(no subject)
...and so it begins
as we slid down the lidless sarcophocus, i looked around me. there, in the thundering darkness, ten thousand crepascular eyes stared into my mind and through it. into the abyss. deeper, deeper. when the two letters of the apocalypse sealed themselves in fate the cacophonous voices of one thousand talking heads reverberated off of the listless walls. the flaming reflection and the dancing child became one and the suicide letters of ten thousand businessmen rained from the heavens along with the fire and brimstone. the lips of the coffin opened wide in anticipation of its next meal. half buried in the ashes of the sinners shed murdered, half submerged in the tears of ten thousand mongrels, hanging their heads below the water in hopes of finding the way out of the lidless sarcophocus. the swarm of electricity wormed its way through the dust of the racers as the artery was sliced off. the blood sprayed blue and red in the atmosphere and his forsaken chapel--flooded down from the cobblestone pulpit and the crepascular curfews. and the black boxes of ten thousand crashed planes blasted the same black and yellow message: "can we see the dawn if our eyes were sewn shut? can we speak the truth if our mouths are cauterized? can you hear the sky?" it just doesnt compute. if the paper-scarred bulivards shattered with the bodies of one sacrificed for all that is good then why would the black-eyed child laugh at homesick confessionals; flying through space and time and the guitar just strummed out a million lives with the flames of a passion that was once extinguished with a heavy hand and a compulsive heart. the circle will end at the end of all time. snow will fall from hell and brimstone will boil the oceans. what if we could go back? what if we could cancel our checks and waver our admission ticket to jump off the fucking carosel, you trip and fall into oblivion. oblivious to anything he had to say. spewed forth the orange shards of the red cartel. whenever the high note was reached she knew he was with her. in her mind she could feel him. the once infectious fingers of smoke--dissecting her in every angle while still being gentle to the corpses and cadavers. why not, i wonder? but the real question comes when we will finally know the love that can only be given to us in a cavernous cascade of celephane. re-hired once more to comprehend the impossible and reach into the holes of one million empty minds just to save the hand of one criminal mind. as the smoke rose from our charred remains, we each thought how the paramedics would have a field day with our classifications. everyone screams at once. we become one with the master. one phone history of blistering files and a manuscript replica whoring itself to insolent shooting stars and dancing lights around the burning remains of the mannokins. still squirming. still screaming. cut it. pull this string from your brain, covered in blood. you would think. what is it for? how did it get there? should i see a doctor? can you fix me? can anyone fix the scars i have? have you seen anything if you havent seen nothing? can you even comprehend the seriousness of nonchalance. setting the dials to nonsequiter, we stepped back and watched as he wreaked havoc on the world, raining down acid and drizzling our souls into the flower beds of a torn youth. a heart stabbed by an anestetic needle. it hurts like hell. hell can go down in the history books as a cancer that will be cured very soon. our famous hair will go down in the history books as well. a contagous vowel in the shadow of the tombstones of the noble and when he came down everyone believed he was insane. the opulent tatters shining like a paper bag. it was the most beautiful thing that the night had ever inversed. why now. how now. can you see now? i cant shovel my own remains. never ask a person to do that. even one of your friends. the blistering specters in the spark plugs of ten thousand acid raindrops tore apart the music of the ancients and drums blasted ten thousand subliminal messages that grabbed us by the neck and pulled us down into the grave. the pointers were obvious but some still cant understand why he entered the alien sphere in the first place. the future is all that we will never have. it cannot come. even if the present becomes the past. will we ever find ourselves again in the flood of blood? gushing over our tattered remains and falling over the world, already soaked in tar and sulfur? when the sound barrier of human error was stapped like a spine of the spineless he knew at once that that was his purpose. the woman simply asked if this was our floor and if we would like to get off. well we had plans for the last of the satin lips. of course we could never fail because the fluctuating groan in our porous reality. as the toothpicks impaled ten thousand tar babies every lung was pierced and every quarter of a melting hand was dedicated for the pocket-sized edition of my very own soul. perverted by a perfume of gun powder. intrusion into my thoughts. what could be more illegal than tearing one's own contrition in two? ostrasized from the sacreligious infection, he knew that he would never see the daylight again. he took in one last breath of the fresh nuclear air before he had to go into the depths. he knew he was in for something much much much worse. as the children flickered in the tremulous shaft, the paramedics knew one of the sequences was not a summer night's sky under the hail of contraband.
peace
-Nick
as we slid down the lidless sarcophocus, i looked around me. there, in the thundering darkness, ten thousand crepascular eyes stared into my mind and through it. into the abyss. deeper, deeper. when the two letters of the apocalypse sealed themselves in fate the cacophonous voices of one thousand talking heads reverberated off of the listless walls. the flaming reflection and the dancing child became one and the suicide letters of ten thousand businessmen rained from the heavens along with the fire and brimstone. the lips of the coffin opened wide in anticipation of its next meal. half buried in the ashes of the sinners shed murdered, half submerged in the tears of ten thousand mongrels, hanging their heads below the water in hopes of finding the way out of the lidless sarcophocus. the swarm of electricity wormed its way through the dust of the racers as the artery was sliced off. the blood sprayed blue and red in the atmosphere and his forsaken chapel--flooded down from the cobblestone pulpit and the crepascular curfews. and the black boxes of ten thousand crashed planes blasted the same black and yellow message: "can we see the dawn if our eyes were sewn shut? can we speak the truth if our mouths are cauterized? can you hear the sky?" it just doesnt compute. if the paper-scarred bulivards shattered with the bodies of one sacrificed for all that is good then why would the black-eyed child laugh at homesick confessionals; flying through space and time and the guitar just strummed out a million lives with the flames of a passion that was once extinguished with a heavy hand and a compulsive heart. the circle will end at the end of all time. snow will fall from hell and brimstone will boil the oceans. what if we could go back? what if we could cancel our checks and waver our admission ticket to jump off the fucking carosel, you trip and fall into oblivion. oblivious to anything he had to say. spewed forth the orange shards of the red cartel. whenever the high note was reached she knew he was with her. in her mind she could feel him. the once infectious fingers of smoke--dissecting her in every angle while still being gentle to the corpses and cadavers. why not, i wonder? but the real question comes when we will finally know the love that can only be given to us in a cavernous cascade of celephane. re-hired once more to comprehend the impossible and reach into the holes of one million empty minds just to save the hand of one criminal mind. as the smoke rose from our charred remains, we each thought how the paramedics would have a field day with our classifications. everyone screams at once. we become one with the master. one phone history of blistering files and a manuscript replica whoring itself to insolent shooting stars and dancing lights around the burning remains of the mannokins. still squirming. still screaming. cut it. pull this string from your brain, covered in blood. you would think. what is it for? how did it get there? should i see a doctor? can you fix me? can anyone fix the scars i have? have you seen anything if you havent seen nothing? can you even comprehend the seriousness of nonchalance. setting the dials to nonsequiter, we stepped back and watched as he wreaked havoc on the world, raining down acid and drizzling our souls into the flower beds of a torn youth. a heart stabbed by an anestetic needle. it hurts like hell. hell can go down in the history books as a cancer that will be cured very soon. our famous hair will go down in the history books as well. a contagous vowel in the shadow of the tombstones of the noble and when he came down everyone believed he was insane. the opulent tatters shining like a paper bag. it was the most beautiful thing that the night had ever inversed. why now. how now. can you see now? i cant shovel my own remains. never ask a person to do that. even one of your friends. the blistering specters in the spark plugs of ten thousand acid raindrops tore apart the music of the ancients and drums blasted ten thousand subliminal messages that grabbed us by the neck and pulled us down into the grave. the pointers were obvious but some still cant understand why he entered the alien sphere in the first place. the future is all that we will never have. it cannot come. even if the present becomes the past. will we ever find ourselves again in the flood of blood? gushing over our tattered remains and falling over the world, already soaked in tar and sulfur? when the sound barrier of human error was stapped like a spine of the spineless he knew at once that that was his purpose. the woman simply asked if this was our floor and if we would like to get off. well we had plans for the last of the satin lips. of course we could never fail because the fluctuating groan in our porous reality. as the toothpicks impaled ten thousand tar babies every lung was pierced and every quarter of a melting hand was dedicated for the pocket-sized edition of my very own soul. perverted by a perfume of gun powder. intrusion into my thoughts. what could be more illegal than tearing one's own contrition in two? ostrasized from the sacreligious infection, he knew that he would never see the daylight again. he took in one last breath of the fresh nuclear air before he had to go into the depths. he knew he was in for something much much much worse. as the children flickered in the tremulous shaft, the paramedics knew one of the sequences was not a summer night's sky under the hail of contraband.
peace
-Nick