31 May 2010

exxpressiony fantasia

Why? Cause it's extra expressive, baby. Oh, did I say that before? Nevermind.

Homeworld for the bright eyes, is what I meant to say. What they told me to say, when they channeled their expressiony text through me, presto con fuoco, in a moment of weakness, weakness on my part, a garden variety seizure of foaming at the mouth, mixing with blood from a mauled tongue, a sublime seizure, a demonstration of mystic conduits - even a cosmogonic traffic crossing of the most mundane sort seems sublime, it's the kind of thing we came up with that word for, to express, us descendants of englishmen and women. Sometimes, with enough weakness, the whole works implodes and so the light can shine through, but it doesn't do much for me, as a being, trying to function in a human world, that deadlight. It was a garden variety mystic seed, that may lie fallow or sprout and flower, no one much cares. And the one who might ought to care, can't even conceive of what's happening. He just figures something ought to be said, about a homeworld for bright eyes. Like eyes that used to see things that made me feel things.

Cause he wasted so much time trying to please these foreign gods, and be a humanist, and play human games. And maybe it wouldn't have been a waste, if those gods had been pleased. But he was still bleeding into that other dimension he saw, when deep in the basements of dissociation. And it was always dragging him back to the beautiful void from whence he came, via strangles of entrails, winding him up, jokes of genetic code, you know, and leni reifenstahl propaganda. You can hear the rats in the walls. Now there's nothing in a void. That's why it's a void, it's like, a word, like sublime, it means something. But the void carves pretty pictures in this, and that. Nothing is sometimes something, by extension. X-philic iTard. Maybe that's part of the reason I wrote that story, about the wood sprites. Maybe that reason I wrote is part of the story.

Is this frustration, or meditation? Or biding time until the iron lung clamps down on my respiratory system? I'm sure that she who remembers will tell the negro god to let me know, when the time is right.

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