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Dreamcast Suspiriafrom blue wall
to red exterior wall,
the blue wall interior,
the net had gone
a conduit of computer,
flat, oblong, the web
the net, the keyboard
of every continental pad,
the net had gone
out through every interior
both red & blue,
a rain fell,
& the ghosts
tapped the keyboard,
& then everyone was
dead, here, in this
Ghost In the Shellsci-fi & horror shall
time the pumpkin
ghost in the
until the time
of all death
GashedI found a shirt I saw as beautiful while just a small child
So short that shirt became like a dress
A buck guarding his doe, framed in fall leaves on a white grey canvas
Fabric so soft I felt if I pulled, it would split into goose down
When my skin itched and scratched to everything else,
the shirt did not upset me or make my skin break out
It was kind to me, but time was not kind to it
When one got dirty, I'd put on its twin
the two discarded shirts found at a secondhand were like treasures
until like a loved plushie, tiny tears formed
Eyes became holes, neck, and soon it was worn and nothing but trash
and every now and then, I just think on that shirt
A buck guarding a doe, both attentive, holes like bullets riddling them
until time wore them and the canvas down to nothing.
Funny How Things Work OutWeighted up to our necks, we try not to drop to our knees
A word from you, just one word from you,
oh it is enough, and my fears, one by one,
just to hear them fall from your lips, it would be enough.
The air around me feels so much better when you speak,
as I drop to my knees, for these weights around our necks,
is just too much for me to fight, so I fall from my feet.
While you still stand. Like a statue, like a being made of bronze,
chiseled from marble and erected in the cities, marveled at
I am no such statue or monument, I stand not for any of that,
I'm no spectacle, you are the ire of as many beings as you are adored.
You garner as much hate as you do passion, and inspire the masses in obtuse fashions.
I watch out from a body of stitched souls, and oh, I question you,
I question myself. The hell of a husk from which I peek,
I'd like to shed this fleshy mess, a blanket of stitched souls,
but there is nothing beneath it to cover me, and you'd skin me alive for nothing.
GraspedYou lick hungrily at the poison upon my lips
run your fingers through my hair, making shapes with your finger tips
it startles me how close you're going to get
with fingernails that slide and slip
beneath my skin, into my muscle memory and then to my soul
you swear you won't tear me apart, tell me you want me whole
but that won't last long, there's too much about me you don't know
so your words are a lie, as you will eventually let go.
Oh Brother Where Is The MurmurWhere is it where is it...
where does it go, where
where to, too
too means always a parallel world
That parallel world makes you drive
drive by shoot, shoot into the darkness of the desert
the desert of a manic depression
a manic depression built up for truth only
The truth only will make it from bad to worse
it´ll be more worse than any other morning
the morning after the damage was done
a damage of skin and flesh
Skin and flesh will lay open for your punisher
your punisher will repeat that punishment over and over again
again stabbing into the same wounds
the same wounds will have to be licked
To be licked by a tiny little yapper
you know the same little yapper that licks her cunt
licks her cunt for the wet salt in it
in it is so much more
So much more to be there
there for the loathing
loathing and fear in reverse
in reverse and round again
Round again on a mary go round
go round an roly-poly
roly-poly for the sake of it
it´s that dead clown
That dead clown making it drown
we do not worry, do we 999Is it just a project or is the mind able to convert into a never stopping well of thoughts words and songs?
Way back in time, when the world still was a disc, people feared to fall off, and following from so many things.
They had their reliable rituals and the community of their tribe, to stand on this planet.
No so much they had artificial media, which would make them think about their own situation and way of life.
Was it a relation between animal instincts and recorded happenings, though lots of mysticism.
Writing wasn´t a popular media, to record events, mostly it was verbally spread history.
Maybe sculptures and communal buildings, gathered men around, or stuck claims for them.
Some people sure developed special skills and enjoyed great renown, like the druids.
Druids the former doctors, psychologists and wise men were chosen by the gang.
Everybody had to work for his / her condition in the social enviroment living in.
The more physical society was surly like the pack of wolf
I'll be honest...
Who see malice in everything just is reflecting his own inner malice.
A group is a democratic space;