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Mozeltov Cocktail

thirty-three years… in sixteen days… what is a human to do?… testing of the most pivotal hypocrisy once again for good measure or general displeasure as served up on a golden platter for all to feast upon the rich legal tender, a currency for avoiding the prescribed leisure taxed of relax and recreation even when we know not what it is we are creating electric even through the murkiest of errs feeling fogged in, backlit and looking for a shred of decency for our own personal hill of dreams or spilling of beans as the whole weight of the lies we made comes crashing down upon those heads as they roll… playing god inside of our imaginations to which we might affix the safety net when our physical selves get wet with ignorance and dusty practical impudence so serious on this plane of existence moving to separate from us, what is a body to do when all the life seems siphoned from its more appropriate places in this transfixated (transcending fixation) state seen through mismanaged pausing and waiting while the queue grows longer, and much like the lengthy snaking thing it is the skin of people shed one individuated cell after another as the lifetime has popped its own bubble for each growing being born Here of all places… the center of this disease which we have become very comfortable with each other continuing to blame all tomorrow’s parties for the idealized symptoms of today as it lurches, an epically vague idea of Ouroboros out on its own as it eats its own tale of lazy woe swallowing the shit and the semen and whatever juices produced are left as the end goes down into the hungry maw an opening darkness digesting itself, but this is not an oblivion we seek as we come to meet it full force only to realize that at our worst we have passed through that invisible membrane called the edge or fringe as those not already developed enough are consumed and insane by the end… it is a long strange trip in deed as intent and this social medium conspire to create this as an experimental atmosphere to which all hang their heads in either states of shame or conformity, testing the broken spirit by fingering the wounds open and stretched to view the minutia thus displayed as manual motions required devour moments of this static idea of time and place that may prevent us from seeing ourselves within a mutually beneficial collaboration as unified whole, but the jagged system we have Now takes every opportunity to attempt fucking us up or out of whatever rights we support using troopers as a devoted middle section utilized by the ambiguously evil ‘them’ subtly acquires such a socially-inclined following to force against a people… the inner circle of disposable heroes in this hypocracy (the mass hypocrites’ form of ruling government and influence) that asks blood devotion from us all as though our gods were so very real and in control of our associations and basic organization, and we have only the interests of these faceless nasties in baser nature realizations to guide the progress of a civilization in peril without the usual hasty defenses we have grown used to and have taken for granted… getting so bored with the what we know so we use all the tricks and means at our disposal for disposing of this ghoulish creeping feeling that sends shivers down our spines when we realize we are the monsters, and disgust washes over us in our moments of clarity as the laceration veritably oozes over as blood from a deep wound when we realize suddenly that the creatures we hate so much are ourselves viewed as the damage dealers in this fragile world… disgrace can be so difficult to cope with when all animal instinct screams that simple curdled sound that only the body understands with its own ancient wisdom collected in our genes, dust to dust rising up among us as the civilized state falls down into despair as corruption and disintegration run rampant worldwide like a cold thoughtful plague as infects the intelligent slaves anchored to obligations and status woes deemed the worthwhile pursuit of the vapid and indecent in the society of morons, but creeping feelings are sometimes the least concern when it seems almost an eerie omnipresence type of a situation as the games of survival and social intrigue mount and climax in a conversion of energies swarming us all into a form less resistant… subjugate the good luck into a yolked workhorse pulling one along the majority of the experiences like the sum of gravity moving the immovable parts in a fixed-gear grind up the mountain to reach the summit, that coveted station where the elite do their own business under the cover of a silent convocation with all serious weight holding all partners in their places as though mimes frozen but traces of motion, and it feels as surreal altered state as the walls seem to breathe and the details seem alive though under what powers is difficult to discern as the invisible pieces settle into a rhythm that shifts the current to supply the residents with an ocean to swim while also aptly depriving some of their senses of humor… we all need the courage of good humor…

Thanks, khet.