Or anyone, or anything.
And may, most probably, seem like crap. Thatís mostly because it is.
So the wind swept away this, like, totally deadwood silhouette - I dunno, some abstract mind-spew or something. I was like, whatever, the earthís dying, and eternal pain seems like a vague interpretation of my everyday life.
Oh. My God. A simile - thatís like, so 1979.
But I suppose itís retro now. So thatís okay. And a perfect excuse for being a whÝre - because itís retro, and Iím cool.
That implies that youíre not. Implications are nothing, though - just, like, what Iím too afraid to say. Or too clever to impart.
Who says theyíre not the same thing?
Well, thatís fecked just about everything up.
A change in mindset, snap, dry blood draws spirals on the wall.
Like the shutter closing, slowing drawing back again - slowly, so slowly - as to not disturb the wounds. Partly healed, I know, but they still show and the madness rivals everything - the increasing madness - because thereís nothing to do.
And nothing represents me.
On two levels, the statement rings true. There maybe more, I donít care.
But I strive to achieve, what cannot be done. Of course, I wonít - but thatís not the point. Itís a rebellion, but Iím too clever to rebel, so I aim for something thatís above me.
And no-one complains - because Iím too intelligent for them to talk down to. In truth, this could be lies.
But thereís nothing on the telly.
The telly, yes.
No, not why - not never not why.
Yes, perhaps - I see where youíre coming from. A good ten inches from the pit of despair.
What a film.
Whatís that guyís name - the one from that film, in the pit of despair. The albino. Great stuff.
And slowly (again) so goddamn slowly, the layers peel back to show what time could not - what will could not (although Will I do not speak with anymore. ďBe gone, sir!Ē I hollered in his pasty face. He screamed something equally pretentious back - but I rose above it, with a twinkle on the harp. And then prised his knees off with a claw-hammer. Jolly good show.) and what no-one could have possibly foreseen - those of the short-sighted clan that swarms the globe*
Itís not a pretty sight.
That is to say, stone-face, I know nothing of the sort.
The blood rises to the surface, and stays - gently swaying in the summer breeze. Even though its not summer here - no, winter reigns supreme, a shady place - a distant face, screaming through the thorns.
A crown of thorns, oh dear, not here. ďDear?Ē Indeed, it seems Iím slipping away - and the ever-shine, never-glow, iridescent mocking of he who looks. And never sees - the seas, the ripened beads of glistening .... something.
Whatever. Thatís no longer the point.
Iíve moved on and up - over and above - without anyone realising. Change direction, again, and slip out a little further from the rotting limbs.
Those quick-rotted limbs, that hold everyone up, but always break too soon.
Although it could also be actual limbs - legs and arms. Those grabbing, invasive arms - of protection, they say - of comfort and love.
I do not love to be suffocated. And chinese-burns are not funny. You can probably tear someoneís skin with one of those, Iím sure.
ďKudos, my good man, kudos on the cheese-sticks. The pineappleís gone a bit brown, though - round the edges. Hello? Yes, itís me. Disjointed and alone, this is my new place - without you. The clouds are gathering overhead, changing as I speak, white to grey, grey to black. Then the thunder comes, and a submarine would be my only hope for escape. But Iím stuck here and there is no vessel to contain my painĒ
Ah yes, kudos on the cheese-sticks.
What was the rest of that? Oh, no, donít repeat yourself.
I got my praise - so Iím happy. Your complaints are beyond me. Iím no shoulder, no bearer of news (except good - fair) - no tear wiper, hair-holder. Be gone.
Mel is it? Perhaps.
My parents know him, I think
This is the start of the third page. And I just realised - there are no limits here, except for what words cannot express. And me being me, expression is easy - loose and free, unconfined to the straight and narrow never-windings of life.
The ink will never run out. I am not killing the rainforest. This is eternal, and everlasting.
Just a click, and a second in time, and the rows and rows of mindless crust will be gone. Gone, gone - erased from everywhere. In the ink, on the trees - it takes more than this. The reality needs fire to truly disappear - or time (a long time) to rot and die, unnoticed.
Thatís it - there are no limits here, but extinction comes so easily.
It was mature cheddar, by the by - not that mild shiznit your mother likes.
Thatís why I grant this to you - my inner thoughts. (But not really, my inner thoughts are hidden even to me. This is all I can see, skirting on the edge of vision. Periphery Yes, I know. Flickering dangerously in my mind, balanced on top of the real problems - these are the tales most easiest to pick)
*one of the plastic ones. But the brown plastic ones, so it looks old. Not with lights in, because that looks tacky.
I use flickering too much. A good word, normal and such - but still, too much.
A rhyme of sorts. Most enjoyable.
So, yeah, whatever. I grant - bequeath - this to you, in hope of survival. Some form of remembrance would be nice but I doubt anyone would miss, or even realise.
The electronic evolution - an adaptation in exchange for some watered oil, a fresh wick, and a spark of hope. And / or an actual spark - as real light never issues from hope.
Only actions lead to progress.
No, still stuck.
Mel Smith? Maybe. But maybe the common name seeks to fill a hole (The shape of which I cannot define)
... pain? No, too sombre. I hate the sombre - yet, it sustains me. Whoop-de-bloody-doop. Sombre is easy to do. I long for the light, the fresh, the hopeful shine of a childís wish.
Ah well. Change??>?
If everyone changes around me, and I stay still. Then logically - eventually - Iíll be original again. The one unchanged. Some guy, shrouded in black.
That would be nice.
Letís continue ...
A deadwood silhouette - do you remember? It seems so far away now, and shrouded in the lame. God knows how much I paid to get that clichť out of retirement.
But a rather haunting image.
The deadwood first - dead, obviously. The wood signals at something once alive, and growing. And this harks to the sea - drift wood, perhaps, some kind of trigger in the mind. Strange things, words - they never exist apart from anything, thereís always a link to somewhere else, totally out of context.
Then again, context is nothing but what you let it be.
And the silhouette. Not a shadow, but a blackened image. Once again Iím throw back to the sea - and thereís too many metaphors there, too many memories - as the sun sinks (dying, you could say) below the horizon - the wood becomes blackened.
Blackened is burnt? Why does everything point to death - the sombre has sunk deeper than I recall.
The fact I cannot recall when it began is a much more frightening image. I blacked out - black, became the silhouette, became the image. And the dead wood is me - burned me a premature launch into the sun.
Forced, and scared for the bad decision.
Donít you just hate it when everything gets overanalysed?
Onwards, ever onwards.
Seems no sign of slowing - Iíd forgive you if you gave up already. Your eyes did not produce what they see / saw. My fingers did, and my mind, and as such - to stop is to finish, and the end signals some kind of countdown to the critique.
Yes, yes, I may as well not bother.
Thereís hardly any point I know, but I long for the praise - like I said before - thatís all that matters. I donít care about you. This is for me. But without you, without my preservation - I shrink and die. Funny things.
Co-dependancy Aha. But itís not plagiarism, as the context is totally different, and much more real. As such. As such. As such.. Not as nice.
Dancing, dancing - thatís quite nice, to dance. Pretty
No - dance of death. My mistake.
Canít escape this cycle.
The cocktails sticks are pinewood. Enjoy
Is there a link here, can you tell? A connection, a chain between the sections? I know, the dissected, twaddling conversations run through - but something deeper, beyond the lame use of the TAGS.
Beyond that, and beneath it - to the rotting core.
Now thereís a link. To just before.
Someone close knocks on the door.
I save and quit, this is my pour.
...tears? Happy or sad. It depends, really.
On the situation.
Sharing with strangers. You know more than any other.
There are no faces, creased with laughter - crammed into pictures of understanding.
Just name, and words - none of which I know, none of which I represent, and none of which are true.
Oh dear, that was a bit deep.
Well, Iíve dug deeper - but not into myself. Into a vacant plot of seperate emotions.
Sustained by lies? Spot the difference.
The saved up stuff.
I got no stuff left though. I got to try now.
I need a sentimental review from an
> idiot who thinks they weren't put on this world to just co-exist with
> my existence.
Thanks Godmother, I'm a real boy!
Influence has me bounding my powers. Calculations. Processing the mainframe and circulating the membrane to give you as much feedback as possible. On the roster my name sits at the top of the pile. An arched private home with a spire is my reward. Hopefully.
Take a trip into my inner psyche. The ink grunge falling from the ceiling and dripping down, staining the walls of my mind. Have a look around and give me your judgment. I need a sentimental review from an idiot who thinks they weren't put on this world to just co-exist with my existence. That's right. You where born just to inter-twine with my path. So be honored. I'm not religious...much. But if God wants a sun..(Sp? ... see I care about spellings to prove I'm clever....but who knows I might be fending off negative prejudice thoughts by you...so am I paranoid or paranoid. Paranoid of spelling and you thinking I'm uncool because of my stupidness, thus desperate to inter-face with my good side or paranoid of you thinking I'm paranoid, desperate to be popular and dying not to look weak.) Son. So yeah, I'm the best in world, you're here to somehow have an affect on me and who knows, it might be a sub-consciously cataclysmic affair. Declare yourself sane and take a tour of my mind, witness it and my power energy. See what you think
Truly now; I'm a seer. I mystical and powerful all-seeing one. So don't mess or I'll curse the paramedics. Yes my power is advantageous and can be channeled to do good but, my visions and cauldron fodder are simply dissension glory hunts.
A conjunction should be made. Between those who can volumise the most smallest possible gaseous mole in their lungs. And they cannot speak afterwards, they cannot taste but the brown ruggid dog stubble breath must float back up.
Like we are in the main contraption behind the view. A supportive structure we float in and watch the world being simulated. But real though...in a simulator. It's actually happening right there, but it appears we're in a simulator. We get shaken behind the view so we see thunderous diamonds move and whisper. Views echo and get out of control whilst being out of sync with the context vibrate analogue control controller. Of macbre calibre quality. Royalty Oxe. Oxo roses
Get the gun. The royal hunting hats, boots, dogs and servants. Being revolvant. The sun on a minor scale being tagged around. A big country home going out, getting ready to go hunting. In the shrews.
A hazey bubble. Swaying, vibrating, juxtaposing by the radiant. Intention radiant. Concentration gradient.
You cannot see. You definatley cannot hear it. Then hear this. Hear me one and for all. Through and through.
Aww. A blue waltzing mini fly glistening through an icycle. Ring ding ding a ling. It's reflecting an ore with awe. Crystalised and fossilised, so it looks translucent. A prescious jewell of remembrantic quality. Glimmering, a swirly colour is aurated. Conveying some kind off imprint on my memory keys?
Hiding under the stairs. Truncating greatness. Hit the peddle. More so. Pottery manifested in textiles, Maiyan-Hilbre crimson steps and Aztec slaves stepping down to a more sinister bearing. Revolting revolving reknownful ryu ken shrukiden spirals gold plated wheels on ships
Never, not to worry. I have great news. Industrial black covalent cobalt salt. The black tar stain which stinks of Chrome. Ozones. Layers. Princesses. Is wrong. Never Incest. what the hell was that? Interlinked morphine?! :S
Let me just get an overlook/ general report, possible overfind. I'm blue, modern and floating stars.
Steel walkways. Security patrols. Walking in the dark. The complex. Night shifts. The big plaza with interlinked shuffle cards and easier modernisation. Retina scans, security card clearances, terminals and possible silver badge promotion era
I'm green and I use others as my main supply. But we're not the same. The one in your [email protected] is a crustacean. Or however, whatever. Point proven. Nonetheless, nevertheless.
A broken mirror of my past life shattered and scattered all over the promised land, blurring my image and making sure that I have no entry through the gates. In this silver bowl; my brain is my aegis. A big fat saviour on horseback in violet armour smiling through the mouthpiece.
Transfixed on the dark figure in the mirror. I see one entity built up of false emotions and protective shells. A dirty, dirty minor leaguer who feeds off you and a conducer to all Disease. Though through my inner-self, gaping with confusion to the outside, I am also a celibate chaste. Weak, white, angelic and opaque; Celestial smiles and partys. Indeed, through the dark I am deeply, in light. Very inherent. Fine picked. Grrr...which one shall I dipose?
Re-arrange suit, posture, stance and get some deep cleansing breaths. Cancerous clouds everwhere. So, no. No cleansing breaths anymore.
Pickleberrys out in the fall. In the wake of brown blotchy walls. Listen to the lions honour call. Me and you strolling through, arm-in-arm. A canopy above, shields us from the charming harm. Down fly two Bluetits with a chirpy chatter. politely trying to speak, silence proves it does not matter. I can't really blame the winged beautys. It's a summer day to sit back and admire nature's dutys. You seem so enthralled by this heavenly place. The unreal heat apparently has no affect on your beautiful face. Not even a befouling bead of sweat, not a hot frown. Staring at the surroundings you just met, eyeing them up and down. The fountain in the middle of the enchanted forest bears your name. You're at one with it, you, the wildhorse that I must tame. I stop and drink from this prescious resource. I see the God of the forest fit you a special torque. I taste you Polevault over the top onto the platform. The foundations do not crumble due to your power. It has witheld it. It is so strong. And endearing. Youth. Youth. Youth.
Last in current series. Temporary circumcision.