Distant. Further than the top shelf, higher than the cherry.
Indecipherable yet evocative. Open but intangible. The funniest episode in Her
mother's will-to-power play was an impassioned tirade about the tyranny of
gender-based clothes. Admittedly it was funny in a "how can such
idiotic concerns entertain the synaptic nerve endings of an apparently rational
person?" kind of way, but at the same time, sort of embarrassing. I didn't
want to die in the end, (not because of her mother's play, I got over that), it's
cringy to think how I acted when I was pretending to be a martyr though, on my
knees, stealing gin like an 8 year old. The guilt is finally resolved (stopped) finally, (finally) I'm
happy to say, but the shame still taints. Anyhow, I digress, the clothes list
was similar in tone to the precept of my sourcing - that's why I torched it.
Not because of the derivation but rather because of the association. Out there
in space - (if here is supposed to be elsewhere and out there has no inherent
dislocation) out there, in the barren outfields of creation, latent sources of
corruption are harvested by inadvertent invocation and yield miriad tears of
corruption which leak through the ether of sin like sperm cells of malignity
which fertilize the eggs of debauchery and promulgate a fetid tumult of
carcinogenic justification. Lying to yourself is the easiest trick to pull off,
onanistically speaking. And what a pleasure it is to hear your own sweet little
voicie whispering "didn't do it, wouldn't dare, a big boy blue did it, he's
over there." Spert. Raze the catacombs! Ravage the honeypots! Let it
commence! Conquer the asylums and let the griffins out! A little patch of
blackness is born every time you tell yourself a lie, every time you willfully
succumb to an untruth, every time you collude with ingratiation and deceit.
That's what the stars are mate; vast stretches of mystical reality, obscured by
lours of condescension, flattery and low rock bottom denial. Wipe the
effluvial grin off your face o man – only the rich white pacifists think you
are too many. They think your faces are like photographs to gawp at and discard without consideration
of the eyes which pierced them like murderers from that vaulted canopy the air look you! Every
hair is broken and now comes the knackers van, tootling up the lane and bludgering
from side to side with the weight of relapse taxing the axle of least remorse
and the quintling diffidence of venality splurging through the hubcaps – like a
toothpaste advert in a holiday camp, like the newt at the bottom of the
bloodbath, like a risqué without a consequence, like a marigold without a crush.
These are the moribund canticles of de
comte – lingering onward dreamily.
16/02/18
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