The Predictability of Rebirth

Useless device coerced into secret voids of obsolescence. Without purpose. Flickering legitimacy and safety. Discovery and purposes made in too many ways. Distracted as death pervades. Dulling all senses on purpose. For with and without there is no reason. All a charade declining nonchalantly into graves and urns. Purposeless like all nature. Hubris the overriding mistake. The indoctrinated urge forward toward purpose. The nurturing of art or youth or addiction. Forward onward. All a charade ending purposefully.

Decadence On A Downward Demise

The diatribes of anger hold a certain uselessness when the patina of continuity into the progressive forward is not addressed. Fighting for the maintenance of your comfortable enslavement. Or even fighting against maintaining comfort. There is a lack of vision amongst visionaries. Reality as it is in its current perceived form is not truth. It doesn’t even have to adhere to the rules and law of nature. A good pathologist will tell you modernity is one micron deep. Dive off that microscopic cliff into the disease ridden past that is still here. Currently dormant in the dictatorship of antibiotic and alcohol based hand sanitizer. So it begs the question. How can you imagine an alternate world created on the anvil of political upheaval when you cannot imagine an alternate world created on the catastrophic flaws of civilization? At the pace the revolution is coming at, there will be collapse first. All this padded comfort, aesthetic distraction, dramatic bullshit is only one micron deep.

At The Cusp of Dismissive Demise

With the pride and poise of a young girl winning a spelling bee this was all built. Sometimes when I am drunk, pacing the halls of the my past labors I revel in how glamorous it all looks now. Now glamorous even in its unfinished state. Sweat, blood and labor. Wish I could build a life on that. Instead of lying, misdirecting and very much soul-selling. Oh the hilarity of paradox. But when I look back at the roster. I don’t feel too bad. Players come and players go. So this is the ground for now. Grounded more so then before. There are hinterlands and distant lands yet to come. Soon enough my wild loves. Living unfettered as I stay caged. Cannot wait for the day. I have said it before and I will say it again. The only way to treat the present situation is like a bank robbery. Get in. Take what you need. Get out. Don’t get caught.

Looking Around I See Nothing

For a second this was almost a narrative. Imagine that. If all of a sudden the rambling became a coherent and cogent traverse into the forward thinking unfolding future moments. Strange as it could be, it would be. Because for that second our protagonist made the fateful decision to enter the narrative at full bore. The choice was setting the empty beer glass down and rejecting the bartenders pandering questioning of ’will you have another’. As our protagonist’s ’no’ floated gently with a tinge of regret out of his mouth the stage was set. When the outside world found out our hero was coming back to its sweet embrace it got all in a tizzy. Reality flailed around trying to rearrange everything in the correct order for our hero’s exit from the bar out into the streets. The door opened. Whew! Reality had successfully and correctly reestablished its form. There would be no dream-like or hallucinogenic-like effects felt by our hero today. He was there in a reality slightly drunk but all was still standing. He walked and or stumbled to the subway station two blocks away. Fumbled for his monthly pass. Swiped it. Caught a subway. Got off the subway at his stop. Walk to his apartment. Unlocked the door. Walked inside. Turned on the television. Was pandered to by advertisers till he feel asleep. The end. All you haters can suck my narrative.

Storms Remind

The deluded movement forward through space and spacetime. The haunting nature of the here and now. The disgust in all movements. All actions reaction to the blunt trauma of this grandiose idiocy. But no retreat here. Get into the fray. Take part in the action lacking now. A boring atrophy. As a fate; terrible. As a life; sad. As a forecast; is that a faint smile? Give it time. Make movement through in observation. Intellectualizing on the potential of pointless violence in every interaction. A thousand spoiled brats with their bottles taken away simultaneously. The collective whining will overtake the earth. From sea to shining oil slicked sea. A slow complaint filled decline into anthropocentric obsolescence. Built in from day one. Sometimes it is hard to interpret expiration dates. Hindsight is better then twenty twenty and always a little funny. Chuckling at sweaty displays of futile last ditch pride. It’ll be a sea of red faced crackers. Panting and wheezing for the right to die with even less dignity then they started with.

Filth

Left numb by overwhelm. Dead to perversions grandeurs. The space between cataclysm and release. The flaw of mortality. The rush and glamour. The pointlessness. The flaw of the human. Addict in the prison-like confines of ones own mind. If there was a wind like that. We would never return. If all was gone. Lost to the fade. Panned to far. Lost amidst the cacophony of shrill sales civilization and its depraved interests. Overwhelmed perverts stumbling blindly through the spaces of grand cataclysm. Addicted to the rush of human mortality and all its flawed glamour. Left to our own devices. Masturbating endless in a dopamine trip to hell and back. Pleasure palaces dying in the far gone sun. This is the winter time. A lesson in death found wedged between the glided bookends of petty distraction. A lesson in perseverance and bliss. Rub it till it comes true. Like a cock. Like a clitoris. Like a genies lamp.

For Those Futurists Lacking Futures

Failed to face the terrible truth of the penniless idiosyncrasies found throughout the deplorable depths of the animal kingdom’s most sullen reaches. In the blasting fake heats generated from the thousands of decaying dead. Mortgaged on the sweaty backs of the future generations forced into menial forever. Ignoring all the threats nature makes. Gallivanting nonchalantly across everywhere as if nothing existed. The twisted self in the throes of self-absorption. Here in the bovine state of being. Food and fodder. Slaughter and fattening amidst famine all consuming. Like large aliens in neon cottons made of stripped dried out lands. Hordes forming in the hinterlands to devour us vultures like vultures. Full circle. The teeter tottering obese aliens. Aliens in an alien world. Space stations all pre-fabricated ticky tacky. This is the future we got. Maybe it’s the one we deserved. No flying cars here. Instead they gave us an eternal flight of fantasy. Rocketed into the outerspace of disconnect. Locked tightly. Safely secure sheep in the warrens. Aliens anyway you look at it. Food flown in from what might as well be another galaxy. Flash frozen in the oily residues of preserving fats. The real sustenance absorbed visually. Stay still as we hurtle through space. On our way to cartoon-like sizes and deep fried paradises. The life support system on the craft will last forever. Just like our march to eternity. A march on a road paved with gaudy plastics. The age that our ancestors will sneer derisively at. Spit on us as you toil in the overheated sun we gave you. Scraping shovels against the poisoned barrenness will created for you. In the weeds, rats and bugs. Sneer away. We didn’t think highly of you. So why show us an inch of respect. We deserve it all. Aliens.

February

Reminders of The Desolate Valleys

Gripped in the icy hold of winter. The reminder of our pitiful weakness is evident in the wind blowing freezing wet possible death at us. Burrow in and hide. The storm will pass. The cycle of power exerts its control. Presenting itself even in our hovels stacked high above the concrete or in our shacks spread like a stain across the once verdant vistas. It is a threat. Not subtle at all. A display of ferocious power. No longer a victim. Now a victor. A declaration saying self important nothings hide in holes. Scared creatures. The wilderness of winter accepts no excuses.

Waiting For A Without Within

Lying in waking waiting yearning for untimely demises. Filled with a desire for manmade environments devoid of man. The empty city streets. The playground amidst the once serious sea of moneyed falsehood. Dreams for non-existent days. When lack of foresight becomes hindsight. The corpse has no critique of the endless nature of time. Just a moment is given and then merged uneventfully into the dust. The ruins have to get their start somewhere. The slow march to decay as gravity exerts it unflinching hold. Forever and eternally down towards the dirt.

Like Distance... Like Dreams

Lasting till now. Thinking the whole time that longevity mattered. Recycled clichés of thoughtless thinkers long since thought to be cliché. Just waking up in nightmare all of the time. No shock reaction. Been there done that and then mocked that reaction. Life that brutal interplay. The lasting now till longevity. Or at least holding out till a really long time from now. Stereotypes became a Braille. The ability to see when you weren’t there. Easy as pie. The timelines are to similar. Evidence proves the theories correct. So advanced yet unable to realize the concept of trajectory. Myths tell us that Icarus had a hot date.