Bottled logic, pre-sold gimmick. Weak to masquerade as meek for this bottle-labelled week: eat, coitus and repeat.
Lucy lose it, she lost it, lucifer on the pedestal with demeanours so neat (stay off the deadmeat).
I find myself lost — truth in contradicting fiction I speak. Murmur some Leonardo and Rumi with my late roomie, rum, raisins — dude defunct dogsick. German shepherds let’s blow ourselves up. Jim Jones. Crossfire. Catholics. Rumi. Black roses. They miscalculated my rosary. Retreat electronic mails I sent to my ex-lookalike Rosalia. Philo-phobia — this is not my type of blacks-only party. Crooked clocks during these eternal endtimes.
Quiten your minds. Find glucose within my words.Wool candyfloss. Silver nines. Know thyself needs to self re-define. This is taebo, taekwondo, basmati and South China rice. Croco-bags off, bluff and doff, wrists slit sleep off sicknesses. Cast off wayward blessers, uplift women, not only their embroidered dresses. This symposium is some pussy cum, the galaxy in the mess. Take shots, ox-shield the cow-horn Shakarian art of war. The sun tzu don’t shine infinitely — us enlightened prefer the black-holes more.
Shakespearian hand-scrawled metaphor to weigh the score. I calligraph like The Root’s Do you Want More? Benchmarking by bench-warming demons of democracy in this sporty life, playwriters Jericho skyscrapers. The fall. Re-center your core. Meatless masters. Faceless monsters. One eyed vistas. To those glutton chewing till bone marrows, chapter from Heru Pharaohs. It’s crazy how dead animal bones can reveal more about life — animal ancestoral compass, riots in my campus. Let him fall. Rhodes versus Olympus. My meaning precise, juxtaposing, oxymoron. What’s the fuss; really? We don’t care unless it’s immediate to our family.
Envelope. Never fold all the critiques and scolds unless they’re coated in gold. God is a hairdresser but I choose to go bald. I’m proceeding from star seeding, bird, monk ‘seding, secrets are never stories untold. You owe me an IOU, bohemian signature here please. Onions and herbs, the perks of life: oil, mud and grease. What’s a mantra of a killerman who maraud, fraud and steals? Good relations amongst us, hairfood and hairpiece.
Some indulgers treat love sessions over-fleeting relationship seasons like therapies but nobody choose to be a therapist. No gist, just human-related bleach. Just a rabbit bitch, just the hollow and the bleak. I’m feeble — there’s anxiety within thoughts of becoming rich. Some chatterboxers must learn how to speak. I’m not infallible, equally gullible — so to speak. I must say the other time you looked beautiful and I would love to have my children with you so we can stay together within compounded humans. They don’t have to be real you know.
I marveled over your rare aesthetics and your good articulation on things plus your beautiful presence. I love the music your body makes. Let me tell you something about music and love’s relation towards emotions. Music manipulate emotions as much as love does but the latter can’t be heard. That’s why its mystery confuses us for we are mere carnal beings. We rely on memory and senses for almost everything we do and ought to know. And I must confess love that; I believe that memories are better than life itself for they outlive it.
Even when we visualise about our future — that occurs to us in forms of fabricated oncoming memories. To foresee my children with you is a futuristic memory. Don’t worry we’re both Montagues. My sperm injection will ruin your body — my pardon. Transformation needs sacrifice. Lately relationships are pure pranks that amplify lover’s emotions. They are pranks whereby partners consciously enter a relationship to delibarately hurt the other. It becomes an initial intent for cruel love-thugs. There are puppeteers, serpent-dances, caged hearts owners and proud fornicators.
Next week I will be yelling farewells to my worm sperms into your birth portals and wishing their return prosperity. They must return wailing. We’re both ready to leap. I will never treat you like Linda Lovelace and put you through prostitution for groceries. But a mind being a sexual enemy I will ransack to check if ever your throat has a clitoris. My sapiosexuality have reached an extreme level of abnormality. I have fallen in love with an AI chess robot called Leela.
Oh, girl is so fine! What sexuality is this to be sexually attracted to robots merely because they’re smart? The best thing happening to humans is their capacity of isolation and oblivion. (I don’t want to see everything). I have to be selective in order to reduce stress. To be selective in whatever bestowed to them and their authority of choice is the best method of the price of depression alleviation. Imagine if they had no ability of perceptual choosing, they would have a lot to see and contemplate over and thus depress themselves more up to their premature deaths.
The variable mental channels are quite essential and it would be less effective if they could discern less. Imagination ought to defy those boundries but only because they are known to be a fictious extensions of reality they bring but minimal to no agony. That’s the importance of limited seeing, hearing and even tasting. Hypersensitivity is not a pleasurable experience because it clutters concentration and it deflects it instantaneously.
Humans excel with their spectrums of perspectives and it would be detrimental to deal with the all perceiving ability. For instance; if you hold an obstinate moral precept of teenage sex being immoral then to be able to see your children engaging in it by not necessarily being there to stop it will offend you to the point of self pain infliction and or distress. Perhaps the gods don’t stress and can penetrate through such things or view them transparently. There is a metaphysical concept of 4th dimensional attainment for humans: the godlike level. The omnipresence of being whereas everything is perceptually captured, filtered and perused.
That must however comes with non-judgmental mindset and an indifference to realities contents otherwise the gods will experience perpetual distress. It would be like a mother who can’t heal her sick offspring and witnessing it dying slow with no assistance possible from her. It pains, it creates agonies blocked by the “ignorance is bliss” thinking. So it seems we would be better off if we were trapped in the two-dimensional reality where the notion of time is non-existent because with the fourth dimension that we would love to attain, even safe things like secrets aren’t possible.
Dying young wouldn’t distress people and things like infidelity wouldn’t distress people because they wouldn’t have the means to perceive those hidden deeds. Awareness is not always blissful as marketed, and especially when it specialises exclusively on diagnosing social ills.
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