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aPopStigmaPerverse

notes taken and sung along to as trusting all books written by a gods’ legion long gone now tumbling through immortal time awaiting personal approval to seek substance after this death is received with our voice then going quiet as the personal GOD (grand operating directive) which is our own dies with us each unto ourselves and all lives we have touched and touches ours becomes something more than just this, as relic recollecting what was and is to query the enchantment laid thousands of years ago what the concept to build this titanous empire truly meant questioning a queer faith not faultless at all by default as we stall along the precipice of cliff’s edge thought a tight lair opened up by those so entranced to enter the dragon falling as a stone from the sky, and cursed the land and sea with a dark poisonous hatred difficult to disperse as though this gaseous melancholy were but to catch a fire by quality of tone alone angry from the motion that sometimes comes to one all at once or not at all with a frustration in toeing the line when the waking is rude as a sigil used to vigilize this dream lucid… while a society of dreamers keeps sleeping dreamlessly though the fog of memory turned a veil between worlds known and unknown alike as plagues of tones appear reigning as authority upon our excited ears formed to gather informal supporting information as it appears out of thin air, in a shipwreck without any shape as the ghost whose wonders a sole mistake uncovered by the ways in which we play these games and modes as sounds move evoking moods to take us somewhere we can at least sense safety surrounding us whether in a warm bed or hot shower as our home is wherever our heart resides, and when we become thought-forms shattered out of this pedagogy preaching that tries to build a technical beast to assume the appropriate position of artificial authority to take place a step after the human is replaced as servile carcass trained for the pageantry of this pedantry as the system stays shifting these unreal amalgams of faith and disease… defend or repent the sins born and floating up on gossamer wings onto salute those angels on high with harmonies and melodious wanderings through err as reserved, labor of the real as a product born into adapting this chained servitude, and as an attitude soon unwanted by this cacophonous massive probing that considered human destiny as rancid options chosen so blindly…

Thanks, khet.