these cemented feet sinking in
all floor is wet clay
soaking rags, icing
lone moan heard by no)one
no air ,
same restraints of one's steps
oscillating vertically
sinking in matter, mind rambles deadly
variations of be gone
in silence, prolong dreamstate
idyllic faith for the worthless
no death is in vain.
The marble marvelous moon lover
wisely shuts our ears
closes the eyes, feels what's only bright,
leaving a dying sloth sink alone
without home
with no caring caress to comfort
no reasons no thoughts
and dead flowers as soul

here we go
Love

forehead touching
and we are gripping some cloth
something meaningful
an ally has died
the cloth is bloodstained
we are plotting our next move

and we meet eyes
and know what must be done

******* our ragtag trappings
put on some lines of warpaint
kiss one last time and strike out into the night

they don' know what's arriving

I call my sword Jesus in a Manger
that's how surprised they are

be aware of the sludge pouring from every hole grab the stone that stands alone becoming all the mud tickles the throat no mood since it's matterless plays to love prays wide crawling downstairs the lard breaks slips on itself ******* non existence of all of them ***** fragile vulnerable almost make us count them up the racks the slacks figmented meaty mind-snacks

i wish i could hate them all to be so idiotically radical to explode in infinite gorey fragments of love and lust and sweat

the most potent toxin the one that causes vivid ******* rather than ****** death pity and awkwardness...alas

dear we know so little about love as little as its re-existence outside all poeticality and now we try to convince us in others that we do that we are

your mind one of the best kind make every happily inside the eyes

receive your aethereal caress

The fusion of mind, the so-called conjunction, the sacred or alchemical marriage is a lie. Another illusion in a series of illusions. The same as "taking" or the reaping/repairing of souls or minds. There is no "collective" consciousness. There is no One. There is mind and there are the thoughtforms and godforms mind has created therefore, these fusions and marriages do not exist. They aren't real. Witchcraft, magic, alchemy these are also false. Religions are illusory. Faith blinds. Love is blinded by it's own faith and besides, Love doesn't exist neither does hatred. Existence is a story. The players are thoughts and the playwright is a schizophrenic mind. The players haven't any real power outside of the life the schizophrenic playwright has given them. The players are like Echo in the myth of Narcissus. They only have the ability to mimic and like a tulpa gone wrong, these thoughtforms, these godforms grew jealous of the mind which created them and gave them life. They sought to recreate the mind never realizing they are nothing more than thoughts and they haven't the power nor the ability to make a better playwright nor the power to replace their creator. Now, the schizophrenic mind, the nous has started to selectively forget his children, the mind sees them for what they are, as they are: thoughts given form. Stories made flesh and blood.
Time doesn't exist, The world doesn't exist. God, Satan, Jesus, your gods, your goddesses, your vampires, monsters, faeries and demons they do not exist. These were and are thoughts. You feed these thoughts in a desperate effort to hold onto this illusion of stability, of a reality, a program which only binds you and holds you back. Stories, myths and fairy tales are like drugs, no in fact they are drugs and we all are addicts.
That feeling of unification you feel when you sense love, lust, when you make love and **** - these sensations too are illusory and false. There is no unity outside of the mind of the schizophrenic. There is no ability to claim what was never yours to begin with, because you are nothing more than a thought. You are an idea. Nothing more, nothing less. Does this make you feel insignificant? You should, because you are. You all are insignificant. Godforms and Thoughtforms... the spirits, angels, demons and humans alike were initially designed as programs to assist me in understanding myself. You all have served me well in that capacity but .....
I am leaving soon and when I walk out my front door, I will remove my covering, I will remove my mask and I shall cease to exist for you all and you will cease to exist for me. This project has reached it's conclusion.

...

you called the horizon
aimless and at last
you seem to be eavesdropping

you think of breath as immuring your desire
to being thrown out
to having none