Sunday, May 19, 2013

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.

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