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the Pope’s dope.

a lazy hope is not worth the hope it is printed on as reptilian weapons of exchange, the retarded have my backside lay or so it is said in a certain way that evokes the straight-forward plunge of the fist into face into a physical change of momentum from the force moving soul’s alchemy into those classless shifting shapes, and it is this mimicry that eats that time laden spliff around the row into the mocking flesh of fate… repugnant, this friend as liar-in-wait, hidden in the tall grass… with scythe and betrayal-eyed wild-minded with the winds blowing foul clouds of stink in our way from the rotted ass, and all in service to self in the way of the slave to a general law that will eat your face off if left to raise hell in your wake, the choice is always ours on an individual basis for most of our lives… lucky enough if even to be saved away from the storm by another human being aware of these such frightening waves around us with their hooks and their lines and their sinkers, as though the fisherman redneck were ever in vogue over in this part of the seas in the roiling depths of this fondue-like melting pot where the reeking cheese comes to life as thought in a race to a finish line, and those offended by the rise of the nostalgic paper chase trapping the hoarders to their knees broken by what is left of right in this mixed-up world where the sanity always lies… affixing those spastic fits in their place after an eventual misunderstanding has been under way for years now, and few could ever understand that plight loud and the absolute of clear, though only that game played for fun and profit as trade instead of the service to life and the competence for its content if just to decide to throw it all away from something else this late in thinking ahead to try living right again and again… with a seppuku pseudo-science by my side all anime as shit when it comes down to slashing the bad guys, with gut-spilling swiftness blurring between the lines of natural science against the boundaries of imaginary rules, and left the splurge of a godless demiurge that waits to clean spills claiming to do it for the thrill though somehow secretly demanding the obligation of your years… the horror of the classic grateful mentality turned backwards in on itself to try to look in like a sentinel’s ghost holding sway on the souls that stop by for a trip on a holy ride which no sane man would ever try to fit into that instant experience known and met as spirit, you have left attempts to bring you down into the looping cage of ellipse frozen in gold with hardwired equipment to siphon all hope as a church reigns supreme having captured the animal and all of its grief, and Here is that latent psychotic vagrant as legion as any of us linked together in phrase and frigid in rage… the children of the damned as we eat our own hearts out as though like present moments catapulted in through nothingness as gifts mixed among the civilians, easily dissuaded as we are from saving the millions now billions that are becoming like zombies or slaves to this now far-outweighed apocalyptic system, but what else could we say for all the silence and symbols the things that we did?… the time wasted as we all quibble and argue in endless repetitions as the whole world never gets any better in value, those who complain should have the power to change what they are capable of recreating, and allow the poets to publicly lament the ills of a world plagued by humanity as the multitude expresses its dispassion finally into the drifting calm of aftermath residues complex and unfettered even as we reconnect each other yet again throughout that disposable calm at any measure… predefined stiff upper lip for scoundrels clad in cadaverous get-ups twitching to enter into the next Mysteries with oblivious leisure because of that upbringing laced with stormy weather and purest moments of lazy pleasure, and our cantankerous gift of gibberish glamor self-evolved as celebrity cult treasured bitter and embittering to the viewer… seat backs upright…

Thanks, khet.