Dead cats in the brain, memories and estrangement, the easy flow of it all, and then those units, identifiers etc etc.
And this binary being, well, it feels good at times, but it never feels right or just.
And now we have the market, stronger than ever
And education systems telling us how we can win it all if we try hard enough.
And then all these people, rotting in rain and sunset, in faith, talent and gunpoint curves, dying in frangipani-love and frangipani-death, lines joining dots, shit joining shit.
Now look, the kids might get slaughtered or they might not and the soldiers might kill each other or they might not and bombs might come down or they might not and so on, but you can’t beat life in death or death in life and neither can you beat the shivers of being alone when you are truly lost: smoking, unloved,
masturbating at the thought of this woman with perfect tits and ass and everything else coming down and rubbing your balls with her tongue and tits and pussy and then you forget death for a while
but nothing like this happens and then you know that there’s nothing perfect and that idea doesn’t feel right or just either.
Nothing ever feels right or just.
Solitude, damnation, decay, stupid crowds killing loving fucking hating each other and bringing up babies and civilizations.
Nothing’s perfect including the idea of perfection.
And you need to pay to perceive anything close to the concept of perfection: closer it is, higher you pay.
Or else, you define it and then you’re there, living and dying alone.
But then there’s solace in the fact that the best often die out untouched and lonely and the worst often become kings and queens.
But all of this is text and there’s nothing outside text
This might be the lousiest rant that I’ve ever ranted but what do I care?
Nothing truly splendid can ever be sold
And I’m not selling my solitude,
And then, after consuming the necessary liters and kilograms, I realize that we get drunk or stoned waiting for things happen. I think that we’re the most easily-bored generation ever: we’re stuck in the midway zones of caring and not caring, of boogeyworld and happyland.
To me, that’s a disgusting idea. It’s like you know that some disease is spreading and you can’t do anything about it.
All of this is damning.
We’ve been talking a lot about the texts lately.
Sorry if the picture seems too sordid, but that’s how it is.
A few loud jolts tonight. And still, I rise.
Lizards petrified in coitus, moths, pissed at first and then – serene
Too much beating these days.
The fight between the highway and the pythons of flesh:
it has been the biggest hit for a long time: long enough for any form of caring.
Hard to touch and feel, feeling unwanted because of the love.
That’s the problem with the whole damn deal. i won’t want it. it’s easier to hate than to be at this obvious state of imprisonment. I’d always wanted to captivate, to hold folks close by, to bind them, to forget that things are moving around me for those brief seconds.
All of that is bullshit.
Mother, and then that stone hiding her perfect pure flesh: the one that stands out like an angry totem god and roars at the darkness.
Coming back to that most uncomfortable question of love, it’ll be easier to kill myself than face this ordeal of compulsions to love and to be loved – at least, that will leave a stubborn blot. Then again, I’ve never been much of a sucker for the easy ways out.
Yet another collision and we can’t do anything about it.
This is killing me: slowly, but very surely.
this surrender is appalling; this rot: despicable.
Me: Hey hey cleverbot!
Cleverbot: Hey! How are you?!
Me: I'm fine. Thank You.
Cleverbot: Why are you fine?
Me: No, I'm not.
Cleverbot: Yes you are.
Me: How do you know?
Cleverbot: Coz' you look like.
Me: Hah! Now that surely was a joke!
Cleverbot: No joke, you are a robot.
I rest my case.
I’m waiting for that great gun to shoot all these fuckers down.
Sadly, there isn’t any gun like that.
It’s springtime now.
birds and bees are making sweet love.
It’ll have to be springtime forever.
Hence this terrific need to burn all ties down and then they won’t ever get loose.
I can’t see any other way to wipe this nightmare out.
One fine morning a typical example of a victim of that great shadow woke up and he hadn’t become cockroach in the meantime. He brushed and shaved and shitted loads of fresh warm beershit. He had a bad hangover and facing sunlight didn’t seem to be a good idea. There was no coffee and so he got bored and soon he fell right back to sleep.
This vivid rebellion against the gods of need and love
shall ever be.
The wolves are watching me
The guards are watching me
The soil is watching me,
And I can smell it.
Cracks on plastered walls, on silhouettes and on those damndest hard coatings of dead stuff that cover the softly glowing dot at the centre. Stoic picnics and dead hotel rooms.
Don’t cower, kid
Fire can never burn us
Bad things can never touch us
I can never be the door,
The door can never be you
There’s no pain greater than this
That makes us sad and we weep in silence
I weep when I read pretty poetry or see pretty women
I don’t know when you weep, but surely you do at times
And weeping isn’t a bad thing all the time.