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Strangers Have the Best Fiction

who does babysit the babysitters?… these teased alpha males and women who are there primping and prowling for a good time to sate their cravings which never quite get to be sedated for as long as needs to feel the best of all scenarios, giving those demon lords their due as they would find ways to steal your life as opposed to merely one’s wealth while our baddest habits seem to kill us off anyways, but good luck running off a steep edge to that grand leap of faith that the godly might be taking as forgiveness where in the end they will land safe and sound as the conscious mind comes to wreck aground… safety in numbers they might say though that all certainly depends upon who you hang around with these days as we all seem to be these bad people to put in one regard or another of framing job hardwired to see the lackluster as poor in redeemable quality, but only buffoons speak like this with their tails in the air as if to parade attributable personal worth into movements of weight and girth distinct plays as the filthy dominance that a little shaking behind does foretell one’s doom… flimsiest of lines between real confidence as well as courageous action and one’s frailties along degradation described as faking for the shame of it, a blurred vision guides one to be this faulty ideal of projected passion as life and to make it known amongst those as one tries to stay prone to the experience of others as it would complete their goal, but perhaps these fading attempts at being more than some lecherous sort of romantic procreative fool are just hiding a deeper primortal (primordial mortal) truth that runs in synchronous orbit parallel to death with all the metaphorical layers and old attendant forces… creeping and distinct from whatever species that had first fallen to earth whether during an exciting yet tumultuous period, or the continuation of this progress towards a ticking definitive hour that casts all previous resemblance of time aside to forego a shallow glamor clambering for the attention of someone, anyone who will listen and choose willingly not to talk in interruptive intervals of conversation that cannot be won back by any means necessary as their bits ground themselves into memories once the deeds are done… we take the naked form into consideration when we expect to be turned on as a form of stimulation, or that other being helping one to reach stimulation with the same kind of questing desire that drives the curious toward their fetishistic idea of a lifestyle where one’s sleepy solid comfort is the standard bearer to which all others become shit, we the inferior are littered everywhere that no one wants to try looking because the grime clinging to our bodies is a social crime in these parts of the civility that hates us for who we are trying to be… nightmare of our life to think we are going no where or to a place that doesn’t want us as used and thrown down a waded piece of living trash outliving the abuse, with or without the crutches makes no real difference only in the eyes of a judgmental authority of whose dead soul only manifests in hateful intent to purge the system of its dreck, but under whose choice was this all put into place for a supposed benefit of all future schemes as all the people mean nothing to this system once it has made sure of all the utility loss within each being… fingering the trigger of a knife is not so impossible when this thing which tells one to kill resides in the soul where inside the mind people can so easily play games to then fit those to manipulate and justify their actions, the teachings have taught that not all the lessons are true nor are all the teachers absolute in their seemingly real infallibility taken advantage of among the followers who would support said gurus, and yet not learn anything on their own because of how our system dictates to us what we need to act appropriately or we might sicken and die from a lack of conformity when this is not the way of things as they appear to have become recently… maybe even these perceptions are not real and merely opinion to be taken so lightly as long as a lightness of being within the ideas prevails, glowing slightly as to radiate outward in filling empty space somewhere in the middle of birth and death as the spark of life can navigate the practical pressures, and traversing spaces between even these mere concepts and metadata that build the conscious layers as we float like signals of divine sources that can at once treat us like beings or merely as objects… getting used to the insults was just part of the social mechanism projecting this paradigm of blues with its varying shades of obtuse colluding a truth to share, a poisonous brew that takes its toll on those who choose to partake in the mind-altering concoction as it can stir a human spirit noxious to ooze and slither out of every orifice as some orgasmic plasm with bruised stains upon it, and this marks an organic brutality so frequent in this realm entrenched and blood-soaked as any false religion whose nationalism calls for the sacrifice of any and all outsiders who remain to observe… no one lives to talk about this place either as expression of where they have been, or as proof that the harsh weaknesses get cooked out of us when one enters into this human drama whether by contract or no obligation to be Here at all, we all seem to be searching for some definitive signs that we know who we are even if we are still dreaming as beings inside of this possibly larger and indifferent being who does the same clinging as we do… scraping the insides of this idle system held aloft…

Thanks, khet.