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winsome Slacker blues.

the stone is cold, a stoned throw risen from the earthen aware of the rape, and agri-caricature dances ably macabre in the way of us viewing clearly the wasting of our best resources…. food. the blood is red, spilled in the streets by the stone thrown by the child soldier who knows not anything any better, and plays with dead corpses of men instead once he catches his fill of this death all around him… the lazy sit opulent and aware that death is the eminent remainder left without lies, and this intrigues the casual observer whose only goals are to preserve the system they’re within, to settle the credit and debts by the end of life even as some odds wrack up worse perils than the indebted is willing to achieve what trouble would force them onward… to tire out the worn intent of tendencies of the tenacious hellaciously undermining the demands that are made in this modern and rectal, commercialized state where all is ever in doubt formed by our expectations of inconveniently slow vibrations innovating, and what we really demand is NOW!…. is that really too much to ask?… we plead the fifth of jack like an ‘Merikan ex-pat turned royalty on the other side of life, the living world retreats into its brand old school ways of living true which only makes the most sense as we further dilute the humanity quotient with pollutants all deforming the present status, and condemning us to a perky worldview of home as the hell we have heard repeatedly that it is to this is where we hang our heart… in deep dark demon status bringing the apocalypse down just ’cause we care, with the clanging church bells ringing somewhere as the real devil’s roost is reeling in its years’ catch with charity and forgiving of fake sins that people are entrained to think are there, and that this pervasive morality is the truth of reality for what left there is of it… and only for a limited time in this version of the deal… we are the devil allowing the drama to build like the most sinister chess game ever played for keeps of life or death just for the thrills, this indifference with which we treat our ills as though the real world were a toilet bowl that needed to be plunged deeper and deeper until it emits a foul sound that follows with a smell of rank and meaty glamorous behavior, but there is no gripe for this fiendsome artist you see Here… the lack of that better half to deal with when you might find the self fiendish from this earthen flesh fair and give awareness as a gift for its forgotten presence in supreme states of leisure, treasured moments at best when well-dressed to suit the date, but what mental imagery is this when i cannot for even one second define the gist of this abrupt privilege wasted that soils my pants with the dread of worrisome concerns when all could be love instead as the world community would need compassion for the word ‘unity’ with its strongest practical sense yet… we all wait for a time when it is alright to be ourselves no matter who that is, but we are locked inside of our shells at least for this moment we share Here together in the great unknown like an odd fellowship group session to show that own the building, so we locked our consciousness into this frame of mind and things developing the potential energy of the soul in whatever capacity we can… so that whatever excited object comes our way will not distract from the suicidal cannibal act that our televisions have led us to believe this is where it is at, the human disease as open wound or cataract the lazy hemorrhage at best, but this cycling slurpy whirl is not the last of IT to say the least this life that has been unfurled before us… as to each their own guides us in thousands of directions of action subtle and unique in the ways they manifest technique through the mind warp ablaze, the testicles bared to catch the sun’s rays and the vitamin D that Prometheus stole for our thighs to move and rave and not give in to that dying light, but to invoke the light to live beyond that torment given into by the common cultural cringe…

Thanks, khet.