Smoke returns to my lungs and I’m off to the races once more. Questioning my reality like some suburban yogi in heat, a meat eating yogi – 28 with a good amount of testosterone always coursing through my mainframe. If I lack conversation, I try to make some of it up through this here portal. Want to drink tomorrow, want to forget who I am. At least for a few hours time. Then when I return to normal, the sense of I that I have of “I” will be slightly lessened. Can enough alcohol slowly dissolve your ego and future worries? Did Zeus and Aphrodite create this mead in order that we all go through life, chipping away at our strange sense of entitlement and all the various shapes it contorts into? Or does it just magnify the need of an ego, as your mental faculties already lessen with time, and with the aid of alcohol, the process no doubt speeds up. (Genetics are important too)

I would need a good mind doctor or shamanic guru to pose these lingering questions to. Tried once, posing theological questions to the folks and they’d have none of that. “Not in this house will you raise such potentially revealing questions!” (So said my father, in a more direct way than this – sarcasm)

Really? Not even willing to discuss why you believe what you believe? Too scared to attempt to even put your belief into words? A hidden fear that not enough hearty, meaningful words would arise? You never know. Guess habits eventually turn to stone, stones that are then stacked, and an approaching, speculative light must be immediately dampened.

Theological discourse. America needs more of it. Maybe I’m just not hanging around the right people. It’s of course much easier to remain in your own “concentration” mind camp. Inside the Grid I hide. I’ve become pretty good at hiding, learning to ask less, and disclose only what’s necessary to get by in way of public opinion.

Bachmann was flying through space, now she has landed terra firma. Her biblical spear dashes through the clouds, her pounds of terrestrial makeup spill out across the atmosphere. Al Gore is so gayly disgusted at that kind of footprint! Pray the gay away! Chants Mr. and Mrs. Bachmann! Pray it away for a brighter American Day! But I say it’s suspicious when Mr. Bachmann has a kind of gay retreat, where infected parties go to be wholly cured of this malignant cancer that has attached itself to their brains, buttocks, and penis. A private meeting place.

It’s true, politics were created by King Zeus, in order that the common people have some daily fodder, as occasionally the societal noose becomes too tight, and quoting the Ticians allows you to cut loose without any repercussions - at least in America. On another note entirely, nobody sounds like an outright psycho. It’s just a matter of what ears you’re up against. Also, jerking off forfeits the fruits of ambition. But when ambition is so closely tied with illusion and eventual loss, why not just cut to the chase?

deep cellular skin now traps the language that would actually help my life progress

behind 3 lavender curtains that shade out the shaded light of a prior existence

a plastic moulded copy to contain wisdom, for a few minutes time, then poof

sleep taunts me, but its just government/media ordered sleep patterns

that mess with my psyche since hearing about them when young

although when young, the contemplation of enough sleep is never passed through your skull

alright then, i get it, some kind of exhaustion to settle over before i pass out like Gulas, on the spot

wherever i end up

almost getting to that point again where i can escape, but when hunger and piss compete

roadblocks form and you’re left with sinister thoughts, only for a while though

came to the idea that all must pass and there are always at least thousands doing worse than you

at any given moment, so optimisms charm should never be too far away from tapping your shoulder

brainless ego trap forced inside a tube of serum gum

forced to play the marinachi band for my grave aunt louise this was suppose to be my weekend away at the hamptons instead im forced to play house with the living and

unliving, simultaneously listening to rap, forced to listen to latino raps and rhythms “boy you gonna end up in the ghetto if you don’t care about much… don’t care about career, house, baby and the rest of economical interests, boy” this was suppose to be a

supposed break from the supposive? instead it turned into a tribal remembrance full of soup made out of Israel’s sins its the din of the crowd that lasts forever more until the

booze breath looses its panache leaving myself an out this one time and times in the future, got to leave a physical out typing compulsively isn’t as savory as compared to

notebook frills and thrills deadened cells compete for the spotlight, only a few will stick around for yucks most will decay with such an alarming rate as to leave the

planet in a desperate way If my centurian bloodline doesn’t last much longer at least I know i would have made no difference

filthy acts of kindness are all that are left now. the wars are starting to end and love is taking its turn. never forgive your enemies, unless you really cared about your life never ending. if you want to live in a steam ship, don’t look to me for the answers. i was once a paranoid astronaut, now i’m just a priest in stock man clothing. have you ever seen the rain come down in buckets, only to be amazed by the sight of a priestly wife come prancing down in her shortest underpants? i haven’t either but it was a worthwhile question. if you have nothing to give, give nothing, if you have everything to give, reconsider, because everything is as empty as nothing, so said the drunken buddha who was one grilled cheese short of a good time.

these words were not meant for you, hence you never having read the first word of this passage. although if you stumbled here you’re so much thicker than i could imagine. because to imagine one thicker than me, would only naturally bring one here? gold is instant karma, silver is a bad dream, and bronze a corporate problem. typing became the only way to shit out the words proper in times of being robotic. for the robotic pitter patter observed from typing is in order to set the mind at ease, much like white noise slows down your lower brain in order to become higher.

rubbish

high frigga tose diet, high in sugar, high in thoughtfulness, high in dismantling the essential core of keeping it together. if you ever raid a party be sure to steal all the doritos and hornitos beer. do this as to disturb the host of the party in such a way that they’ll never host a get together again. its not really about stealing the larger, big money items, its more so about nipping away at the smaller snack food items. its the small things we steal in life that end up and stay on the minds of our hosts. larger items are like larger quantities of dead soldiers, it lasts a day, then it’s off to libya, off to egypt, and all the rest in a long line of military peg points.

it’s not that you’re wasting away, you’re just chemically altering your dna at such a rapid rate, that no one is going to sit around to really monitor your status. save yourself is the last amen left! because as the sun intensifies and surges up everyone’s kundalini spine module, each person is left with boat loads of self discovery. never expect other souls to gather around your death marching as if you were heading up some kind of kumba rumba party of sorts. eat your chemicals, work your shifts, suck down the corn syrup, and then one day your body will never die off! won’t die off because of the millions of preservatives you managed to dillegently cram down your throat, out of a thrifty nature you adopted during the “lean years”.

if im braindead then all is well, im on to something better for myself. if you’re braindead all is not well, as only a few select few can handle a braindead outset. outrightly prescribed by the voodoo doctors of our time. don’t fret if this is turning out to be rubbish full of sidewinders and scrambled legs. don’t fret if your retirement money isn’t there anymore. it’ll be there when you’re energy is an atmospheric play thing and you have more soul sparkle then the saving drone of drones. it’s a matter of rhetoric that we compete and compete. daddy o