Saturday, January 21, 2006

It's 2006... Happier New Year! :-) "I am lost in the shadows of my own death."





I am lost in the shadows of my own death.

A figment of my imagination?

The cold slap of shared reality.

Death shall not be in vain, but the vanity in thinking so almost reassures one of a paradox: work ‘til you die, suffer ‘til you die, work ‘til you suffer and die, shut-down a perfect paroxysm of fear and impotence, a primal passion of fate and importance, a desire to be closer to the creator by creating, a child will reveal the depths of your humanity, unconditional love with nothing to lose but fear of love itself.

There are few rules to the game, only principles, and of them only certain ones are limiting to any actions that are not malicious. Inaction is malice when it becomes lies, and lies become truths only when they are malicious. Sacrifice is a joke, a word sodomized by sports and salvaged by sensationalism. One knows not the meaning unless one is serviced by it, Sacrifice: The Cheap Whore of Self-Importance.

Unless regular in ones sacrifice, then the fluke remains a vision in resplendent red: showy, braggadocious, whorish, angry, and a beacon of failed consistency. One may Reach The Mountaintop, but only if one has left or stepped-on the dreams of others dreaming for you, and can service their own needs for hubristic validation.

Dreams are dark for a reason: allegorical actions agitate, stories revelate, and the beatific pleasance of existential solitude and peace in a safe-place to place ones head is interrupted by the clarion call of dangers foreseen that can be foreshadowed or forewarning-friendly: learn from danger, learn from the stranger with a faded face and hollow taste for vengeance, learn from the victim, learn from the sinner, learn from the Lord of All Things when He pays attention.

Dreams of My Father, Dreams of My Fatherhood, Dreams of My Fate… do they gratiate? Is every sperm sacred? Surely four billion a day would disagree on a planet with a pace-setting total of 6 billion people in total. The gold-standard for excellence as a species is set by a speciation that leads to tribal deviation from any true success: the territorial pissings of madmen and false Gods leads to us reeking of failure at the sight of a Small World After All.

After all, a small place takes but a minit to clean.

A minit to mean what you say and say what you do as true to you as you can be true, but in failing to do see what they say and do and if it isn’t bad to you or you or you then what is really true?

See… it ain’t my fault, it ain’t your fault, it ain’t the fault of the faulty, the hopeless sinner, the Godless heathens who breath the air of the pure and eat the food of the noble and wise, for they were put here to be seen as rats and mice and slain for rice, or they were put here to make us think twice.

Penitence serves the wise man best, for in his wisdom his foolishness is easily displayed and his foollowers easily dismayed: speak only of the evil of your own, the death of conscience among the conscious, the dearth of the damned who don’t give a damn. The Gift and The Curse is the Blueprint for success: play the hand who dealt you, play the hand who felt you, and in doing so play the success or failure of feeling and finding and faking and fucking and fooling the flipside of your morality. A morass of more asses awaits, yours, his, hers, an ism weighting to collapse under the weight of it’s own importance. There is nothing here for us, only the chance to appreciate nothing in the alchemy of achievement.

When confronted with the strange days and strange ways of fearful men of fearless fraudulence, the temptation to join in the power circle-jerk is tempting: let me in, for I shall not cum last, I shall not cum fast, I shall not cum slow, I shall not cum faux, I shall moderate my strokes to follow the leader, and lead the followers into being lead. I shall worship at the dark forces of my libidinous rage, my Secret Santa is Satan, my soul is saved. Let’s trade gifts of grab and grow an empire that feeds into our hatred of the hell we’ve seen by seeing the hell we’ve been seeking, after all, there’s cowardice cravenly seeking courage in the madness of mercantile mercenarianism. Justified and Stripped of all meaning, the World is a ripe place for deceit and false profits, and the clouds mask any desire to search for a truth when one is being sold so smoothly as to mask it’s need for inherent difficulty.

This is your life.

Happy yet?

No?

Oh well… guess you’re fucked.

Time to fuck with life itself and not give a fuck.

Licking the lamp-post of hell frozen over, the End of Days is nigh Sympathy for the Devil, for if it is indeed his due, then in due time render unto Satan what is Satan’s, and leave the mark of the beast with two backs as a sacrifice. The child grows up to hate their childhood, the grown up hates their child, the cycle of violence continues to breed based on a need that cannot be forsaken for rationality and reality, as the class war will be won with soldiers raised as cannon fodder. To die in this battle is not glorious, for no death in battle is glorious without recognizing that battle itself ought not result in death. The mourning in recognition of the obvious drive for self-aggrandizement through conflict and violence and homicide is dirty chess by deadly oil, or deadly chess by dirty oil, depending on the day. There is but profit in prophecy of pain as perpetuity, and planning to pare it down to it’s public spectacle, a naked Emperor with clothes made of the finest bullshit, a grotesque spectacle of a small penis and massive gunships, the ideation of Bombs Over Baghdad benignly impressive in it’s sizeable abstraction, and the belief that serving power makes one powerful only complicate the contrarian impulses of clandestine conscience: stay angry, or you may accidentally figure it out.

There is only madness at the end of the rainbow, a pot of gold serves worse then just the pot, and in a haze of greed and gripping gash’s in morality the tears in the fabric of ones own personal reality bleed selfish demons who play in the world, returning to feast on their host. One gets out of life what one puts into it, death the same, and Hell is a place on earth that stands side by side with Heaven. In a rush to jump the queue we’ll take the shorter line, and in a rush to bud in the even shorter line we’ll see our divine right to worship in houses of gilt and gold as paramount, and what God put here for us to see is that God put what here for us to see. A monopoly on humility is the most precious commodity in the world, for it can lead to the ultimate service of private morality writ-large. Find a few fakirs and you’re in business, and find yourself by finding something strong to find yourself clinging to as the tides of discontent and dreams wash over your bobbing soul. Humanity is an ocean of change and challenge, and the will to power will overpower the willing unless there is a willingness to empower, for it is only in the service of Satan that you can sell a soul that is not yours.

God is watching.

Or is He?

It matters not.

What matters is you are.

The tribunal awaits, and the demon days precede the demon knights, all wrapped up in sheer love and hate and ready for war. After all, demonstration needs demons, demonstrable is damn near monstrous, and demagoguery will have us agog like a fine egg-nogg. It isn’t a question of choices made and choices staid, as boredom comes from the best sources of fate: righteous action. Evil loves too, it just loves Evil, Power… and will evolve faster to dominate the Good in Good Patterns. Walk the Line until you’re fine, will it be enough? Will the world cease to cease and desist? What resistance befalls the damned? What assistance falls over the chaste and chases us with solutions? What absolution is absolutely guaranteed? How have we co-opted selfishness as self-help nobility?

A fool and his honey are soon parted.

Goodbye my love, and good luck…


BK – end hour stream 21/Jan/06, 6:48 am.




5 Comments:

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