I'm on approach, 140km/h and anxious. I feel the last fading kiss of my depoted chemicals, and my antiemetic brings me to this false sorrow, a sort of mask the world wears that makes me all the more prone to tears. I enjoy it. Reminds me of the soil, of Satan's church, of the duality of chemicals, of me.

I used to feel sad. Not lonely or mournful or regretful or sober but sad. I used to pray for lungs filled with water. For veins breathing their first breath. Now, I just operate. Suffering gets the same response as tires slipping on ice, instantly and thoughtlessly compensated for.

I'm getting closer, and I can feel it. A spider uses it's web for than a home and a trap: it's an extra sense, catch breeze and scent vibrating with sound. That how I feel about the Magnolia: vibrating quietly and secretly for me, telling me of the ancient, arcane and perverse.

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Grief, sorrow, hopelessness, agony, anxiety, suffering. All of these things come from our attachment to value, and meaning.

How can we free ourselves from the grindstone of suffering? By devaluing everything? Can we not love our children, or wives, our creations, our pleasures?

I'm utterly terrified. Nature is cold, but it also values care, and that values suffering. A deer that has a stillborn fawn, does it grieve? Does the injured and disemboweled fox not feel pain, or regret? There is no escape from the mechanisms of suffering, and that chills my bones. Apathy is a lie, a farce and one that can not stand in the face of true horror. True and real and personal horror.

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Fierce beats pump intra-aurally, bassy and sharp in rolling lines of beats. My fingertips shook with amphetamine and my eyes absorbed the neon meclizine world, bright with opiod miosis. I was on the street again. My heart pumped pure guerilla panic as I jogged to my target, satchel in hand, heavy with sabotage. Finally I was there, but even in my intoxication, precautions had to be taken: bandana over my mouth to protect my anonymity and lungs from the caustic fumes, double latex gloves and I'm ready. I tape the weapon the the wall with black duct tape, securing it tightly. I stop suddenly having heard something, pausing briefly, I write it off as hallucination. Finally, a lay the incindiary coating on the wall. Ah, success.
As I remove the stencil and examine my work of dissent, disposing of the gloves and stencil and removing the black flag from my face, I feel the warmth of victory: my weapon against tyranny, lighting dissent in the heart of my brothers, made of paint and hate.

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            “Stop,” she said, “I can’t take it anymore!” but it was quite obvious that she could, and would, take more abuse. This is when restraints earn their keep; just because she thinks she’s dead doesn’t mean she’ll melt out of her restraints, and honestly, I’m not doing enough thinking to be concerned with her welfare.

            I lay another lash, and chuckle at its beauty: long, thin and quickly turning red and hot and raised, from her right shoulder to her left buttocks. I had taken some flesh with that stroke and studying it I gave her a moment’s reprieve. The blood rolled straight, long and down her back, and she felt it too, shuddering with the tickle of warmth on her spine. I heard her sobbing in her blindfold. She cried bitterly, so to watch I walked in front of her, quietly. Her tears fell on her breasts, bouncing with her sorrow. I chuckled, and hearing it, she cried only harder. I dropped the switch and wiped the tears of her cheeks, and with the most delicate of lies, kissed her on the cheek.

            What’s this? Upon my lips’ caress, she turns to me and puckers her lips, still leaking salty tears and mascara from behind the leather blindfold. I kiss her once, not deeply, but softly, as children kiss, merely lips and unspoken feelings.

            Having ceased her sobbing, and seizing the switch, I ask.

            “Ready?”

She slams the door then hitched a ride
Her sights set on intent to die
There's no forgiveness in living
He picks her up and ties the rope so tight
Her cuffs are swelling black and blue pinching and bleeding

She lifts the mask and screams
Where have you been
I wanna die I wanna die
I am the willing
He says your wrong don't lie to me
I've picked you up to set you free
It's just your body I'm stealing

We fall we fall in love
With strangers killing time
We fall we fall in love
With strangers in the night

So nows the hour
Say your prayers and goodbyes
To a god who doesn't care and doesn't mind

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            The bedroom was horribly cold, the kind of cold that makes you twitch, roll in your sheet, shiver in the void. His eyes were closed but the dark consuming him helped his attempt at rest only in ritual. He prayed to God for impossible blessings, for control over others’ minds, for infinite wealth, for perfect understanding. He heard something close.

            The door swung open. She was wearing pale blue flannel pajamas, too large, merely draping over her. Tears were dripping off her face. He extended his hand, and she came and sat on the bed, their fingers now interlocked, and he could feel something warm and wet in her palm. He turned on a light, and her wrists were red with blood, dripping down her finger. He began to cry as well, with completely and utter sorrow. He held her, and raising her hand, kissed the frail and bleeding wound, leaving bloody lips on her flesh.  

I was riding my scooter on the Sun and then wheels turned soft and sticky like taffy so I got off and jumped but the first time I just sunk back to the Sun bu I tried again, harder and towards Mercury and yeah, I floated up and I could smell Mercury burning, like ammonia and rust or blood but then a wind blew me hard and fast back towards Earth so I just took a nap.

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I was riding my scooter on the Sun and then wheels turned soft and sticky like taffy so I got off and jumped but the first time I just sunk back to the Sun bu I tried again, harder and towards Mercury and yeah, I floated up and I could smell Mercury burning, like ammonia and rust or blood but then a wind blew me hard and fast back towards Earth so I just took a nap.

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11 miles out of Mobile. I'm addicted to the road, the speed that never let's you come down, the psychedelic that has you waking in strange beds every night.
I'm on holiday, my hajj to Baton Rouge, my psychic homeland, my dope mecca, made of spice, rice and SoCo on ice, smelling of ganja and sweat and wine, slow, loud and banging, thick like syrup, hot like the stove.
I feel it, now, and I'm getting closer, though blind with opiods, I see it burning neon at the end of this road.
And I miss you, and home, but really I just wish you were here, with me, tasting this smoke, snorting this dope. It's raining, bright through the clouds.
I love the South.

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I'm in bed. On my back, naked save my loin cloth. Sorry of that's too graphic, but I'm making a point.

I'm listening to Death in June, post-industrial martial volk. Something erotic in music illegal through most of the motherland, Europa (for being too zealous in their love of that homeland). Nazi sympathetic pagans aren't cherished their, I suppose. Nor here. But I digress; I merely mean to say it's obscure, old, foreign, but here, in my ears, now.

I'm too high to interact with humans. Their judgements on my pupil constriction or cannabis scented collar would make any attempt at communication or, dare I say, true commune impossible.
But.
In florescent light, in a trailer park and on enough dope to kill Michael Jackson, I can commune with machine, and it with me.
It knows where we are, and it cares because I've trained it to care. It's my loving secretary, recording thoughts I'd be be stoned to remeber on my own. Messenger, arranging business and far more often (though often related) pleasure. Scribe, capturing still life, song and film of the boring world around me.
I know, I'm just high, sentimental over a toy, inspired by "Neuromancer" but.
Tech may just offer a better way. To all this. Life.
Dove, ending transmission, with love.

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"Man," she said, "if whatever that is can get in past what those surgeons did to you in Chiba, you are going to be in sad-ass shape when it wears off."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he said, unbuckling his belt. "Doom. Gloom. All I ever hear." He took his pants off, his shirt, his underwear. "I think you ought have sense enough to take advantage of my unnatural state." He looked down. "I mean, LOOK at this unnatural state."
She laughed. "It won't last."
"But it will," he said, climbing into the sandcolored temperfoam, "that's what's so unnatural about it."

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Faded grey eyelids fold around my eyes
Sleepy, tired from 19 years worth of highs
My lungs hurt and my heart aches
All I have now our these HTML keepsakes
And neat rows of sillys scars
Their creation forgotten: Xanax bars
I wish I could be sentimental but I can't anymore
People are liars, traitors and every woman is a whore
I leave every home and no one knows my name
Narcotics, arcane, word-smithery; all a petty game
I pass 10,000 moments just breathing out smoke
And sleep and dream and in my dreams I still toke
And I wake and lament my dreams cause I thought it was true
But it wasn't, I'm still alive and still looking at you
My only happiness is found in the passing trance
Rhythem and drugs, violence, sex, sorrowful dance
I wish I could stay their forever, leave my blood on the stage
Cleanse all my sins with pure hatred, burn away the cage
But I can't and I won't and I always come down
Every gramme of truth, thrice lost and twice found
The concrete and rain used to mirror my soul
But monuments find comfort in the fire in my bowl
They're noble in thoughtlessness, never rot and die
So I become more like them, finding zen in fleeting high
Nirvana in you, your taste in my mouth
The gothic doom of a son of the South

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Paprika - Parade

Can individual cultures survive the Internet? I'm starting to wonder. We're constantly exposed to internationalist technocracy and where does the individual fit?

I mean, we get to learn things that make us better. Is thatenough? Would it be better to just forget the world, move to Norway, sit in the snow? Or move to the Highlands, speak Gaelic, dance skyclad because it's our father's fathers' ways? Does national romanticism have room in Cyberspace?

Death in June - She Said "Destroy

Yes. It's not a vice, nor a threat. Each person's culture (whatever they think that is) is self-valuing, like pleasure. It has worth because it does! Don't you feel pride in your blood? Not because it's superior to your neighbors' blood but because it is your blood! Your mother and father brought you your homeland, in song, in art, in marble pilars or mantras or food or language. Don't let thy pride scare you! Zealous hatred finds root in love, in fear and everywhere. No, pride is not the threat. It's self-loathing that's killing our generation, brothers and sisters.

To be continued...

Is one's birthday. We worship self, if Saints have feast days, how much more should Gods' have?

I love you, by the way. Miss you too. I'm weak; I can't bare not having the person that makes me more happy than all the other hedonist joys [in their most liberal doses].

Anyway. Happy birthday, Morning Star.

Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

"I think it's the saddest thing I ever heard. Tastes good."

A few weeks back, I passed a halfway house.
I only knew it was such by it's big sign, almost cautionary in presentation.
There was a girl, sitting on a ledge...
...Eyeing the world suspiciously...
...heating her meth pipe while partially hidden in front of a bush...

We live in a world full of such profound beauty, obscured by our sins. We live in a world of perfection, covered in shit. Our home is fundamentally good, now a late convert to hopelessness and despair.

I should have pulled my car over. Asked for her name. But I didn't, I just inhaled my own smoke and laughed.

The extreme perversion of our times isn't our extreme perversions but our indifference towards it. Don't you realise how beautiful you are? You could be the patron saint of the DSM-IV. We're all so beautifully broken, like stained glass or nuclear war.

Of little known noise
Warm fleshy toys
Methedrine and grenadine
And the sun's warmth still stains my flesh

The poison is a joke
But the cure is more vile
Eyelashes lace and lock
For a little while

Dreadful and tired
Shoe's rubber worn thin
Pylons and paper
An ending to begin

Pious and fashionable
Apollo in leather
The quieter outlook
Of nuclear weather

Dreams are for waking
And wanting them more
Crawling under your sheets
The Sandman's whore

The night is repulsive
Making God as the dead
His ice starts to melt
And turns the sky red

God in a coffin
Sealed with ribbon and lace
The casket is open
But lies have no face

Prostrate I am

In the wake of dreams

Unrequested but present

All consuming for a moment

Poison helps remind me

But so quickly it’s gone

Tears are dry

Memories lost

Burned away before dawn