06/18/04
The circle closes in on me as the symphonic sadness that birthed me anew seeps into my ears with syrupy serenity. My gaskets were blown and I was running on pistons pumping only partially. Skipped a beat, and fell down skidding to a halt before this very moment. Arms flailing in a vertigo twist, perched on the thin line between eternity and infinity.
The mind warps in the heat, bending and buckling like a 45 in the sidewalk sun. The sweat feels good, oozing and sliming out the gunk that formed the filth layer of interaction. Getting in those last few moments of immersed muck, writing the memory down as the most absolute joy of youthful abandon.
Gripping the sides of the obsidian machine, I entered the ritualistic magic word, granting access to the dementions within. The words are beaten loose from their holding. Picked seemingly at random, but the pattern emerges as the selection becomes more instinctual, more dynamic. Vocabulary increases as the nothingness of unthought becomes a buzzing and radiant beacon, beaming my message to unwitting carriers.
Buzzing like a wasp, singing and searing under my skin. My mind's horror sees the seductive insanity of spiders' legs marching to a primal beat. I revel in its fictitious effect, and have finally grasped the concept. I am beyond damnation now.
Ticking madnesz in my ears drives me towards the end of this, this monstrosity of monotony. Ready the throne, I'm coming home.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
the T.O.B. - chapter twentyone: !
06/10/04
Bobbing in the wave like a buoyant brain, soaking in settlements of sedimental sentimentality. Giving my self over to a brighter power, brought low with scalpel surgery, coding a brand upon my lizard tale. Forced to forge a great new travesty after all. More will see than can be shown the great new ending of it all.
Revolting developmental diatribes of counter-anti-revolutionaries burning bright into the night sky, bounding over endless mornings of decimated determination. My mind skips words like rocks rocking out over the context of an elongated elimination of eternal inequities or rather failings of my myriad deities.
Flexed fornicating future fixes me with its sly smiling sadism. Skidding my way towards that calamity chasm, that tangible terror, fearsome failings, I find a way to avoid and ingest those pains. Here's the cheat, write it down, and gobble it up.
Now you're in. In lyke Flinn. Skidoo skidoo.
Bullets whizzing, rocketing rockets roaring, and explosions freaking exploding under foot! Gadget shoes, made indestructible by Gear Goneloose, ricketing railgun blasts of a thousand rayguns firing in unison. A flip and sail, as well as a maneuver of epic proportions, cause friction between my shoes and the side of the building, sparking sparkling sparks frying metal shreds as I skip my way out.
A beer in the dark, Sunday sex looming out there in the dark gloom of the urban trawl, somewhere beyond the milky colored glass that lie in the background of the enemy before me. Spider's incubator shell lies next to him, shivering, sad and serene in a beautiful purple prose.
The bartender eyes me with a piercing caress from behind his protective lenses. My hair hung loose and long in a faux seventies rock, sensitive and seductive, demure to the bitter end. Alcohol is passed, as is the acceptance of my cover story, burning coal red under the soft lights of the scene.
Dark behind the shades, gliding effortlessly, carried by the turning and swirling wind, blind and exposed in the public grounds of the "world". Memories of Spider's brooding display of power and forgiving frankness. Confession drips from my tongue in an Achilles tone, emptying all problems before the Bastard.
Recall of the mangled bones baring my back, broken and then pieced together to hold this slacking, coward's posture before the people. Brought low, made forever the comedic riot, slapped and slammed with a saddened clown smile. Brawn and boldness broke these shards I call bones. Not the physique of the hero, but the Bully, Bastard, Bruised thug, bearing a grudge on the light.
Shots rang out all around, fired from my mind's barrel, sending slivers of adaptive imaginative reality sailing into the beast of infinite openness, and I swear I heard that Bastard roar.
Bobbing in the wave like a buoyant brain, soaking in settlements of sedimental sentimentality. Giving my self over to a brighter power, brought low with scalpel surgery, coding a brand upon my lizard tale. Forced to forge a great new travesty after all. More will see than can be shown the great new ending of it all.
Revolting developmental diatribes of counter-anti-revolutionaries burning bright into the night sky, bounding over endless mornings of decimated determination. My mind skips words like rocks rocking out over the context of an elongated elimination of eternal inequities or rather failings of my myriad deities.
Flexed fornicating future fixes me with its sly smiling sadism. Skidding my way towards that calamity chasm, that tangible terror, fearsome failings, I find a way to avoid and ingest those pains. Here's the cheat, write it down, and gobble it up.
Now you're in. In lyke Flinn. Skidoo skidoo.
Bullets whizzing, rocketing rockets roaring, and explosions freaking exploding under foot! Gadget shoes, made indestructible by Gear Goneloose, ricketing railgun blasts of a thousand rayguns firing in unison. A flip and sail, as well as a maneuver of epic proportions, cause friction between my shoes and the side of the building, sparking sparkling sparks frying metal shreds as I skip my way out.
A beer in the dark, Sunday sex looming out there in the dark gloom of the urban trawl, somewhere beyond the milky colored glass that lie in the background of the enemy before me. Spider's incubator shell lies next to him, shivering, sad and serene in a beautiful purple prose.
The bartender eyes me with a piercing caress from behind his protective lenses. My hair hung loose and long in a faux seventies rock, sensitive and seductive, demure to the bitter end. Alcohol is passed, as is the acceptance of my cover story, burning coal red under the soft lights of the scene.
Dark behind the shades, gliding effortlessly, carried by the turning and swirling wind, blind and exposed in the public grounds of the "world". Memories of Spider's brooding display of power and forgiving frankness. Confession drips from my tongue in an Achilles tone, emptying all problems before the Bastard.
Recall of the mangled bones baring my back, broken and then pieced together to hold this slacking, coward's posture before the people. Brought low, made forever the comedic riot, slapped and slammed with a saddened clown smile. Brawn and boldness broke these shards I call bones. Not the physique of the hero, but the Bully, Bastard, Bruised thug, bearing a grudge on the light.
Shots rang out all around, fired from my mind's barrel, sending slivers of adaptive imaginative reality sailing into the beast of infinite openness, and I swear I heard that Bastard roar.
Monday, March 16, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 20 - Ghosts of the World
05/17/04
"Sitting in the circle of six, is the seventh, the universal. He is a man, yet no less than the sum of their parts. This being that is born anew into the cycle, is never able to experience and grow past that childlike love of the world. The desires of the six maneuver their shining center, birthing him as a being to carry their burdens, to shoulder their woes. The center is blessed with the earthly pains of his six."
I sat back after typing up this sentence, my mind soaring on a placebo mental enhancement tea, and my belly full with vegetable soup. Bobbing up and down, soaking in the primordial anxiety of our collision culture, I stared off into a world and simple truth. A holy txt file was forming, something that resembled answers, impossibly improbable answers, but answers that made sense to the state of mind I had reached.
Stripped of all the subcategories of me/them personalities, I found myself there, as one of the six. And I found the truth to be that we all secretly want to be the seventh, the person that blossoms, and not the discarded, fragmented shards of their shell. My ego fights furiously beneath my mind, claiming its royalty based on suffering served.
The story rises from our bodies like steam after a long, hot shower. It unfolds before us like a map, showing only the most dualistic of events. North, south. Good, evil. The story is our program laid bare, our essence of humanity's design, drawn and charted. As the story's power grows and more minds are laid bare before its awesome presence, the more we become the true bearer's of the original, the ideal, six.
We are the Ghosts of the World. Mad thinkers of a free design, burning with the passion of united resonance.
"Sitting in the circle of six, is the seventh, the universal. He is a man, yet no less than the sum of their parts. This being that is born anew into the cycle, is never able to experience and grow past that childlike love of the world. The desires of the six maneuver their shining center, birthing him as a being to carry their burdens, to shoulder their woes. The center is blessed with the earthly pains of his six."
I sat back after typing up this sentence, my mind soaring on a placebo mental enhancement tea, and my belly full with vegetable soup. Bobbing up and down, soaking in the primordial anxiety of our collision culture, I stared off into a world and simple truth. A holy txt file was forming, something that resembled answers, impossibly improbable answers, but answers that made sense to the state of mind I had reached.
Stripped of all the subcategories of me/them personalities, I found myself there, as one of the six. And I found the truth to be that we all secretly want to be the seventh, the person that blossoms, and not the discarded, fragmented shards of their shell. My ego fights furiously beneath my mind, claiming its royalty based on suffering served.
The story rises from our bodies like steam after a long, hot shower. It unfolds before us like a map, showing only the most dualistic of events. North, south. Good, evil. The story is our program laid bare, our essence of humanity's design, drawn and charted. As the story's power grows and more minds are laid bare before its awesome presence, the more we become the true bearer's of the original, the ideal, six.
We are the Ghosts of the World. Mad thinkers of a free design, burning with the passion of united resonance.
Monday, March 9, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 19 - Treading Trembling Tolstoy
05/13/04
Spawned from children, ideas of a world that is ideal and stamped with a singular love of itself, burning with the intensity of long lost love, summer daydreams, and a friendship cut down in its prime. Dormant in my skull is the map to this place, a hollow key born of madness, carved from my bones.
Spider grabs my brain, smooshing his fingers through the membrane of my frontal lobe, and grips tightly to my cerebral roots. Unearthed in mind, I am freed. Free to be dragged, stumbling, wobbly, trying to find my legs as I tip toe towards the future. I laugh and giggle as we careen past the games that everyone keeps changing the rules to, the one game that has become a game for all. Folding cardboard lives prop open all around me, the contestants all vigorously moving their pieces about, reciting line after line about how the game is to be played, what I can and can not do.
"Poor fools.." I mumble to myself, half delirious on the vapors of metaphysical-fictional travel through the ether of cosmic chum.
The smack of a thousand vengeful teachers resonated on the side of my face for years after Spider had let loose with the blow. I remembered the smack as if from a third person perspective, seen as if through the eyes of everyone but myself.
"What makes you think you're better than they are?" His words had been the most painful part of the reality lesson I was experiencing. A de-bratification if you will.
"They're doing what they think is right, some of them. Maybe they don't see past the game but they're trying and that was ten times more than you were doing. They have the drive, they get it done, they make the changes. If you pity them, you might as well pity the wind or the sea. Each does it part, every crack covered, and every detail taken care of in its way. It can not be any other way. They must play; their ups and downs are the mechanism that keeps this fire burning. They empower you with their will. Be good to them and you will not be denied."
He left me there, sitting, trapped in the muck. It's funny, once you are submerged, the pain and relief is like a gift. It's the struggle that keeps you running. It's the suffering that makes or breaks you.
Solve the riddle of birth, the unification that rests in your own soul, the merging of two to one.
Spawned from children, ideas of a world that is ideal and stamped with a singular love of itself, burning with the intensity of long lost love, summer daydreams, and a friendship cut down in its prime. Dormant in my skull is the map to this place, a hollow key born of madness, carved from my bones.
Spider grabs my brain, smooshing his fingers through the membrane of my frontal lobe, and grips tightly to my cerebral roots. Unearthed in mind, I am freed. Free to be dragged, stumbling, wobbly, trying to find my legs as I tip toe towards the future. I laugh and giggle as we careen past the games that everyone keeps changing the rules to, the one game that has become a game for all. Folding cardboard lives prop open all around me, the contestants all vigorously moving their pieces about, reciting line after line about how the game is to be played, what I can and can not do.
"Poor fools.." I mumble to myself, half delirious on the vapors of metaphysical-fictional travel through the ether of cosmic chum.
The smack of a thousand vengeful teachers resonated on the side of my face for years after Spider had let loose with the blow. I remembered the smack as if from a third person perspective, seen as if through the eyes of everyone but myself.
"What makes you think you're better than they are?" His words had been the most painful part of the reality lesson I was experiencing. A de-bratification if you will.
"They're doing what they think is right, some of them. Maybe they don't see past the game but they're trying and that was ten times more than you were doing. They have the drive, they get it done, they make the changes. If you pity them, you might as well pity the wind or the sea. Each does it part, every crack covered, and every detail taken care of in its way. It can not be any other way. They must play; their ups and downs are the mechanism that keeps this fire burning. They empower you with their will. Be good to them and you will not be denied."
He left me there, sitting, trapped in the muck. It's funny, once you are submerged, the pain and relief is like a gift. It's the struggle that keeps you running. It's the suffering that makes or breaks you.
Solve the riddle of birth, the unification that rests in your own soul, the merging of two to one.
Monday, March 2, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 18 - Polarization of Persona
05/04/04
With a shrug of the shoulders and a chuckle to himself, I accepted my fate. It was a good fate, far as fates go. Not too sure of the particulars, but I'll tell you this...it's bound to be a ride.
Shot like a cannon, soaring for a few brief moments like a singular and spectacular god slicing through the heavens. Too high to recall the pain of continued existence, united with the true nature of all mankind. More than complete, and less than yourself. A you so you that it becomes a you that is a meta-you. A persona that vibrates within, drawn to the surface of the pond by the intense vibrational creative fires that rage so nearby. Coming up for air, linked with several minds in one delicious moment of communion of craft.
I am thankful. I don't know why I deserve this, so I count my blessings and pack my bags. A vacation, no, a journey, an epic quest even. A task so heinous and fraught with peril that only I, with my training and drive, could accomplish. I was set loose, freed and shown the light beyond my perceived galaxy. Looking over my shoulder I knew I could not continue without my flock.
But first my training must be completed. I have been initiated and seek only the completion of the courses necessary to destroy every damn, dirty idea that seeks to crush my brothers in chains around the world. Enslaved by the genetic memory of self-imposed limitations, taught to us by those superior earthly powers that once dominated our world.
"They're comfortable, you know. They'll hate you for tearing down their defining pains." Agent Spider placed his firm grip down on my shoulder. "And you sure as shit better have a good idea what comes after."
I looked ahead and through, peering at the patterns of spiraling synchronicity that lie before me and behind me. The collapsing conundrum of all existence was just around the corner from now.
"Man, I can't wait."
With a shrug of the shoulders and a chuckle to himself, I accepted my fate. It was a good fate, far as fates go. Not too sure of the particulars, but I'll tell you this...it's bound to be a ride.
Shot like a cannon, soaring for a few brief moments like a singular and spectacular god slicing through the heavens. Too high to recall the pain of continued existence, united with the true nature of all mankind. More than complete, and less than yourself. A you so you that it becomes a you that is a meta-you. A persona that vibrates within, drawn to the surface of the pond by the intense vibrational creative fires that rage so nearby. Coming up for air, linked with several minds in one delicious moment of communion of craft.
I am thankful. I don't know why I deserve this, so I count my blessings and pack my bags. A vacation, no, a journey, an epic quest even. A task so heinous and fraught with peril that only I, with my training and drive, could accomplish. I was set loose, freed and shown the light beyond my perceived galaxy. Looking over my shoulder I knew I could not continue without my flock.
But first my training must be completed. I have been initiated and seek only the completion of the courses necessary to destroy every damn, dirty idea that seeks to crush my brothers in chains around the world. Enslaved by the genetic memory of self-imposed limitations, taught to us by those superior earthly powers that once dominated our world.
"They're comfortable, you know. They'll hate you for tearing down their defining pains." Agent Spider placed his firm grip down on my shoulder. "And you sure as shit better have a good idea what comes after."
I looked ahead and through, peering at the patterns of spiraling synchronicity that lie before me and behind me. The collapsing conundrum of all existence was just around the corner from now.
"Man, I can't wait."
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