THE TEXT BETWEEN

Collab 0.1: Fulgid Voids

5:00 am - 6:00 am // cigarettes // shiverings // a white AK 45 from, I do
mean anything, love to have to squeeze your/my head whatever a thing may be
to be so busy as to feel dizzy worms coming into your/my head
the way of thinking about things
a Buddhist priest for three days
your/my heart is heavy with white noise sticks to your/my ear
the mountain on which one once speculated takes a loss
only with the tip of mouth to be packed like sushia cat's forehead the day after a festival, but I - I mean him or her or it what
whosoever I is - can get lumps of matter made purely of strange not breathing the smell be biking, walking and horseback riding a semantic war

This event does not repeat.

Design zombiisms: wide open omnivores of high quality suspension, in a
sign that contents "I'll get into heaven my way!", o they are crawling ! on
Earth compass nucleate-like prison cell: taunting barricades trapping
existence in limbo where flow, in Plato’s delight, remained in pursuit of
evolution /with coarse broken skin starving, hungering on the edge of
manic frenzy to create what could not be created/ with the ability to play god
resting upon
fingers that sought power/ That which breeds suspicion that which rises
to discern procreation with a naked eye/ that which tears relentlessly at
the fabric of time/in pursuit of salvation in the name of reason in the
name of the father they shot the holy ghost.
Will not be the same with(out) you both endangered that does nothing, and does it very well.

It is time now for electronic granite burst combustion leaks to those you
know,
those who must be kept, those infamous ones, those who do knots, those
known
to have died abused by macaque priests, those steel ride the lightning,
those were
the days, those dar! k hiding places, albeit so cautiously masked, albeit a
bit
pissed off, albeit alchemical albinism of inner ladder-plaited hair on
which
endlessly climb memories of distorted toddlers' bodies///it///it is///it
is
time///it is time now
for the wings to be stripped of saturated bodies in
heat. Avverruncation of the spirit from the dismal strength of protruding
muscles as depicted by Michelangelo’s fingertips that created a resonance
between the music of emotion and
the voice of extreme vision that spoke …
actually in the process of trying to become

I, the ant trapped in a matchbox. I, the hunted rabbit lost in pursuit of
a carrot. I, the lie that seeks not to deceive. I, the rage brimming on
the edge of despair. I, the fallen eagle. I, the writer staging truth. I,
the morbid misanthrope in search of fame. I,
the structure in chaos. I,the breathless figurine dancing for desire. I,
the crumbling statue. I,the suici! dal miracle. I, the epitome of hope in isolation. I, the tears
burnt on pale lifeless skin. I, the void that will not be fulfilled.

Time that infuriates the merycism volatile in its energy/ nursing the
malign from the stars to genetic malnutrition careening the edges of
solemn depravity that speaks not of desire unfulfilled but of aspiration
denial. The leprosy of the mind hunted haunted. And then.

But 5 minutes after death I is turned into simulations on MTV, a world of
hyper-
redundant signs. 5 minutes after death I has made a fundamental break
from referring to "reality." 5 minutes after death I reveals itself in icons.
I
is the ultimate \Sim`u*la"crum\. I is the whole government is a fraud
desperately in love with the who he has never met.

I that lives with the fire of monotony that fuses endlessly into robotic
creation.


mass media, images, signs, copies of things that do not have an original
[] Dreaming that you have been sabotaged

speaking machines descent into continuing madness perceived as the
heretical

Dreaming that you are being sacrificed
grossest concrete brains to be popes of singing tomorrows


--/\/\/\-/\--/\----/\--
---
---
---
….….….to this celestial point "the soldiers stood at attention" he said but -

Clouds of march into the subnormality of flawless dreamscape of the
paradise of systematic production and the faint line of my road.
One single prototype convoluted into
the diaspora of identical identification. IIIIII IIII IIIII. Human
capacity but limited by the flush of singular ideal to strive for, one
image in a hypnotic 'salu`mandur trance, and should one turn away, another
institution
to lock the abnormality into canals of black whitewash.

One single key to erase the history of nothing from outer origina! l invention,
in whose hands
should the temptation to turn it, arise noisily?
ability to survive through shame, misfortune, and/or embarrassment.

Nothing is inspired by this consumer-culture insanity the nothing of negation,
wars and other intimate sexual contact Script.)
,


There is no sound on earth
There is no sound on earth
There is no sound on earth

Us, the void that will not be fulfilled.

posted by the text between @ 7:53 AM