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Zombies of the morning.

the scraps of dominance as the work force slows to a crawl, the pace set by those dwindling standards, and the living voids walking the streets at all odd hours with all that is the present now… the indoctrinated state of fiendish retreat, the dead do not know they are alive, but some kink in the plans makes the beast such a furious contender… fashionable now to claim those fascist roots, the conservative drone on and on into the cosmic wheel, but sometimes is not always no matter how strange the same might appear to be… to one from the outside, i do not claim charity over my fellow beings, but i do try to work towards a conjoined idea of personal fulfillment and group enlightenment… which i think is really how we might be attached to one another, a more bestial opinion might reveal the hive mind made apparent in those organic mechanical actions, and sometimes the shuffling gets tiresome after the miles we tread… the foolish works of a lazy age, taking our powers for granted, and dissuading all other forms of life from positive opinion of our potential in general… a sloth three toes away from that detail, the straw breaking the camel’s back side, but somewhere there is a light that calls from the heavens… it seems that the devourers we are seem to enjoy the taste of other conscious entities, remarking upon the flavor as we saute them into subordination, and become fat and delirious as we engorge ourselves on their flesh… a savory feast on the minds of other species… mad, lusty, greedy hordes come through the gates upon arrival in a new land, and settle upon the exploitation of potential insight for that possibility for a plunderable wealth… to squat a conquest out of the fecal remains of the days as the go by, the glass globe surrounding our dimensions occasionally lets out a toxic snow as the seasons move again, and the years build into decades as the zombies wreak havoc upon the surface of the earth… that raw mineral house that birthed the conscious state into being from strands of thought left on from the cosmic container, and it is from parts unknown we find the imperfect god model… this stranded void from which spilled forth many things, like a grand Pandora’s box if you will, but with an ulterior motive at hand, friends… what ole Yaldabaoth wants, as much like a Grendel as any other ancient monster, is to be vanquished, but let us say that for this instance the monster is only a symbol… a series of collected lines and sigilized letters, to transmute the basest emotional significance into many useful personal and tangible weapons against ignorance, and it is a simple homemade magic that performs work through the subconscious state… once we finish with what our representation poses as a threat or problem, we just need to remove that item, but either fire or water are preferred aids in disposal… the idea is to forget, and at times that means encapsulating the shard of soul into a ritual or practical mindset that will better use the dynamic energy to advantageous example… the idea is to solidify some sense of self-affirming reality, something that will not lose its awareness of understanding other perspectives of reality, and being acutely aware of where you are and are not wanted as an emotional creature… the pneumatic person steps away from the matter-bound being most would assume was a corpse, like the ghost moving beyond the demon or some other various angle of self, or like the spiritual human becoming effective in the wake of the doomed lineage… the material is not the only thing there has to be, we are not incapable of understanding, and anything perfect acquaints itself with blasphemous imperfection in the living things you see…

Thanks, khet.