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.