, we sit like mice on the porch, listening to the rain, nursing our tea and joints looking out towards this difference, this that we can never conquer, this that will never care if we live or die and as we understand the gravity of it, we weep and long for a greater order in things, a god to stay our hand, a miracle to make us believe, a gentle whip to keep us in line

All are lies like all men are liars and for some there is a war going on for truth has been replaced with propaganda and they say it is the first casualty of war and the war itself is seemingly never-ending while none have a clear idea of where it began, what first ancestral human to take arms, the reasons are most likely the same it always is, resources in a way, shape or colour that one has and another wants whether it be for need or greed. Of one thing all men and religions agree; the war ends in heaven, it ends in hell, the afterlife is where they are allowed to sleep, these are the lies I tell myself in sleep. Magic is real and faeries are real and the true anarchistic commune is real but to find it one needs to lose those twentyone, twentythree skiddoo

"Life.. Life is like running when you were little and you won't remember it but when you see a toddler trying to wobble over to the smiles and cheers of their parents, that is what we're doing, we're still toddlers but we've learnt so much that we have taken other roles, some of us have tried to tell ourselves it is the meaning of life that we search for, where our lips seek when they are not sealed and some of try to map the desert or the mind but some remember the goal"

"Adulthood is hell." - HP Lovecraft

"Netley: "I just don't know where I am anymore"
Jack the Ripper: "There, there Netley. I shall tell you where we are. We're in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind, a radiant abyss where men meet themselves"
Netley: "I don't understand, sir"
Jack the Ripper: "Hell, Netley. We are in hell"" -
- From Hell, the movie




His is the fear and I try not to be him, at first it seemed impossible, the concept of his persona was so off that I didn't see nor understand and he was forgotten, remembered later in a different world and a different time where it feels like life both connects and severs and my hatred for him resurfaced, my agony of even knowing anyone of his caliber and slowly but surely and six feet deep somewhere Horselover Fat whispers the Empire never ended and even deeper, at the depths where we will find atlantis and mu HE shudders a moment in waking and sensitives the world around feel the apocalypse growing and no word is heard from the vatican. For the second where he wakes, we see his Empire


"No light is here emitted" - Austin Osman Spare, Promethea


No moorish man, not an othello, not a iago, his own. His own destiny, his own fights, his own road and like his roads it is magical, he strips the mystery from everyone but the stage magician who will still leave by the third door and reading his ideas, his interpretation of magic makes magic sense and it's weird and I never could find myself to believe heartily in something because there is too much shame in it, a fear of blindness, an instrument of a will more dedicated than yourself because there's atleast always one more dedicated and more ambitious than yourself, and the fear of the blind men that dwell in the one-eyed man's kingdom where life is very long, the fear is that I should not know myself but thinking I do and the shame of belief in an age where our idols become younger for each day and everything is watered down into something primordial that holds everything that needs to be held but nothing more and there is no soul anymore, there's an x factor, there are no balls and there is no hair, there is nothing but plastic infront and on stage and this is our hatred for reality, so deep does it descend through us that as we accept it and wake to it, we take a country and then we stripmine it and then we move on, this is our nature as we bring the subcultures into hyper-reality


They fight holy wars, still. Never-ending wars found from old texts speaking of a never-ending war. Everything profound written are empty words when spoken, giving reason to a cause that has nothing to do with theirs. I can hear their shadows even here, so far from that civillization I hear their shadow-drums through the night and their zeal overwhelms the cricket but the vibes are no longer good

I wish I could see the light but all there is, darkness. The sun is released from exile and as it explodes onto our planet and onto our faces and bodies and cocks and cunts we expect to react like we used to but we're not, something changed while we were looking the other way, something dropped or someone, the ball that keeps on rolling and while we were different, someone got a strike and it might have been me but noone knows because how do you ask about that from someone however dear, I lost something in a haze that used to make me me but now it's not there and all I can feel is the perpetual dread of never-ending existence, please help???

HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the ftaghn, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire

The last of the cold, the last of the dying season is ending and hope springs to life once more, the promise of summer, the kiss of a sun seldom seen only heard through the ages, the rock of these ages, the monsters in the living room, crept up on me when I was a wee child and something grew, something started growing then, an old cancer, a new idea, a heart stopping and waiting for the green man, we've all had days when we're just sitting there, waiting for that man, hoping and dreading his arrival, not realizing it is ourselves

The asphalt is pale and it seems like winter is still here, not feeling the full truth of spring but a make-believe a pretend and nothing really ends sinks in as we understand what is happening, we are samsa but it is the world outside us for we are caught in the belly of the whale and as we live our lives and bide our time waiting for our mother who have protected us for so long and given us food and shelter where we have found love and the meaning of life is still what georg samsa saw out of his window in the world where franz kafka wasn't a freak

Something we'll never know because we do know the devil we know and it will be our undoing and our civillization will collapse from it but then, we went out the way we lived didn't we, isn't this what we should strive for? Wouldn't that be the most just representation of who we were or who you are and if gods lightning did indeed struck and if I died as I lived, I'd die in my sleep

Not like Elvis or Hendrix who seemed to die according to a plan, pawns shifting as the sun tortures us with a few beams, surrounded by clouds and the world feels like it has little silver in it but is doused in water or kerosene leaving this membrane, unshatterable except by understanding like you walking up to tell him you love him and him saying

The last frost comes always after a period of warmth, so we shall not forget our true hearts, the lumps of ice embedded in the oil that pumps through all of us, it's not enough that we got lucky, we're being smug about it, we're being good

monsters playing to be people, before we had one god we had many, now only brought forth to explain metals of various kinds or burning churches but are we men or are we the trolls of past ages learned to walk like man? Did we come from his third way, was that our birth into this?

The 23rd path

"There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying the stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying the stairway to heaven."

- LED ZEPPELIN


""Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space,
And I will shew you ferlies three."

"O see ye not that narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it but few enquires.

"And see not ye that braid braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path to wickedness,
Tho some call it the road to heaven.

"And see not ye that bonny road,
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae."

- The ballad of Thomas the Rhymer


"hell above and heaven below
all the trees are gone
the rain makes such a lovely sound
to those who're six feet underground
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone
leave me golden tell me dark
hide from Graveyard John
the moon is full here every night
and I can bathe here in his light
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone"

- And no one knows I'm gone, T. Waits



The 32nd path

Heavy words descend upon our adams apples and knots tie in bellies and a man is said to be left standing after the invasion, he is questioned but released, never picked up by any of the locals and when the revolution comes he is the first against the wall but again he is released and is tolerated for his lack of actions. When the revolution has feasted upon its fathers and mothers and children, the revolution, now lacking what fueled the hatred turns into what it once was but more brutal, more sincere. The revolution learned alot about others pain and we are protected now, by the same gods, the same vaults and the same moat

Mother Guillotine, have you come to see me off as I escape your city and your enthralled henchmen? The skies are bloodred as is fitting with a passing like this for I shall see you never again and even though you were newly built and only recently used, you are an old monster and rarely do you stand in the sun, aye, but when you do you are horrible to look at, you are retarded compassion built for efficiency, you are the monster in the abyss but you are more importantly purpose given form, you are destiny manifested and in a world where they tell us god creates destiny, not man

You learned me alot, this is the city that never sleeps, this is the city of the morning, this is the city of the harvest, the sleight of perpetual motion, the curve as time seems to sag and then speed up and I can feel the interference and it feels like nothing else and the hum and the beat and the snare and the light, like being on e only so much more, so much more detail so much more reality stop ask yourself why and know the answer already, see, magic

Never magick or magique for those are barren words nested in hollow shells of the people that so hardly want to believe when there is not much to believe in and why would you want to believe in something so vague that few people take responsibility for what they've written about it, hiding behind dry pseudonyms, a mish of religion, philosophy and bible trying to become science as they interpret religion with science and science with religion and this is magic, when the penetrator becomes the penetrated when night becomes day and if you really want to read about magic, I'd pick up Promethea seeing it's excellent handiwork

But the city sleeps, the city doesn't yearn for me as the miles become hours and night turns into day and everything shifts and the world is hollow, there are no friendly faces among the fires, there are no warmth in the rain but we press on and after the second night of sleep we hear the sounds of the ocean, we hear the life and hope fills our bellies like the finest of champagnes and we enjoy the last night, having reached the future of what we will become, the something is planted in us, something new that most likely will fade and flicker but it is there NOW

we realize it doesn't really matter what happens now, we've seen it, we did it we lived up to our own standards, we understood the consequences of our actions.

Some men say the world ends whn two watery stones meet on dry land, some say it will be consumed by dragons, others believe a dark lord is rising in the east, some say it will happen this year, some say its already happened

Some say that in his wet tomb of R'lyeh, he weeps for the end of time as his æon begins

We were jealous of you because you were so full of life while we sat silently waithing for our own death rattle. Later in life we would descend to hell and ascend to the sacred city, we would see all the reflections in the net and gaze upon the abyss, the eternity of un-never, the eternal vague magic of truth would be revealed to us, its significance, its meaning, its purpose and we would find it as

I walked out of the seven with a pack of smokes and a bag of munch and it had gotten colder, spring was nearly here and through the din of drunken children and tourists, the men of the bridge offering their diluted goods, the surest way for those who wish to wake up at the er or not at all and as I thought this I heard in a broken norwegian dialect I love you and I've never heard anyone mean it so much, the desperation and longing equally genuine. There was no love in her voice and there was little hope, there was the hard cold guilty conscience hitting you coming down on something bad one of the boys on the bridge said would rock your world

There are no dreams anymore, there are no roses, dropped by protestors, crushed by swat, picked up by people in employ of the salvation army, there are no dreams but there is work to be done. Perhaps that is the time ending, the abscence of the youthful yearning for something more, always more and different and new and change and hope and fear and love and god and murder and all and everything of potency, the smell of rose, the multifoliate life

There is work and work is always good when it extends your being but I guess it has to when the shifts are 12, it becomes part reason of life of meaning of this, brave new world that I gaze upon with fresh eyes again, reborn once more amidst the din, making status and filling out lists, making plans for work

In lifes long corridor where we the dying men walk

The ultimate act of confidence is putting a child into this world, the silence is the killer that they say lurk in the shadows but the silence is the light, the holy radiance surrounding us, deep do we dive and find glimmering baubles and beads, some lodged in old driftwood some in the eyes of an old decaying lady, looking more like an iron maiden than the beauty fair she once portrayed but this is the decay, this is what happens, this is the lesson that we forget as our hands grow busy gathering for while the epiphany will arrive later, it is not now and life is

Like love is like hate is like murder is like god is like the sacred heart buried deep inside every human, our concussions stopping our thoughts dead in the tracks and we remain weightless, we remain observers and as we observe all is changed as we chain and they are and we all dance in them because they make the most beautiful clanking sound and it reminds us of the old tale of jacob marley which we never really understood having only watched the disney version

And this world is turning into it, they said it would happen but it's going in a different direction, still what it is but more disguised more different than before, a different meaning but with the same goal, the same idea as we must return to the source, an old postcard of a town, Ingolstadt (an der donau) where the world is happening and unhappening all the time through different aspects of time this town is the focal point and the stars there glow bright, fernando

Children slouch on forward, move onto different monsters and masterful beasts for in fewer and fewer days you will become one of them and become one of the driving forces in the world, human-driven entropy and we will all see our destinies, we will see DESTINY and we will not understand so we will boast it and we will use our ignorance to forward our species, we will move with fists on the ground, running with giant movements, caricatures of self

across time we are here for you mother, we are here at your mercy, we are your creations and we live with your blessing and mother, you down in the deep our once beautiful princess, what fairy tales did you come from or did you come from whence before they were tales did you come from fairie itself when the third road went through the sacred heart how many cups of beauty did you hold and who did you betray to end here, among the pearl-divers

I will not wait for you as I climb the steps to the abattoir, I will not wait for you as descend into hell nor will I wait for you as I ascend, I will not wait for you as we board the trains leaving for poland, I will not wait for you as you try to understand, you were always better than me, you always managed this shit so much better, I will not wait as the gate closes to the courtyard, I will not wait as I crawl into bed

The world whispers but is not heard, memories are intertwined with ideas or scenes from movies and books, life itself is merely a reference, valid according to knut hamsuns law- remembered for hundred years and that is all and Kurt Weill had it right when he damned posterity

Time, we get greedy as it passes, as damnation passes and we see as it curves the decisions leading up to it but still we yearn for it, confident we can crack the code, break the crypt and we all suffer from dunning kruger but us most of all, you and me babe, like guns and ammo

We pass through the downbelow and we walk in the suicide fields as the towers of Dis claw against the sky, pitch black but completely clear as we pass through the serene valley where the true magicians dwell, men of such a faith filled with the most barbaric personalities, forever skirmishing with themselves on the battlegrounds they are and we as arrive at the steps of the city itself, the towers still looming, the streets of despair all run to the source, a tower forever looming, a four dimensional object casting a three dimensional shadow and we are all enveloped in it

You understand why I won't wait? You understand the impossibility of that situation, you realize death, birth, rebirth transcendence are all personal, where nothing else but you exist and the world is tranquil. I will not wait for you- I will not wait for you as you try to understand, mother tomb

Credit to be moved to the end of the text and "We should have" to have the same size as the rest of the text please

It can't be involved in something that concerns money of any kind, non-alterable and just quote me by screenname

It is. It reads more like train of thought/stream of consciousness which is handy and I think it was readership approved/encouraged/invented at a time and I just went with it and it fits. Some that have read it are a little freaked out by reading it without knowing why and I find that kinda funny. As long as it's readable

Of the living men, we hear naught but the dead stay up chattering all night and into the mornings before sleep also claims them as the living men go out into the world and learn its' secrets so they can live a life, prospering and doing everything they wanted and the way they first wanted it and life is filled with the dreams of the sixteen year old

Everything is dumbed down, it seems like offending someone of their ignorance is frowned upon and children are permitted to walk on their fists made of ham and there are no mysteries in the bank

The bank is the silent kid, closer to the middle than the last row, dressed nice but cheap and he raises his arm only when it is needed and speaks only when spoken to, a grey child by all accounts but here is not what he does but who he is because that's what defines him, his being  not his doing

Some of my friends say what is this world turning into and sometimes I say it's turning into what it always is, it's only the glamour that changes, only the faces that change while the hearts or lack of remain the same, that is all, that's how it works, pragma finding philo, raping him

There isn't a balance, there is nothing here except patterns, repetitions, change is always doing its' thing but so is tradition and while the name of it may transform, it still requires a cup and a wand

Here we hear the death-god's whisper, here we see the man behind the curtain, here we build the grand guignol where all our children will grow up in, all our plants, watered by us, grown by us, incubation lasting longer than previously stated, thin ice reaching like talons on black boards

Gods live in us but they are always remembered in the past, when truths change and turn to myths and as long as one mind believes nothing truly dies but in one hundred years, old knut, all will indeed be forgotten

We are the frayed men, broken bone in bleak landscapes where dry grass is like glass under our feet as we walk past the mesas and into the heart of it, the heart of the older gods and their sons and daughters, their da vincis and bathorys left here in the fields in the feeble gallows, whistling in the wind as you turn to pendulums, marking something with your movements and it seems orchestrated, it seems like something more is seeping in here from a different world, this is a soft place, where the walls are soft

We touch them as we peak and they feel so rough and alive or so soft and cuddly but we end up playing with water, feeling it, seeing it as the droplets die so we shan't smell and we go far, we go deeper, our love tunneling and propelling us further and every touch is a touch of bliss and every vision, every word every bite peaks us further from what we were and towards what we should do and we glimpse it, we see it before everything turns bad

Change, they'll ask for it and it will come, not by polls or decisions, it'll just come when it is time, the fruition of the idea, the illusion of orchestration, the veil of conspiracy being torn, misunderstood for something of importance but only the pond of Narcissus, and not himself, his honey-pot forever creeping with changelings, those who got their fifteen minutes and have now been changed, by voodoo, black magic or science into the insect-slaves of Narcissus, forever roaming hospitals, preying on those who are weak in body but rich in talent, gifted

The midwives let them roam as the midwives themselves roam the corridors, endless white halls filled with the secrets of death and life but seen as a checklist but it's ok, they're old and tired and shouldn't be here anymore, even their glamours are aging and the age of fairies is over and all that remains from it turns to dust before it turns to oblivion, to be forgotten- to be remembered once more

To think of time, to reflect upon its nature and your entanglement with it, the nature of the beast is found inside it, coventry is in there somewhere and time is the question that needn't be asked, time is the grand guignol

We should have

It feels like we are running, it feels like there is something to be found, unlocked and pulled out of its' chest and be placed once more under the sun, the task seems time-sensitive but there is no sensation of time passed nor of time itself, there is only the feeling of the task at hand forever nagging in the back of your skull, a question that always lead to more, questions and moments in life worth snapshotting for the gallery on the other side where we lie to dry with our jars and dogs and concubines, there

that is where we are, not in limbo because there is none, like there is no heaven no hell nor xenu but the concept hasnt been translated since the old gods dwelled here, in the deltas and by the fata morganas too deep into the desert like we are enveloped in dunes of skin but still do we feel it, the skin hunger, eating us, taking us back to other times and showing us how the past looks like the future but we don't know that- yet, for we are in the eternal chambers where there is no rest but the mind is intact

Did you wake up one morning with the answer or did it hit you as you walked through the graveyard smoking a joint with your best friend and it's summer and hot and green or did you read it, were you pushing yourself when it happened or weren't you, crouched on the couch, did you stop asking for more?

We weep for we do not know who we are, some of us prepared by trying to read the symbols that rearranges reality and we know what is coming to us but for those who don't know that the world ends as it begins and that the stakes are higher than what one realizes as we don't ourselves, stuck infront of a telly with a beer, stuck infront of a computer with a joint, stuck but feeling it somewhere, distant like the way it'll sound when we die and we're in the pure white light and a female voice that is the mother of all calls out after you and you let go and you find the rest that was prophesized and as her hand touches yours you explode like a thousand suns into a new universe, filled with life and light, filled with meaning

The snow falls on memories, taking them away for just long enough to let them fade, still to be cherished but not a part of the now but part of the somewhere, a piece of a shadow lingering and will not be whisked away and both of them are always there, both faces but after a while, shadow-boxing becomes tiresome even though you know and you settle for pleasant and you no longer try to fight and understand your demons but live on the grace of angels where you build your Silver City, your Jerusalem, your Babylon and you inhabit it as you listen to the angels and leave the demons only to come out when they must and what fiersome beasts they are when you no longer know them as brothers, know them by names but only by their howling

The drift thickens, black talons curse the sky and all men and women below it hoped like americans hope for their presidents that it wouldn't snow just yet, the sensation of spring in march makes it feel outlandish, different and new, like seen with fresh eyes, innocence walking out and onto the platforms and entering the City to try to learn the secrets of the virus

They sing, those who toil the earth above, they sing songs of harvest, they sing songs of the weather and their gods and trolls, their aberrations their beliefs their dreams their hopes their fears all around the earth we have heard their song- slaves sing songs of freedom and hope, words disguised in chains, housewives singing of freedom but knowing hope to be a lost cause, thinking that none give her flowers

The songs are everywhere, among all men and all women, their shadows sing the songs of lost children, demented grannies and sick old people out in the streets, crying for something different, hoping for god or somesuch to come down from above and lift us anew into the realm of our own realities, comfortable underneath the skin, feeling the skin hunger vanish, seething dreams filled with poisonous pillows and covers drenched in sweat from every night, every waking nightmare, consuming

Did someone talk to you? Was that the regression from light, was that the abandonment of the day people, were they buried there or was it something else we dragged away into the night? Burdened were our shoulders but the weight of what world was upon it? We heard the whispers ourselves sometimes when we visited you in that basement but perhaps we were too weak

Perhaps our wills bent in other directions, perhaps god himself observed us perhaps this is a petri dish, dreams coated in agar and viewed through a microscope through time and we are just this new race of pets this overlord race wants to breed and

The sickness is in us, the destruction is final, it is fatal, it is a dream kept within a song, the song that was sung to begin the world and there will come a song that will end it if there are any left to sing it but the virus is spreading and mutating and its manifestations can not be seen as connected now but the army of the twelve monkeys did its