the breakdown was mutual… the manacles set upon the wrists… the diseased mind permeates the foul and sanctified heat of resistance… the stink of awareness from the outside world revealing the madness within this maelstrom… the dripping and gooey internal structure fairly teeters with the substance falling from the ceiling… you raise your eyes to notice that stalagmites extend downward toward you, and this pit seems far too small… to express your way out of a paper bag is nothing so intense as performing your way out of a jagged hole inside your heart… this is where things have been taking place of late… the mind becomes far too tight and constraining upon itself to be of any real use… the music is alive, though, and there are few who would wish to see it… this other necessary entity …
please me more than a sense of rhythm, a thing that lends itself over to anything, and still makes depth appear where none might have been visible before… the shallow now does not seem hollow, and rational senses give way to following the music… whether classical or rock-inspired, the muse is never far from the thoughts of all who really appreciate the gift that music can bring… this thing that moves the soul to and beyond the gathered status quotations… a haunting melody is not always the necessary key to the forgiving weight of instant gratification… sometimes it is the momentum of a repetitive rhythm that lends to freedom of mind the most… that freedom of movement we all require in order not to feel as though our actions are controlled by others who don’t even know us… if …
the crawling understanding of feeling undermined by the ego of your friendly allies, and taking the time to make that movement deeper into your skin.
out of Context;
‘the descriptive factors of words defying gravity of stone…the rock and the words are one and the same Here…the battery makes motion happen…stored energy will allow “stone” to sling, trebuchet-style, through the mirror…glory creates its own intrigue…the hands of those that will give relations evoke a symbol calling the angels down into reality like water in the streets…the closest return and rot…’
‘Senators leap up and bray for the Death Penalty with inflexible authority of virus yen…Death for dope fiends, death for sex queens (I mean fiends) death for the psychopath who offends the cowed and graceless flesh with broken animal innocence of lithe movement.’
Who are these people? The ones who drift in and out of people’s lives to warp another’s views for a lifetime. There are those who debate as to what meaning the identity of others applies to their own limited fascinations. Each unto their own wealth be it in knowledge, or of the physical matter, something limited by the almost-pointed obsession with a certain facet of ideal obstruction. The eyes have a limited sense of sight to be able to see things closely while the unknown cries out far away. They push our buttons whether it is to succeed or fail, but always in mind to advance the overall progress, the whole unlimited. I despise the ones who defy the interest of all the others in the place, who mock what it is to …
you hate me…thriving off of the rocky soil upon which you toss your seed, eye am eternally grateful to you, and you are an animal who lives off of the filth that expels from my bowels…the wasted lives taken for granted are yours to do with what you wish, but eye am here to make sure you realize what pain you inflict upon the world around you…taking your crude religio-scientific superstitions for granted, you stride into all situations certain that you, and only you, know the answers…your fear betrays your mind, and all of your true thoughts are laid bare before me…you kill without regard to the planet you seek to defecate within, eating the guts and the shreds of instinct that are placed on your plates, and you feast beyond the weary messages of poor health as it …
An essay on Satanism from the perspective of an artist, with questions into mindless puppetry, and method of religion.
out of Context;
‘those that partake obviously feel guilt from some modern slight to need the quantified lusts for death reveal a terrorized note in the cacophonous humor bringing tumors… where does the sacrifice begin inside this coached betrayal of self?…’
