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bobo the Martyr boy.

the intense conflagration created by the single flare of human emotion, both in scope overwhelming and in action, as serious a stream towards motion and intent… the human argument or debate gets heated as the various facades are torn apart, and made renewed by choices of words and further inflammatory turds of thought, on the quest for growth to find a decent understanding for the human doing… you can try as much as you like, but we are always wanting for that most satisfying moment of truly understanding anything, we fly off the handle when we don’t get what we desire… the various rages in their own glories, both freeing and restricting for the same reasons, but distinctly different results whether damage or healing powers prevail… everybody walks into this thinking there needs to be some sacrifice, but that is just so thoroughly scandalous in any day and age… the sacrifice of self seems to be the most popular means of annihilation, whether negatively reinforced or made voluntarily, leaping for a cause compulsory of nature… indifferent of maturation or withering, the motivation seems to come from some craving that makes the abusive loser catch whim of the intolerable behavior, racing about back and forth like the miserable monkey i am… restricting the boundaries of who the variant selves are, whether flunkie or junkie to a lapsing creation man-made, and the inescapable presence of a universal will that bears down to grind out the diamonds… the metal age moves wonders around on wheels and rail and many other things, the crawling slowly shifting the earth underneath our feet, but even that awareness of reality dares dim as i think… how does one think about anything without a trail of vomit to follow from the lips?… the evil animate tricks that wish and guilt trip the rest of the social structure into collapse, but bring your own umbrella as the glass shards rain down into this soft parade charade, the mighty swinging thing that creeps and calls our names from the distance… the restricted wits of the Prometheus bound, a crass metaphor for what could work for intelligence in a world quite this fiendish, as it postures and pounds so hellishly upset of true impotence… so terribly ungrateful for the things they say we need, with graveyard blues hanging over the head, the witnessed halo grows weak in the midst of the unrepentant motivation to flee traditional schemes… somehow, some way, some day, decay… then, yet again, is this all we can say?… in our hearts there is a theme that runs along the thick as much as the thin constraints of waste, you live, you learn and make the most out of many tricks as you can quote many things at once… you dig, sucker?… crushed juices to make the wine if there is no booze to find, working water from its disguise, as if to say we are done with this… with a trucker’s gifts we keep treading along don’t we, to the bitter end of this fated bliss, distinct and cryptic and crisp… unless you would rather a sharp slit at the wrist, i’ve pulled a number like myself in some ways gone away, but something keeps pulling the thoughts back without looping in the same casual center… action must flow from idea into the impassioned plea, as the energy makes its way out of the holes, and sinks into the dirt to grow the roses and the elemental assemblies of growth… a metaphysical reality as it shoots forth a new loaded tangent…

Thanks, khet.