Aftermath Has A Strange Reflection

Swearing to the self that it could all be understood. Momentary realization of that certainty of pointlessness. Ah that is the reason that all tends to be gravy. There was this forcing through melded group-think. Its all alright. All right? This? The collections of scum in the distractions of death. The dying world accented by the giggle from the gaggle at the sitcoms. Contrived tropes guiding the livestock to the salt lick. It all takes on the aesthetic of a bad everything. So cheesy and campy. What a crock. But the restraints say this is it, sit back and enjoy. The friends created by the subconscious in windowless rooms for profit. Take that out for a second. Pro fit. It is all gravy.

The Failure of False Logic

Once up on your time. I found myself nonexistent. The smile on my lips. Oh lordy. The bliss. They want a full out presentation. They want a I’ll show you mine if I show you yours. They want introspection that is dick deep. Sorry but the store is all out of that today. Keep the moments of peace. There in the bliss of solitude. The moments of peace. The memoirs of this age will be lullabies. Worries in nothing. Drama in trifles, nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

All We Want Is War On All

All we want is war on all. The dismantling of the normative ideologies and all the last ditch flailing efforts at a normative utopia of dystopian equality. The demise of the fragile disconnected life support systems in pylons, poisons and perfection. The fallacy of technology’s endless march forward into what will be exposed as fraud in the face of war on all. This is not the dream we meant to be dreaming. This is not the pattern we wished for repetition from. Its so simple. All we want is war on all. War on all. War on all. The totality. The façade. The fallacy. The infrastructure candy coated in the electromagnetic camouflage of neurological manipulation. The machines we placed in nature. War on the psychogeography of pitifulness. In all moments be aware. Be wary. Be prepared. The end of their world is the beginning of ours. Do not end up in their lines and queues. Towards an anarcho-survivalism. War on all. All we want is war on all. Without the confines of motion. Beyond and behind the demise of rational restraints. The forces of force. Inklings and leanings are better then atrophy and rot. Die being pure or live with a few philosophical flaws staining your hands. Ideological masturbation is a human distraction. If they win we will have none of that. A series of forward looking mistakes is better then a thousand days dying downward in debate. Perfection is a flaw. All we want is war on all. He who lays his hand on me to govern me… will be able to keep his hand there for a long time while I work out pointless inactivities and work myself into inaction. War on all. All we want is war on all.
-The February 32nd Movement

Your Soul Is A Shallow Pit

The plasticized romanticism of the clichéd lancet. The absence of sense in the moments when you yearn on bridges for sanity. Chugging shitty beer. Waiting for the makings of terrible stories. It was ages since it all made sense. But there was all that in between insanity that held the narrative together. Live by nonsensical ethics and you will succeed on your own terms. Because the terms of others are the bargains only fools make on rock bottom days in August. Now is the time when life makes its demands known. The unbecoming on those dreams. The happiness in your current misanthropic morning walk to catatonia. The sun and it temperature fluctuations like a biological small talk. This is what we resort to in death.

Observations On The Work Ethic

Let me understand this situation. Just one moment. If there were an analog version of these derivations would we get it? Or would we be as lost as a child in the metropolis in December? Or would this all literally fade away? Enough questions. More pointless drive forward. Their future. Ugh. The littoral madness between the membranes of you and I. Interesting. Transcendence? No. Go die.

Towards A Confrontational Absurdism

The delusions of the present rooted in the past. Holding us captive to unfathomable standards. All is preconceived now, so filth and flailing are all that can be depended on. In the midst of servitude we must look to the imaginary days. The desires of dreams dreamt by the dead or impoverished or desperate. Hell we are all the same in the end. The end is the end. The end is now and not now, at the same time. Deluded to our self-worth. Value is a value of property. And we all know by now what property is. And we all know what property did. To move on from that, we must find a collective rock bottom known as the here and now. Like shambling addicts we must pursue purity. Addiction or freedom. Us versus them. Does not matter versus does not matter. In the arena of geological time only does the full scale of our epic pointlessness become apparent. Be aberrant for as long as possible. Be abhorrent to depths that can be taken. The imaginary days fought for in the trenches of the soul. In the downtime between their dead moments. The dreams we could live in, if we tried harder to stay asleep. To stay out of it and never wake fully in the horror. Only with our permission does the calendar march forth. Or stop. It is all the conscious decisions made in the days which do not exist. There is no time befitting of this all encompassing critique. The imaginary days are the only hope. All we want is war on all.
-The February 32nd Movement

Hypercool

Exporting the input of information importation. That allusion to literary suicide. An artist dying in a straightjacket of style. Grandeur has its own delusions. Like flights of fancy in the shattered moonlight of a day spent asleep. The ringing bells of psychological masturbation. Unseen and unwanted hands caressing the genitals of your brain. Coaxing the cerebral clitoris into sustained orgasm. Awake alive and raped. Not even knowing your victimhood. Stuck there. Those days. Faint fading memories as all becomes life in general.

Someone Ate The Sails

Cacophony the remorseless answer in the braying of the living.
Dreams of failure interrupted by that the truth.
The creaking agony of you here and then there.
All at once.
The organs of unknown and unknowing things capsizing your safe little ship called this. The muck running like blood from your mouth.
Your pride forgetting its reflection.
All tarnished. All at once.
Spotting the enemy from a great distance in the telescope of your morals.
Breaching that beast’s hull with barbs and munitions.
The blood from your mouth running out.
All the same. All tarnished. All at once.
Agony in your organs reflecting your dreams of forgetting.
Sullenly rotting at your feet.
Your remorseless shock spotting the things of your enemy.
All you. All the same. All tarnished. All at once.
Your mouth breaching just to creak out answers.
Organs at a great distance.
Your morals capsizing at your enemies agony.
All gone. All you. All the same. All tarnished. All at once.

Victory For the Lazy

Nutjobs waxing destructively in the sunshine. As the malaise infected drunks stumble repetitively nowhere. In unknowing lockstep with everyone they hate. The elitism oozes both ways. There cannot be much fun in either smugness. The delineation between solitude and soliloquy. As the past becomes yore. And all becomes bore. The life of the unfettered frittered away in the struts of bored circular motion. So jealously angered at their ways. The delinquent evenings of poverty are cliché. It is all about the afternoons where the mold is broken. Otherwise its all the same as those you hate. Smugness is a mask befitting of liars. The swagger cool of nihilism wears thin with the observation of teat suckling. Independence of a legitimate sort is so hard to find. Because unfortunately true nihilism is more then rocks glass deep.

Years Later Better Not Be Now

In the reflections of disunity in the paradise of night. The lasting after effects of worthless divinity. Taking flight over the glistening hills. Wet with life. Teeming with the vengeance to burn the concrete. They say it’s a pity. But I believe. The fires just slower manifesting as roots and leaves. There will be no moment of silence as long as the epilogue. The trailing off our mistake. As the last screams become wind. Shielded in the shell. Homes in our minds. Safe and secure. Passing the moments when we were deemed dead. Leaving behind little more then scraps and trash. Just like everyday lives just more quiet. More subdued in the breeze. Solitude as an exercise as normal as breathing. Crashing onward to where form become void. Waiting for listless momentary moments. Without hesitation. To become one with a nothing. Joined together at the nihilistic nexus of existence. Or the question itself.

Waiting For The Listlessness To Fade

The sanctity of eternity. Boring. Less forever. More now. Less now taking forever. More sanctity devoted to denial and hatred. The divisions of time and space. Is really just the division of time making space. The walking tread paths. Watched and judged by our youthful memories. Horror yes. Sanctity no. Pitiful yes. Through it all I must show in the end the lack of belief in the pathetic charade all together. But that will not happen. Only the young and dead have the right approach. At a certain time its over. Well that is one way of thinking negatively.

Unanswered Questions

Balancing the ideas of the beautiful life of freedom with the realities they sell. Intelligence cannot even fight against that. Why does it fail so often? It is talked up so fucking much. As we run frantically in that direction we need to wonder periodically. Where is the ending point? When did I forget what would be considered the beginning moment? Is life supposed to seem like war? Am I now only fighting a defensive war? Is this really the best thing for me? Or is it the best thing for the world? One less fucking nut job in there eyes. Good we could hold him back that easy. Bitch I ain’t being held back. I am just waiting till you die so I can fucking go on with my business in fucking peace. The real kind of peace. The one where you get old and gorgeous in your decay. Not becoming a pathetic and addicted corpse walking like you have some sort of importance. That’s a goal if I could ever decipher one from these delusional ramblings.

Emptiness and Entrance

Here lies enough thoughts to subdue the times when I am dead… If there was a distinction between distraction and novelty, would there be gaps in novelty? The silence of indemnity lies in the self awareness of the ruined ones to take points up with aggressors in aggressive manners. When I see the light, am I dead or is it just the fluorescent light above my cubicle? I am becoming a story I wrote when I was young. When I was younger I was the stories I write now. But then or in the midst of my imagination now I was just doing what I wanted without past, present or future glaring at me so definitely. Saying good morning sarcastically. Not content with the movements of functioning in the fantasy world or lying lights. I need just a tad more then this. There may be a place for me yet. I remember certain slogans from times past. As they echo down my path into that exact story I hated reading in the commonness and familiarity of the plot. Sad to see dreams ending as a common lyrical theme of crooning. Obviously I am making fun of Bruce Springsteen. Its no ones fault though. Right? Life comes at you quick. Then fucking swing back when it attacks you. Or at least choose the ground where this battle is going to be fought.

Dead Tired...Tired Dead

They are moments when you realize what you once thought was a problem is actually a problem. Prior to that you believed otherwise. Convincing yourself that if you moved fast enough it would all go away. But that was then and this was now in the midst of the issue. The problem has come to light. The recent events. The seemingly random nature of the end of time. It is seeming to become less random. It starts to take the shape of a war. Where are those other moments? Lost like mine? Really? That hatred died in banal motions?

Gleaming Hatred Glistening In Defiance

It is with heavy regret we deem your teeming worthlessness to be the perfect medium for self destruction. The anger co-opted will fuel many false fires. Nip it in the bud. Keep it petty. Make life somewhat easy enough that doing seems an unrealistic option. I am just not entertained enough for their shit. But here I am sitting pretty. Pats on the back. Money substitutes for love or camaraderie so I look to the shelves and aisles under the fluorescent lights. The golden age of commerce. Options! Wow! The thrall and thrill is only a pull in my present slavery. Give me more then two days and I start to break. The things you can do. The things you can’t do. The artist with no art. And no desire. Its that inner flanuer telling me just walk. Walk. Deem distance to be a worthless chump. Its like that story with the piece of string. Time is what you make it. Then the criticism comes in by the thousands with petty whatevers. What can you expect from a society that deems violent trappings to be the king. But what can I say I am listening to satanic propaganda with an objective ear. Or maybe not.

Castigate With Corpse-Like Coldness

Missing from the scope of the narrative was that moment when you just wanted to understand. But the unforgiving nature of concrete held your breath at a distance from you. Try to bring it nearer and you would fail. That they say is the sanctity of sanity.

Outward looking from the windows of the train. The pieces of the dusk slowly form in the space between the trees. The space between all the supposedly unity of matter. That wonderless uselessness. Best raped with the extreme nature of movement itself. The defiling of the surroundings. It is weak and it must perish. The listlessness of the its stagnant nature. The dusk can set the forest on fire. If you unfocused your eyes enough. Hell if I died enough it would make things out of focus.

Poughkeepsie New York My Ancestral Homeland

If one fails to break into their past, does that make them a failure? It was a day late in May you cannot expect much from me. The memories came out of the years of dimness. It was the piercing strength of being here again that broke through the fog of years of bludgeoning my brain in to subservience. Births like wasp stings in the eye. Confusion and a new way of seeing. Human life measured in a scale that does not suit its lengths and purposes. Always that goddamn pointlessness punctuated with semi less pointless movements. Memories... now that is the layman's term. We are the peasants of the future. They gussied up the hovels a little bit. Replaced the livestock with pets and the gruel with breakfast cereal. Five hundred years ago they promised us the flying car. We waited out the whole fucking industrial revolution for this. Fucking fraud ass magicians. I'm supposedly to be impressed with this? Just five hundred more years of rules, regulations and gadgetry laid upon us savages. Lying naked in our hovels. Serfs then and serfs now. All they did was fixed up the joint. And at the expense of what? I want to lie naked in my hovel and fuck to stay warm in the winter. But then again I am a man of finer tastes.

The Shores of Western Civilization

In demystifying the validity of the exorbitance of empty space we set souls less fortunate up for suicide. But here in our fortune we can understand the vast filler. The buffer between blood and air called culture. The taming motion. The lulling to sleep. Seamless as dreamless nights. Dripping with the thought that there will be a moment of anticipation worse then moments spent anticipating. It is the mere existence of fact that denies the valid. The rarefied belief in the march away. To the climax of existence. Existing in the valid is a waste. The persistence of belief. The stain of reality plastered to my retina each morning as I open my eyes. The failure to see beyond. Weighing hard on my soul. Not just yearning for moments of brief breakthrough but for a whole life lived there. Present in the present.

If we forget the past then hopefully the future it created will forget us. Let us alone. Scurrying silently in the shadows of the night. The world of walkabouts on macadam. Dandy in our informality. Toughness over style. A violent society best expressed in a sneer, but found in many forms at the base of it all. Its enough to lose faith and just be entranced by the baubles. I see happy. I see whatever they need me to feel. Lately though all I feel is whatever they needed me to see. Needs are not like visions. Visions need. Needs do not have vision.

City of Dreams

My melancholy city.

Even sad in the sun.

Sliding slowly into obsolescence.

Dying in the mud.

Hearts Filled With Disgust

The notions that we leave to the devices of action hold us to our own self worth. We deem action to be a king. Yet we promise a trampling to those crowns. There is glory in the adolescent pride of belief. The wet stickiness of not having thought it through fully. When you look back years later you can make it a clearer more realistic perfection. The night in blackness ruined by the corpses of stars. Stars lingering onto faded glories. Billion year failures that cannot even leave the scene when they pass on. The observer on the mountaintop in the observatory can see definitely. But observe from that deep inside a taught notion? Not a chance. Education is blindness. Ignorance is a twenty twenty vision. The flaw in action though is that it callously demonstrates to us how much of slaves we truly are. We can in dishonorable ways be what we deem necessary. Or there is the ability to lend oneself to the unavoidable endpoint. Or the necessity of pretend and playtime all the time top shield ourselves from life. Or the lack inherent in all facets of their disgusting decadence. From seam to breast. Every inch of the fabric from the masterpieces to the must-see-tv to the kitsch to the shit that could never be ironic or iconic unless the observer was on acid or just had that much fear of being revealed inside them. The lack that kills the future and stifles thought and lynched the past and told us we were the pointless end. Fuck that! We are the end of history. A history of what? More pathetic then the stars. Human civilization is only a five thousand year old failure. We could never even be as pointless and worthless as the stars littering the blackness of the night sky.

Gone to Croatan...

All Power to the February 32nd Movement

confront absurdism
"now is the ultimatum"
confrontabsurdism
"we are all participants in milk induced sitcoms"
confrontational absurdism
"Long live the February 32nd Movement"
confronting absurdism
confront!absurd

Ulrike Meinhof, I am in Love with You

My Dearest Ulrike Meinhof,
We cannot be the idle sheep wondering why we are getting beat. The feeble cry of 'you can't do that'. They will do whatever is necessary to maintain their illusion. We must do whatever is necessary to destroy that illusion.

Yours truly,
-all I want is war on all-

Diligent Delusions

The lunatics of the lunatic fringe. The crumbs left on the table. The souls left to linger in the status of morality for ages on end. The percussions dimensional anguish. The leering at the edge to catch a glimpse of what? What will this quest end in? Death the same culprit over and over again. Growing bored with this narrative.

The repetitive strut of brains being molded into the playthings of the gods in the office suites with the window views. As the caverns teem with rat. The shortness of breath at the breadth of violence. The cusp of total annihilation is no longer the rudiment of superpowers straddling globes. The cusp is here in us. Together, united, alone or united in distance. The humid air in the summer hangs thick with the thought. Sometimes the whole city gets horny. it’s a beautiful sight rife with terribleness. Watching the wetness and the heat interacting like that. Standing at the sidelines of the intercourse like a timid threesome partner. Fuck their plot device.

Critiques on Divisional Litanies

Let’s whitewash it all. Your normality and sterility is killing me and I am not supposed to be conscious to it. The spirit of attack must always come through. The march forth into awareness never stops. The struggle must be onward. Must begin to realize the enemy is nearer then you think. That convenience, that service, that taken for granted. That every moment regulated. That is the enemy. The surroundings, the lushness of this all, the grandiose saccharine fantasy of now. Fucking fantasy world. Normalcy and the fallacy and reality dancing together in some sort of nasty sermon on three way sex...

Catabolic Collapse- Demo

Catabolic Collapse- Demo
Anti-Civilization Acappella Harsh Noise

"The steadfast amidst the graves of the sullen triumphs. Stroking our worthless human egos. As the poison of our iatrogenic everything consumes all. The silence in the trees. The sadness in the dawn as it leaks callously onto our landscape of mistake. The wistfulness of the damned waiting for cataclysmic death. Dreaming of silence everywhere."

http://www.mediafire.com/?dv451fcpk6z1f

My Two Cents Smeared In Shit

Endlessly the forthright nihilism of shadow puppetry foreshadows the decline of decaying cultural mores as the forays of primitive recess into the brains nether regions. Like light in the séances of ugly truth the cults march forth in their decimation. The violence underwhelms in its mediocrity all because there is too much stagnant peace book ending the moments of glorious upheaval. The type of peace when you get fat and have kids. The peace that you awaken to in the cold sweat of youthful memories. The glorification of the violence comes easy as the weeks pass into months and into years. The silence of the throes of life. The nice times intertwined so fiercely to your core that sunny outlooks are here and the pleasant disposition is probably not to far away. The snarls and contemptuous looks. The facades of glamorous hate. The urges to take, have, hold and never want. Cast about strewn like dreams. Dissolved into the hands of shaking times. Atoning for sinless nights in the fronts of monstrosities consisting of petty movements. How can one night yell into the maws of life and not want a decently terrible response? The type of response warranting the change of address and name at the very least. The chaotic boredom of nihilism sitting still as creativity has faded into memories. Where would we be without ruins holding reality to its word?

Mount Sanity In the Foggy Distance pt. 3

The desperate and disparate vintage of gaining visage. Turning the tides and tables as the yokes of burden make you painfully aware of all you have missed out on. Reflecting on the doomed seafarers making pussy jokes in the wake of relatives who died in the terribly torrid wake of kraken speeding after ships to eat for dinner. That bloated self you become and hate so much. Covering your truth like kudzu in southern Alabama on a June day. The god fearing catastrophe of incorrect adherence to my own demise. And I cried about that? Seriously? Or as they would’ve said in a different time. Legitimates? That cannot be a word. The heartless cold seeps and sinks into the pores halting any and all singing. As we devolve into the music found in death. To dissolve the discoveries found lasting too long for their own good. Like doing lines of coke at six in the morning on a Thursday in a public park watching the joggers run by with their damn purposes in life. Cowards!

Their were of course as there always are moments. You know, large swaths of your life that in retrospect become one single memory. I understand a lot more these days then back in them glorious olden times. It takes time to truly understand that the coldness of winter in for the self and a loved one only. Together or alone you must stay warm. That paradise of you. Oh bliss in holding someone so close just shut your pie hole. Its what happens when you listen to the words he listened to when he listened to her. Drama alert! Nah its all chill brother man. The ages of mountains as they sneeze at our weakness makes me realize that there is little point to the sacrifices of sacraments when one has that glorious knowledge of nothingness. But in something what does remember? The rote routine of coming home to everything is nice. Numbing like a narcotic. Safe like a suicide in spring. Dreaded by dirt bags only. Held into grand esteem by all who know its sickly sweet ways. I would take this all the time. Don’t you worry my love.

Mount Sanity In the Foggy Distance pt. 2

To nights of brotherhood in the ruins. Pacing the pristine streets of the ruins to soon be. The waves of heaving disgust. Hopeful hate for bliss silence. Beneath the plasticized façade is a fabric torn to pieces.

Hovering over the city of tents like skylines of clothespins. Underwear of rare vintage soaking in the sun. Drying trying to be clean in the sun’s bliss. The crickets and locusts took the night off. The bars only get confused in regards to their roles in the dice roll of a life. I have no desire to learn how to play craps. Bullshit filling ships in the blackened forests where we will always be kings. Kings in rags with a kingdom everywhere his eyes lay their gaze. The myth of the whole civilization in a boat just wandering the seas wondering what the fuck happen to all the glorious imperial trappings they once had. The otters mock them. The seals offer up guffaws. As a whole civilization is reduced to a few boats sailing everywhere. Just ekeing by.

I cannot even explain the speed at which I was attacked and how I wanted to join it or melt into it. To satisfy all urges to die and be confused over and over again. To have just a lil bit of self respect at the end of the day. The plan of action could be something stolen from the playbook of lions or any other whacky predator

Mount Sanity In the Foggy Distance pt. 1

The paradise harvest is dissolved in the melting away of dreams and societal norms. The perverts in the alleyways have their cocks all sorts of aflutter. The splish and splash between the delirious moment in the foundries of the hills. This workers they have the beat that will have and help them out of this bland land. Into the places cowards are sweating, waiting in fear. Fear sure does make things queer. The river must be crossed in a elegant manner. As to not have the crawfish put up a fight. Nuke them crustacean assholes. Ban the barnacles! I want my sea free. Tell the lobsters I fondled their sacred relatives claws in the seafood section of the grocery store. Grope and grocery shop. SO the storm of ideas was lost to you and having been found at a later time it was decided that I would take and bake it from here.