out of Context;
‘somewhere there is a light that calls from the heavens… it seems that the devourers we are seem to enjoy the taste of other conscious entities, remarking upon the flavor as we saute them into subordination, and become fat and delirious as we engorge ourselves on their flesh… a savory feast on the minds of other species… mad, lusty, greedy hordes come through the gates upon arrival in a new land, and settle upon the exploitation of potential insight for that possibility for a plunderable wealth… to squat a conquest out of the fecal remains of the days as the go by, the glass globe surrounding our dimensions occasionally lets out a toxic snow as the seasons move again, and the years build into decades as the zombies wreak havoc upon the surface of the earth….’
out of Context;
‘at the day-to-day work i do just to survive in this world fascinated to the death with the entertaining hive mentality as grown-up children with so many harsh responsibilities paid insufficient funds to meet the needs mocking like school-age children as though it were all such an adult place outside of the workplace, but it becomes a time to loosen these high standards once within the confining anything that might resemble professional boundaries to which jobs have always projected onto me at some level to a thoughtful state of mindfulness in both action and intent which others i work with seem to disregard once they punch that time card to start the work day off, this irritates me to no end even though i observe my own two sense sucked into the childish abyss justifying this mainstay…’
out of Context;
‘as a warrior upon perhaps a purest path to take past all perverted grace of leprous debt insane resuscitated joining hands to force the energy forth like hardcore flaneurs roaming the streets with no hope for a future setting of day and night in cycles of systematic repetition… not nihilists but hopeless idlers wandering aimlessly through dark stone columns of souls variously lit at spots like some vibrant everlasting torch or candle expelling darkness in a short halo around its view of the city, the pants are worn at the knees and see-through to some degree while these stains from the blood will not go away, and the washing machines walk among the mad unyielding fiends you get used to seeing everyday…’
out of Context;
‘this tidal debris left remaining Here and much more of that corpse-like feeling and pale lodged in a random state lost in thought angry somewhere, lurching out of the nowhere from beyond the coffin lid exploded into wide-mouthed strike as the leech drives towards a pulse inside the throat as the hungry monster or ghost might attack in a fake world where we do not try to actively understand each other without some incentive to the expenditure of energy, and the system takes the place of that desiccated form leaching the love and faith away into a processing to transform the impulses into filth and lust and depravity openly corrosive to once precious ideas of natural wisdom… a telepathic social neurotic toxin fed to us throughout our lives Now…’
revision on a work-in-progress
“in days of heat
sticky, sweaty
a carcass living
casually weeps
in the shadow
no ordinary tears
but tears of blood
the tacky wet
red, moist
as the ripping
waves pulse
like a blow dryer
an antagonistic sun
the hairy face matted
the guilt, the rage
hot issues all well
spent with no
mention of rot or
decay featured now
a carcass dying
in days of heat…”
the world warps around the continuous consciousness that grows…
emitting a signal that replenishes the dynamic of energy that gets drained
as the cosmic joke funnels our souls into this chaotic state of matter…
we wash ourselves with the pity and sorrow and laughter
inherent in the suffering of succotash…
the diabolic parabola, the learning curve where the junk collects,
whether at the bottom or in the middle of the air…
the objective? the collective? a struggle…
we were meant to juggle our reality by the thread of a yo-yo,
and by then the merry jester tugs back upon our dreams…
like a simple-minded fisherman reeling in the catch…
the imagination gets a fierce degree of gravity from the inner child,
bearing the bubble back to the ground, but quickly caught off-guard
by the up-thrust of windy retreats…
where is the imagination left now?…
gliding off into gilded realms unknown…
the karmic …
For those of you unfamiliar, it’s a haymaker of a drink
doobie. where is it at? my cherished instrumental tool. where is it at? do i need to describe with discretion at the will of forces truly unknown to me. the override switch was hit by the self it takes a mirror to see. the rhythmic feeling of a hankering to wail out something of passionate display, a face for the world to behold, and for all subtlety necessary in day-to-day events. a movement, no… motion, that displays its mechanics. where is it at? that thing that chimes in harmony with my tastes. vibrating with an essence that tastes like motor oil. an extract from the soil and mineral below the feet. where is it at? the substantial something.