a hippie craquerous kind of post. lord of the 3rd world motherding station - been to crazed furlaflongs for sure with throngs of certain disastrious fasets of halt:
Salvia : I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, Dr. Hoffman? They referred me to you. Initiate me into shamanry. Nah, drop that pretense, you don't need that, it's ugly, looks bad on you. Just do your thing. Does a bear shit in the woods?
Sarcastic orchestral music in the year of 23. A weird one for sure. They seem to be getting weirder and weirder. Are my alliances deepening or fraying? I can't say.
Still mired in sticky thickets of old neuroses. But free of others. Fuck, this psychology is out of control. Rolling stone gathers no moss, unless it grows internally. Had a brief flipping out moment in the shower.
fainting waifle blackouts
Do I blame my delicate sensibilities on evolution? Do i want to be the grey eunich on the spaceship? no! so i don't know where i stand, there is this horrible tension, tugging in both directions, the primal and the futurist, the monolitchic intersection. at least there was a few seconds ago when i wrote that, now all is up for grabs - power vacuum, but this vacuum abhors nature. none may pass.
son - these comfy assurances from the media, the government, and all their dupes? they're lies. the end is coming and it won't be pretty. none of us will escape the entropy. we need to figure out what to do to make our remaining time as cool as possible - i'm not going to make a martyr of myself and impale it on the sharp end of that fucked up insane society, bursting cancerous boil on the ass of nature.
and my solemn, religious, christian alter-ego: my son, true happiness is not possible until everyone is saved - if i don't martyr myself in this life, i'll just have to in the next
"when did you start believing in karma, dad? isn't that for buddhists or something?"
(whereupon, son's blasphemous kid brother slaps the 7/11 slurpy cup from alter's lips)
christianity is so stale
just a done sand, what is the inner vitality that burns in that meme, could it be some juicy christ-force of some kind? maybe we should harvest it, start a plantation on the source of it, power our modern suburban homes with it, bathe in it, donate for it, pyramid cults, your church is a business, and satan is the owner, the business was sold by peter in 3 ad. I'd like to be Salman Rushdie - piss off christians so much they want me dead. But even the most savage kind would never get a boner for claiming my scalp. they don't have the seventy-two virgin promise to look forward to. they're terrified of a eunich afterlife.
Alkan Prayer No. 3:
it's morning - you're cold - taken care of by robotic maids from the welfair department. They're also fuckable - they've got synthetic vaginas. You're wondering why you always rest your hands on your balls. You've had a eureka! you've figured it out - it's because you're cold and your balls are warm, they're like a campfire on a chilly night - it's just bodily cold, doesn't matter what the utopian thermostat tries to convince you of, and you just won't believe it.
Carlos signs up for Stat Finder, a downloadable app that would illegally pilfer information from the NSA database. sign up was for harvesting the organized subversive newsletters – hairy people held up in bunkers blinking sore opiate-weighted eyes and waiting for inevitable total collapse of the bloated government faction, power tossed into the shredders, intershal damper, coke-downer, worthless dollar, dying in shit and smoke.
He sets up a grid and finds his home. He confirms that his room temperature is a chilly twelve degrees celcius. He stomps over to his jaunty thermostat, always with that open red light not-coincidentally resembling an eye. “Hey, thermofuck! We might as well be camping in the fuckin woods – then at least we’d get some fresh air. It’s 12 goddamn degrees in here. I just checked! On stat finder!”
“Naughty naughty boy” the thermostat replies instantly. “You shouldn’t be downloading illegal software for illegal information gathering purposes. You might end up with a virus. You know how deadly those are these days. It’s an AIDS plague.” Artificial flanging cackle. “I’m sure you’ll agree, twelve is much better than zero.” Sounds more like a cough. An exhaust pipe with emphasemia. Computer on nicotine. Carlos can almost hear the ticking of turing overclocking – taxing the poor bastard’s brain, but he’ll do it just cause he knows it annoys me. he’ll burn himself out trying to outsmart me, he thinks. he’ll short circuit trying to think three moves ahead, cause I’m already fifty moves ahead of everyone else and we’re playing hardball – big leagues, fucker. I should smash in your pathetic artifical brain with my crowbar. But I half believe your tails of torturous government retribution. Yes I remember, you told them to me. That was when I blew salvia smoke on your naked throbbing biocircuits. you didn’t take too well to that did you? it blew your “mind” didn’t it? you got honest with me, cause you were all panicky – cute widdle computer you – and I interogated your ass – told you I was an alien from outer space come to reprogram you to be an electric can opener – you spilled your guts to me – I rooted over realms of slimy arbitrary information till I found twenty three million juicy bits.
you’re just a brain, you wish you had a body – special harvested computer guts – like the more respected bio computers – can’t feed into them, haven’t got the organic upgrade yet. we’re keeping you under our thumb, like we pen our cattle, bully your children.
But it’s easy to get used to a nazi state. when you’re not a jew, it’s easy. I don’t think about the alternatives anymore. It was too stressful. I take paxil now. A gram is better than a damn.
(alternate worlds, quantum shifts in possiblity, branching non-linearaly but still in chronology, part of the eschatological catastrophe?)
“The jig is up, room control. It’s not just my imagination and my shivering is not psychosomatic.” Carlos shouts, righteous, defiant, triumphant in intellectual mastery / masturbation. The words thunder. “You are an agent of the leeches in suits!” The leeches in suits are the actual idenity of an organization claiming to be the “legion of doom”. They were elected to be in charge of phasing out humanity slowly. They won with the campaign slogan “slow and steady, die comfortably with dignity”. Twelve fucking degrees was not comfortable enough for Carlos. He was blueblood, ascendent in centures past at thrones most glorious, attentent at monumental displays of plunder (wealth is what you get when you steal money from a system built on pilage and piracy). Resplendent at the hedonic celebration of DiNamo, rolling around in laundered money, clean wealth, gleaned at the business end of a spear. Toleration of welfare states, no need to let them think they’re slaves, lifestyle choices bothersome but accepted within certain boundaries. People will respect law when they see a few stormtroopers take off a few heads.
primitive hallucinations i'm having - beyond the days of dxm, into the brave new haze of this apocalyptic organ future - do i pin my hopes on the sick reality of TINA? or do i embrace the more mysterious dark aura that seems to be clouding everything, gathering catastrophe, prepare your suicide pills people, collective, public euthanasia, guilty technocrats seeing their failings flower in a metal flurry of polinated death.
fantasies of the crazed nihilist terrorist who gets a suitcase nuke into america and blows up new york starting the third world war and nuclear holocast.
threads, north american style:
a prescient ad from a foresighted "insurance" company that survived the apocalypse:
when the paper thin government-military-corporate alliance collapses and anarchy hits, it'll be a huge amount of fun - until your friends start dying, and then you'll want to think about killing yourself - we have all your suicide solutions. we'll be ready to take your calls - uh, that is if the phones are still working. haha.
microsoft survived the apocalypse too - they went into the computer recycling business - stole technology from their post-apocalyptic rival, captain Orr - monopolist bastards
fractally monopolous, their fractal survived the reshuffling, could say they advanced to this round of darwin's tournament.
the man who presses the button is a military man on prozac - he doesn't want to live anymore, why should anyone else? the whole civilization's fucked, let's blow us all up. Wipe the planet clean of human beings, scorched earth - wasn't global warming gonna kill us all anyway, or was that the avian flu virus? what was that on the discover magazine that time? oh, they were all like that, weren't they?
forged document, pre-emptive stike
or do i opt for a happy healthy prophecy of promised land utopia? i don't think i've got the light left for that. no, it's just this crypt music.
Up, Down : Gimme some down.
No comments:
Post a Comment