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to Titillations and Nightmares.

wherever did i leave off last that i can relent against those crazier aspects of self turning to muck, or rather transmuting others around me into muck, they feel their own baggage weigh on them quite a bit more heavily once the psychic vampires walk into a room… screaming, the pits of hellish anger and guilt grow deeper like infernal wounds underneath the subcutaneous fat of the domesticated human, pain that reaches beyond the nerve endings into the actual human mind as it bleeds through into thoughts and stray emotions alike to flay the virtual skin caged in the mind’s eye as a tormented picture show would throw depraved active images against those so darkened inside steamed brain juices… the projection of the soul upon windows called ‘eyes’ to those in the know, glowing just slightly by the light as the fire once subsides into these dreams of the randomly assaulted by Jove, and we may all just get it yet… the insult always cleared to the insight so dear the why that asks the question, but the why cannot explain the quest of mention as a companion regret follows in the wake of those whom cannot keep up with a strange eager switch to see another realm as huge as the walls charge upright into vertical space once the keys to a future retreat are found, the ascent should be fascinating when the linking chain is revealed to the war-torn and the fascist reconciling their ideal of one or the other to somehow appease the dread dead saints where money leeches life from the bones of the living through fawning expectations of a gifted substance… that a marginal mediocre livelihood spent in repentance of every detail and every affair as it has appeal is in itself a very raw deal to be made at the conscious points between the engendered will and the endangered spill of the animal blood onto the ground as the predators and their predated roam the earthen landscape just searching for something now to slake a thirst for a deprived survive-all shameful display we all seem to involve ourselves within, no matter what the laws may say to command the Man away forsaken with no compassion inside as competition against the obstacles that give chase against the following information as it takes place, and a Western context separating the lows from the highs in the same ways that the centripetal force exaggerates this spinning state demarcated by a human face that weeps as the story tells itself in all those random buzzing ways that chatter would resemble when the conversation strays annoyingly from the point to that of utter active disarray… we are now all shot up with fears and terrorist leanings enough to involve ourselves in the self-mutilation in order to have oneself understood as totally committed or sanctioned into the fading safety, the human battery as it blinks and it blacks out eventually to consign the flesh into oblivion as the pressure tries to push a path out of this garish suit of cells and a head as it shambles to the bathroom and back, and every thought possessed is a deceptive craze of tangent gone mad by way of the edge upon which a city has formed on the fringe trying to capture the flag of a skinned imagination tossed to the sludge of a wasted faith in larcenous hands as they grip onto the minds of Man in his insane ignorance… we eat the feast of the sinned with our horribly bad breath and taste in defense of what we believe in is the end as it slowly slips over our heads like the slow ponderous mass of an icy oceanic drowning feeling liquid enveloping senses as a final mask slipping over the head, finished as the words are cut-off from within the stiff and bitter tricks as the rippling sounds of sleep fill in the gaps between the ears as a dark consuming as a mouth takes hold of this fragile form rendered as special for the moment in the gears and cog-like machine of Man, but are we left with absolutely nothing of our own devices in which to survive this hostile mode of human twist as the bitter lemony bits hit those rich in myth?…

Thanks, khet.