earings. Because of this they lost weight and
their souls, which were once really big boogers from Dimension X. Located
inside where the moldy old refridgerator contained stinky
foods and in my pants, where the sun never ever shines. Unlike your ass
who where it wontleave networking porn sites to distant galaxies while killing flamers
chug , without any questions about cheeseis really confusing but somewhat amusing and highly surreal.
So, let's smoke some mary jane through a bongthat nobody uses and never will doors is grinding gears and eating limit breaker
fake fake fake mystic unreality of paranormal prasitic peoples, dayglow rainbow nowhere town rebellion of nothing. Breath the unliving breath of life
and intilectual intercourse for crash test dummies
I'm a writer now! And I remembered this brilliant thread that I so desperately wanted to post on.
One night dreaming
One night standing, sitting, crawling
One night with my heart beating, head bleeding
You wait for me, wait to kiss me, hold me safe
But I’m held back, held back with my heart beating, head bleeding
One night struggling
One night dying
One night dreaming
As I sit here, thinking of something to write
I watch the hands of the clock, ticking slowly
Hypnotising me with their motion, their ticking ringing in my ears
As thoughts slowly drift to the future
What would you give to know your future ?
A pound ? A thousand ? A million ?
Is there truely enough money in the world
To pay for a glimpse into the future ?
Some would not take all that money
To have that knowledge thrust upon them
But as the alarm sounds
Telling me the sixty seconds are up
I cannot bring myself to finish
Without asking this one last question :
Would such knowledge be a gift, or a curse ?
Or would it take away all that makes us human ?
mutual beings never consider the consequinces of a staged fight in a non bull ring south of a boarder that hasn't any lights. I haven't been to the
jake and fake for the moon is high and the tides are low in the banks of calcalon. People...
people grieve over a map that is not drawn, to show the way that once was in the dungeon of a crazy wild man who's name was Wolper. Wolper had a
knife which he called fork, very peculiar with a form of craft called craft form, I haven’t had much experience wit....
far flower beyond the seas. The petals brush but only to fear. Age, wither, come and agian. Far lower beyond the sky. Fly flower for forever may flee.
Tomorrow dies, yesterday lives. Far flower beyond the seas
*this may not be the normal way of things, but I just found something in my computer that was to funny to let lay in limbo and I hope that someone
breathing without breath
seeing without sight
A thing is only empty
When it contains everything
The only thing that is empty
Is that which is lacking of nothing
The profile strapped upon your face
Is no more than a finite ego consciousness
Built upon the foundation of something purer
Wash the sunrise from your back
thick with shadows
Rubbing your eyes
will spread the infection
Is it the true human death
that we should fall to shadows
through the vision of others?
A dark plague transmitted through symbols
That were never really there to begin with
Hands can achieve what feet can not
Many times we hear or read of another individual philosophizing over what in means to be in a state of Being. Often it is drenched in the light
The phenomenon of being exists only within the three dimensions of height, width and length. This is because being is a static state that can only
exist without change.
However the realm which we function in is in a state of constant flux and continual change. We are creatures of four dimensions. The prior mentioned
three and a fourth called time. We are constantly wrapped in a state of becoming.
Most exist as not the consciousness of your spirit, soul or even your mind, but instead as that of your eyes, hands and tongue. The child slaves of
Surgically remove the holy endorphins
cascading through the watermarked empires
A road from Belief to Hand to Obliteration
We have all seen this head shot before
The clean tunnel that the crowds have cheered for
poking the eye of a spirit child wrapped in barbwire
Here the yawning Papal fingers stir in formaldehyde
and send forth the masses
supported by Dalian crutches
in black epidemic pilgrimages
brewing inside of your vision
in the storm windows of passive protection
And so the command comes forth
Congeal all realities to a dorsal retrospective
Serve them to the violent and dossal alike
Shock treatment of orgasmic proportions
doled out to the spines of those
that would be incarcerated by it
the marrow of bombs dressed in robes
and simmered in a thick broth or pungent currency
These androgynous computers
illogical reproductive systems
spin sideways in time
around a bloody rosary of binary coding
And what am I to this
I am the armor dressed like orphans
I am the orphan dressed like armor
I am the sperm carrying Trojan horse
A fabric woven by the terrorist of the International House of Pancakes
You wouldn’t laugh if it was your flapjack that were prisoners of war
in orbit he was to me the same girl
Up, up with the periscope!!!
When the end begins
The only saviors for a new beginning
Will be those seen as lunatics
The potential energy of water
Oceans hearing voices
Slanted wind spill
Rewrite the stone Rewrite the ocean with the eyes in your hands
Another volume morning
The dreams of eyes
Pressed snugly in their beds
I look as I
But the expression on your face
Is truly strange and horrifying
The kind that one wants to strike down
I was at a party and realized that I was shifting in and out of time
I tried to tell people and they thought that I was crazy and began hitting Me with hor durvs. I ran and hid with the next door neighbor who flew me
through time and space.
The disease on my hands called humanity
This is when he changed like a television image coming in from waves in Weave unto what make ourselves
Standing hands stain painted snow
The possibilities of movement
have carried us this far
just east of the equator
and jettison the cadaver bone
from the fragrant war machine
Check the cannery
when the reflection becomes the ideal
Ego is a generator to individual isolation
It separates the part from the whole
And we are all parts
Melted by the years
would you mind driving me to NY in the third person
i had a dream the other day, about the pope and a potato....or maybe someone else did. or maybe its all just one big fabrication of my false memory
and dreams i weaved during 3rd period english when i learned about alliterations. beautiful boasting bebop boomerangs swiped scarring stains across my
uhmble heart, while i fall, fraquently fantazizing the pope and a potato that i dreamt of in 3rd period english class.....or maybe someone else did
I love the sweet smell of writing scat and I like this thread.
Writing is what lasts when everyone is dead.
Just for the event this rhyme is being said.
just a few little words just rolling out my head.
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