Fried Minds

The blithe crushing of a soul, a grotesquely luminescent heel pushing through the forehead of the thinker. How comfortably couched they are in their rhetoric, control, control, controlling every molecule of air around them, gleeful in the lack of control they reserve for themselves. Corrupt and lice-ridden, they revel in their own filth. They wear their crowns haughtily while they skull-fuck liberty. The laurels on their shoulders and the wreaths around their head hearken famine, pestilence, war and death. Their olive branch is tainted with corruption, only on loan and with compound interest. The virus merges with the cell, grabbing it like a lecher grabs a breast. Then penetrating, over and over again, not for effectiveness, but to ensure that the full realisation of loss and defilement can land with crushing weight. Finally, injecting, thrusting the seed of darkness far into the nucleus where it perverts the very function of the cell. Left with no alternative, the only true path for the cell is self-destruction, a functioning immune system would be a mercy. As the viruses lie dormant, so too do all prophets and leaders, who seek to rip and tear the orifices of every nubile sylph. They tear their leaf garments readily and leave them glassy eyed and bloody, a broken motorcycle accident of a shell.

TO BE BLUNT: The loss of free speech (or did it ever exist?), the pillaging of the world's population, the indoctrination of every schoolchild, the savage thrusts of free market capitalism cheapen 2 dollar whores. The bilge of the earth overgrows into a vast sewer. It is filled with the orphans you have created. Your economic machinations, your religious meddling and indoctrination, your societal rule-making and hypocrisy. The voice of one is lost in the chorus of ignorance, saddest still is that there is not one but many. Miring all together, the tarpit of humanity traps genius and dullard alike. There is a feeling of a suffocating enveloping fog, a smothering presence that leaps off the page and shines through the photos. Each sad shard of humanity shown to be just as worthless and decrepit as the next, the mindless system run by mindless peons. The peons controlled by the largest sociopath in the land. The system of government that works but does not help, it works only to control, lead and torture.

The disgust of the Boring Writer should not make the skin crawl, your skin should crawl of its own accord, in response to the people we share this planet with, it should crawl in response to yourself. Dissent is not just allowed, it is provoked. Your dissent feeds the world, it is the past dissent of scientists, adventurers, soldiers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, politicians, and grocers that has given any hope to this world at all. The foundations of true being are based on true dissent and the freedom to dissent in opinion. Otherwise, the groupthink overtakes the asylum and the staff become as the inmates. Yet dissent is stopped, like a stuck u-bend, and the sewage of humanity spills into the living quarters, upsetting the guests. The very foundation of human interaction is the allowance for individuality. If that is lost than so too is our worth.

Days of interconnectedness bring all troubles closer to the eye, but even a small trouble has a big effect in our instantly changing technosphere. There is no loss of meaning in each tragedy, they are simply unaddressed. Fuck you I will make that a word, if a bastardisation such as blog is official so too will there be a more sensible word. The days of american imperialism over an entire language will be taken back by those who truly understand it. The lyricism is lost upon antagonistic analysts.

The new feudalism is an empty bottle, a dry vessel that is radioactive and lingers in its deadly effects. It is filled with piss and given to the struggling nations. They drink deeply. The struggle to be free will occur when the sliding scale tips. The costs outweigh the benefits and the internal mathematicians of the populace fully comprehend the raw deal. Then, it will be much, much too late and the raw deal came and went without a condom, leaving nothing but a teen pregnancy and AIDS in its wake.

There are times when it is nothing to be a beneficiary of the ruling class, a well-adjusted servant who has been richly rewarded. Asking oneself, why would the cares of the world rest upon one so privileged? A single caustic reply: The tables turn more abruptly and quickly than you may realise, and only a fool would dig their own grave even a single inch deeper.

Pockmarked and Utterly Flaccid

Catharsis is a vital outlet for the steam engine of thought. The whistle for the locomotive bearing down a breakneck turn. The voluptuous whore of a tunnel ready to be penetrated over and over again, where the only satisfying length is one that stretches from one orifice to the other like tentacle rape. The blood curdles like milk and is rendered entirely undrinkable.

After the emotional wringing the rind of a body is left to hang precariously on the rim of existence. That garbage pail mentality where anything of meaning, substance or having a possible effect is fore-lubed then hatefully ejected as detritus. The breakneck pace of religion ends at the loop of a noose. They have been given enough rope to hang themselves with and they're doing a hell of a job. Heaven is an eternal hardon and a tireless woman, mingled with a never-ending orgasm. Hell isn't other people, it's yourself. The only emotional substance or sustenance is that you provide but you're a sparing caretaker, aren't you? A jealous matriarch who maintains control with every bit of grit, determination, manipulation and grasping, clutching, gripping, tearing, dirty fingernail.

Emblazoned with a neon cross the paternalistic religion sits placidly next to the countless others, all filled beyond capacity with foaming rabid crazed believers, like a terrible many-fanged creampie. Fuckers are so hooked on their self-made psychotropics that a personal DMT crash precipitates a solid genocide. The release of religion in that wonderful brain of ours that can make a man think sideways. Take a hit of the real good stuff, the smoked death, your mind will slide and realities will jar and crash. Time will take a sideline to the spectator show you are the lone participant in. The audience is the molecules of the universe, laughing in synchronised harmony. You kiss against chaos and your consciousness recoils in horror while your spirit folds beyond comprehension.

This is what drives the belief of belief. That terrible insoluble problem that jagged awful perchlorate crystal in the brain stem of so many members of our sapient genera. The sheer, steep, slick granite magnitude that pierces the eye and heart with a viridian vertigo, a nauseous premonition. The unfocused facets set at impossible angles play havoc with the mindspace. Pattern recognition is simple but deceptive, the target of a coy ploy to harvest minds and hearts. Flipping the personal switches, the puppet taker has found the solution for final control. The framework for mental slavery has been established and it is unshakable and grotesquely reproductive.

Friends! You are all equally loved and despised in my eyes, won't you lift thine and bow before me? Take your slavery and set it before my feet and thine sins will be washed away before I set you free. Your gratitude will make you give your nuptial daughters and I shall take them and make them into the wanton whores I see they have the potential to become. Such glorious potential, shown to the world instead of hidden in the backs of cars and the dioceses. They shall be whores to all and they will babble in pleasure. After their gifts have been ruined and their human value has been cheapened and worn down, then I will gladly hand them back to you. I shall say that they were at the mercy of a free market and god rest their shattered souls. The shards I use as a base for an energizing libido strengthening poultice. The higher you set your sights the greater the crash after a fall. The betrayal of trust and grim naivety are just bits of rotted flesh, decrepit and morbid. Only after the maggots have crawled and slimed over every diseased tendon does the sad shining skeleton of realistic despair start protruding from the putrid, buttery flesh.

A quick cremation and a tearful disposal of the ashes into a dumpster out back proceeds during a manic liturgy. A litany remains unfinished, a bitter reminder of the real world. Please, pray to your god, I gain strength from your futility. Only then can the strength of an ideal be made into something fit for providence. After the corpse of your deity has been roped and raped by a twelve inch purple translucent dildo, the priest will take off his collar and say “By God if only I had known about this fetish before.” Set aside a little hope for yourself and humanity, it's better to save than to spend it right now. The tide will come in and it will bring dying hopeless cetaceans with it, this is already known, it is imperative that it is seen through. A pureness, a hardness, a thinking nature and intelligence are desperately needed within humanity at this juncture, so we can preserve what little we have taken into our hearts.

Dream of the Real

The sweet sound of a whispering siren tantalizes the ears, the mind, with a lovely harmonious syllabic structure. What is time but a series of small eternities. The pretend meaning of dreams and hopes all ready to be made coarse and raw with a careless pen. The horrible timeless burning desire is unquenchable, a thirst that would make a heroin addict blush with humility. The self control is as terrible of a cure as it can be.

Violence against the weaker sex has always been a mystery. A marine beats his girlfriend to death because he is too weak against the monsters in his own head. A coward, a sentinel forewarning against a second set of discarded husks of humanity. A second set? That is a hollow construction, dusty and vacant. Just a noticeable wave in the endless flow of broken dolls. They will exist until they are eradicated but their refuge is within the weak and stupid. Again inaction binds the strong against the mass amorphous, all surrounding consuming stifling smothering pinning prison flesh. A sharp knife is needed, wielded with murderous precision and surgical intent. Excision is impossible when worthlessness has metastasized.

Chaos has a great love for our type of existence. We stand divided, some for order, some undecided and the rightful ones embracing, loving it as a thoughtlessly as a child. Chaos squats and revels in the disagreement, pendulous labia brushing aside any careless enough to tempt her. One small seed from her randomised ovaries and free will spreads its roots, flowering with glorious speed and symmetry. While a careful scholar would study one of her dainty, towering toes, a servant would bask in her full glory. Symmetrical, ordered chaos, neatly packaged for quick distribution. Pandora's seed packet, the magic beans forever forgotten.

Freedom is a loaded word, cocked and ready to be mishandled by the inexperienced. The television would be painted red in a matter of moments. The commies ejaculated on your daughter's breasts. The effort was admirable, but 'such a waste' they argued; economically, perhaps, but not spiritually. Freedom of association aspires to acidity, bonds broken before they were cemented. The lime of reality too strong for anything interesting to set. Keep moving, keep busy, the cement mixer of life. Free time is the father of boredom. Boredom is a studious uninteresting fellow, except he can teach you how to make methylated amphetamines from kitchen cleaners. A bored population is not exceptionally dangerous, until they associate into a critical mass. Keep the customer satisfied, keep them kept and entertain them into a delirium of apathy.

Replete with meaning and firepower, the gas operated machine in her hand makes her beauty ugliness, but her savagery touches deeply. The wild lust in her eyes mimics a faint heart ache. The idea would be worth dying for if it were tangible. Melancholy is sand in the gut for a powerful actor. Who was that tattooed beauty? She was a zephyr of the mind, one further step in a line of perfection. The perfection ends when the mind dies. The idea out-paces reality, laughing with exhilaration, a wonderful dream. She smiles as she kills and it is infectious. The disease is wonderful, a fever that burns a person whole again.

There was a dream of the cessation of reality. All of the subatomic fogs into clarity of perception. The quickness of time slows to a gridlock, and you see, for a lonely second, exactly who you are. This is the moment when dreams pass into reality. They sat patiently, waiting, ideas wanting to become flesh, but they have lain impotent, improperly addressed and improperly expressed. They want freedom from the sphere of thought and to make themselves new forms entirely. Dreams are jealous things and their fulfillment is the only concern. With their release, they take on their true forms, and the world and reality as we know it are over.

A new age will have begun, one where imagination and strength of will become the new superpowers of this dream age. When such power is accessible, rulers will cry in voices shrill and fearful. This is the moment that has baited the powerful since the inception of the rule of humans. That which makes their hearts palpate, the changing of rule, the carefree disregard of every law of physics, not a cessation of existence, but nevertheless an apocalypse.

First Day

The boring writer sat in his chair, perched listlessly in anticipation. The moment of triumph had come and his fingers halted like the tentative steps of a polio victim (but victim implies intent and there was none to speak of). There existed a desire, a longing for long forgotten words, a lost menace of caroming syllables, rampaging along the spokes of his neurons.

That grand beautiful shape burned in his mind's eye. That beautiful, almost erotic shape of the main body, that sexy axon, those tiny dendrites. He thought of the yellow colouring the artist had given the drawing. Was it a true colour or just a stain, an artist's twisted fucked up distorted view of the world? Was all of science just a massive thesis, one man's solitary lusting work, a great ejaculatory piece of wisdom, with the depressing fate of being churned through the paper shredder of popular culture? It could probably be proven, but nobody would read the results, all they would care about would be the headline: “Average Person Doesn't Know Shit and Is Proud of It!” A lurid, tabloid-ready headline, printed in fifty point font for all the huddled masses to easily ignore. They would gloss over it like a celebrity magazine, where the flash was the substance.

The ultimate plight of a creative person is to be shocked into inaction. Fill them up, drain them out, make the whole fucking PROCESS so nerve wracking, so exhausting, that perhaps they'll forget their purpose and expend themselves too early to actually contribute anything. Tear down the work with well-founded criticism, but in the end all criticism achieves is design-by-committee. A novacaine porridge of salty mediocrity and cereal blandness. I am talking about the absolute mind numbing terrible culture we are being spoonfed. Then, as soon as we decide we want something with a little flavour we realise that we forgot how to cook. The greater tragedy (look: another meaningless phrase) is that we never learned in the first place.

Perhaps we could blame ourselves, but that would be too easy and wouldn't solve anything. Self-recrimination is the enemy of true progress. There is no goal in blaming yourself. You can't make placards against yourself, unless you're a post-modernist, but then you're committed to another category of sin. You'd take five minutes just understanding the nature of protest. However, nobody is going to teargas you for yourself, so you throw yourself at corporations, other people, governments, these gross entities that resemble the other. They are just the accumulation of petty human desires, assembled brick by brick, each piece of petty bullshit, greed, ignorance and bliss all piled into a pyramid of shit. We are all slaves to the pyramid and the new Pharoahs don't even have to demand their buildings anymore. The slaves have taken over the kingdom but they forgot how to be free. Unable to grasp the idea of green pastures, they build pyramids. The laugh of the Pharoahs is filled with irony.

The memetic process is a horrible rotting fungus. Have you ever looked at the language of a time period? The expressions, word for word, repeated past the point of nausea into a zone of petty utterance. The grotesque self-satisfaction of the pseudo-intellectual repudiates the previous advances of our opposable thumbed species. The writing of our times shows how even the intellectuals have become as common as the sheep they write about. When you have hundreds of thousands of wolves and millions of sheep, the sheer scale renders each individual interaction tragic with meaninglessness.

I am talking about (another meaningless phrase). Any sentence that starts with “if” falls into a flushing toilet of language. All the clean water of potential coalescing with bacteria colonised infectious material. Deceit is such a wonderful convention. The obfuscation of easy answers denies the necessity of actions. It necessarily makes the process of deciding on an action more costly than the action itself. It is another way for our small poisonous reflections to sting and paralyse.

A list of issues is a writer's due diligence; organisation is the key to advanced behaviour. The destruction of meaning in language, the lack of action and sluggishness in our individual lives resulting in domino ramifications. Paralysis of language, paralysis of action, paralysis of thought. A total (oh look another meaningless phrase). The clue lies in originality not for its own sake but for the sake of meaning. In the days of apathy, even struggling is boring.