Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Question of the Night, Metaphysical Ontology of Evil, and, The Overman

Have you ever heard of some of the greatest people to live that could not record any of it because they were not writers or what they had written was destroyed and not widely distributed?  I mean what affect do they inflict on the populous by existing.  If one believes in - The Force - someone may have Overman beckoning powers to inflict themselves, essentially programming, the Brahma Programmatic Core quietly, silently by sheer autopilot will. 

 Metaphysical Ontology of Evil

Pay the daemons of the mind important homage fore they have something important to say.  This does not mean pick up an axe and murder someone through the head.  Unless of course the voices tell you to and for some reason or another they seduce you to these deeds.  Desolation and warrior a-hunt moods.  Multifarious murder and dangerous destruction raining down from Hollywood glow screens in epic proportion as the ashes of the mind get soggy in the drizzle of prosaic over-population doldrums of state enforced fascism.  The voices bidding one commit an axe murder is a contingency insertion probe derived from a gravitized pole of force named evil.  That is funny.  My metaphysical ontology involves the metaphysical probe core for evil.

I have been reading an accumulating number of Nietzsche's aphorisms lately and stumbled upon the overman in Zarathustra - The New Idol.  "Where the state ends - look there, my brothers!  Do you not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the overman?"  I turned away and could not believe something so unexpected and empty of an emotion after all of the reverence I had had from earlier readings flowing through my mind forcing this re-encounter with him who I consider as one of my teachers.   There was so much more to see in actually opening the books.  I was crushed because I did not see...

Monday, November 11, 2013

Dostoyevsky and Laughter

“If you wish to glimpse inside a human soul and get to know a man, don't bother analyzing his ways of being silent, of talking, of weeping, of seeing how much he is moved by noble ideas; you will get better results if you just watch him laugh. If he laughs well, he's a good man.”


I have a joke machine automatic in my head that tells jokes and I have laughter problems because I hate to laugh at times but can't help myself because I am such a good laughter.  I mean what I meant to say is that I smuggled the ludicrous machine probe from Aldebaran ten years ago through the ether when I lived in Seattle and laughed myself to silly death dictum come through the heart of the night sporadically for a while during the passing of the winter dark star amidst psychotic nirvanic delirium.  Ever since then laughs sneak up on me from always unbeknownst angles and regions.  I have battles and wars with laughter.  And the more I think about this quote the more confused I become about laughing because the sound is elusive and I second, third, and forth guess myself.  Sometimes I sound like I am making an animal noise out in the woods when I laugh there.  Sometimes I sound like a creature that is in desperate need of being shot as a wounded horse is put down.  I always laugh at the height of my mental anguish as if the treacherous sadistic peak had then been cleared and I have surmounted gravity's darkness.  I am freer and more genuine in my laughter when alone and by myself in solitude.  Laughter seems to be associated more with charm than beauty as beauty is the realm of tears.  Is that laughing well?  I don't know...

Saturday, November 9, 2013

A Blast from the Past: Short Bio or A Note on Publishing

I am a destructic-dis-true-creativatic functionalistic-atum-isic poet-tick. A wittic wit-tick, engineering mathematical boredom probage dull bag vapidity scorched by surreal astral luminary yielding essence ether slice-ic dice-ic wordic triflictulation-ative-izing poesia poetical fraudulence inadvertently, by celestial lathe milking process, aim-ed at wooing cooing Gaea Whore Witch Goddess, essence ether superstitiousic experimentalizing, to catch a silent blaring echo report, to validate purity of organic transmission frequency signal in order to ponder the deformative, twisted, bentedness, of the honesty of trith and bitty (truth and beauty) for the sake of destructification by tear at the hand of distorted trith and bitty.

A few came forth - bravely - perhaps wrongly - and saw a shimmering Dathem Genthen Dorphin Spreker lit lighted - me, a nihilistickism - in front a their faces glowing.  In other words, I am a tail pipe sucker, black burn face off, whoop whoop whoop, gas mask masked organic toxicity living in Pleasantville at 70 degrees farenheit. Trith and bitty frowned-fawned-acknowledgeded this undertaking after I turned away from their talismans and scarabs for bearing themselves so nakedly.  Boo! Boo! Boo who hoo. Speaketh the owl. Cry tear nast nesty naizzy crizzy crazzy crazy!  And then, the surreal astral luminary, or maybe star essence, scorched my mind again leading to my quarantine in Awol Risk Bedlam Ward or simply a hospitalization.  Or rather, what I like to call my witch trials due to the absolute absurd rationality - sanely sane be my motto - of the Poison Toothed Heads, or rather psychiatrists, who thought me to be wrong, abnormal, sick, incapable to handle my own affairs, as I screamed my scorched head off at them, incipient inferno, which of course is only acceptable when one is locked down in captivity, the Awol Resort of sorts, like a wild beast... or something...

The warm machine, humanistic age guardian, normalizing the decadent, cancerous, grey concrete metal machine sludge of a civilization, will cover every reach of this place with an alloy platform - one of these days - and hence my toxicity and gaskmaskedness and superstitiousic sniffing of acid rain pine needles and sipping of the Hermaphroditic Gaea Which Whore Goddess's Bandit Clown Oil hybird caw-cawk-tail brew.  Crazzy crazy hazy hazzy be I?! A witch trial I say, a witch trial. The Gaea Which Whore Goddess told me so.

Anyhow, I have strayed from the point, which I can't help doing as all people ever do is talk like machine robots - all set, allright, ok - and interrogate tactful-lessly about ones origins and what ones business is, as if one always needed an excuse or reason to be sitting there under the Big Brother eye - in utter solemn seriousness.  And for a change of pace, yap and yip and yep about what kind of sprocket they are and where they are plugged into the machine grid, girl aphrodesiatic, hynotic, deprivationalation, toxic tonic narcotic, and the grand hypnotic spectacle Sport, once they have properly scrutinized each others mechness.  And to dash interaction with a finishing stroke, cast, throw, burp a charming little Americanic grunt laugh, that sounds like, what I call a Junker Call, that is, I guess, supposed to be a charm or charming?

And the reason I presume the sun star surreal astral celestial luminary scorched my mind out was due to my inability to swallow the machine protocol grid which made me so sick that I started spewing up anihilitic toxic slice-ic dice-ic wordic sludge due to the machine griddings and sprockets within me unable to engage, establish, and sustain a slavery/worker lifetime protocol programatic.  And thus I deem these novice, green neophyte attempts at poetizing: my Poet-tick try-sings, like songs - directed at Nobody and No-one - my two grandest of companions.

I also I didn't want to disappoint the humanic mech bots who spoke to me, off hand, ironically and randomly, about what my task was to be, and, that really it was their machine nature that prompted them to think I was a poet or maybe rather a creative fraudulent poser.  And by the way, who needs another poetry book today by some toxic hurling pen scribbler with greatness breaking his spine in two that some dud will read and propagate dudiness all the world over.  Then I spoke with Nobody and No-one, and my auotpilot will - mechanistic - gridded this writing, and my two ass-os-e-ats reminded me how much I like little protocol humanic droids running around and how junked out junker sludge was the ignition spawnic hole to fate-ic anihiliticus tread-ic poetic chant-ic rants and thus the coalescence of this prance-ic dance-ic muse-ic song. I do feel like Farenheit 451-ing or Alexandria-ing the place half the time.  Half the time...Incipient confliction...

Friday, November 8, 2013

Dark Matters

Happiness is shy.

Celesta and Love

I think I fell in love with the woman who gave a talk at Yale University - Kathleen Higgins.  Her aplomb was amazing.  Her tone and references charming - her weapon tool wielded firmly, quietly, surely.  She mentioned Gay Science (92) an aphorism concerning the war between prose and poetry, the demure goddess, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, dear to my heart, as well as The Stillest Hour from Zarathustra another one dear. These two mentions were uncanny. In my delusional world of ether blazing, Celest, or now, Celesta, has now been graced by another.  I cannot write more than this now.  Experience is too close in happening and when a dramatically immediate, comically inculcated, lurid lucidity happens to me, one should not be writing when this is occurring.  That is how phantoms are spawned into existence.  And I can never bring back what was said, felt, experienced because it was a kiss from the desiring-machine, or a god who is dead, for those less acquainted, not some perverted, Christian-papal, french deep throating... ..!.. .. _-."::'' {[Syncamuroau...