You
don’t negotiate, you negate that there is any such parties or
positions with power of choice, decision as a subject to make any
difference whatsoever, and some add accordingly that everyone lives
as they have chosen to live. All the more profuse and resolute motion
to abide whatever crumbs may fall. Some discussion on the most
perplexed of subjects should be suspected, if, indeed you haven’t
fallen from the table where they decide on you are a fable, some
personal doctrines surpassed in the order. Who are you to question
the immanent truth? Their doubt underlines your right to decide. They
know you are specified pattern, put you on a grey scale, mix
everything with black and white, scorched earth and call it grey,
illusion of having no other characteristics than that; in their
un-colors your camouflage is perfect around concrete walls and paved
roads. Dissident, you, your knowledge of the rainbow is mere vanity,
because you are mute for the most of time and in the discussion
evidently more oblivious than the others and like you feared, your
mutiny goes unnoticed until they need enemies, but it's alright for
you have existed in perpetual mutiny that is the nature of your love,
even if you are not allowed to take part in the decisions they make.
In an exclusive club where lack of participation from those absent
upholds their despotic rule like a grain of sand under the stones
that form the walls of a castle. This castle is an impossibility but
a totality nonetheless if we disregard that every grain is an
independent particle as such unique and occurs once in eternity,
enclosed and predetermined in itself and not interchangeable like I
am, my experiment makes me special but like atoms are ultimately
quarks are ultimately energy is all that is, so what the fuck do they
think they’re doing in that stealthy council? They’ve raised
their heads to be crowned by the total sum of your potency. You bow
down with inferior interest and they dictate/program the codes and
barriers for reality as such. You the willingly coerced cascade into
their labyrinth and it becomes you, the perfect and utter abandonment
of freedom and of course responsibility.
The ideal of freedom might seem in itself pitiful, but freedom might
still compel as the freedom to neglect sanity. Like for so many and
for any excuse obscurity is a most comforting notion in the soft
round clouds asylum. Mind you, it’s certainly not the only deluge
for there are so many motives and logical conclusions that allow one
to accept the disclosure of awareness in any given and thus cancelled
perspective. It is a most forcing need to at least attempt on lunacy,
and it is so obvious that you should do it, when you’re under the
table, and the murmur of the voices in that council up there has
become so odious, so frightening yet compelling, so obviously true
like any spiritual truth etc deterministic gibber masturbating the
spontaneous and improvised theory of the unerring self.
It is the tone of supremacy undermining your efforts to include your
hopes, aspirations and dreams into the Agenda at hand. And this
Agenda is seen through as inevitably as time runs out on you. So
damned oblivious as the obvious is, of course, all around and
sparkling like smoked glass. What’s the hurry fumbling with fogged
eyes like a stale trout on dry land? You wish to shut your ears off
of my ravings when all along you were talking to your self and I to
my self. You’ve heard my voice through your ear cavities, but
you’ve never understood a word just like I haven’t understood
what you’ve tried to whimper when you had the chance to try and
communicate, my bad. You and I are both simply alone, cut-off of each
other with possibly a vague notion of the states we’re incapable of
understanding what it all means. Maybe we are both desperate.
Sometimes I cry. Do you?
The agenda, as insisted is not ours, and appears
as if no-one could really make any claims to it, and that’s of
course the perfect excuse, just like Satan, but we would want to be a
part of it somehow, if our wants did qualify the discussion.
Never mind the unplanned scheme of actions wherein we, with our ideals
weighing us down, are constantly drawn under, out of sight, where we
have nothing left to do but to inhale the mucky waters. So, you are
perhaps more like one of those that kept sober and managed to see
what it’s like when that thick smoked glass is broken, when the
inferior rise to draw their crayons and depict their wants and needs,
express a multitude of vulgarities and demand the absolute equality
of all symbols, color them in imaginative ways I can't even imagine
to represent whatever, to get it all, and they will, eat up and throw
up whatever and the words never end up digested.
Seething spew, what else can you hope for with hideous me? I mean, rebellion is supposed to be so exalting when it really is like the old world sensibility, that what you have people will want to take, like redistribution of the roles as such and the fucked becomes the fucker, since to triumph you have to overcome others and there’s always bitterness involved, you know, like when you amass wealth you need a dime from everyone and they don’t really need it but if you could have them all.
Seething spew, what else can you hope for with hideous me? I mean, rebellion is supposed to be so exalting when it really is like the old world sensibility, that what you have people will want to take, like redistribution of the roles as such and the fucked becomes the fucker, since to triumph you have to overcome others and there’s always bitterness involved, you know, like when you amass wealth you need a dime from everyone and they don’t really need it but if you could have them all.
But take some portable nothing to be carried away with, with it
inside you as the elements all go stale. The notion of existence even
more unfamiliar, if possible, you hate less feeling less but more
bewildered. You can’t hope to remain untouched, and even if you
could have stood it, you simply had to dare to expose a way inside,
as you drew in air and the nothing whatever filth there may enter,
and went sucked into the core of emotion. All the hard way in to the
core where you exist single and next to nothing in intimacy. You took
in hideous me, and all that designer -branded stuff and luxury, or in
other words things you need like you need the logos of alien others,
wont mask me by a long-shot, its still me, and I came with blades and
hooks, I, the scarificator, my tissue clean of the unscarred
immaculate filth, fucked at birth, every inch of me, and every new
cell is immediately breached by the acids of the overkill-all trauma.
Feel me with your soft tissue hopes and voice of silk yanked out of a
caterpillars arse. Got it all with me, did you not?
And you couldn’t have wanted more, and clean off of the waiting
list to qualify even the margins of the agenda, wiped out with a
cloth designed for the purpose leaving no residue, no particles
traceable to you having ever existed. On this important and
historical list you have no right to enter, just so you know, and
would be bitter towards all those who got a better deal for no reason
other than Divide et Impera. Bittering. You are there with the
disdain and all the other unwanted by-products, without an origin to
mention of and no right to begin with. At least not the same right
they assume by birth, arbitrarily, because there is no justice.
Now hear ye the dissolution, tears that scarred with rust the steel
they said was stainless; don’t you let yourself be fooled. Posters
on a wall evisticated by so many nails and pins still counting in
wait to see the dust settle, settle like where I’m from, where my
origin happened. The places we know are all in the past and we may
have nightmares in stead of dreams, dreams wherein we are the
bricklayers of wonders, and we are sometimes just amazed by the
complexity of hideosity, voluptuously gorging on the beauty of these
concepts innocence and purity, that we invented and put outside of
our world. Then are we only terrified when we realize we perhaps
should be doing something else or all of it, the things we found
excuses not to do?
See through the canopy with your sore eyes, look inside and feel the
pressing need to cover your eyes, pull one out if you need to prove
something. One can never turn backwards, only inwards. Time is
ongoing, its essence in debate, on the table of the council and for
what use? Low glow, like light seen through closed eyelids, the
pattern of motion when everything else is blurred like the trail of a
snail on your retina, a mysterious symbol that signifies and is
invariably forgotten.
Derision, pure mockery infiltrated into the agenda that is at present
accepting only the brightest of lights, stars, as if the sun and such
others represented time and thus would stand as ultimate samples of
greatness and ideal models for all creatures, and the value of all
the sparks flickering in shadows was just nonsense. You are of
no-sense but all that is essence in the timescale of the agenda and
whose is it, if not yours? Rise and become the fucker you are,
goddamn bastard.
It is the market of the people controlled by the market only deeper
and more obvious, like precision when picking grains of sand one by
one as if those grains weren’t fractions of rock passed through the
teeth of time. As we see it, we are deeper. We have it deeper within
ourselves, deeper than language and thought. To these rhythms we
sing about mystery unfathomed. And imagine the tunes of other
solutions played with strings and fingers unheard of – of some
other gods, some other worlds – they do sound somewhere. Never
completed, so that we may dredge deeper singing a sonar song through
the inner most awkward scenery. On this poor distorted route we
travel, and this pilgrimage, we often call it, and then call it out
again, seems aimless, wandering on the surface of a scarred orb
always returning. So what is at hand should now attempt to breach the
innermost awkward surface holding the infinite within us, and far
from the table and the sires around it, who, possessed by control,
are totally absorbed by the list gathered, the number of our heads,
the number, the amount, the ratios, the standards. Scorned stains,
black and white on thousands of tons of paper somewhere beyond the
reach, and people are tired of reason, and reason of course is
analogous to treason, which is futile, king and country are vapors
undulating in the sky trying, on their own accord, to float away soon
shapeless and dripping down the walls of their wind-whipped scenery
props.
There
is essence to our senses, lest we, as dissidents recalcitrant
and perfidious, fall eternally with
godlike powers but without a world to heed. Did some of us hope to
have been angels by birth and not empty all without experience, pure
and profuse, an elite without a taste of that pitiful created by
mistake washing away the stains of our existence that we could then
be the golden boughs and leaves of a tree infected by still possibly
flawed reason? Did? And what some ditto-minded curl of an ape had to
agree with, sure. What fucking nonsense is this instigation to always
been better than thou and more deserving to have more than some other
by birth fall into the roles of destitution and shameful depravity,
sickens the sense, the instinct to detect injustice on the scarred
retina of human self. I must say, really, I can’t concur and smoke
out the councilmen and what women they had accepted grudgingly, they
will emerge, lo and behold, just as bewildered as we, to take shelter
under the table and maintain they couldn’t have done any different,
what? Fuck no. We have no space nor mercy
for them here as they had none for us. We are animals from here to
eternity fighting for the freedom to express our human spirit that is
love, but only here under their table.
