My mind is going. Not the fanatical, frantic going, going, gone of months past -- just the slipping away in a tick and a tock -- I’ve forgot. I’ve forgot how far I’ve traveled, how many lives I’ve lived, how many times I’ve died and been reborn. I am the resurrection of forgetfulness with a new skin, a new soul and a blank slate.
The greatest killer is success. Success kills off the old self with a stake through the heart, which is good, since the morose ranting of the unsuccessful are vampiric. But with each death, a clod is washed away and Europe is the less. My personal continent has California sliding into the sea.
I found myself in a Buddhist temple today. It looked like a protestant chapel -- orderly pews and hymn books. A golden altar replaced the choir seats. Incense stamped itself on the air. The tour guide let us know how they had adopted the “American” and the “Christian” Style of worship. The preacher preached. The audience sang. The congregation chanted their voices in prayer. Beads, like zeros, around the wrist as a daily remembrance of God. They met every Sunday. Buddaha had died and was resurrected as an American church, collection plate and all. Not all deaths and rebirths are for the best.
So is my recent incarnation better or worse? Is losing California bad? The answer must be yes to my Californians. Entropy and a law of thermodynamics always told me why it was futile to clean my room. Everything is headed into a state of chaos. We expend energy to stop the crumbling edifice of our lives, but eventually we are dust.
Ohhh, ohhh, ohhhh, all we are is dust in the wind. Existential pop music. Talk about pop music. We’re an American Band, We’re an American Band, We’re coming to your town we’ll help you party it down, I am an American Man. Awoo woo. I’m cumming in your cunt, I’ll help to fuck you slut. I am an American Man. Energy again, sexual energy -- the ones and zeros fighting to keep the dusty soul from blowing away in a wind storm.
Success eats energy. Energy keeps us alive. The logical conclusion: Success kills. The insidiousness of success is that it requires and demands to be fed your energy, drawing your very life from your throat.
I walk the tightrope. My chapel still requires a collection plate of a 1 followed by many zeros, too, but let me at least lose the pews, the preacher and the golden altars. I must sacrifice no more of my life to keep me away from my prophetic duty.
I have my muses. My muse told me I should realize something:
I prophesy for myself. Fuck the rest of you. Fuck immortality. Fuck the one. Fuck the zero. Fuck acceptance. I think I’m going to go TS Eliot for my believers.
The greatest killer is success. Success kills off the old self with a stake through the heart, which is good, since the morose ranting of the unsuccessful are vampiric. But with each death, a clod is washed away and Europe is the less. My personal continent has California sliding into the sea.
I found myself in a Buddhist temple today. It looked like a protestant chapel -- orderly pews and hymn books. A golden altar replaced the choir seats. Incense stamped itself on the air. The tour guide let us know how they had adopted the “American” and the “Christian” Style of worship. The preacher preached. The audience sang. The congregation chanted their voices in prayer. Beads, like zeros, around the wrist as a daily remembrance of God. They met every Sunday. Buddaha had died and was resurrected as an American church, collection plate and all. Not all deaths and rebirths are for the best.
So is my recent incarnation better or worse? Is losing California bad? The answer must be yes to my Californians. Entropy and a law of thermodynamics always told me why it was futile to clean my room. Everything is headed into a state of chaos. We expend energy to stop the crumbling edifice of our lives, but eventually we are dust.
Ohhh, ohhh, ohhhh, all we are is dust in the wind. Existential pop music. Talk about pop music. We’re an American Band, We’re an American Band, We’re coming to your town we’ll help you party it down, I am an American Man. Awoo woo. I’m cumming in your cunt, I’ll help to fuck you slut. I am an American Man. Energy again, sexual energy -- the ones and zeros fighting to keep the dusty soul from blowing away in a wind storm.
Success eats energy. Energy keeps us alive. The logical conclusion: Success kills. The insidiousness of success is that it requires and demands to be fed your energy, drawing your very life from your throat.
I walk the tightrope. My chapel still requires a collection plate of a 1 followed by many zeros, too, but let me at least lose the pews, the preacher and the golden altars. I must sacrifice no more of my life to keep me away from my prophetic duty.
I have my muses. My muse told me I should realize something:
I prophesy for myself. Fuck the rest of you. Fuck immortality. Fuck the one. Fuck the zero. Fuck acceptance. I think I’m going to go TS Eliot for my believers.
Immortality spreads its legs and I enter that black hole. I’ve already entered, I’ve always been inside and have never really escaped the womb of immortality. Maybe it is my fluctuating doubt that is the friction for the copulation of my fuck of immortality. I am -- in. I’m dust -- out. In and out. In and out. Some day I’ll die in an orgasmic explosion deep inside the cunt of immortality blowing my little spirit into fragmented pieces and dissolving back into the womb which I have always belonged.
There is serenity in knowing that you can fuck immortality. Now life becomes an exercise or a meditation. Does my chapel conform to those around me or do I start my own unique devotional.
Cling and die. Cling and be separated. Let go and be free. Grab the one. Grab the zero.
The harder the grasp, the greater the pain when life rips the tendrils from your grasp.
I am the I am, I am the I am, I am the I am. I am. Cohen likes his lady Saints. Cum, cum ye Saints. No insertion or labor fear, but with joy enter -- yeah!! Now hard to you, this cock must certainly appear, great for you when you play. Does it all end in pain and death? Joan is always burned. Her virgin cunt lips, virgin no more having been licked to an orgasmic death by the tickling tongue of flame. But she never was a virgin -- none of us are. We’ve been fucking immortality since we first exited our mother’s zero womb and slid into the womb of immortality. Mothers and immortality pushing and grind their pussies together, in and out the souls slide, lubricated by the juices of their births and deaths, as the two lesbian lovers kiss inner lips and transport us back and forth.
This is a digital image – ones and zeros making two women, legs intertwined and rubbing their genitals together. The souls forming a giant plastic dildo one connecting immortality and mothers with the double penis head and the legs spread wide while the black plastic went out and in. Mother, braless and giving birth to a soul, who is leaving and going right into immortality. If only birth always began on satin sheets with stockings and spiked heels. I can feel my soul sliding down the wet walls, feeling that cold burst of air and diving for the warmth and wetness of immortality’s hot snatch. Sometimes in the frenzied fuck of life, the mother and immortality are locked together and I am imprisoned inside the maternal and eternal vaginal walls. The only fear to be left a cold and lifeless one, with the vaginal juices steaming off, a black one dildo on a white satin sheet alone.
There is serenity in knowing that you can fuck immortality. Now life becomes an exercise or a meditation. Does my chapel conform to those around me or do I start my own unique devotional.
Cling and die. Cling and be separated. Let go and be free. Grab the one. Grab the zero.
The harder the grasp, the greater the pain when life rips the tendrils from your grasp.
I am the I am, I am the I am, I am the I am. I am. Cohen likes his lady Saints. Cum, cum ye Saints. No insertion or labor fear, but with joy enter -- yeah!! Now hard to you, this cock must certainly appear, great for you when you play. Does it all end in pain and death? Joan is always burned. Her virgin cunt lips, virgin no more having been licked to an orgasmic death by the tickling tongue of flame. But she never was a virgin -- none of us are. We’ve been fucking immortality since we first exited our mother’s zero womb and slid into the womb of immortality. Mothers and immortality pushing and grind their pussies together, in and out the souls slide, lubricated by the juices of their births and deaths, as the two lesbian lovers kiss inner lips and transport us back and forth.
This is a digital image – ones and zeros making two women, legs intertwined and rubbing their genitals together. The souls forming a giant plastic dildo one connecting immortality and mothers with the double penis head and the legs spread wide while the black plastic went out and in. Mother, braless and giving birth to a soul, who is leaving and going right into immortality. If only birth always began on satin sheets with stockings and spiked heels. I can feel my soul sliding down the wet walls, feeling that cold burst of air and diving for the warmth and wetness of immortality’s hot snatch. Sometimes in the frenzied fuck of life, the mother and immortality are locked together and I am imprisoned inside the maternal and eternal vaginal walls. The only fear to be left a cold and lifeless one, with the vaginal juices steaming off, a black one dildo on a white satin sheet alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment