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Demon thumb.

few times have i ever felt like donating an opinion worth mentioning, some cryptic utterance that should receive little more than a mild welcome, but there are fascist gestures that make the whole of what would seem idyllic into a lop-sided mess… that glistening near missing side of myself, that sexual void functional as autonomous android where the better person needs to be, and in the pit of my stomach i feel the dividing line drawn… the lazy but unrelenting force, pressures pushing one along the edge of diamond-sharp sparks, and the bleeding done then will be worth the pain in this temporary dimension… the blistering commodity waning softly in the night, and then to wake the next morning refreshed from the state of negative bliss, wondering where our backward fixations are taking us for the ride… the length of my right thumb’s fingernail is rather disturbing to behold, useful for playing guitar or cutting some restless bystander who might get mouthy, and this is the demon thumb spoken of with spooky voice-over… as the refreshing, lingering atmosphere washes away, and a new mood it seems takes the place for a slow and dreaded creep… making the sick muse speak for itself before a righteous flaming disposal at the hands of some matter-of-fact brainless fiend, the executive of which hide their flesh-eating tendencies so as not to frighten the rest of their speculative prey, and those same lizard people drive the whole mockery to the brink… the hidden agenda of a mysteriously long-drawn out conclusion, constantly smashing opposing forces together, but not truly of either side to the struggle but a further outside force… the fear comes not from acknowledging the darker side of self, but through an ignorant opinion recognizing of the description has to be so ‘black/ white’ deformed as bias of always taking a side, in the spaces waiting anxious for the orders to be given… waving the demon thumb around at the strangers makes me wild and crazy, but the partner’s aid takes me back to introspection in dismay of my own demonic directives, the parade of flesh fears that the mind is the doorway in… this fear rolls off of the tongues of both the religious and the relentless, in their fervor they decide it best to vanquish some integral unity, and become some pioneering edifice for magic dealings in the reversal of fortunes… change becomes the ‘go’ word for the rest of the world, as each “team” vies for the powers of the others playing their game, and becomes the televised fodder that crashes together for screams and raves… waving the thumb out to hitch a ride beyond the nowhere, an invitation to dismiss the facade of the everyday, and plunge head first into that streaming neurotic plague called ‘living’ they say… the practical imposes itself rudely…

Thanks, khet.