goddamn the social nemesis.
a stream of consciousness tale of drugs and the mind-bending situations that go along with their indifferent motions.
the crass insight.
styles and fads are the conditioning that surrounds our occasional instances requiring our presences in forms channelling instinct into the furnace, like some purifying extinction process that needs to be, and the reborn thing is the product in waiting. For some individuals, it is even like a baby or child in waiting, and their wombs are ready to indulge in the experience of procreation.
pieces of dream.
the wall was built to protect the advantages that others kept to themselves…the rot was more of a side effect than anything else…the excitation was diverting distraction’s edge…blunting the blade, as it were…laughter fills the air with the knife in one hand, and a reasonable doubt within another grip…the alibi fell short, and my friends feel the pressure…the intestinal fortitude scared my sensibilities…the stylized rhythm filtered through the air, the particles and the space betwixt those, but came to settle further into the ear of the madman…the altars are a swollen place…the fusions losing all form…the suckers have rowed ashore for ages since…the functions lost tales long ago…forgotten…turned into those short phrase situations…the ones where a dull silence pervades the sickness, greasy and matted over the conversations they speak of in the dimly-lit rooms…hair flattened and dense in the …
licking the wallpaper free.
out of Context;
‘We only condemn ourselves when helping another of our own kind. Their burden and baggage becomes ours by default on our loans of attention made out in full interest of the situation as it transpires, but fuck the blasphemy of this other real thing that protrudes like a sore…’
the Bastard Brainchild of a Personal Perspective…
out of Context;
‘the growth became a cancer of intelligence, the single-minded instead of the single-celled organism, and began a plague of toxic shedding of darker pieces of swirling shards of self.’
in defense of the morons…
…the creature, at a thought’s notice, becomes clearly aware of the retarded common denominator inherent inside these dichotomous situations…
session zero; this simple song.
…1:09 am…getting drunk and high, but gear (bass-playing items) are ready to go…
watching revolutionary film, and waiting to switch over to recording…writing some shoddy lyrics presently, but might re-edit later when there is time to work…now is an anticipation for the playback…1:53 am…no sound except through recording…writing to musician friend online…short statements back and forth…explaining the the unplanned discombobulation right now. with the bass unheard, and that makes midnight session weird…2:20 am…nothing to speak of as progress, what a feeling of ironic joy, and for such a petty reason…3:00 am…gone…2:40 pm…the return…not going to let my simple song dwindle, that would just swindle my need, and ‘we’ can’t afford that…ideas for a bassline are flitting about my conscious mind…surface thoughts analyzing for the sake of nothing, the approach and the purpose…four/four time with slight change-ups at the two and …
with regard toward nothing.
my fate is locked in tightly with yours, but the avenues for release from the present state are terribly limited. the understanding defies the reason, and the reasons defy the proper logic out of the chaos. ordered thoughts might seem the perilous undertaking. ‘Nixon Void’ beckons from the dark dead subconscious of archetypes unborn. a string of letters and symbols that conceptualize into empty anti-growth. a nihilist is breathed into life, and yet, wants that breath taken back to wherever it came from. spite and despair bring this “thing” to us, and we all have to face our demons down the barrel of a gun, an image that denotes our futile narrowed vision. we are lead around by the bells, ringing to create unendurable confusion, and we meet the intense things that be. overtaken by the bullets of implied …