Madness of a generation

I really need to get back to that time not so long ago when I used to do this! Fucking this, tap tap taping at random keys on a keyboard, getting in to touch with the Jinn that bit me last night, oh, shit, about ten years ago, I was twenty six, and doing this like a maniac, writing. I think that the writer only gets better over time, the longer one is alive, the more one realizes ones potential, and limitations. Fuck this, I’m going to write everyone a little story about opportunities and possibilities, looking back and thinking of the time when that little girl ruled my life, and afterwards, when I was truly set free in creativity, and endurance. I’m immortal now, this time, touching these magical keys just as I once did a decade ago. It’s really not that hard, all you have to do is remember that fucking bitch who bit you last night, the whore that slept with you, fucking you, not you fucking her. She’s inside me all the time. I’m not sick but I’m not well, and I’m so hot, ‘cause I’m in hell. Been all around the world and found that only stupid are breeding. DMT, something that I really would like to try, is inside me all the time, and I’ve learned how to access the spirit molecule without taking anything, just doing this, angelic communion with killing my mind, and escaping into these simple words that battle through the ages of fables and reconstructions, Brittney Spears is nuts, and so am, therefore we should get married, the god damn this fucking shit, and when you rule the material world, you have something inside you like a fire that will never go out, never because I have ruled the landscapes that you may call the kingdom of troubled elves that move these walls, indications that the outer space alterations have stayed with me over these years.  Rational indications that the Emmanual Swedenborg within, speaks through me now, if I want Him to, I am the Voice of God, and when the mutations of my name are thrown around the rooms of anarchy, during times of attempted reconstruction of the paradoxical forces that are attempting right now, toyou’re your mind like a rational beast of Islam within, whatever it is, whatever it is. And with that, here’s  your little story! Yes, yes, this is it. It will come down on you like the one who never ever tried to see through you, as if it were a chosen fantasy of yours that the potential conglomerate of your mind. The church bells ring, here them ring, cleanse your spirit, and open your eyes, this is the time when the hand of God reaches out to me, holding me nearer, seeing my blessings that I have achieved through natural selection. I’m smarter than most people, doesn’t that just feel wonderful, well, not especially, when you don’t even hear her in the wind, I’m doing this right now with my eyes closed, singing the anthem of God’s constructions, in the mind’s lair of Golden Girl Parodies, and drinking cup after cup of coffee, like Voltaire on a Davenport, standing next to his Masonic Brothers in gleaming anticipations of the Golden Dawn of Yeats, speak to me now, you little devil, you little fucking devil’s spawn, mutant boy, too smart for the world you live in, that is actually allot simpler than you really think it is. Most people are not even aware of anything at all, aside from the careful readers, and writers of the intricate domes of collecting various articles of things, pop culture, dreams, drugs, become a sponge, pic things up, and write about them, the ceiling potential is unlimited, just beware, that the ease of this mission, is only because you signed that contract with me, oh, here they come, delusions, rampant delusions, that fill your mind, and trample on your soul, just like that time I impaled those girls. Isn’t that a terrible beauty?

The Filth is Rising

There were galaxies in those eyes, he could see them, staring through the ether at him in the middle of the night and trying desperately to find him, keep up with him, but every time he changed his address,  he moved to fast, and all hope to reconstruct fabled promises of the past, seemed to evaporate in the crisp air of winter.  He was cold as a frozen lake in winter, alive underneath the surface, but his surface veneer was a thick layer of ice. His eyes told their own story, not galaxies, but universes of things that could have been, but may never come. But, yet, he pressed onward, against the current of opposition, for what reason but pure, lucid thought is always better than to not think at all.