taking care of things
thank god there are experts in the control rooms
thank god there are experts in the control rooms
thank god our leaders know what they're doing
thank god our god is compassionate
thank god, thank god, thank god
thank god my news is pre-digested
and my bacteria can't digest the synthetic information mainline
cause then what kind of freak would i be?
god, but what of daoist salvation?
do i want to become one with the pain chaos?
do i want to become one with the chaos pain?
do i want one to become with the pain chaos?
but what of daoistic stuttering
but what of thank god for daoistic stuttering
thank god for static fractal noise sputter stutter stallacticle syntax and dyslexic metaphors for dialectic superwhores, and stardom of rainbow color crayon trim raining down on the paisleys of daiseytown from the sarcastic snot-dripped fractal of r'aison d'etre, like sarcasm hanging from a jawdrop, loving the lovely lard-slathered letters run over your tongue like the thing that should not be, like lovecraftian exchange rates for the cthulhu unit of love and void and the reason you played, spirit, concoction of everyone i've ever mainlined met and loved in politically incorrect ways, like loving my enemies, and taking my friends for granted, but not to the desperate dead dread end, not that that's anything but a gleam in HAL's eye, like i'd sweettalk that cold robot into opening the pod bay door for me, penetrate his synthetic walls like the most devoid vacuum yinfucker... you know those yang space ghosts coast to coast - we're a race of chimps or at least we were - now we're getting too weird to know what to call ourselves. That's what my novel, Original Sin should be about. And the reader can decide for themselves what original sin could mean, it could mean a billion things of course, so knock yourselves out, it's a fill in the blank meaning underline, a plaything, the ending of a paragraph.
Geograph.
god, but what of daoist salvation?
do i want to become one with the pain chaos?
do i want to become one with the chaos pain?
do i want one to become with the pain chaos?
but what of daoistic stuttering
but what of thank god for daoistic stuttering
thank god for static fractal noise sputter stutter stallacticle syntax and dyslexic metaphors for dialectic superwhores, and stardom of rainbow color crayon trim raining down on the paisleys of daiseytown from the sarcastic snot-dripped fractal of r'aison d'etre, like sarcasm hanging from a jawdrop, loving the lovely lard-slathered letters run over your tongue like the thing that should not be, like lovecraftian exchange rates for the cthulhu unit of love and void and the reason you played, spirit, concoction of everyone i've ever mainlined met and loved in politically incorrect ways, like loving my enemies, and taking my friends for granted, but not to the desperate dead dread end, not that that's anything but a gleam in HAL's eye, like i'd sweettalk that cold robot into opening the pod bay door for me, penetrate his synthetic walls like the most devoid vacuum yinfucker... you know those yang space ghosts coast to coast - we're a race of chimps or at least we were - now we're getting too weird to know what to call ourselves. That's what my novel, Original Sin should be about. And the reader can decide for themselves what original sin could mean, it could mean a billion things of course, so knock yourselves out, it's a fill in the blank meaning underline, a plaything, the ending of a paragraph.
Geograph.
No comments:
Post a Comment