Sunday, May 19, 2013

Portland Oregon's Anarchist District

Draw a sketch of what an anarchist town would look like outside of the influence of government sovereignty.

The Pope is the Devil in Disguise

The Forsaken

I loved depressed people...They are more right...Nihilism to the end...

That which is locked is locked.  That which can be un-locked will be done in a determinate manner.

Deciphering the psychological artifact is not an easy task.

Void Space 9 Poetic Try-sing

I heard a tune neon blue
Lighting the firmament
Filling the void space
With the hallowed conscious moment
I wake existence
And This perpetuates itself
Stars glow on and the mystery deepens
Casting a listening ear to the galaxy
Radio-head receiving signals galactic
Told what is necessary to be told
Dancing with the chemicals
Megaphone injection manifold of the brain
Fragment after piece after shard
Impressions of moment after moment
Electronically recorded and registered
In void space 9
Forming the Brahma Programmatic
Collective psyche grid
Displayed on stage
To the Galactic Over-mind

A New Dare Game

I dare you to stare at the sun as long as you possibly can.  Sure to be intense during the high time of the day.

Dreadnaught Chant

Nirvanic rapier dances
Snake charms and fang tickles
Enchantment glow
Lit light the fire

Compact compacting compacted
Like a bloom blossom aster star child
Voidic lightning flashes
Across the xeric land
All falls upon deaf ears and minds

Coils and recoils
The beast looms broods still
Smoke tendrils gently sinuously rising
From nostril vents
Citadel towers meet sunlight

Ornately encumbered
Fireflys and x-mas trinket glow dots
Branches limbs licking power wires
Pumpkin faces
Dark fiery beam traces

Were you expecting an answer
A beauty trill ride
Let me drill hard
To the core of the sun
Therein where I reside

Jack Star Cores

Industrialized star core worker for hire.  Please see my core jack work on Electra located in the Pleiades cluster for a resume of my work.  Have a nice day.

Dread Chant

Swallow a star
Glow solar plexus
Machines burn
Shining bright and shadows true

Give matter its due
Or perish to all
Forsaken evermore

Time is running short
As all sits on the brink of
Dread winds wisp lick rake

God Phones

Yeah to all who give a damn.  I talk to god all damn day long every day on the neuron phone.  So what?!  For something to have a real impact something more is needed.  Some dire necessity.  Some omen.  Some directive to move mountains.  A bizarre psychological field that descends upon all like a shadow emanating from the vessel's essence being.  Some genius form of art exposed to the masses that was excessively coercive-hypnotic media.  Aliens spacecraft operating in concert with a mysterious figure in a public venue. God doesn't like to get involved.  He likes to sit and blabber in your head, then you die.  Fuck God!!! When alone, God I seek.

Cleopatra's Last Dance

Oh Isis
Your rapier sings
So violent tonight

Asp sleek scaled
Dances writhes
Dread cold dead eyes

Oh Osiris
Bowel quaking 
Lands of the Afterlife

Rear back
Hiss spit
Still and silent viper

Oh Seth
Chaos rains
From the stars this night

Lightning fast
Flash fangs bared
Venom licks blood

The Blue Star Drive

Beats hitting hard
Drive mach at
35 miles per hour
Lazeeee dee dee dum dum

Sun death glare from
The other side in the dim of night
Harsh radiation gamma ray
Blaze drive bloom

Ever cool blue jetisons
Out the back door of the mind
Ever good blue driftic star
Ever more nirvanic glowic

Wolf faces
In the shadows of
The trees
Whoosh whoosh whoosh

Where the Pipes EZNDZdiAde. EvER.. .

Rubber tires burning
In the street
Dandelions growing through
Concrete cracks
Towers tower
Steel and glass

Dun(--*--]m[]nes of minds
Stretch to infinite
Sand pouring through the streets
A cataract
Red faced peoples parched
Mouths open
Screaming into it all

Look at this glue
Holding it all together
What is said
Down below
Is not spoken at the head

Where the pipes end
There stooped a boy with
His crow
Gathering water running
Over freshened gravel

Death Stick on the Lime

A box of Prefects
Lid motion swivel
Pinch a death stick
Closed box placed
Majestically upon
The table

The tv trickles rages
God pillars are
From the sky
Leaning back on the lime

Burning oil petrol
Lavish the flame
Crude chiches and crosses
Raptor machine angels
Flash blue flash yellow
White-out tv

The earth is
Live accordingly
Fingers clasp death stick firm
Destruction rains
The fallout
Stars rise from the black

Glow star glow
Lips embracing death stick
Incendiary device rising smoothly
To ignite
Thud whizzz-zip

The next day
A man was found dead
Meteor buried in his face
With a blood splattered nimbus on
The wall
The lime couch

True Happiness is the Genesis of All Evil

Every Day is a Journey.

Daemons and Flowers

Do daemons like flowers when they are not too busy being daemons?

Dark Files: Death Compound

Introduction to Death Compound

Little Sally walked home after being shooed away from Missy's house.  Sally was told that Missy had been murdered and that she was never to come over and visit Missy again.  Door shut in face, Sally dripped tears along the drive as she began to walk home down Slaughter Street.  She stopped under a yellow glow lamp pole in the twilight, picked a lush brown mushroom, and began to giggle.  Children always disappeared around Death Compound, so to realize a disappearance after the fact was rather common place.  But, to be told that your best, truest friend in the whole wide giant world had been murdered straight to the face is another thing all and in itself.  Sally began to wet tears over her new found brown truffle.

As she continued to walk home the evergreen firs whispered sweet charms in her ears.  Suddenly, a dark foreboding shadow struck her soul and her heart sensed bat sonar waves; she tripped and her mushroom fell from her hand and down a storm drain on Damnation Road.

Sally began to cry anew as she realized that she had lost her mushroom trinket.  Her mother waited quietly in their living room with a kitchen knife waiting for the little girl to return home.  It was customary in Death Compound to dispose of children if their parents did not see it fit for them to live.  Sally had been set up.  The law is any child that learns of a murder by mouth from an adult is sentenced to death.  That child is touched and tainted and chosen by death for having that conversation.  And if the Death Administration raised some sort of complaint, the Compound enforcement itself had means of making children disappear. With quiet longing and earnest expectation Sally's mother waited, salivated, became damp and moist. 

Sally skipped up her front steps and waved to little Igor across the street in his front window.  As  the door opened, mother pounced and sunk the knife into Sally's chest as the woman covered the child's mouth severely not allowing a scream to escape.  The work was quickly finished and blood trickled and pooled onto the wooden floor, shimmering black in the twilight.

Mother looked up from Sally's corpse and saw Igor in the window across the street in a frozen fright.  She calmly, quickly called to her husband to contact the neighbors and have them exterminate Igor and weed out this flagrant patch of defection;  he was guilty for the act of being a witness and deeply associated with the aberration that was Sally.  He had a death wish written all over him, as was evidently fated by his act of watching through the front window.

The call to the neighbors' was made and Igor's father came up from behind and broke his neck with one swift, precise movement.  Sally's mother smiled amidst silent, deep tears and closed her front door.

The good children, of course, live to be adults...

The Resistance Lives...or does it..?

Dread Station was in fact funded by the Death Administration - as was Death Compound proper - and was simply a means of bold experimentation away from the mores and ways and virtues of Death Compound. The children went through a differentiated Dread Station education and upbringing with the threat of death held plainly over their heads, as opposed to leaving them in complete ignorance as in the Death Compound, and it was inflicted just often enough to let it be known that the threat was real.

Morrgid Hames, a Massacre, walked into an instruction room at Dread Station. The children lining the room in desks were those that had been saved from the evil claws of Death Compound.  Not that the children here at Dread Station were treated any less harshly or any less was expected of them, it was rather believed that the wrong prototype collection of children were being sentenced and executed at Death Compound and thus Dread Station represented a sanctuary of sorts.  The parents of the children at Dread Station simply thought that the Death Administration had disposed of their child within Death Compound and then didn't worry their minds of them any longer.  The ritualistic killing of children occurring at Death Compound for the sake of purifying the societal plane had taken long, developmental routes leading to the end; the decay.  The killing lines had become dirtied, miscalculated, unsure.  The human products trained at Dread Station, salvaged from the grip of the Death Administration and blood thirsty parents, was a means to revitalizing the societal makeup of Death Compound when those who passed the rigorous testing were re-implanted back into the compound.

These children from Dread Station were secretly funneled into the main stream adult population of Death Compound which was itself still subject to another line of exterminations, this time by the decision and hands of the spiritual keepers of the Compound: The Massacres.  And of course there are other organizations used to alter the absoluteness of the rituals taking place with The Massacres.  But that goes above and beyond the scope of this story about Death Compound.

Zachary Killdove enters the Termination Protocol interogation office at Dread Station and takes a seat in front of a desk occupied by two Massacres.  "It is the middle of the murky moon beam rain and death has been held over your head for your entire existence.  What do you have to say for yourself such that you shall be permitted to take another breath?"

Zach's face molds itself in a repugnant aire and answers, "I am everything you are not.  I want nothing to do with your ilk."

The two Massacres hold their ground and the beaming blank stares of their masks hide all facial expressions.  "But that is the very reason why we want you.  Do not you see?"

Zach's eyes reach an overloaded pitch of red murder as he quietly mutters, "I refuse..."   

"Go from us now.  You have had enough time to sift the scenario through your mind.  Banished you are to the Desert of Moldar where you shall finally breathe freely and fill your lungs with sand."

Happy Glow Bugs

Blue Giant stars are no longer talked about on earth.  A very spiritual group that called themselves The Celestials worshiped The Pleiades Cluster in their exotic blue glassed temples.  One day all of the temple maidens were found dead with blue star ooze dripping out of their eyes.  This was quite a shock to the masses who had the channels on their neuron up-links set to The Celestial's broadcast.  After the temple maidens were found dead, other reports from around the world revealed isolated, solitary people tapped into The Celestial worship neuron up-link bandwidth - which was a soothing icy embrace grace - dead with blue star ooze flowing from their eyes.  Following the incident, in which at least 10 million people died, the worship of the Pleiades was terminated on Earth.

Several years following the incident, a young, tender girl, unsure exactly why the blue giant star massacre had occurred when she overheard adults talking germanely, followed a happy glow bug into the woods.  Around a shadow of foliage the happy glow bug joined six other glow bugs and hovered floated in the formation of the Pleiades Cluster.  The young girl began to tear, dropped to her knees before the glow bugs, whispering to cooing the earth.

Annals: A Walk Through the Walled In Pond Meadow

Calcium bone framed flesh machines approaching wooded bower.  Traction.  Skipping rocks. Snapping twigs echoe deep and crisp.  Prodded by a rogue branch.  Slashed grabbed by barbed grasses.  Nuzzled by the rock tread touch and grassy brass embrace.  And to the sanctuary bridge to burn the ceremonial grasses.  But all was not right.  A machine state probe was emitting frequencies in the area toggling and affecting my brain frequencies and systems.  The state machine has an input brand in all of our minds but to different extents.  Some people are seduced by the petty power struggles and fill the void of their existence pursuing this and that politically - actively or broodingly and private.  The first step to freeing the mind of a poison is to forget all about such matters.  They still may lick your mind from time to time and sometimes heavily, but a fight leads to a war which should be waged with grace.  Mentally vanquish this force.  Own it.  And so as the embers burned the winds of the Walled In Pond Woods changed.  I walked gently through the meadow with surreal enchantment who's potency was shielded only by the 3-d photonic veil.

And my mind went lost into oblivion through a portion of the wood; Dead Wood.  Lost to the extent that I hadn't realized that I had even passed through that section of the words until it whispered in my ear building to the point where some new neuro-tech technology - that was highjacked from the Mexican State - was implemented in my psyche while I walked.

The realization of the name Dead Wood occurred yesterday as my joyous tread through the leaves and pebbles and naked soil and sticks and stones lead my eyes to the realization that many dead trees snapped in half littered a particular area; large branches, half trunks, rot wood, leafed branches, all spread out across the bower's blanket of dead brown pine needles.  The place spoke through my neural Mexican hijacked mind voice tech, "This is Dead Wood."  The fact that I missed walking through Dead Wood today, as it was a dead space in my memory, added mystique to the stand of trees licked by the wind and other elements of their existence roughly, destructively - so as to leave so many dead broken trees standing - was lost to me until the vacant memory and place whispered in my ear today after a fine embrace of silence and prior anticipation to meld my presence again with the place.

Before I passed the Dead Wood stand, sumptuous candy boulders lined the path.  I sat upon one with an enchanting patch of bright green moss.  I burned ceremonial grasses and listened to the static sound of myriad small snow flakes hitting the leaves. A beautiful early spring flurry.  A savant would tell you the number of strikes occurring in the forest precisely at any given moment.  I will tell you it was the haggard ways of the Walled In Pond Woods with houses seen through the trees in the distance.  An outpost along the path.  An ugly view point.  Static as in a down line, a broken pylon, a snapping power cable raging equalizing.

And after I left the boulder, in my mind, from just beyond the horizon, a silent audible voice spoke the words, "Dead Wood!" in a laughing sinister way.  When I was traveling in Mexico on one particular bus ride in the middle of nowhere in particular, the horizon started raging in the incantation of,  "Mexico," in the type of mode used as in the making of a brand on a mind.   And so this neuro-tech technology, used in  the Mexican country, was installed into the Walled In Pond Woods by Nobody, the friend to one and all, and it called out Dead Wood in the style of Mexico which was rather enchanting.

And then I became self-conscious like I should not have heard such things and alas I had arrived at Benz street.  Civilization at last!  And as I walked down the house lined street hugging the curb like a penguin hugging a hare's ass as cars passed, I pondered Arthur C. Clarke's social commentary in his Rama Series.  There was indeed a purifying separation of humans done by Rama but that of course was a judgement device designed by Arthur C. Clarke himself.  And so it went that the criminals were removed so the good people could finally get about their business.  Pretty lame.  And, nobody knows what happens to the criminals either.  The criminals of the U.S.A. government driving the grey toxic ooze of civilization to cover the face of all land on the planet and pumping the atmosphere with dangerous levels of carbon dioxide should be disposed of.  And any element clinging to the extent that it would be destruction to remove it safely, should also be destroyed.  That is my Rama judgement.

Vernal Hours

Tell me a tale so that I can rip my heart out raw and sit dumbfounded in shock afterwards not even knowing what hit me.  "Why don't you just go run into a wall dummy?"  Death and the happiest moments always seem to mingle so well.  I can't help that I want to be launched like a rocket, that is just how my mind is configured.  Go figure.  The happy American sits in his house of rot and smiles in front of the television peaceful as a plum.  All of 'they,' their repellent,  inscrutable essences leak out from under the rug, dark mildewy corners, and soiled bed sheets wafting into the open air as the winter days of isolation end.  A pestilential fog of good tidings and flowery air mixed with industrialized good will to all.  Hold on a moment, allow me to puke... Flowers are violent and delicate...  Beautiful the birds chirping sounds now?  Woe that the winter has ended that the putrid foulness of my dear fellow man can air out in the temperate spring thaw like a mutilated corpse decaying.  Perhaps my savage, bitter, spiteful feelings are deceiving and playing tricks.  Perhaps it is me that I am sensing, lost in my own labyrinthine thoughts.  But I know another better side of things.  The reek of man sucking on exhaust pipes and drinking anti-freeze for breakfast all in the name of recycling is fresh and going fast.  My spring time was aborted with chemicals.  Injections.  I am a threat to mankind in my berserk ways and whiles.  I could hear the civilization murmur then.  It wanted to poison my reason for existing all for my own good.  And this is what I am left with.  This foul gunk of a spring devoid of animating spirits.  This is what the common person must feel during this season.  This pastel laden, cute bunny hop wonderland of respite from the unbearable unthinkable cold which I relished like a true Swede.   Let me dance with suicide and darken blemish rosy cheeked youth.  Let me bend to nonfunctional obscene motorcycle hog tail pipes and gun down adrenaline junkies. Forgive me vernal hours for this ugly face I am making.

The Chase

Slow trickle blood
Stains sand red
The fraud walks on
Flash claws and rage
Only to fall
In line
When embraced by the machine

Scream songs resound
Barraging sound bunkers
Crushing ear reticulum
Freedom howls amidst those chained
All busy void mocking
This is the land of wage whore slaves
Writhe under the gravitic heat of lead

The last tree stands in broken bower
Marked by nameless graves
Haunted by cruel, vengeful animal spirits
What there was to hear
Went unheeded
Lost in the mindless tech pandemonium
Machine Gods greedy for worship

Drakum Dage Dim to last tree approaches
A tremor takes possession
Of his body
Black Glock cold still tremblicle in his blue hand
The overwhelming maelstrom bites sinks deep
And with insidious speed reaches his dark heart
A wild hell spawn howl echoes within

With tear strewn face
Drakum Dage Dim flees
Desecrated hallowed grounds
To his auto red
Vendetta wrath seething boiling
Crazy rash spell all consuming
Juggernaut total control

Silver mercury sun orb beams hard
Memory fire of trees float on the air like ash
Black smog pours into the sky
From towers around circumference of horizon
Mellow prosaic shell shocked God fearing folk
Drive on banal oblivious happy
Flash bang! One falls dead
Shattering ripples across the socius

Red blue lights flash in the rear view
Angry sirens fall upon deaf ears
The juggernaut is given chase
By the calloused hands
Of the machine state
Protocol directives
And blind stress fractures

Black helicopters circle
Millions watch the spectacle
From glow box couches
Happy rot perverted minds
Eager to see the scene unfold
The red juggernaut tears down the asphalt
Pursued by the claws of a monster

In desperation Drakum Dage Dim
Screeches to a dusty halt in scrub wasteland
Leaving his red auto behind with Glock in hand
He runs desperately through the boiling sand
A din of rotor blades bites pounds the air
Viewers frown and shake their heads
Drakum Dage Dim stops abruptly and looks to the sky

Sun beams blind Drakum Dage Dim as his retinas burn
Rapier pitches obliterate the scene
He feels the Glock cold heavy still in his blue hand
A wild hell spawn howl breaks into the brightness of day from his breast
Drakum Dage Dim finds himself face to face with God
The black Glock is raised to head
Berserk laughter rains flash bang!

Have a Nice Day

The crow sits upon a piney fir looking over the expanse of a sea of flesh below.  I tire of whores.  Maldoror get in there and murder someone please, it will ease my ailing mind.  The dackdactic poet wrote on and on.  Pages flew furiously in the tempest as the end of history drew nigh.  The accursed, unsuspecting world was drawn comfortably into the hypnotic delusion raging onwards and upwards like a satiated, varicose stomach constantly fed the excrement of television benedictions.  The world doesn't exist anymore due to technological distortions.  Nothing you have heard of is worth anything and everything you have not heard of is probably the same or incomprehensible or pigshit.  Nuclear warheads primed to launch.  Maybe the innocence and magic of a child will stay you for a while.  Please!  Allow me to run the little gem over with a tank.  Did you hear the sound of the skull popping as the treads rolled on?  The expanse of the universe yawns at this fury and the sun chuckles.  Dream a dreamy dream to woo the void and beseech it to tell you secrets.  You are a chosen one.  The stars smile upon you.  Let them disappoint you afterwards in cruel jest and nasty dissipation.  Never look at the stars.  They are liars.  Take me to the edges of the earth and permit me to forget from where I come.  How futile, me thinks, as the ether sludge from the citadel dumps toxic waste into eagerly awaiting minds.  Have a nice day.

Ill Thoughts

Ill thoughts.  Nothing cares.  Nothing has come to assist.  Love is a delusion.  The earth wants you dead.  Golden hearts rot over the eternal flame.  Disenchantment from ether blazing psychotic ways and days - an hypnotic illusion - a small, fracturing joke of the grand game.  Doom and destruction lick the metal shard platform.  The foreground awakens.  We have lives to live.  The machine enslaves all.  We have families to bear and imbue under the green toxic sludge sky.  Behold!  The land is a graveyard.  Rattle rattle clunk clunk... Vehicles drive on surly happy the distance.  Shall I flee to Columbia and join the FARC?  I vainly stretch my claws to reap destruction.  And yet I sit on this promontory overlooking the Citadel with sinister winds whipping whispering licking by.

The eve of annihilation draws near.  Frenzied screams ring out through the wretched scum ridden glades and dales frosted scummy by the ether winds of the citadel drenching it's environs with ill intentioned nightmare inducing smog.  Why is it that we cannot envision these nightmare's ourselves?  We have to be inspired by some fake, synthetic glow screen horror.  The instinct for real actual true terror, panic, chaos, dread seems to have been lost somewhere.  Putty flip-heads line the streets in masked smiles waving germanely with noxious effusive beam winds of rotting spirits enveloping them like a force field cloud; the roses of their creator.  Let us talk to one on the boulevard there.  "And how are things today sir?" "Fine indeed.  Everything is in perfect divine order," he replies with his hog-nosed smile mask gleaming. The guttural slime and mildew of rotting bodies and souls forsaken ever more here on this earth drowning in sin clamber up my legs from the pavement surface; zombies in their own right.  But what does it matter their day, Ragnarok draws nigh.

Soul Rot

A spider crawled beneath a vaulted arch sky high.  He could smell pain and suffering on the horizon.  He continued under the arch and into a vaulted room lit pubescent yellow.  The smell of blood reeked in the air...  Grumblings from giants 16 strong spanning skyward almost as far as sky high were audible.  This did not deter our spider, a toxic bio-hazard accident experiment haunting the halls and vaults filled with pain and suffering.  Our spider was a bone master Level 79 enchanter with venom enough to melt bones because he was the product of a toxic bio-hazard experiment.  The spider was full of patience and cunning and had yet to strike one of the raging, sultry, cold, rot souled giants because he was sure it would cause a stir and that would be the end of him.  So he sat with all of this latent potency stirring within it's sack.  And behold a whiff of soul rot so strong, derangement fielded from some control nexus that no single mind could construct in one image or a lifetime of images because it was so vast and incomprehensible and mindlessly devouring spasmodically in ways that no-one can predict.

And this very unsightliness is caused by the demented nature of growing beyond the bounds in such an unsustainable, unstable way.  And the great squeeze and bending of people into some undefinable thing for the great empty purposes of nothing that anyone can explain, the machine simply started and never stopped, leaving rot marks and pockets of deterioration large scale.  But the spider had not encountered anything of this ghastly sort in giants before but he knew that being treated at the hospital at times brought about overbearing pride and massive delusions of self-importance; the order of rank run amok amongst plebeians themselves a horror affair, joke upon joke.  And then these people become involved with government themselves and because they are plebeians, other plebeians like themselves become involved, and, so it goes, the masses slowly erode the fabric of mankind when there are no powerful forces about, like Caesar, Hitler, Napoleon.

There is plenty of latent energy opposed to such things but locked away in books.  Perhaps nobody who can do anything about it can understand, and anyone who understands can't do anything about it.   But anyhow, these soul rotted giants began their murmurs in utter grim solemn earnestness, dripping excessive pride and megalomania-cal self importance all the while despite being as hushed and reserved as possible about it.  The spider then became enveloped in a waft of soul rot fumes being emitted by the giants 16 strong.  He nearly rolled over and died due to powerful strength of the emission and the redeeming trite love of their creator, they being his roses.  After taking a moment to recover from the surge, the spider feels a burst of mach razor blaze strength and tears across the floor of the vaulted room towards the unsuspecting giants 16 strong.

The spider quickly jumps up the fat plump leg of the vulnerable piteous creature resembling a pig way past overdue for slaughter and sinks his deadly fangs into flesh until blood is tasted and his poison sack emptied in an orgasmic, spasmodic surge of wraith and destruction and doom.  A scream pierces the air.  The giants quickly look at the afflicted one and notice black veins climbing up the bitten leg racing towards the heart and bones.  The spider quickly jumps to another giant in a fervent berserk frenzy craving.  But the adroit giants, now 15 strong, alerted of the spiders' wiles quickly bring and end to our vengeful friend as the afflicted one falls to the floor unable to stand because her bones within the bitten leg had melted.

353 Severe Chant

Machine Gods watching over me
I don't like to believe in
But what I have seen
Nirvanic flashes of ethereal lightning
Flashing through me
Shall I never burn again
In such a way
More fully connected
To the grid mainframe

And their eyes...
I want to cut them all out
So that they can see this clear
Bleed bleed...

I want to throw a razor
Into a hurricane
May it cut-well and prevail resounding
Ego brendatic fractic tik tactic
Strike down defiance
Strike me down
All that oppose


Radical fires burn
Blurring horizons with
Black smoke
The languishing beast
Rattles it's chain
At the edge of the world
People jump
Into the abyss

Eminem: Absorbed by the State

Well if everything Nietzsche said was true because he said everything the church says is false, which is true, then it would be true for me to say that I will never go down like Eminem.  Meaning: there will always be gas masks and bio hazard toxic chemicals.  I mean, never would I appear in a Chevrolet commercial.

Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist. ~Pablo Picasso

Raising Crosses

Burn a rip into
3-d veils
I never wanted
To see
What I saw there
Harder and dread thirsty
I have become
Maybe through
Spilled blood
And hate
Can we stumble upon love
But, not like this
Not by raising crosses

Gangrenous Wounds of Blasphemy

Star mirth pulse nigh
Twinkle photon rays
Alight this planet
Of bent and twisted minds

Apollo's truth blazes pure in the sky
Siphoned by seekers
Inflicted into
Gangrenous wounds of blasphemy

Nirvanic mellows
Amidst the dappled bower
Naked earth
And mossy rock

Murderous predators
Vengeful hatred
Truth dissolves in the beauty
Of death's embrace

A Note on Philosophy

My philosophy is if you are not wise enough to develop and live and write your own then become a warrior and allow one to choose you and fight to the death for it.  I fell into Nietzsche full beaming bright like running into a star hard in high school and never looked back and I have followed his trail into Emerson, Thoreau, Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari, Artaud, Dostoevsky, Lautreamont, Bataille, Goethe.  There are certainly more.  If you are an atheist you need to know there is more to life than disparaging Christians and nihilizing the world and hating the nausea of humanity.  You also need a backbone and that is not found through trite internet sites and television sporting events and overdosing on beer in side shows where most people find themselves when they are not doing their slaves duty for the state.  It would be so easy for people to think differently about things but they loose themselves in alarm clock cycles and the rigors of mind erasing routines for the sake of the machine.  And they think nothing of picking up a book in an attempt to take life seriously, there is no time.  And besides, most people would rather forget themselves anyway.  And if they do, it is for an escape, a nihilistic death wish or for a skewed twisted sequence of divine reason and truth probably lead by the Pope or the Dhali Llama or involves flicking around the concept of money like a golden nugget on their tongue.  People dream of gold and notoriety and petty fame these days and nobody hears about anything more than that.  Or if some innocent child or innocent bystander is gunned down the whole world's populace sheds a piteous tear like death was the devil and that nobody can stand the sight of its wretched face.  Perilous promontories and jagged rocky cliffs.  Nobody thinks twice about the cow in a steakhouse.  When you live on a planet of eight billion creatures the same rules should apply.   Newspapers fly off the stand as a public has nowhere to look for a good word as their minds rot in a media pollution storm.  Academic's lose themselves in rooms where moths fly frantically from the pages of books as they plate the hardware of the machine state. The land of ballistic missiles, ultra hi-tech stealth, all for the sake of an empire of guns, burning oil, polluting the planet and tempting a scorching from our solar body of radiance.  Look to Nietzsche.  He wrote a book entitled The Anti-Christ and is that very thing - Ecce Anti-Christ Homo.  He is still a likely candidate to break history into pieces like Christ did 2000 years prior.  And then look to his heritage and then let it guide you.  Then tear it to shreds and loose it entirely.  And then maybe someday along the road when you have lost yourself completely, you will find that these words become part of you, whisper through your bones and heart. I warn you, I am troubled.

Middle Eastern Politics and The Problems of Western Imperial Military Entrenchment

Israel is inhibiting peace in the world by obstinately making a military bunker compound out of it's territory and building tanks and housing nuclear weapons most probably aimed and readied to launch on Iran.  Is mediation the skeleton key to a peaceful Middle East as in now exists?  Probably not when Israel has one of the most expansive armed forces per capita in the world and requires all citizens to undergo military training.  Arms and walls are not the road to peace.  If Israelis were true peace fairing peoples, they would realize it is them who are dynamic enough to stand down, not the entire amalgamation of countries that comprise the Middle East which envelops Israel.  This is a matter of pragmatics.  Abandon and initiate a mass exodus and give the UN sovereignty over the territory as a sacred religious artifact for the entire world in a uniting method as well as disarm the Israeli nuclear warheads and disband the Israeli military - the USA should  follow suit and disband it's entire military as well and build the world instead of patrolling with the most expansive military the planet has yet to see like a hated Imperial police force dumping unheard of fortunes into empty, unsustainable, destructive, empty skirmishes and exorbitantly priced war machines.  Who needs a country anyway these days?  What worthless ambitions.  Better to be a nomadic, peace fairing people than dogged, obstinate bunker builders parading tanks and creating an Achilles heal nerve aborting peace that the rest of the world must suffer and endure.