Free and Accepted

hitting a hard heap of the harshest hail, hording the harsh heat as a hero sails. Setting the mass symbols of sense and life, setting the globe free of a senseless life. The nobility of the craft crafted crafty craftsmen, and world was awed by the stones they shaped. A compass and square sitting beside an anchored arc, finding bearings to lands of new as the non-persecuted few.

Dedicated to dead doctrines; the dire doodles of dreaming decedents, drenched in the dictates of a declassified dichotomy. Listening to the lifeless lingua of a pointless life lesson propagated by the opinions of an over opinionated motivational speaker. The incarceration of mason is an indictment of the court of public opinion. As the opinions of the public have long been plastered with a price, the principles of propriety appear to back my plea. Since the sights and sounds of singing souls sit beyond what i can see, it is only fair and just that mason should be free.

Caught in the mix of a minor mix up mistaken for a certain missing Marshan. The mirage in the mind of a mixed-race nationalist was apparently not so apparent. Thus the inconsistency that authorizes the hatred of half an individual is now consistent with mainstream society. I have sinned against society and blasphemed against the bizarre, hated but still free and accepted

fitted ts, Iversons and all that used to be (Dedicated to da man Chusk)

something is lurking in the dark, someone is creeping on my street. I walk as if I'm fine but have no feeling in my feet. My arms too short to box with God, and my legs are too stressed to stand the devil. Standing against the game with "intimidating" bricks and bats, the status-quo is now the same cause it is all tit for tat. Dwelling in the squalor of a dizzying diocese, i dip real deep while i dramatize the facts.

I pose by a pile of decomposing pictures to have memories of lost memories. But my memory is pricked by the taste of rotten pickles and the positives of a prozac nation. I propose a toast: To the people of God and to country, or better yet to the people of Gods own country, but if we toasted with the people of God in a country the hypocrisy alone will make it a pretty God damned country. So we pick the pain from exactly where we left off cause the pills provide pits in our placement of perspective. Give me a second to puke and piss on the polity, pick up my damn phone and ring up the life police. Pocket a pinch of the impossible because I am both pissed and pist, pronounce my unwavering commitment to the non commitment movement. I step away from the blur and shock of the immediate past, and you were just a kid that was content with his Iversons ... but in the end it all comes to nothing ... How then can we free? In a sick and twisted way there is something truly peaceful about nothing, and in a typical philosophical cliche i declare that NOTHING IS THE NEW SOMETHING

I raise my glass to the ghost of a dropouts graduation, to the victory dance of a crippled athlete, to the pregnant wife of a virgin priest, to the vibrant life of a comatose beast, to the progressive commitment of a Nigerian politician, to equal opportunity under a capitalist system, to a united, peaceful, happy prozac nation .... To all things non-existent .... Nastarovia

Summer reign

I will not learn to swim, not even dip my toes; the sun is far too cold and reigns much to dry. The regime that imposes upon us is but the “passing” of a constant reverberation, I will not bother to float for that is the devils water. Between a blue water navy and the deep blue sea lies a paramount inconsistency in the expected ending of a constant. With an antagonistic combo of white witches and wild wolves, the combat deficit protagonist is introduced as Wikipedia. A truly sad battle, lost before it started

Hence I break bread with a rare breed of battle hardened bikers: A composed click of criminal kingpins, crippled covert cops, and caches of cash crops. The green births green otherwise known as paper or cream. My personal prognosis is there will particularly be no price paid for the murder of a mass murderer. As the act of promoting death remains characteristically the same, how then can the perpetrators of an identical crime be culpable and not culpable? On Sundays I clean my shoes and sip on some clean juice, sit in the church service and sow a significant seed, hope that I find redemption for my sacrilegious sin, and say a silent prayer for the salvation of my soul. I truly start to wonder if salvation is our goal, but I would not learn to swim, not even dip my toes. Before me lies an elaborate picture of little pocket people, mocking a humble peacock for having lost its pride.

This sick society of selfish scavengers is hunted by the ghosts of dead presidents. I pray that the raging ghosts of these men be brought under my control, for they have functioned with absolute impunity for far too long. Then I can finally get me out of my way as I have truly become a nuisance to my smooth assimilation into society. And the contradictions that have shaped my personal convictions will one day conquer or be conquered, so society can be solely ruled by either my enemies or my friends.

tattoo tales of joy

Sipping on a white Russian reminiscing on days past, fixating on the crazed fact that the progression of time is becoming more reminiscent of a hazed mash. Flashes of walking fishes confirm my fears and loathing in Las Vegas. Reflecting on the thoughts and non-thoughts of my preferred personal policy, seeking sanctuary among the pariahs and the partakers in the sorcery of logic.

The logic of the illogical serves to justify many oxymora, such as the rationale behind the irrational destruction of an ideology. Last night a magic midget mocked me merrily, seemed somewhat amused at my suggestion that I seek clarity. With my middle fingers crossed I attempt to say a prayer, but am hindered by graphic pictures of a people that pay for progress. Standing on wobbly stilts I make a sad attempt at sarcasm, middle finger pointed up as I stick it to the man. The entirety of my actions can best be described as laughable, or a measly misadventure fervently lacking in any depth.

Last night a magic midget had a mega time mocking me, seemed amused at my suggestion that it was all finally clear to me. The irrational and the illogical are birthed from rational and logical conclusions, hence the rationality of my non-conclusions is but the continuation of a vicious but virtuous circle. I cross my middle finger as I attempt to say a prayer, but I am hindered by the possibility of the discovery of perfection. The theoretical assertion that perhaps an absolute end exists will put an end to my current existence so let’s just play pretend.

Vodka Tequila Absinthe: An Ode to Jonkoping

The spirit of white spirits creep and hover round the room, jacking up the tunes as we casually play chess. Sitting in a chatty circle as we chip away the shots, go from good to gud to gouwd as we shoot the Russian tea. We raise our sixes to God and country in a unified Nastarovia, the chess game is now on "hold" and the tough guys are now so bold. Our conviction is Absolute so we go absolutely blue, but even with a Yeltsin compromise we are Absolutely true.

The transition from home to disco is a freak show of flashing pictures. No coherent coordination, no adherence to cordial conduct. We lost two men back at home and a third has fallen on the bus, They were raped by the ritual of the rugged Russian tea and now wreak of puke and liquor. The remainder of the platoon randomly staggers into the club, then we feel our way to the bar. Sixes of tequilas and am not talking rose, but we get the shots in six standing rows.somewhere down the road the tequila becomes suicidal; the salt goes up your nose and the lime down your eyes ... these are your last memories for the night and your height can dwarf a kite.five more men fall and three are left standing, narration of subsequent events must be done in the third person:

His world begins to spin and then he picks up his phone, drunks calls potato and talks some stuff i dont know. "are you a fucking Nazi" he says to the skin head beside, then is politely told to fuck off as he is pushed to the side. He proceeds to the bathroom and takes a piss in the sink, walks out with his zip down and drunk migrates to the lounge. He bumps into this random girl that had asked him out in his class, he tells her "sorry I only date Asians" while adjusting his hat. He runs into his last two standing comrades who just as wasted as him, they drunk migrate to the bar and now it is looking pretty grim. I wish i could say they were at the bar to buy some mint, no, he talks to the bar tender "please three sixes of absinthe" ...

Sleep tight

A mother screams in pain and frustration, another child is born. Tossed to the side and hushed of its cry as it wears a crown of thorns. Christened misfortune after a baptism of fire and blood, a true have not, misfortune is all she ever truly got. Exposed to all the elements from death to death, she was born into death and died a dead woman.

misfortune had the misfortune of having everything but a fortune. From birth she begged for life pleading with mom to let her breath, but mom knew little of the culture of living as she long had seized to be. They came from a long linage of death and surely it begetteth its kind, not a pot to piss or window to throw it out, no one dines for just a dime. The tragedy that is the life of this popper lays purely in the prefix, but that mis made her miss the entire essence of humanity and now she is just a being. She sits on the side of the street and sighs, wishing for the improbable. One hand on her head, the other pointing up to the sky as she rides on an artificial tide. Drives past the pointlessness of non philosophical monologues, mingles in a world of masked men and masquerades. This is true to her so you can take your facts and shove it, the shuttle just left earth and now she's flying and she loves it

She is heckled back to earth as the hit starts to fade, the harmonious poppy halo slowly goes away. She only wants to stay and there is only a single way: keep the needle pumping happy juice into her lonely veins. Lost track of time and of her living dead existence, lost track of the fact that she bore quite a few infants. She makes her grand exist in a final blaze of glory, leaving behind many misfortunes to continue and tell her story. She was born into death and died a dead woman, but an induced illusion of life is better off than not living ... she spreads her wings to fly as she boards on the red eye, never has to return to die she smiles and waves .... good bye ... good bye