What would it be to see as the Grateful Dead see it? What could be the harm in that thing there? The view is serene, with two drummers in the background, and enough acid to throw us on our hippie asses. Where do we go once the good times die? When our heads have busted wide open from that perception of a world where things are a hallucination. There is still that little subsistent grouping of people around the world, but in excess is where it seems to have rested its position. The masses gathered at the feet of supposed gods which are really monsters at heart. What happens when we realize that mess? Do we surge forward, and present our hind ends to the authority in charge? I have chosen not to give up hope, no matter how …
I don’t have any real memories anymore, I have pushed them so far behind the eyes that all the bad memories are blotted out in the vast mind space like dreams, and occasionally haunt me as such. The memories I do have are ones devised by me, and my own imagination at work. There has never been any time that I can recall that it wasn’t this way for me. I began living in the trailer park shortly after I quit my last job, and took up a career writing unimpressive articles for shit magazines all over the states. My girlfriend and I sat there, smoking reefer and chatting up the adventure of the day, but keeping an eye on the door the whole time to make sure the child didn’t find his way into our room. The dope …
the ghosts of the past bait us to think raw thoughts on our own… breeding dismay at our own actions… from where does this ephemeral holy spirit come?… this salty gooey fluid from between the thighs and in-between the eyes and ears… a jolting sensation that brings temporary satisfaction and comfort… feelings only seen in the interactions of coitus extreme experienced to dreamy pleasures witnessed only amid the few potential inhabitants… ectoplasmic orgasmic joy… the recreation in explosions and bursts of wholly unknown substance… a quintessence that truly defines this place we find ourselves within… the stroking gesture warranted through the cash and crisp barter for services rendered as the fluid is expelled… maybe true happiness lies in not having to shoot a load across the room… lies maybe in the tender embrace of another instead of the lip-smacking …
homemade cake, the introduction of dreadlocks, and the reckless abandon of a three-day weekend… what more could i need for the ritual of another gone and out of the way year? there’s not too much else, really, that i could want from the congratulatory passing of time… a record player for vinyl albums, maybe, and a career playing music with total creative freedom would be a nice change of pace to start the “new” year out with… however, those things are for later when i have the maturity and resources to handle them… right now, doing my best just trying to hold down a steady job while keeping my creative spirit fully intact and ready for the next big step through the oblivion… looking ahead has never been my strongest trait, no matter how much it has been forced …
Water – pure spiritual influences and feelings of love
Fire – emotional influences and base passions
Air – mental influences and the process of thought
Earth – physical influences and the impact of the unseen on the visible world
What about the Oriental elements you ask?… or the Wu Xing maybe?
Wood begets Fire begets Earth begets Metal begets Water which nourishes Wood. (generating)
Wood parts Earth absorbs Water quenches Fire melts Metal chops Wood. (overcoming)
We, as spirits, reside within the ether or space between all elements.
The five elements lead to a pentagonal cycle which feeds itself over time, or space depending upon viewpoint. Insulting/destroying and creating/overacting seem to be the modus operandi Here.
What is the ether we breathe?… is it the air or something more scatter-shot or drug-tinged?
The words and tones we …
“To sing a song about the fleeting
terror making cravings fate
words are coming from the mouth Part one
speak before liars in wait
so that you all may hear
wielding sweeping, mighty self at every turn
taste of shame and faith and fear
leaving sour gloom to burn
“Strange is not one even word for
what I’ve held on to say
gripped, the laughing cry, as I play Part Two
lose the …
Burgess Meredith is the obsolete librarian…Orwell was to literature what Nostradamus was to divination…and then history made effigies of us all…the elite are insolent, and we are the doomed, fuck the doomed…the screams of liberation intermingle with screams of agony and torment…lives snuffed out by another turn of the wheel as others grow up to become more effigies, living statues, and then to dust we all break down…the burials are neat and sentimental with all the necessary amenities that come with grieving today…ghosts in the flickering light of day, and by the lamplights of night, moving objects through thought…the movements are obsolete…speak from your gilded cage…your mind is captured in flesh, and you have no control over the mouth…at least, not with the utmost of accuracy…you will disappear and like it…fading into the ancient gallery from which all the …
Over the past few days, nothing has sparked a revival of social grace and active semenal fluids like a good dose of ephedrine, an oral nasal decongestant. These little beauties indeed have given my life the temporary jolt it needs at times for me to feel at my peak performance, whether doing chores around the house, or manipulating third world armies to do my bidding to help me take over the world. Ephedrine has helped countless numbers of speed freaks the world over, and even when I get bumping on the herb, I can certainly feel the improvement in my lungs. We live our world amidst the thrust and heave of commercial drug use, for gains pulled from the pockets of the gullible, and placed into the pockets of the real manipulators. Not necessarily the …
