All The Wrong Topics dot com

to those about to fock..!

you are all lunatics, somewhere deep, and you know not what you truly do… your humble narrator not excluded from the tumult the world has been thrown into for lifetimes altogether, and sometimes I question where this poetry/prose comes from, it has been too long since writing a thing like this… what feelings should we explore my friends and rats alike? what thoughts would I have to exploit to you now? is that all I have to offer? I feel perverted by the lack of real control that I might seem capable to sustain, but that I cannot seem to reign in because of maybe some kind of sinister insistence, a left-handed path once and for all… the cannibal in me wants to destroy you and this cultural insistence for all it might have been worth on a domestic market… a shadow of ridiculous youthful intent masked by facial hair grown long in cold hours… we are, all of us, what is left of the ancient monsters in the wake of plagues and storms and other various means to try to destroy whatever it might be that humanity really is inside… it has been far too long since I have gone upon one of these tirades to unleash the mindset… I cannot seem to put these things into a corrective stance that all can understand, and it tears me up to not be understood/understand others… I would like to spend my days blissfully whiling away to no end, but these, like many items, are dreams that seem to skip and repeat at odd intervals… the nasty cultural breakdown as we get the recycled spent meat treatment, chunneling our way through the orgasmic gastric juices flooding then flowing down like rain, and washing the brains “sane” in some way… an odd descriptive defiance, I cannot recoup this indignant reliance upon the trails of spew as it uneven glides into your minds’ eyes, but as though upon the snails’ trail of sorrows… the salt licking at our heels, as the wheels buck and grind down this mortal coil into the filament spark to bring life, yet again the machine gets fed… our bursting bubbles of light bulbous from the start, to become upstart with the tinge of rebellion somewhere deep, and that provocative urge to itch where we have scratched so many times before… to rave and stave off these off-kilter admissions to myself and you as the general audience, I speak to kill the reek from ever wafting within, and the smell could tear skin… the surround sound of violent douses onto the flames to dispense with the bullshit attempts at jolly mayhem… am I one of them? the speaker loses his grip…

Thanks, khet.