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the Numb succumb.

strike me out a nude revolution, cause this could end all life, and whip me up a homeopathic solution… the ignition of fuel and drive to stir the ‘beest’ into waking up loose and ready for some determined work against the civil corruption of mankind… are we ready Here?… i can only help the rigid system by defeating it… whether it would be better done with all faculties or not is like getting to the center of a Tootsie Pop, the world may never know collectively how many licks it takes to get there, but it will never stop the world from trying until it is done… my body chooses to say nothing when deep inside there are impetuous struggles abscessed and raging like a demon tumor spitting bile out at all you whores, the descriptive flow rich with the blood of menstrual impetus of faetal kinds as the lips crave what the hips savor, but sausage and its ectogasmic rush is not the only delight in this masculinear continuity of idle worship… the vast arsenal at my wicked discretion, whenever the thought occurs to me of the archetypal figures worked in such a way as to become models, and that possessive sleeping beast behind the magick is waiting for the reversion of roles once again… thoughtless act of a penetration by the necessary means equipped to handle the stress while waiting for the final expression of things in their immediacy, to be placed in either rubble piles or hung as reminder of what never to attempt under any occasion the revival of another holocaustic environment to take place in the guise of religious upheaval promoted by compact media engines of propaganda material value karma, and we can’t even see the truth waving its ample little hands in front of us like the well-trained puppets we are for those of us that have truly succumb to the bath in mainstream hive-mind functionality and efficiency… the irreplaceable motion of energy from all sides of a pressure difficult to really explain accurately without needing some other lengthy discussions about previous terminology, the lifeless jargon of dead worlds collapsing in on themselves as though the whole house of cards were privileged enough to give way in one dramatic swoop of disbelief, but that is never so simply the case inasmuch as we would want to believe otherwise in our ritualistic behaviors to exploit our future concepts of souled out sovereignty from the darkest of fecal ages to sell magazines and advertise false riches to an already over-saturated massive of people whose strangeness devours you even as you believe you exploit it, and may take many years to actually swallow you whole… it is this overstimulated and painful overwrought point that can suddenly scare people out of a daze, or perhaps into one if the personality is sensitive to those kinds of things, as everything starts popping when the rubbernecking scumfuckers start dropping like flies when they can’t even take their own repetition any longer… the eclectic electric hum will surround the rest of us dumbfounded cowards in the pit with gruel and cretins to oblige with our anecdotes of home to each other, the gaseous passing the time as space renders this flesh useless to anything more complex than laborious manual thrills while the conscious being reflects upon the comedy and the tragedy of living in general as the practical wisdom wanders and hordes the odd bits of trivial input to regurgitate at later dates passed off as jokes, but really it is something far more insidious to behold of from even this distance because the imaginary lies beyond the threshold of the real… beyond the threshold of the momentary ability to be-in-the-world as Sartre might say perhaps in regards to the Psychology of Imagination in an interview or casual conversation about the material of his book… are we really Here?…

Thanks, khet.