All The Wrong Topics dot com

scars hone life.

in the dark vowels of the mouth is where i reside, hanging out around the corners and looking for a little play that way to resonate with fellow spiritual travelers in the out there without violations, but aren’t we all looking for something a little better than last we understood what was locked down into place from the first… stations as that were built long before our current version of the truth with splendid ideals now filled with worth spilling out like rancid oil refined and pumped through to spit in your eye over values and morals and who gives a flying fuck anyway?!… i do…. even in my worst spirits i feel that there is always a residue from which this in unholy curiosity to hope and the spawn anew will retain its potential long after i am thrown back into the stew, to flit about with the rest of the consciousness swirling in a cannibal’s end as recycled bits of knowledge and humanity as a soylent wafer condensed in this real world again for you to chew and swallow if you would so choose to retain me as part of yourself hewn together close to the surface like another face laced on to attract the pain and the pressure to perform with a gesture, and perhaps to grace this stage again as another actor from across the way trying to remember these lines before they fade away to falling motes dust decayed… your fear like as if a creeping aural slaughter saunters deep into that room the tomb or cocoon you choose to enter as befits a ruler like you against which to measure, dark and imposing to judge in vague negative glamor with intimidating awareness too jagged to face directly when a harsh reality radiates with the heat and the tension of the system in motion to mention that this pain insists its own direction, but this clarity becomes disembodied a voice upon which soon asking ‘what are you?’ is obviously a very loaded question to refer back on in those odd times of perplexed thought and feeling… contradicted by the sanity that holds me back from the creative logic that contains all the pieces fermenting inside of the brain, the unwieldy scrawl plastered across the visions that throw signs and symbol aside once the message has crept into the heart’s soul and understanding is now a vague awareness of what is real by Mayan standards of brutal illusion, but mocked as the optimal delusion of the massive scared by the truth as it alludes to a life lived without lies used as watermarking in searching for that next level… somewhere truly sincere tribes are not insulting one another into cross-hexed trumping while the in-corporate jokes are wailing and working in a primeval contract as obligation to the Man rhythmically jerking off into their mouths, the wage for settling what the many in this Mankind cannot work themselves up to confront while the beasts remain in charge as devious authority and caretaker to the misshapen “greater good” of this mayhem in mutant-kind, but what of the careless by default whose only choices are the horrid and exclusionary tactics in this fourth reich all about riches and wealth and passing on the seeds and good genes to the rest of time forgotten but lived by this alien we call ‘Man’ where only boys and girls are collected standing now waiting for a sense of the proof that this more-than-physical realm is Here to soothe as much as abuse the human animals eluding to a fantasy of superiority and medieval rites of passage in the wane primordial dwelling place where we had once found ancestor spirits until previously… exclusionary tactics like magic have kept our expressions suppressed by a strict dire authority whose potential puts pressure upon a clear device of ignorance, as opposed to a due diligence in order to perhaps upgrade us all to a good that truly could be greater than simply average like the programs that fade into a background noise where substitution as valid conclusion is permitted, but any real truths discovered in Here are really a mistaken misinformation as the doctrine reaches to teach us through the lessons of peril and doom, to be subsumed in an ocean of lies and hate and faith in a system born broken to the chagrin of a majority of those who need to surf this sea of wasted fates and wisdom wiled away into nothing… the swampy bowels of this syndrome amount to symptoms of the brutalist state whose objective is to create a constant fast stream of mayhem on command, whenever this diseased state wishes to claim another land or another man for the fate of war and trade in place of a real command over respect or compassion for the future of humanity, but too many overstimulating distractions compose the massive confusion like a giant wave finally hitting shore as the tumult of the haves versus have-nots become the certain trial of survival that radically impedes the progress of a mighty machine that wields power like a whip… snapping it back up against the proud whose dreamy thoughtful repose is allowed to drown deep down into that pit where a living purgatory sits and waits to reach the next window ledge as it peers into the soul, from which few things have ever been kept completely out of it as the logic of puzzles overtakes the curious streak of favors and parties left out of the games few are ever able to be allowed to play… the texture bleeds structure…