Tejas stink.
“in days of heat
sticky, sweaty
a carcass living
casually weeps
in the shadow
no ordinary tears
but tears of blood
the tacky wet
red, moist
as the ripping
waves pulse
like a blow dryer
an antagonistic sun
the hairy face matted
the guilt, the rage
hot issues all well
spent with no
mention of rot or
decay featured now
a carcass dying
in days of heat…”
the picture post, bitches.
doobie. where is it at? my cherished instrumental tool. where is it at? do i need to describe with discretion at the will of forces truly unknown to me. the override switch was hit by the self it takes a mirror to see. the rhythmic feeling of a hankering to wail out something of passionate display, a face for the world to behold, and for all subtlety necessary in day-to-day events. a movement, no… motion, that displays its mechanics. where is it at? that thing that chimes in harmony with my tastes. vibrating with an essence that tastes like motor oil. an extract from the soil and mineral below the feet. where is it at? the substantial something.
the kaos kollectiv
It is a place, the depth of which you cannot find…
Permit me to choose the path, that I may find a way through…
But it is Here, when all the proper understanding is reached…
Neither Heaven nor Hell, but place between worlds…
Open your mind, infinite consciousness…
Find the role, and play it…
This is the creed…
CMK ~
feeling the pitch
sweat pours through the blood-strewn dance floor as the streets grow grim with fears. breaks are for those who can’t take the heat of the black light specials being passed around. the height of unfounded abandon in the Western world’s culture of self-gratification.