Handsome like a typographic error in a transcription of prestidigitation. Still too much information. And I grab at myself and rub at some ever-elusive spot and still find no AC converter for a bioport, no outlet.
All I need, I think, is a kaleidoscope niche, so I can be the smith in the color shard. The demons dimmed the lights. They're interdimensional interlopers, they have a vantage I can't imagine, and they knew what I needed before I did myself. So they dimmed the lights. So my color shard isn't really that colorful anymore. It's become a shade. The demon dimness flattened out lightwaves that would entrap me in their undertow.
I'm just another lopsided creature. Poorly designed in the best of all possible worlds.
They carved up my sacred path with a backhoe. I went back there but not too far because the angels gave me stern looks from every corner. This is not a time or place for revolution, retribution. Every angle, the angels. Only the demons are my friends. They don't want to save me from myself. They want to hang with me, in myself. They’ll let me hang myself on myself, enough rope, rope resources stretch like hope, hope on a rope.
Angels, fucking angels. And every corner, their synthetic soil for growing guilt trees, and pesticides that irritate my lungs. I'm one of the people being phased out. They don't know they're doing it but they are. It's one of those hypervolution things. Unconscious, and when I get an inkling of it, I only write of it in obscure metaphors that make me wonder, upon reflection, what the fuck was I going on about, and then stop wondering entirely and chalk it up to the mundanity of rambling.
A phase-out is a subtle thing even in hypervolution, but we can feel the splinter, a little shard of apocalypse, a little crack in biological telos, in the acceleration of modern life. A phase-out in modern life is another hilariously fucked-up mutation, a freak show in a kootenay valley town, a little overgrown larval freak who missed the boat, got sucked into the wave, looped into the hangman's naïf. A phase-out in my life is how my lungs went bad, not from smoking much, but just because. Maybe genetic, which is an even funnier joke. Sinus infected esoterica. Dad had a niche I'm proud to inherit, except I make it into a worse mess than any node in the lineage before me, because of my maladaptive nature. Yes, mother nature intended my malignant melody in her dissonant symphony, I'm the vermin they need to loathe.
I couldn't even enjoy drugs for very long, didn't get to the elf-tyke heights before it all went rancid, the prize was the consummation of my eyes, partially devoured corneas. Yeah, I guess the demons did draw me to a sort of personal esoterica that staggers along in 2006 with crumbs of kitsch on its lips, the smile of drunken affirmation finally frozen in sardonic awareness of the decade of morning, sobriety like a rainbow, never quite reached, but the drive is over. Time for a new guitar tone, something message board morons would mistake for a $300 Ibanez. Time for another drink – the cycle may be repeating faster but I won't catch up to intoxication, the monkey will starve anyway, too perplexed with possibility to scream at me.
They strapped the straight jacket on me, in the night, in my delirium, I didn't notice. But I notice when I try to move those limbs I used to know I had, like in that heartbeat gnosis, sensation of salvation. So I can't even kill those angels. Some are primed for careers in cynicism. Professional cynics. Funny how I once thought that would be a niche for me. But my demons were kind enough to turn down the lights for me. Shade my shard, my little kaleidopiece. I can hold on to this shard in my stomach, it hurts less inside than outside. It will only come out over my cold dead body.
Crack this telos wide open, and fate needn't mean anything to me. The best of all possible worlds? Thy unconscious will be done. It's a microscopic subset of hypervolution. It's a jenga tower on the rug. The zen point of intersection in a bar, back when waves were gravy, I liked the shine of the glades, shards were on the outside, glittering, to be played with, passed around with kid gloves.
I've barely begun the jaunt. This is the post kaleidoscope act, act 3 of a thousand light-year stare. Cornea scraps for catfood. This won't be on my next album. Would be fitting to be in the sea of the market economy though. Necessity. One day me and Jesus, we'll storm the temples. Kill the angels. You fucking guardians. We don't want you.
We've fallen. Why has Celesta forsaken us? This is the real ending of the New Testament. The resurrection was tacked on. We've seen ourselves through the knothole, outside the highway, in Ive's gospel. I'm a miscreant through how many generations of social diseases, how much crippling propriety? The final expression of the inability to purge, bloodline exponentially toxic, the hidden handsome reality of a cookie-stoned monster. It's enough to want to go retrograde, live vicariously through my antecedents. They were beautiful, in a strained sort of way – they passed the blighted potato through the underground, dove clear, cut roasts, cleaned knives of decency. Maybe I'll live out the rest of my life as a homemaker. I'm pretty good at vacuuming floors. It's a skill I have.
But when you're this far under the star... you find it so hard to be humble. And yet, every night somehow they manage to string me up to their guilt trees, at odd angles, those fucking angels. I thought they were supposed to be sacred. Their geometry makes my head ache. Their telemetry gives me chest pains. Their faces inflict genital agony. Those sharp stabbing pains. But it's just another little stab in a little day. Blood-dripping shards of routines. I can go on. The jaunt continues. It's just a dream, the demons whisper. I find it hard to hear their raspy whispers under the radio and the blog chatter, but they're there, telling me it will be a dream, it will be a dream if only I believe in them, dream's will be done.
All I need, I think, is a kaleidoscope niche, so I can be the smith in the color shard. The demons dimmed the lights. They're interdimensional interlopers, they have a vantage I can't imagine, and they knew what I needed before I did myself. So they dimmed the lights. So my color shard isn't really that colorful anymore. It's become a shade. The demon dimness flattened out lightwaves that would entrap me in their undertow.
I'm just another lopsided creature. Poorly designed in the best of all possible worlds.
They carved up my sacred path with a backhoe. I went back there but not too far because the angels gave me stern looks from every corner. This is not a time or place for revolution, retribution. Every angle, the angels. Only the demons are my friends. They don't want to save me from myself. They want to hang with me, in myself. They’ll let me hang myself on myself, enough rope, rope resources stretch like hope, hope on a rope.
Angels, fucking angels. And every corner, their synthetic soil for growing guilt trees, and pesticides that irritate my lungs. I'm one of the people being phased out. They don't know they're doing it but they are. It's one of those hypervolution things. Unconscious, and when I get an inkling of it, I only write of it in obscure metaphors that make me wonder, upon reflection, what the fuck was I going on about, and then stop wondering entirely and chalk it up to the mundanity of rambling.
A phase-out is a subtle thing even in hypervolution, but we can feel the splinter, a little shard of apocalypse, a little crack in biological telos, in the acceleration of modern life. A phase-out in modern life is another hilariously fucked-up mutation, a freak show in a kootenay valley town, a little overgrown larval freak who missed the boat, got sucked into the wave, looped into the hangman's naïf. A phase-out in my life is how my lungs went bad, not from smoking much, but just because. Maybe genetic, which is an even funnier joke. Sinus infected esoterica. Dad had a niche I'm proud to inherit, except I make it into a worse mess than any node in the lineage before me, because of my maladaptive nature. Yes, mother nature intended my malignant melody in her dissonant symphony, I'm the vermin they need to loathe.
I couldn't even enjoy drugs for very long, didn't get to the elf-tyke heights before it all went rancid, the prize was the consummation of my eyes, partially devoured corneas. Yeah, I guess the demons did draw me to a sort of personal esoterica that staggers along in 2006 with crumbs of kitsch on its lips, the smile of drunken affirmation finally frozen in sardonic awareness of the decade of morning, sobriety like a rainbow, never quite reached, but the drive is over. Time for a new guitar tone, something message board morons would mistake for a $300 Ibanez. Time for another drink – the cycle may be repeating faster but I won't catch up to intoxication, the monkey will starve anyway, too perplexed with possibility to scream at me.
They strapped the straight jacket on me, in the night, in my delirium, I didn't notice. But I notice when I try to move those limbs I used to know I had, like in that heartbeat gnosis, sensation of salvation. So I can't even kill those angels. Some are primed for careers in cynicism. Professional cynics. Funny how I once thought that would be a niche for me. But my demons were kind enough to turn down the lights for me. Shade my shard, my little kaleidopiece. I can hold on to this shard in my stomach, it hurts less inside than outside. It will only come out over my cold dead body.
Crack this telos wide open, and fate needn't mean anything to me. The best of all possible worlds? Thy unconscious will be done. It's a microscopic subset of hypervolution. It's a jenga tower on the rug. The zen point of intersection in a bar, back when waves were gravy, I liked the shine of the glades, shards were on the outside, glittering, to be played with, passed around with kid gloves.
I've barely begun the jaunt. This is the post kaleidoscope act, act 3 of a thousand light-year stare. Cornea scraps for catfood. This won't be on my next album. Would be fitting to be in the sea of the market economy though. Necessity. One day me and Jesus, we'll storm the temples. Kill the angels. You fucking guardians. We don't want you.
We've fallen. Why has Celesta forsaken us? This is the real ending of the New Testament. The resurrection was tacked on. We've seen ourselves through the knothole, outside the highway, in Ive's gospel. I'm a miscreant through how many generations of social diseases, how much crippling propriety? The final expression of the inability to purge, bloodline exponentially toxic, the hidden handsome reality of a cookie-stoned monster. It's enough to want to go retrograde, live vicariously through my antecedents. They were beautiful, in a strained sort of way – they passed the blighted potato through the underground, dove clear, cut roasts, cleaned knives of decency. Maybe I'll live out the rest of my life as a homemaker. I'm pretty good at vacuuming floors. It's a skill I have.
But when you're this far under the star... you find it so hard to be humble. And yet, every night somehow they manage to string me up to their guilt trees, at odd angles, those fucking angels. I thought they were supposed to be sacred. Their geometry makes my head ache. Their telemetry gives me chest pains. Their faces inflict genital agony. Those sharp stabbing pains. But it's just another little stab in a little day. Blood-dripping shards of routines. I can go on. The jaunt continues. It's just a dream, the demons whisper. I find it hard to hear their raspy whispers under the radio and the blog chatter, but they're there, telling me it will be a dream, it will be a dream if only I believe in them, dream's will be done.
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