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Cantonese writing on a half-faced demigod.

Golden claws digging into cramping muscles.

Gunslinging orphans portrayed on paper skin.

Multi-blue tailored coats made from naked fox.

Waving child in a firestorm hotter than boiling spit.

Trust us and save us now the art of hell and the becoming.

Squander the loving snakes before further commitment has been established.

Coal digging cattle never ceases to exist in the spheres of time.



I spoke with Wayne last night.

It reeks with evil.



I spoke with reality last night.

Waves of sound,

Echoing inside your skull,

Your mind streches infinitely.



A bell made of glass,

Filled with air so pure and clear,

That even paradise appears polluted.



A cold sensation jolts through your body,

As if you fell through the ice and into the ocean,

Beams of light strokes your face,

They become weaker as your body is dragged down,

Into the darkness,

Fenrir howls you a lullaby,

The sounds become distant.



The monkey drowns.



This is your awakening.



I spoke with a clear head last night.

COMMENTS

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salina
01:24 Jun 27 2012

i liked the beggining very moving

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POST COMMENT

I think the majority of people are lacking identity.

They seem to be insecure and obsessed by the idea of finding love.

It seems to me that this desperate search for someone special is nothing more but an attempt to find something that resembles meaningfulness in their shattered lives.

Finding someone who can tell them that - in all their ongoing mediocrity - they are good enough.

Like some sort of miraculous remedy against life's pointlessness and their missing self-esteem.

They need dependency because they cannot handle the terror of freedom and therefore rely on another person to provide this for them.

I dont understand why someone would beg to be a dog on a leash just to be caressed once in a while by your owner.



Love can be constructive if you know how to deal with it, but to fall down begging for every possible partner is just plain weak and shows no trace of self-worth or mental toughness.

People run around in circles completely confused and filled with angst because they fear that they will be alone forever and that they're failures if they do not manage to find someone who could possibly appreciate their hallow exitence.

It's not just a tendency, it's a fashion - how many popular songs are about either finding love or breaking up? How many dating sites do you think exist? How many movies and TV series are about romance or making relationships work? How much is it talked or thought about?

Think about it and then ask yourself - is it really that important?

If you take a look Maslow's hierachy of human needs, it seems like people are stuck in level 2 and 3 - safety and love/belonging.

How much do you need before you can move up? Or do people just fail to recognise what safety means and what love and belonging means - do they expect it to peak infinitely before they can move on or what?



Time and time again I scratch myself in the back of my head and wonder... What the hell are they doing?

Alice of Wonders lays an egg,

She crushes it on a frying pan and scrambles it,

She ingests it,

She understands.



I spoke with no one last night.

In black and white,

You paint your portrait,

An anonymous Omega,

Your meat is heavily salted.



Your sculpture of crying clay,

Bleeds for every pointless detail,

Your back is curving like the rainbow,

So you seek for treasure at your tired feet.



Monotonous is your search,

Plundered of all value,

Sweeping gray with a broom,

For your Bokor.



Datura is your Yggdrasil,

Please, I beg you.



Go to sleep.



I spoke with you last night.

Veins thicken,

Trees are kneeling,

A paradise lost.



How dare you speak of another brothers sin,

When you yourself are sinful,

Do you not fear your God?



You do not need me to kill you,

You kill yourself every day,

Wisdom is bleak and hopeless,

The enlightened yearns to be a fool,

To relieve the pain,

And the burden of the cross they carry upon their back.



We are your Christs suffering for your sins.

We are your serpent snakes deluding you.

We are your scapecoats relieving your guilt.



Look at your world monkey,

Look at it with your blank eyes and empty skull,

Here is your Ragnarock,

Here is your Wonder,

Forget all you see,

Forget all you hear,

Forget all you speak,



There is no more room for the spit of your angels,

The Valkyries dance upon your shoulders,

And so you shall work with your hammer and sickel,

By an oath of silence.



I spoke with Tarkovsky last night.

The lights saw me.



I spoke with a TV last night.

The chicken lays eggs.



I spoke with Tyler last night.

The scent of sweat-soaked jasmine flowers fills the dimly lit room like a floating blanket of playful comfort.



An SOS performed by long legs dressed in stockings and high heels, clacking carefully on the sticky dancefloor to the slow rhythm of Quand J'Tai Perdù by Martha L. Amado.



She's a

Closet devil.



Smiling innocently,

with filth on her lips.



Her behaviour is erratic,

eccentric and out of proportion.



Poison licking sheep,

and all the wolves go:

Howl, baby howl!



A soothing frantic,

In the nightly hours of despair.



Squandered lives,

momentarily repaired.



Smokin' whiskey bottles,

toothpicks to pick down the stars.

Salvia on cheap cigars.



She's,

Praying to be prey.



Piano for fingerplay.

Drums beating for a queen of hearts.

Rusty sax for risky sex.

And a voice to sing for her.



Dinner is served.



I spoke with Marilyn last night.

Last and least,

The creature stands still,

Breaking and crumbling,

Put the cards down.



The lungs of a mountain,

Blowing winds from afar,

Scrawny trees fall,

Like restless cattle.



Save our souls,

For we've cast them,

Into a sleeping oblivion,

Where mercy tears flesh.



Combine the mixtures,

Pits painted blue,

Savage kings hold their stain,

Goats reign the new heights.



I spoke with Christ last night.

Delicious is dirty innocence.



I spoke with the Devil last night.

COMMENTS

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Medriko
01:22 Jun 19 2012

Morphic!

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POST COMMENT

Alice of Wonders fetishizes Ragnarock in her drugged visions.

She is your civilization - closet masochists.

She is your egg(o)-born fatality - a redeeming mother Lilith.

She is your gardeners' fiend - a worm in every apple.

She is your caressing hands - soaked in red liquid life.

She is your vacuum cleaner - emptying your hallow shells.



Your name is not Lamina - it's more likely the other way around.



Triple nines turned upside-down will be your standing point when Ragnarock is inflicted upon your monkey's mental regime.



I spoke with Charlie last night.

People think I'm mad,

I'm not - I just have trouble with taking my humanity seriously.

Homo Sapiens reminds me of monkeys in the middle of puberty.

Ignorant and arrogant is the lot of our race, like a 12 year old boy thinking he's the shit.

We are 98% monkey and 2% God - would you feel safe if you gave a monkey God like powers but with a mind limited to peel bananas and have sex?

It's a parody - and it's not even that funny, because everyone seems to find it deadly serious.





Sometimes I momentarily resort to solipsism and behave like an animal.

I am 98% monkey and 2% Alice in Wonderland.

Og vi sidder der som sitrende fluer med intentioner om at finde det bedste sted på lorten - ubegrundet næstekærlighed til det der ikke rager os, for det er godt til kaffen.

En hel generation opvokset foran en alturistisk - og derved yderst generøs - narcissistisk flimmerkasse.



I lange drag indånder vi uforpligtet selvsikkerhed velvidende om at vi er VUF gode VUFVUF aber. Vi er unikke og smukke - tæt på perfekte og ment til mere end hvad vi er.



Mennesket skabte Gud i deres billede, og individet skabte sit eget univers.

På syvende dagen lavede jeg ingenting og jeg så at det var godt. Således er alt ligegyldigt og håbløst, for fri vilje er en komfortabel illusion uden hold.



Ultra-post modernisme skriger Buddha, for det er den nye momentalt hippe afstresningsteknik som alle har brug for, for vi har meget travlt med at være meget travle og det er meget vigtigt.

Men vi har det godt, så længe vi ved vi har det dårligt.



Selvicenesættelse er en sikker vinder, så vi bygger beboelige blokke og blokader af hårde hvidevarer så sterile hjerner kan istandholdes.



Men før vi kan gøre dette skal vi testes, for vi er forsøgsaber med fremragende dårlig sans for forretning.



Så vi producerer trofe-børn med Cerebrum a la Übermensch (rare specialty) for at kompensere for egne altomfattende inkompetencer.



Vor daglige brød konsumeres med sanserne og sansen for humor - vold, porno og glimmer glimmer glimmer.

For det er godt til kaffen.



Vi er alle enige om at vi har købt os til en identitet som proletar og at skabs-masochisten Alice of Wonders uden tvivl er wunderbar.



Jeg tog på rov i Freud's hønsegård og stjal hans æg så jeg kunne knuse det over en skoldhed pande - jeg elsker spejlæg og det er wunderbar til kaffen.