All The Wrong Topics dot com

May I?

appropriated version of art as life form wasted in stereo execution by the parents unaware of magic in their bloodstreams flowing together, and quickly conspiring with the other cellular bodies at work in the human structure as it shuffles the stacks of paperwork with a similar resilience to the digging of ditches on the opposite side of the fence cutting off collars from each other in order to balance the known equity between friends and acquaintances as the work force grows unchecked while the jobs are shifting to vacuum into yet another imbalance, the process that never stops as the cosmic clockwork puzzle pieces itself together to amass a more certain version understanding of direction for the steps its creatures must take to create a better world of their own… in the life of artforms, or what may be called a variation in technique and mediums as the movements inspire waves of ideas to materialize as representation of the particular symbolism taking root in the reality from the seeds of imagination into alternate conclusions between those visceral realities which manifest the procreative animals who fornicate and conceive a new organic portal, then from there the cloning occurs in such a way as to recombine the multitude of traits that differ among primary parental models who themselves are as imperfect clones of the system as well… the organism pre-programmed still developing while cells of the zygote ever-expanding held inside an organic internal womb infamous as nesting dolls in metaphor as the biological crucible grows a homunculus which can itself become equivalent to the womb state it came from to grow yet another version as potent as previous though with alternating features from both sides of the gene pool derived from dual familial trees in a veritable re-forestation of paths leading to this moment and further still onward beyond this dictated curiosity for the gritty and provocative turns both shallow and thirsty to drink in this conscious world with its vapid relationship through the wrong people, striving to make some mark to yield either profit or fruition of aim aware of the more that one can do for the others while at the same time becoming conflicted with that selfish part inside that wishes to do more for ones’ own projects and personal needs whether it happens to be for good or not is debatable as to who benefits the most from any conflicts of interest as they arise with the more adaptable of us finding the courage to struggle on with an eye towards opportunity for active growth in making our journey the perfection of inevitable and interchangeable with the rest of this reality’s twitch, and i give myself over to these vagrant miserotic (a romantic view of suffering) senses that choose for me the defiling motive minus any domesticated attempts at deconstructing truth in issues to utilize as some metaphor, using a wrecking ball to understand the human variable as the whole of humanity multiplies endlessly it seems… but what hope do we require to become a more or less decent human being who is appreciated and respected even in misunderstood fits of a nasty irresponsibility, a streak that runs through the chaotic stake and claim we have as we are influenced by the genetic material further spreading a circuitous net through the vast unshaped aching to realize the form underneath the visual self whom breathes and feels curiously as though like a pet, and is it not this feeling that doubt uses to creep inside of the minds of those easily worried by the always impending shitstorm… as has always been about to take place positioning fears into something perhaps like walking through a series of mindfields (mental minefields) thusly setting up a set track of dominoes that will fall in a specific way once the trap is snapped into attack, the mechanics of ensnaring the shards of Self trying to fly away like hot ashes flowing forth up from the fire because the world as we KNOW it is in flames as the hell we have been mythologizing over from centuries now, but we are absolutely not just cheap imitations of each other like a littler of cats locked inside the box lost in the surreal state of dreaming whether we are alive or dead… mainly the freedom to be curious of what condition our condition is in, and what do we claim of loyalty or respect when what we claim as ours is usually the property of another… some of us claim to be the shining pinnacle at the summit of this human plight that manages a loving gift toward a humble few while the crazed and rabid many are left with cannibal notions in their heads as the ancient world that once filled our lives begins to resurge into the near future, the tribalism of thousands of years condensing into the new reality we have been waiting aeons to make itself known as truth, and it is for us to perceive this truth and not shy away from its heated brilliance as ignorant forces attempt to hobble the truth into absolutes and cliches which will never be… these are the things which a dead Mankind has gloried bright…

Thanks, khet.