If you are frozen you may come back. If you are not frozen we know you will not come back.
Lunatic harnessed: Eli sat alone in the corner post with dark glass beads of disconnected occupation hovering over his eyes, bands of iron over his nerve endings and lips stitched silent.
The moths jotted about the room were flittering a self-assurance wallpapering and politarian history backwards and forward between themselves cutting the air out of his lungs; It was a certain enriching, expanding, reconfirming, firming, or literary squirming they slithed about in.
Good Schloss Tegal is whispering dark static into my ears and the strap runs ear to ear connecting over my chin, buckling me down into an imaginary mask of sorts. I jitter my blood to think, miss, dream of some cold heavy air washing over the room, warrrrrrrrrrm cacoooon.
It’s an opportunity to witness things that we are taught our whole lives cannot be.
It’s a connection with the unknown.
Oh show me you holy devils of my open grave.
Mim trances a poppy spell and dances squinty eyed and smiley out of his casket.
So: I am he and he is I, and mimics mime like everything I see, and is my bastet child, and my adopted thrall, and looming phantasmal host, or ghost, and one twenty-fifth of my right eye, and a very subtle gaze I occasionally capture in a waif eye when glooming in the dead light district… Anyhow.
Now I’m awake and dreaming through the light…
Annan hope and a pex pox, all illuminated with slanting grip taped floors flanked by strange treasures and new worlds, joined by noisy tracks between escalators manned by the friendly uniformed old man who guards the black mystery gap beneath the tracks where great and secret lost things await at the bottom which will never be seen and might as well in fact lead straight to some hell called: Abandon.
I have some friends that live there I do.
A postage stamp, a silver magick ring, a menagerie of feltling and fluffling humanoids with jittering plastic eyes and dusty fuzz amongst so many other animistic gods and angels who once dwelt in my realm of being only to be relocated to nowhere.
Ha. Now they live screaming alone unheard for all eternity up to their eyes in hollow darkness in some icy rift of hell called: Abandon.
Mim always lies awake screaming for the things it lost that weep into its ears and then comes pawing into my sleeping chambers for a soft kiss or a midnight lobotomy.
I however; whilst animistic cannot afford the luxury of emotion for the departed and simply write a happier delusion to giggle at.
Oh sometimes have to get the devils out for a very irrational flight.
Sometimes have to beat you brainless with a length of razor wire.
Just the air.
The sweet air poisoned in our Latvian autumn all beset with blood spray and coal dust where once living things graced gaunt the evening with mist by will of wisp.
Sometimes here in that bog it all thinks I'm merely hyper lonesome and enraptured in a feral glee, never knowing where anything begins or ends and hardly able to discern the differentials betwixt social asphyxiation and happy happy grins.
You asphyxiated our babies with your radiation poisoning and nihilist dialects.
(You can’t audibly hear these sounds while you are there.)
Godless you are left fearful and media drunk on the jagged tines of your afterthoughts, bound in tin shards the heavenly wreck of Babylon to entrench you.
Oh how I want to shard their mortal foil with a glistening razor in flight! Joy joy overdone angsty visions!
Now then on a seperate notation:
I am sorry I was locked away in a Russian prison for three years and miss the good grace of tea and crumpets hungry for conversation pent up eccentricity. More so that I am horribly manic panicky and try to open pretty doll heads with caffeine needles. They have some day dreams in such unique acrylic colors.
The moths jotted about the room were flittering a self-assurance wallpapering and politarian history backwards and forward between themselves cutting the air out of his lungs; It was a certain enriching, expanding, reconfirming, firming, or literary squirming they slithed about in.
Good Schloss Tegal is whispering dark static into my ears and the strap runs ear to ear connecting over my chin, buckling me down into an imaginary mask of sorts. I jitter my blood to think, miss, dream of some cold heavy air washing over the room, warrrrrrrrrrm cacoooon.
It’s an opportunity to witness things that we are taught our whole lives cannot be.
It’s a connection with the unknown.
Oh show me you holy devils of my open grave.
Mim trances a poppy spell and dances squinty eyed and smiley out of his casket.
So: I am he and he is I, and mimics mime like everything I see, and is my bastet child, and my adopted thrall, and looming phantasmal host, or ghost, and one twenty-fifth of my right eye, and a very subtle gaze I occasionally capture in a waif eye when glooming in the dead light district… Anyhow.
Now I’m awake and dreaming through the light…
Annan hope and a pex pox, all illuminated with slanting grip taped floors flanked by strange treasures and new worlds, joined by noisy tracks between escalators manned by the friendly uniformed old man who guards the black mystery gap beneath the tracks where great and secret lost things await at the bottom which will never be seen and might as well in fact lead straight to some hell called: Abandon.
I have some friends that live there I do.
A postage stamp, a silver magick ring, a menagerie of feltling and fluffling humanoids with jittering plastic eyes and dusty fuzz amongst so many other animistic gods and angels who once dwelt in my realm of being only to be relocated to nowhere.
Ha. Now they live screaming alone unheard for all eternity up to their eyes in hollow darkness in some icy rift of hell called: Abandon.
Mim always lies awake screaming for the things it lost that weep into its ears and then comes pawing into my sleeping chambers for a soft kiss or a midnight lobotomy.
I however; whilst animistic cannot afford the luxury of emotion for the departed and simply write a happier delusion to giggle at.
Oh sometimes have to get the devils out for a very irrational flight.
Sometimes have to beat you brainless with a length of razor wire.
Just the air.
The sweet air poisoned in our Latvian autumn all beset with blood spray and coal dust where once living things graced gaunt the evening with mist by will of wisp.
Sometimes here in that bog it all thinks I'm merely hyper lonesome and enraptured in a feral glee, never knowing where anything begins or ends and hardly able to discern the differentials betwixt social asphyxiation and happy happy grins.
You asphyxiated our babies with your radiation poisoning and nihilist dialects.
(You can’t audibly hear these sounds while you are there.)
Godless you are left fearful and media drunk on the jagged tines of your afterthoughts, bound in tin shards the heavenly wreck of Babylon to entrench you.
Oh how I want to shard their mortal foil with a glistening razor in flight! Joy joy overdone angsty visions!
Now then on a seperate notation:
I am sorry I was locked away in a Russian prison for three years and miss the good grace of tea and crumpets hungry for conversation pent up eccentricity. More so that I am horribly manic panicky and try to open pretty doll heads with caffeine needles. They have some day dreams in such unique acrylic colors.