17
-
provocative innocence.
world colored with cognitive dissonance.
the varied contradictions entailed into our theory of everything and then some representing the states of reality we perceive.
sitting before the computer typing out not poem he laughs a bit madly to himself.
the confounding absurdity and needless mystery.
the psychological drama of it all.
everything linked to computer networks.
but we still don't know what's going on.
it could be anything.
it could be nothing.
it's scam upon scam upon scam twisting turning every which way that could be.
nobody's up front about nothing, there's always the hidden agendas.
but everyone speaks the truth as they think it.
worms in our brains.
subversive propaganda headaches.
everything has been lies - or so we are told now to believe.
what were we to expect?
we'd be ok if this world weren't straight up nuts like it is.
and it's medication time.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o
later that same day -
awakening from a nap.
what's the use?
coffee, toke, cigarette.
he needs to clean the overdue cat box.
continuing with not poem he knows nothing about until he writes it following instructions.
calm down.
thinking about how we're scammers ourselves.
scamming being mad.
it's a living.
hey ho, off we go.
nobody worth nothing.
admit it.
not even a pimple on god's ass.
squeeze it, baby.
dog barking flowers of pus.
he sleeps.
fun town.
here we go.
a surprise in each moment yet the same as always the same.
which is the best?
which is the worst?
who can tell the difference?
we are so jaded and vague.
the post-postmodern hip set.
everything up to date and with it.
who is keeping score?
who follows the moods of fashion from one phase to another?
who listens to the voices in their heads?
are we in our right minds?
what does that entail?
questions with many possible answers from nothing to everything and then some and so on.
he wants to sleep all the time away from any dreams about reality as it seems to appear to us dolts without a clue to our name of mysteries otherwise in yonder lands of peace and plenty.
from everything to nothing each impossible to prove but in one's own mind and perception as he hangs on for a while longer according to time set at 0 the only time we might be sure of if anything or nothing at all which might prove true.
objectivity is a myth we have of perfection which we do not know.
he doesn't like being around people much.
he does not like them but would prefer they do what they do elsewhere would be fine by him.
the sorrows of everyone concerned which eliminates nearly everyone by now as we understand it thereby exempting ourselves.
we have it rough and easy sitting in a wading pool eyes closed against any and all obstacles we might strangely encounter.
ouch.
now what have we done?
the next new thing perhaps wanting waiting for release.
not a care in the world enough to make one gag.
the silence of breathing against the noise of the great machine chugging along sideways from predictability of formulated desire washing ashore on an island we imagine as our happy place in other spacetime location needed to exist as we perceive existence now and again wondering how everything might be possible or not tenderly forgiven whereas we are guilty of the slightest infraction against the common sense of decorum waving as a holy flag or some such.
a sense of treason in the land.
everybody pointing accusatory fingers shaking with anger.
we remain hidden as best we can eventually to be found out.
angels and demons in our heads.
everybody arguing what to do.
the same old older oldest story ever told.
humanity's conflict with itself.
11:11
when we come together in agreement on a common ground.
perhaps beaten into submission, perhaps willingly.
he lights another cigarette having just come home from getting supplies.
submission is always subversive.
fat black cat on windowsill.
abstract still life in action exactly as it seems to appear in what we experience as reality.
imagine that.
one with it.
it one with itself.
is this to be desired or to be avoided?
let's see a show of hands.
one hand clapping.
a slap in the face.
when we once and for all believed before the great awakening realizing what is and/or what is not what it is.
eye open to everything we each perceive differently it seems.
some see ghosts, others see rocket ships, and so on.
yet there appears to be something fundamental to everything.
something undiscovered as if not existing.
can there be not existence?
it would seem no one agrees with any given answer.
how much $$$ is invested in answers easily deceiving and destructive?
is that what we count on as being truth?
truth is a hoax.
can there be no truth without that itself being truth?
maybe we can call a truce among us.
a paradox it seems.
we scratch our heads.
we remember having to duck and cover when they split the atom and proved nothing.
the existential rise of thought.
straight to the moon with exponential motion fist to jaw.
have you seen the stars tonight?
provocative innocence.
world colored with cognitive dissonance.
the varied contradictions entailed into our theory of everything and then some representing the states of reality we perceive.
sitting before the computer typing out not poem he laughs a bit madly to himself.
the confounding absurdity and needless mystery.
the psychological drama of it all.
everything linked to computer networks.
but we still don't know what's going on.
it could be anything.
it could be nothing.
it's scam upon scam upon scam twisting turning every which way that could be.
nobody's up front about nothing, there's always the hidden agendas.
but everyone speaks the truth as they think it.
worms in our brains.
subversive propaganda headaches.
everything has been lies - or so we are told now to believe.
what were we to expect?
we'd be ok if this world weren't straight up nuts like it is.
and it's medication time.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o
later that same day -
awakening from a nap.
what's the use?
coffee, toke, cigarette.
he needs to clean the overdue cat box.
continuing with not poem he knows nothing about until he writes it following instructions.
calm down.
thinking about how we're scammers ourselves.
scamming being mad.
it's a living.
hey ho, off we go.
nobody worth nothing.
admit it.
not even a pimple on god's ass.
squeeze it, baby.
dog barking flowers of pus.
he sleeps.
fun town.
here we go.
a surprise in each moment yet the same as always the same.
which is the best?
which is the worst?
who can tell the difference?
we are so jaded and vague.
the post-postmodern hip set.
everything up to date and with it.
who is keeping score?
who follows the moods of fashion from one phase to another?
who listens to the voices in their heads?
are we in our right minds?
what does that entail?
questions with many possible answers from nothing to everything and then some and so on.
he wants to sleep all the time away from any dreams about reality as it seems to appear to us dolts without a clue to our name of mysteries otherwise in yonder lands of peace and plenty.
from everything to nothing each impossible to prove but in one's own mind and perception as he hangs on for a while longer according to time set at 0 the only time we might be sure of if anything or nothing at all which might prove true.
objectivity is a myth we have of perfection which we do not know.
he doesn't like being around people much.
he does not like them but would prefer they do what they do elsewhere would be fine by him.
the sorrows of everyone concerned which eliminates nearly everyone by now as we understand it thereby exempting ourselves.
we have it rough and easy sitting in a wading pool eyes closed against any and all obstacles we might strangely encounter.
ouch.
now what have we done?
the next new thing perhaps wanting waiting for release.
not a care in the world enough to make one gag.
the silence of breathing against the noise of the great machine chugging along sideways from predictability of formulated desire washing ashore on an island we imagine as our happy place in other spacetime location needed to exist as we perceive existence now and again wondering how everything might be possible or not tenderly forgiven whereas we are guilty of the slightest infraction against the common sense of decorum waving as a holy flag or some such.
a sense of treason in the land.
everybody pointing accusatory fingers shaking with anger.
we remain hidden as best we can eventually to be found out.
angels and demons in our heads.
everybody arguing what to do.
the same old older oldest story ever told.
humanity's conflict with itself.
11:11
when we come together in agreement on a common ground.
perhaps beaten into submission, perhaps willingly.
he lights another cigarette having just come home from getting supplies.
submission is always subversive.
fat black cat on windowsill.
abstract still life in action exactly as it seems to appear in what we experience as reality.
imagine that.
one with it.
it one with itself.
is this to be desired or to be avoided?
let's see a show of hands.
one hand clapping.
a slap in the face.
when we once and for all believed before the great awakening realizing what is and/or what is not what it is.
eye open to everything we each perceive differently it seems.
some see ghosts, others see rocket ships, and so on.
yet there appears to be something fundamental to everything.
something undiscovered as if not existing.
can there be not existence?
it would seem no one agrees with any given answer.
how much $$$ is invested in answers easily deceiving and destructive?
is that what we count on as being truth?
truth is a hoax.
can there be no truth without that itself being truth?
maybe we can call a truce among us.
a paradox it seems.
we scratch our heads.
we remember having to duck and cover when they split the atom and proved nothing.
the existential rise of thought.
straight to the moon with exponential motion fist to jaw.
have you seen the stars tonight?
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