Sunday, March 27, 2011


Style? The gaseous emission from some cosmic nebula, that style is post-modern.
Good? The white dwarfs, neutron stars. Bad? Red giants, blue dwarfs.
A HOLY CRUSADE FOR THE STELLAR MEN! Fill the ignorants with star dust, destroy old brain patterns by creating new ones! Your SECRET sinturd. My back arches for your love, 3.1415.......... tick tick tick, your measurements divide the waters.
"I'm in it for the water" Stop splashing, stop typing, stop fucking, stop eating, stop breathing, stop stop stop STOP THINKING!
Mow your lawn.
Paint your house.
Go out and have dinner, pretend FOR ME.
Envelop me in your skin, wrap me in your sin. Keep believing that I'm not here, so I can have some fear.
Security, encryption would mean no-more color, the grey little alien derive no dollar
You can't grasp the flow, touch the fence and your fingers crumble.
He sharpens his crude iron blade, made of the souls thrice slayed.
Stuck in this cycle, rebirth everyday... there is ~about~, numerically, a place to play.

The loudspeaker above me crackles "Number 84, your time has come."
White walls, white tile floor, calm angels wearing turquoise.
Me get up, me no where to go, the angels in their smocks direct me to freedom.
The path to the door is lined with dogs in kennels, speaking to me in tongues of a language long forgotten.
They were out once, and they were in, and me see my own paws now and my body grown thin.
Me used to only be my sight and smell. Now with these angels I AM and have a Will.
The door isn't pure as the rest of this place, bloody paw prints, and desperate scratches.
A golden door knob protrudes from the right. I dare not touch, but the angel's hands are the keys to all the doors we please.
And there he sits, as though he's at the top of the world. My blue green guardian-guides leave my sight, but not out of mind.
A woman dressed in a black dress and a blood red poppy pinned to her chest. Surrounded with gold coins, and mounds of currency dressed up for all the nations.
My eyes follow her form from her soft red lips, down down down, my mind and eyes are falling to the floor.
Past her perfect breasts.
Down to the house of the reproductive system, which creates the slightest, subtle hill where the stars are born.
The dress is now lace, black and intricate, covering her legs. Ankles. The horror of the floor she stands upon. The faces of living zombies, lost souls staring up her dress, needles, white faces of the ones that finally made it. They fold over and under under her stance. The woman in black still on this ocean of secure bliss. The tiles made of human life, bought and sold they flow up, then down behind the desk of the man in the Grey suit.
His desk is mahogany. They say if you can craft mahogany, you can craft anything.
His face is neither young or old, he is neither fat nor thin... and his smile is made from Light stretched skin.
Not even a smile, a slight upturn in the corners of his mouth and his jaw slightly slack, holding an orb of Air between his tongue and pallet. His eyes stare, his chest doesn't seem to move.
To the right of his mighty empty desk stands a man on a chess board extending to the infinite. He is dressed in a white suit, decorated in metals, ornaments and sashes I've never seen before. I covet these things immediately, I wish to impress this man.
I remember my paws.
I remember my worthlessness. How could I ever be him, be as valuable as him? I feel shame.
It's my fault.

This man, he speaks, he speaks words of Madness staring out on his grid of black and white.

As soon as my mind settles the Grey suit at the desk moves.

His face doesn't change expression, he reaches slowly, purposefully to a drawer and removes a small dagger. Closes.
Another drawer he opens and removes a glass phallus, holding his careful expression he places both the dagger and phallus on the mahogany pointing in opposite directions. The blade towards the White suit. The phallus towards the Black dress.

He stands up, walks through the polished wood desk as though it were air. One pace, two pace, three, four. Another four and his nose would be at my snout.
~Fellow. You are on the path between SEVEN and EIGHT.
The path between FIVE and FOUR.
You don't need your beauty anymore.
His eyes were locked with mine, but his face hadn't moved. There may have even been a glow coming from inside his mouth... if he opened his lips.
The squares began to twist and turn under the White suit. The black and white spiraling in a pattern, as if it were a chore for them. Just as winding a spring is a chore, less force required at the beginning, then it gets tighter, and harder, and tighter.
The humans under the heels of the Black dress began to rise, speak unMadness to each other. The womans face was changing, her nose became larger, left eye just slightly lower than her other, her tits sagged just a little unevenly and the perfect lace became tattered.
"Know were I can score some x,y,z?" Dope, pussy, dough, a job, a good time, beer, friends... some water? All the risen were needing something, to do something, to get somewhere and make something out of themselves.
The man in the Grey suit still stared unblinkingly into my soul.
The White suit began to turn with the patterns beneath his feet, each rotation created another man in a special garment. First was a priest, a police officer, a good looking man in a suit and tie and a smile that could woo millions. Boy scout leaders, girl scout leaders, a pretty third grade teacher, and eventually mall security officers.
Still, we stood still speaking the language of silence, staring into each other's eyes.
The crowds were now intermingling. Each one latching to another, grabbing this, killing that, believing this and shunning that. The ones who spoke unMadness were beginning to speak Madness, following one of the chessboard people, building bridges to somewhere, making something of themselves in their Destined image.
Reality set in around us, Grey suit and I, now us.
Factories, green grass, stone, mountains, streams, computers, blogs, information rates, explanations of their birth into this cosmos.
The right side of our lips move up so slightly and our hearts melt for every single one of the animated ones, for reality, for the food and the worm.
Love is their work, worm and word. Love is a lie to us.
The smile spreads to the left side of our mouth and we turn around, eyes shared reveling in the mathematical chaos. Person(A) chasing Person(B) creating Chase(X). Nouns are dead. Verbs live forever. XXX

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