Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
Masturbating The War God
: it's two girls singing in perfect harmony with extremely high pitch : it sounds like some disgusting perversion of angels singing but then I think about it and it really is that and it scares, a lot
: cocteau twins: sounds like a murder file
Ain't nothing wrong, ain't nothing right
because you're a naturally beautiful girl and you exhude that brilliance in an offhanded manner
A real test of will is of course, an exodus of power
maybe this can be a conjecture to settle at
truthfully, no, this isn't how you become honest
well that's easy, I'll make it out of wood
partly destroyed, easily.
but what does that mean?
Do you find a conclusion then?
yes, the summer doesn't forget to come.
no, it's not because it has feelings.
Yes, it has a soul.
I think you like asking me things I already know.
Now I cannot refer to myself. Does it bother you?
Yes, that is your brother. He doesn't love you,
because he doesn't love you.
His father is also your father, remember that at all times.
we both know how it ended last time
He's your only brother. You guys have blood.
If your movements become romantic,
be known to a foreign friend.
yeah, keep your knots tied and your glass dry.
As if advice comes cheap.
don't look at me that way, fuck you
you treat the vermin better than me
fuck you, yeah, fuck you
that's all there is
A real test of will is of course, an exodus of power
maybe this can be a conjecture to settle at
truthfully, no, this isn't how you become honest
well that's easy, I'll make it out of wood
partly destroyed, easily.
but what does that mean?
Do you find a conclusion then?
yes, the summer doesn't forget to come.
no, it's not because it has feelings.
Yes, it has a soul.
I think you like asking me things I already know.
Now I cannot refer to myself. Does it bother you?
Yes, that is your brother. He doesn't love you,
because he doesn't love you.
His father is also your father, remember that at all times.
we both know how it ended last time
He's your only brother. You guys have blood.
If your movements become romantic,
be known to a foreign friend.
yeah, keep your knots tied and your glass dry.
As if advice comes cheap.
don't look at me that way, fuck you
you treat the vermin better than me
fuck you, yeah, fuck you
that's all there is
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
happy fucking birthday, birthday boy birthday girl
: well this sort of stemmed from an idea as to how to debunk the theory of relativity, which therefore makes it contextual. if the manifestation of true "perception", that is to say perceptability of existance that includes infinity and that single point as to which you made this encompassiong observation, cannot be achieved because nothing is deconstructable to a single point without having to back yourself into another 'point' then it is irreducably evident that the idea of an "all knowing" or "omniscient" perspective is vital to... well vital to i don't know what but it's fucking supposed to be there
: hahaha fuck yes: that was grand
Semantic dysentery
Dear Journal,
Our boy Bobby. That old esoteric Yankee name, bred from truly creative denizens from here to Hoboken. Where there ever were a name to hang your hat on, it was Bobby. No, not Robert. Not Robert by a long shot, for it is easy to see Robert is a mere bastardization of a truly harmonious title. Far from risk of dissent I claim the name Robert to be a truly offensive term, in the name of geometry and theology. For first-hand evidence, close your eyes and recall the name Bobby, and assuredly the image you will conjure will be one of innocuous halcyon. Feel no shame in embracing it, for I have a many time in quiet reverence.
But the grim reality is that Robert is a plague upon our nation spreading at lightning pace. Before departing from an uplifting inner vision of Bobby and imagining those six (as opposed to the perfect five of discord) letters of shame, Robert, brace yourself for a debauchered scene. My personal experience is a mirrored image of the dreams which have haunted my slumber over the past four fortnight. Based on their menacing connotation, these dreams deserve thorough consideration. They are as follows: A suited man, crisply dressed and sharply featured, is sitting at a large and quite lavish smooth wooden chair (a more accurate description being an intermediate throne). To his front sits an ornate wooden table, with wood similar in characteristics of the chair, which I have previously concluded to be mahogany upon much introspection and deduction. This realization will to be prove useful empirically for my hypotheses, which shall be presented later. In the few lucidly aware dreams, I am able to reel my vantage away from my character and notice more chairs to his starboard and port. On his far right, a shadowed chair of colossal proportions sits in the center of the table (which by now, is beginning to feel Brobdingnagian in stupefactioning size).
Moving forward again, I am able to "view" what the cripsly dressed man is doing. A small parchment, of irregular size, is being attended to by the pen in his favored hand. Through no palpable means, my viewpoint becomes instantly transported to this parchment when he places the pen down. Normally by this time I awake in a clammy and heart racing fright, but I can now proudly reveal that mere seconds before I dipped this pen into the ink on the bed stand next to my hammock to write this Journal entry, I contended to remain immersed (admittedly, a shaky lingering at best) long enough to capture the heading of the paper and absorb the freshly penned ink scratched by my starched and square friend. The heading follows as "COINTELPRO: DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR., CASE STUDY" pasted by what was obviously fresh ribbon. As shocked as I became by this phrase, which I had become immediately aware of it's implications, I soon remembered my original intent of reading the professional looking chap's addendum. I could feel that my time was short, and by a grace of Fortuna I glimpsed my goal by a hairsbreadth, for I had been yanked from my pineal induced extra-sensory perception shortly after. There it lay, that woeful single name as to which I now know shall be either my blessing or my fast track to social pariah. There it lay, written on a straight line at the bottom right of this soon to be infamous document. There it lay, the English languages most heretical form, the name Robert. Additional words followed it, which I now fail to recall to my piercingly unquenchable third eye. Dismiss that, I just now remembered them, and why their implications were so furiously important. In a brief pause of this soliloquy, to reach for liquid paper would besmirch this train of thought that is chugging at a velocity capable of disproving Einstein's Special Theory, therefore the presently erroneous line will remain without purpose. Returning, the other words after the name that I now even think about with distaste, is F. Kennedy.
May haps a purported outlash on my sanity, colleagues have reported varying experiences into the mind when careful consideration is in mind, but I observed a centrally recurring theme in them all. That is, of course, sodomistic iniquity. My Dear Journal, homosexuality of the body and soul can and will be the truly crippling sin in our beautiful country of America. For this reason, today I unceremoniously pen this Journal entry, and by the will of none, the paper and ink ascend into immortal divinity. On behalf of a beleaguered populace of what will soon be refined and purposeful ad infinitum, I declare a holy war. Not so simply a dogmatic abortion of sense and sobriety that the name implies, this holy war is without evangelism, seeking instead the justice of morality and of course, geometry and theology. I will make my plans brief and withhold a garrulous outline of my idealistic and grandiose contingency plan. In fact, it shall be brief enough to contain in one sentence with no remaining extraneous effects.
Simply, learn to spot a patsy and be wary of those not to be trusted. My ego and super-ego have been tampered with greatly, for I feel as if I have been chosen by some devilish experiment to alter one's perception. To a layman the consideration of their own thoughts, the one true sanctuary, turned to a marionette, can be a sullen mental evaluation. I can say with a sore hand and emptying ink bottle that wedging this essay under my mattress is not what my true subconscious would incline to. I am positively inclined to do it on a completely different, fanatic sense. This sense I cannot be sure of, for I cannot even allow it to be named. The one thing I can be sure of, is our boy Bobby, and that devil of a name. Robert.
August 12th, 1968
Sergeant Paul Sharaga
Our boy Bobby. That old esoteric Yankee name, bred from truly creative denizens from here to Hoboken. Where there ever were a name to hang your hat on, it was Bobby. No, not Robert. Not Robert by a long shot, for it is easy to see Robert is a mere bastardization of a truly harmonious title. Far from risk of dissent I claim the name Robert to be a truly offensive term, in the name of geometry and theology. For first-hand evidence, close your eyes and recall the name Bobby, and assuredly the image you will conjure will be one of innocuous halcyon. Feel no shame in embracing it, for I have a many time in quiet reverence.
But the grim reality is that Robert is a plague upon our nation spreading at lightning pace. Before departing from an uplifting inner vision of Bobby and imagining those six (as opposed to the perfect five of discord) letters of shame, Robert, brace yourself for a debauchered scene. My personal experience is a mirrored image of the dreams which have haunted my slumber over the past four fortnight. Based on their menacing connotation, these dreams deserve thorough consideration. They are as follows: A suited man, crisply dressed and sharply featured, is sitting at a large and quite lavish smooth wooden chair (a more accurate description being an intermediate throne). To his front sits an ornate wooden table, with wood similar in characteristics of the chair, which I have previously concluded to be mahogany upon much introspection and deduction. This realization will to be prove useful empirically for my hypotheses, which shall be presented later. In the few lucidly aware dreams, I am able to reel my vantage away from my character and notice more chairs to his starboard and port. On his far right, a shadowed chair of colossal proportions sits in the center of the table (which by now, is beginning to feel Brobdingnagian in stupefactioning size).
Moving forward again, I am able to "view" what the cripsly dressed man is doing. A small parchment, of irregular size, is being attended to by the pen in his favored hand. Through no palpable means, my viewpoint becomes instantly transported to this parchment when he places the pen down. Normally by this time I awake in a clammy and heart racing fright, but I can now proudly reveal that mere seconds before I dipped this pen into the ink on the bed stand next to my hammock to write this Journal entry, I contended to remain immersed (admittedly, a shaky lingering at best) long enough to capture the heading of the paper and absorb the freshly penned ink scratched by my starched and square friend. The heading follows as "COINTELPRO: DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR., CASE STUDY" pasted by what was obviously fresh ribbon. As shocked as I became by this phrase, which I had become immediately aware of it's implications, I soon remembered my original intent of reading the professional looking chap's addendum. I could feel that my time was short, and by a grace of Fortuna I glimpsed my goal by a hairsbreadth, for I had been yanked from my pineal induced extra-sensory perception shortly after. There it lay, that woeful single name as to which I now know shall be either my blessing or my fast track to social pariah. There it lay, written on a straight line at the bottom right of this soon to be infamous document. There it lay, the English languages most heretical form, the name Robert. Additional words followed it, which I now fail to recall to my piercingly unquenchable third eye. Dismiss that, I just now remembered them, and why their implications were so furiously important. In a brief pause of this soliloquy, to reach for liquid paper would besmirch this train of thought that is chugging at a velocity capable of disproving Einstein's Special Theory, therefore the presently erroneous line will remain without purpose. Returning, the other words after the name that I now even think about with distaste, is F. Kennedy.
May haps a purported outlash on my sanity, colleagues have reported varying experiences into the mind when careful consideration is in mind, but I observed a centrally recurring theme in them all. That is, of course, sodomistic iniquity. My Dear Journal, homosexuality of the body and soul can and will be the truly crippling sin in our beautiful country of America. For this reason, today I unceremoniously pen this Journal entry, and by the will of none, the paper and ink ascend into immortal divinity. On behalf of a beleaguered populace of what will soon be refined and purposeful ad infinitum, I declare a holy war. Not so simply a dogmatic abortion of sense and sobriety that the name implies, this holy war is without evangelism, seeking instead the justice of morality and of course, geometry and theology. I will make my plans brief and withhold a garrulous outline of my idealistic and grandiose contingency plan. In fact, it shall be brief enough to contain in one sentence with no remaining extraneous effects.
Simply, learn to spot a patsy and be wary of those not to be trusted. My ego and super-ego have been tampered with greatly, for I feel as if I have been chosen by some devilish experiment to alter one's perception. To a layman the consideration of their own thoughts, the one true sanctuary, turned to a marionette, can be a sullen mental evaluation. I can say with a sore hand and emptying ink bottle that wedging this essay under my mattress is not what my true subconscious would incline to. I am positively inclined to do it on a completely different, fanatic sense. This sense I cannot be sure of, for I cannot even allow it to be named. The one thing I can be sure of, is our boy Bobby, and that devil of a name. Robert.
August 12th, 1968
Sergeant Paul Sharaga
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