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Mind like a Steel Crap.

writing becomes the escape unless you constrain yourself mentally into too many of those imaginary rules, and they are quite imaginary these days, even as critics with their noxious diatribes mock the creative spirit/ Muse with their particularly static ideas of literary critique… much like the artist, though, the critic sways the dull opinion of a percentage of the populace Here amidst the massive pull from the street level and radiating on outwards to the network of many other mindsets classified and stereotyped… centered in this training ground, we are somehow set up to trust the values of those we have never met as though they too were to speak from the heavens, but what is their experience that gives them this credulity from which many people draw an informed opinion?… the mind is a cesspool with various debris floating to and fro as the need siphons one habitual act of its ritualized energy, and then on to the next task for the human being as living robot in this harsh environment cataloged in this waving length of time and space, there is no proof of life that cannot be fermented into raw data transmitted and seen with the eyes upon a page of type… the fictional elements to our lives shed insight as well as a basis for our own of unique individual histories, we pulse with the ringing truths we seek as though inspiration tries to find us as well somewhere searching through these dark matters… the noir or perhaps dark night of the soul requires a defensive stratagem to keep the order in a well-rounded aspect of the human role, finding tender mercies of a justified fact can soothe the savage peace which mimics and knocks at anger the mercurial facets of war and violence, but the beast we are hides its’ grudges deep within a wilderness so primordial before the soul became a spiritual thing… the animal from within is now the fiction where once the civilized attempt was nothing more than a fancy dress, a Victorian myth that merely glossed over the surface while the rest of the creatures followed in line for the very same gimmick, and all this before such things as civic duty and moral foundations to build a structure into faith that might resonate with the more sensible among us as we are all tugged into that vacuum of hell… that space between moral imperative and the lecherous temptations that feed the fatal flames of horrible gossip as it slips out serpentine-tongued past the pretty lips that spit and shit upon those with more to offer than their beauty, those that grow to have more than a half-formed wit and aptitude to survive in a world fraught with all the random arrays of peril, and though there is choice to a limited degree it certainly is not sterile as the bugs are always being worked out of the marrow… the bones in this skeletal structure sucked dry by the venomous vampires lurking like parasites in the guts and the liver, the seat of the soul through which we are delivered some genetic sustenance while in the womb, but the others on this planet treat us as the beings so differently with heads of stone and hearts of gold hoping for a wealth of riches we are never certain to get until we reach that most final destination… the pride of the opportunists vibe is one of arrogance, that they will do whatever they can just to get ahead one step, and then to take more than they get once they get there… still making more havoc and mayhem among those that trust them unwisely with their aspects of sociopathic sentiment, the nice guy in narrow spaces will expose a raging bestial interior when it comes to winning the games stupid animals play to move foolish the pieces ahead by long stretches of the strategic imagination, but will not keep aid or support for the weakened individual that makes its way broken and injured out of sorts requiring a kind of compassion that speaks for human courtesy instead of Mankind’s primal urge for competition… a community of intelligent slaves chained together by the selfish and sacred rituals to behave a certain way in the social spectrum many are naive on purpose to the simplicity… why can it not be a ‘He’ who is the retarded protrusion, when obviously there is some strange bias cursed upon these keys as no one will see again ever in the light of day this enlightened folly and farce shielded by the seriousness of their proceedings, and yet the absurd actions are terror for the mind to conspicuously comprehend beyond shadows of doubt that are apparent even at the end of this filthy subjective swindle we are mocking into shocking ourselves back toward a lively debate with the status quo made up of so many wanton egos loosed all at once upon the weightier issues that soon get lost in the shuffle as the information becomes bent or refracted by the individual’s plight or detriment at the time… the ‘He’ is a part of me, the aggravating antagonist who does not meet any decent people halfway as a means to get to their destination alone, and whose use of others is a regrettable turn of phrase by the terms of abuse as no one wants to be friends with a monster… but this monster is not always me, who lives and speaks and breathes, this person is a different animal altogether who takes while others give… the shallow expression wallowing in one’s own selfish pity by experiment in trial and error yet…

Thanks, khet.