September 15, 2008

Siren, wail your call by stretching your lungs to the brink! Wring your voice to call me over to stranger places, from here with such urgent songs of praise. You are incapable of failure, for wherever you reign, i will hear with ears and taste those ragged perfumes. I must know where you reside!

Your residence, dear siren, is one which holds relevance to masters–The wishful all knowing and all seeing of this world. They perch themselves high above the turmoil of gracious experience. But this is not the place for me, the destitute stale of heaven–True knowledge is not in God, but in the experience of sin as euphoric understanding. I would rather rot one-thousand times in any hell before this path crossed any sort of pearl gates.

Any sense of falling from grace is irrelevant–I would much prefer to knock is reaching hand astray then to meet this fucked God halfway. I will never meet any body, spiritual or not, anywhere near their stale absolution. I will create where masters destroy. I will reside in their shadows and slay their numbing death–And if i am to die, i will wail with such laughter! I will repent only by spitting into a puppet’s face, and if the puppeteer unveils, i will crush any sense of satisfaction left with my iron will.

Dualities desecrate our lives. The cards dealt out will be plundered and lost for eternity here, and only creation may stay. The voyants of our time will not be masters, and at the most guides; certainly martyrs and hope-bringers, but never masters! Masters may never fall into their dualities, but they are always ruthless to distribute. Distribution.

Reincarnation is this duality. It is heaven or hell. It is wholly spineless, and forevermore merely pacification. Feed the minds of children, and you have their adolescence. Force adolescents to behave accordingly, and then have the grown-up drones–Fodder for society, and entirely useless for any real progress.

And how does this endearment really work? Eradicate domination and it will not take long to see for one’s self. Experience is inevitable if taught to feel it. Everything becomes more clear than what we breathe.


Translusive Absolution!
Repulsive display,
Uncanny to the untrained eye,
Even delightfully deceptive to a folly mind.

It reeks of disorder,
Lavender scented absolute-disillusioned;
Reissued vague rememberences,
An assassin of time-
But never passion.

Illusive images so very vivid,
To the source of senses-
It bellows of reprive!
This cautious eye.


And now about vices; oh how they accelerate experience in such simple ways–How they enhance the bliss in sin through a boost in whim. it is a trance of sorts that some claim a trap.


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