Is True

They said the theme of the play was abstract; its message careless and crude. Its ideological inclination was somewhat reckless and rude. A masquerade dancing, panting and chanting in view of a depiction of you. They said the quality of work was mediocre at best and provoked a provocative mood. They said the pride of the pride was undermined by a scheming and marginalized few. And the few had proved to be a prominent nuisance and a truly destabilizing tool.

The policy of Kalashnikovs camouflaged in rose bushes is debated over a meal of poison and beef. The gunboat diplomacy of wayyy before now was not that way before now. But the ways of before and the way that is now are characteristically in sync, how? Probably the benign mind of the brain dead bureaucrat who is speculated to be allergic to the concept of "eureka" and opposed to the suggestion that creativity might birth progress.

They say the play was in bad taste; an opportunity gone to waste; a saturation of vulgarity that should be banned in a haste. In view of the chronic scarcity of free and accepted men, beings that were raised in shackles have made and defined this den; A masquerade dancing, panting and chanting while from this rejected view, that masquerade is rejected; but true.

It was the best of times, it was worst times; time put in perspective revealed a first in time. A tale of two testaments to triumph and trial, it was a mission of madness; an intentional mistake. Fiddle and diddle with the dictates of dickens, marvel at the mischief and momentum of his message.

Happily holding the hand of my flower picking potato, sensing her inner scent while I promise never to let go: A lie!! Reminiscent of that very hot July, when the children of non convention congregated in their pride. Pills, needles and grass juxtaposed with one night stands equaled pimps and complete anarchy so God blessed San Fransisco.

It was the summer of love largely likened to non-other. 200 knighted horsemen clearly screaming bloody murder, 100 ordained priests nearly yelling holy order ... It was a holiday of "peace"; a very fun July, a carnivorous feast; a true but hateful lie.

While I still be

The watchmaker is dead cause time has gone rouge and reckless; that wayward rowdy rascal has become increasingly erratic. The senselessness of a soldier determined to defend the soil, of a soulless geographical entity that has entirely been soiled. The absoluteness of sin has long been strongly disputed, as have the tenets of morality been affirmed to be relative. The fundamentals of society are overwhelmingly utilitarian, but let it burn as the majority and minority are marginalized alike.

And I didnt remember to remember to forget, so I guess I remembered now my memory regrets. Cast in the shadows of dungeons and cast lots, shackled by the panic of a loose and twisted plot. The verdict for a real and virtual vixen raises controversy as to what exactly constitutes a victim. Aspirations saddled on the assurances of criminals, dreams largely contingent on the commandeer of other people’s money. It’s cold, dark and sunny. I am probably the most self enlightened dummy. Images completely informed by the reflections of smoking mirrors, in total spite of the smoking barrel I completely deny that I pulled the trigger.

I am the green man’s apology; a catastrophic controversy; perhaps in the temple I could be all the Buddha hoped to be. Perfection of my perception with the acquisition of the sixth sense, conceivably my rationality will finalize my isolation. Yet I’m burdened with the burdens of the cross and a crescent, reciting biblical scriptures in defense of the glock. Following the fundamentals of the findings of ambiguity, I am a compromised concept. A catch without a 22.

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.