Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Art of Screaming (pt.2)

Welcome to planet earth,

Starts = "The world I want to live in." Conclusion = Utopian ideologies.
Utopian = imaginary and perfect.

I "imagine" that if the subject matter was stricken from the discussion we would be talking about some real shit, but that's my own imagination. In reality, we talk about perfect world visions as if mankind's is not already in place. Meanwhile, your ideological world serves the same outcome and merely makes you feel better about yourself. Communism/capitalism, Anarchist/Democrat, blah blah blah changing the structure does not attack the fabric of man's heart and thinking. It merely changes the structure under which they serve their heart's desires and think.

Attack the heart, for the heart is what protects the institution. This planet does not need us, our extinction benefits the ecosystems of this planet, real laws and miracles stem from a watered seed not a man nor a jesus. We pride ourselves on intellect when cockroaches figured out how to outsmart and survive us on day one. We call it "mother" nature because she is simply another womb mankind subordinated centuries ago.

Please don't fool yourself into thinking that daydreaming about the world you would like to live in is some sort of profound intellectual device. You just sound smarter than they guy who wants to drink beer and shot womp rats all day; or you're just that guy.

In other words, you live in this world bitch.

(I'm probably just angry because I wish I could feel comfortable sitting around dreaming and sipping coffee while debating a better world, but I have found that I cannot because my head will eventually explode.)
I am at the end of my patience with people and their weird fuck thirst for power. It sneaks in from every direction without warning. They say, "In the future..." and "You can't do that." Well, yes, indeed I can, and I suggest you call the authorities. All I have to offer the argument is a fat lip to your intellect and an exuberant, "Kiss my ass."

Some allow nudity, lobbyist groups, war speeches, cursing, uncensored ideologies of guest speakers, but not relevant topics that produce a sum of open ended and extremely mild discourse. A prohibition blanketed in weak definition, but once uncovered reveals a fear of slipping power and control. This is the quotient of reality divided by misleading rhetoric. Meanwhile, they draw a bath of false statistics and a narcissistic overly glorified view of their organization. I have found, those who urge an audience to acknowledge their humble nature are merely disguising an intentionally silenced egomaniac that lays less than dormant within the fabric of their flesh.

The trolley driver seems confused by his place within the hierarchy. No favors were done for me during this ride. I am merely a passenger that defines your title. Otherwise, you are of no more significance than these ramblings that spew out from the chaos of the ether. Without my ass in a seat, the righteously indignant driver would be pushing wagons and begging for pennies. And I stomping through as I always have and always will.

They who yearn for intangible muscle strength are the same who self-victimize after a rebuttal of their own attack. Both oxy and moron, the feminist just as guilt as the male chauvinist. And I am the one that punches through walls with no need for distinction one way or the other. Throwing stones at the sky until they burst into a technicolor madness which rains down reality onto their pathetic sadness they refuse to acknowledge. I too am sad, yet I refuse to build statues of bubble gum to mask my pain. I refuse to bow. I refuse to submit. I refuse to pat your design on the back. I refuse to compromise. A 1,000 day battle lost. Are you so naive that you think your doing anything for anyone but yourself? Tea time granted only to the celebrity you secretly thirst to be. Neither hero or villain.

Wallow in the dying dream of reality's bastard son. This letter shall be etched into the wicked that wear masks of the meek. This conspiracy theory, now scientifically confirmed, stems from a lack of personal responsibility. A history rooted in your family tree are the leaves that fall from every branch. Pointing fingers everywhere but at your own heart will never manifest a resolution. A house I once saw as brick and steel, merely a fragile and crumbling old pyramid shouting, "Come on boy, heel," and I refuse a last meal.

Strange happenings on the blog-o-sphere, interwebs, or what have you. Surprised and shocked, but all the while relived by the outcome. There comes a point when, as a writer, an individual must admit that a particular well has run dry. I do not believe in writers block. I believe in riding a wave that will eventually take you to an assigned destination, but often requires a deviation from the path. These sporadic forks refresh the senses and more importantly the spirit of a writer. Without them the text is merely a withered old rubric that narrowly defines that which all too often tends to spoil with definition. Meanwhile, the journey ends in hypocrisy and weird power plays that not only lack sense but also drain sweetness from a much needed shift. I write. I write, under institutional rubrics with above average satisfaction, and spill my flesh otherwise. Complacency is a sick toad gnawing off the leg of Stagnation's diseased corpse. Mirrors are only scary when I can't stand to look at myself. I have no excuses or genuine apologies this time around. Many times we forget that the horse may be able to also help lead us to water. Yet, generally the horse does not feel compelled to act like Mr. Ed. I did not find a retort, examples, or evidence necessary. Merely, a curtsey and a sentiment hopeful of a gentle fade out from a fool that loves an aggressive and flagrant ending. I bit the urge because it never mattered when I was employee and family. Why would it matter as an employee? Here rests another spiritual purge. The cosmos on the horizon have always been the only destination. Wave goodbye and bow.

No comments:

Post a Comment