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Tuesday, January 4, 2011


you don't have to die for my sins for i am faultless in the eyes of God who is a lonely deathless coward who cannot stand the sight of himself. he created a wife who created children who kill each other. together they gorge on the corpses of their children. a hundred sympathies thunder against the climax of a shade's prayer whose countryside is adorned in the rotting flesh of an arbitrary enemy. cowards believe in immortality and conspire with the jurisprudence of the deluded. here comes the dreamer. dreams of the sun. napalm gods. my face dislodges along the rage of my roar. chimeras of logic. devoted to the petrific bowels of their own antipathy. feel deeply and escape the universal rhetoric of the flame slaves. can we be certain that we are worshipping the right god when so many have killed in its name? the moral core of a death wish is to take as many people into the pit as can be named. dusk is the mutiny of the day caught in an eternal treason that carries red death to heroes and traitors as one. free will is the fantasy of a puppet race of saviors and slaves who exchange places in an everlasting eden. my voiceless science is the valium of the intelligensia. a carrion comfort aspiring to a papacy of wraiths. while the classical soul ran pre-written scripts on a fatalist stage, we chase our own tails in a funnel magic of lethargic influenza. we inherit nothing but syndromes and manufacture diseases and cures out of an automatic ailment engine born out of bodies but residing in minds. we bundle our relics around a behavioral science that predicts the everlasting manner of a compartmentalized disjunction of self and other. we are all projectors. heating the universe in a paradox of units. nurturing our own breath and ensuring the survival of our livelihoods if not our lives. the play ourselves as torpid gods then sell the gunless a mythology of a devil who wanted to be god and failed. we have failed every religion we have invented.

rational addiction becomes sobered by a destiny of moribund passivities urinated by a communication which rages over the desired holes. insect mitosis. fear holes. harlequin icthyosis. insisting that even god drawn codes are prone to failure. that a consciousness can be born to a grammar of cancer. like mummies we refuse to give ourselves to an unclean earth. even shadows possess these symptoms. like sympathetic knots on cold nights beneath warm sheets in a warehouse of refugees. the moon overlooks us all. our fragile lives making soldiers grow cold. the sluggish products of video game logic which levels up to an addict's darkening. bursting with a turbulence that deceives even the darkest of pleasures. i would devote my trembled voice to a better death than the simple moan of an expiring body. fireside sadists can relate to a symptomology that pollutes the mesenchyme of every child before it has had a chance to draw its first breath. we are born into a war. romantic and devoted. obedient but hardly loyal. tomorrow characterizes the sensation of a new oriifice. one that is impeded by our narratives to greatness. beyond the veins of our enemies lie the emptied hearts of pornographic hypnotists. like a heart struggling to beat. like a king carrying his son's body toward a science of cowardice.

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