All The Wrong Topics dot com

the carnage of pop.

ruin the remedy as it befits the following description. the rapid pace of heartbeat, and outrageous whiplash from adrenaline-pulse nerves racing sideways offset the path of the average endeavor. a process deceitful and maimed by conscious explanation as grim matters waned. fond remains of memorized moments taken back to those seconds of bliss. the crutch of organic emotion made manifest in this flesh. thriving on time gone by, and secrets laid to waste by perimeters of dread, the habitat of a doomed nation. an exclamation of unyielding force motivated into a presence all its own. the predecessors drop ill and weak from the task as the next model approaches, a countdown descends, and the spirits rise as though lifted into a sky-bound animation of being. what is it that pop really might imply? a soft spill before the boom? of wasted youth in a darkened room? settling for things the way they are is my theory today. no big bang, just an idle ooze while the rest of life goes by, and suddenly there is a noise. the rush of feeling overwhelms the young and the old, but in-between those two extremes the unaffected stay. the popular animals attempt to remain at the top of their game for as long as they can condition the public to find their pseudo-messages real and sustaining. a lackluster approach by the end. dig deep enough underground, and you’ll find the solid gold that record executives seem to crave, where all the veins of the impossible thrive. under the surface. very good things, sweet things. I really perceive the rise of pop to be a call for help, an S.O.S. signal through the motion of opinion, and into the futuristic plateau. cruising through the data sphere, inadequate here, at just short of critical speed. the throb of multiple drumbeats summons the beating heart out into the air. with the bass boom and squealing electricity igniting the night. inside the steam pours out of the ears as the figment rages against the constraint of the caged righteous irony. an unreal splash of vicious recycling fury, waves and whirls around the rim, and is sucked down into this toilet of the future. at last, fits of hasty retreat. the mind finds itself laid to waste in the junction of a functioning template for reality. the temples bar their doors as the non-believers move forth through the fog, the tavern the only feigned fixture of any solid sanctuary nowadays, and a passive attempt at inclusion. the trap seems to work, and luckily there are some associations out there worthy of mention, though the evil rises to the foamy boil that humanity appears to behave like anymore. the mobius strip, the knot, and both ever eternal until resolution is met. a puzzle in sides and shifting sands, weight of momentum thrusting between extremes to achieve a balance, and the core for a dichotomy creeping out from the grayest areas. this versus that again and again in parallel to the other tangents formed from those traces idealized and otherwise in-between vacancies of those peculiar particles assembling into any particularly solid forms making up our unique constitutions. that fecal stench drifting up from that decayed mass existent because of the manner of the environment, falling apart and decrepit, and an essence in essence emitted from that distinct stench of death and decay. waxing the morbid moon, full and glazed stabbed far into the horizon of confronted taboos about religion and sex, and beaten down by the many layers of violent opposition oppressing the nearby resources of a hand bitten by those writhing snakes chaotic and raw. liars in wait, those accepting of the opportunities offered them, and the craven representatives applying the bloody apocalypse among the indifferent masses making more trouble. the growth of unreal established monkey-wrenching, the cancer residing beneath the surface, and revealed over time creation of plans to stop it all. it is intriguing how the innocence fades into a god-damned ignorance that protrudes through these real things like a razor sharp point, embedding childhood experience, and perhaps fondness deep under the conscious skin. raising questions of integrity from up out of the dark fathoms of opinion, other people are hell, and use of repetition to subdue leading to nothing more than mockery and reflection of negative energy. maybe pop is the cultural funhouse mirror that imbibes a little bit from everything, and spits out more marketable waste upon demand, like a pooping machine. the only ghosts are the things that we left behind. remnants of aged learning or perhaps foul tempers. repeating this disease. so the next generation of degenerates can wallow in this mess. the frequencies and wavelengths rush to engulf our tendencies to wash ashore like a castaway into the void. the markings of our tribe run close to the surface as the naive thoughts cajole for control. takeover for the youthful minds once left shattered by moral ineptitude. standing over the corpses with an authority that makes the youth quake in their shoes. whatever it is, it wants to own the world, and to manipulate the populace that can’t escape the reign. pop implies that a cataclysm of conformity will bake us inside of our skulls in a way that we shall never really recover from. it takes so long to witness all the atrocities our historic birth into a condemned plot has related to us. the insipid virus that yields popular opinion is crawling all through the degenerates and diseased, the doomed and the god-damned, and we are only halfway toward an end that works for us. the bark of the dog’s bite, the charms are met with sincere gratitude as that is the only option left for the few, and the scars we wear well until such a time as death can relieve us of our burdens of proof. clenching the jaw’s of life shut, creating a sphincter that will lock and halt all progress of the juvenile in favor of lucid conservatism, and what are they waiting for? inject us with the disease you have sought after for so long, I dare you.

Thanks, khet.