Jun 2016
revelation 13:3 so befitting me, a Hollywood plot:
they killed him, but he escaped -
a six round shooter with twelve bullets,
sacrilege of the theatre -
a new matthew 21:12 - expulsion
from the temple -
Jimmy 1:1 - Gaga the Leveller entered
the Hollywood factories and drove
out all who were "acting" and
modelling there. he smashed the cameras,
the props, he ******, then drank gasoline -
scratched his head and uttered:
it is done.
what do you expect?! what sort of acting
is this?! is it acting? take no. 100,
only Jackie Chan can show you excerpts
with the credits rolling, since he's his own
stunt artist - but all those other excerpts
with the credits rolling, forgetting your lines?
what is that?! if this was transformed into
a theatre the audience would be throwing
rotten cabbages tomatoes at the "actors",
Hollywood a viral infection, the only
downfall of Nietzsche was his blatant
ignorance of America, if he cited but one
American, that would be great, but he didn't.
for goodness sake, Palφ Emεrσoν, at least!
hand on my heart: i don't know what possesses
me, i know i'm paying for 10 seconds of
my own stupidity having believed a childhood
friend - but i never wished harm on anyone -
it's such an infuriating sadness, motivational,
of course, but so infuriating - perhaps if i were
normal the brain haemorrhage would be more
evident, the neurologist would not have asked
me to go outside the room when i asked
whether i was mentally ill: 'you're not, and
if someone says you are, they are mentally ill.'
so that's about six psychiatrists on red card,
a dozen people on a yellow card... imagine it:
angry sadness - i don't know what possessed me,
high on marijuana and gullible, sure, but
you're least expecting something like that,
a stranger, a homicide, i could take that, at least
the adrenaline would be there - the suddenly,
i could take that, a Hannibal Lecter whispering
into my ear about shock and ****,
but ******... that's a step up, i don't know
why the serotonin in my brain turned into
adrenaline and caffeine, this regime of not sleeping
one night, drinking myself to a lullaby the next
works well, but time elongates during the nights;
no! i don't know why i'm not a *******,
in the majority of cases people who suffer a
brain haemorrhage are crippled - i know that,
but that explains as much as the myths surrounding
Rasputin... but for ****'s sake, he was schemed
against by aristocrats... this *******
has a father who's a radiologist and a mother
who works in John Lewis at the perfume stand...
what's so ******* aristocratic about that?
it's so ****** annoying, it's as if i was purposively
spared to do something, write something,
anything... it's hardly delusional, i just
can't explain it... like i can't explain the wandering
stars in the night from time to time...
or seeing a lightning bolt without hearing
thunder... seeing the one headed Cerberus in the woods
chasing a rabbit... so many things, alone,
and all the better, the ****** U.F.O.
that was made from φosφorescent light -
my inability to write fiction, living in a country
where not a single poetry book is worth a review
in a newspaper - in a nation that prefers
waterfalls and rivers of sentencing, clear to follow,
cleanly cut, obvious, methodological,
not a whirlpool that ***** you in,
not the sea that overpowers you with
much depth, a storm and general unruliness,
just a waterfall and the easily digested plot,
predictability, a Thomas ******* Hardy novel,
fishing - some øberst-grüppenführer und
generaloberst whispers into the leader's ear:
fake the Luftwaffe attacks, dig a tunnel,
remember the Zeppelins.
you think i like this, this new personality?
cooked up in an ivory tower, hardly interested
in what i could have done prior, manual
labour on roofs? my personality changed so much
that i came to be un-bothered, launched myself
into reading philosophy - and it began with
only one word, negation, from Sartre's
being and nothingness, to my surprise i learnt
he was more than just a novelist, although
in translation from french, a pretty **** thinker.
i can't explain why i'm not crippled,
why they misdiagnosed me as schizoid,
N.H.S. short funding, couldn't get an M.R.I.
scan, had to travel to Poland to get one...
because it all looks great on the outside,
inside, a nanometre difference and pretty
much effects of global warming - remember Newton's
principle, forget this relative cause with no effect;
i mean, we can sit in this space-time parabola
for as long as we want - time happens when
space is indented, ****** obvious, no wonder
time is irrelevant elsewhere, where no physical
object resides, ask Neil Armstrong, i'm sure
he'd like to win 7 Tour de'France titles but later
have a face of a beetroot - or as all chemists say:
why did we bother? why not dope all of them?!
i mean, we've been working on enhancing
human potential everywhere, why not dope
all athletes and get it over and done with -
what's the point of science if you have one
foot in the river and one foot on dry land?
some newspaper columnist still freak out
about people protesting against G.M. foods...
well, let me tell you Jacky Sunshine, i'm
protesting against not doping every athlete,
if you can apply science to your diet, you might
as well apply science to spectator sports -
after all, if you know everyone does it,
then whoever is fitter naturally will still be
fitter with synthetic additives - as in:
we've synthesised enough things to enhance
the possibility, but when it comes to analysing
the situation, it's as if no science was ever engaged,
or if engaged, then left to rot on the scrap heap
of vanity.
they killed him, but he escaped -
a six round shooter with twelve bullets,
sacrilege of the theatre -
a new matthew 21:12 - expulsion
from the temple -
Jimmy 1:1 - Gaga the Leveller entered
the Hollywood factories and drove
out all who were "acting" and
modelling there. he smashed the cameras,
the props, he ******, then drank gasoline -
scratched his head and uttered:
it is done.
what do you expect?! what sort of acting
is this?! is it acting? take no. 100,
only Jackie Chan can show you excerpts
with the credits rolling, since he's his own
stunt artist - but all those other excerpts
with the credits rolling, forgetting your lines?
what is that?! if this was transformed into
a theatre the audience would be throwing
rotten cabbages tomatoes at the "actors",
Hollywood a viral infection, the only
downfall of Nietzsche was his blatant
ignorance of America, if he cited but one
American, that would be great, but he didn't.
for goodness sake, Palφ Emεrσoν, at least!
hand on my heart: i don't know what possesses
me, i know i'm paying for 10 seconds of
my own stupidity having believed a childhood
friend - but i never wished harm on anyone -
it's such an infuriating sadness, motivational,
of course, but so infuriating - perhaps if i were
normal the brain haemorrhage would be more
evident, the neurologist would not have asked
me to go outside the room when i asked
whether i was mentally ill: 'you're not, and
if someone says you are, they are mentally ill.'
so that's about six psychiatrists on red card,
a dozen people on a yellow card... imagine it:
angry sadness - i don't know what possessed me,
high on marijuana and gullible, sure, but
you're least expecting something like that,
a stranger, a homicide, i could take that, at least
the adrenaline would be there - the suddenly,
i could take that, a Hannibal Lecter whispering
into my ear about shock and ****,
but ******... that's a step up, i don't know
why the serotonin in my brain turned into
adrenaline and caffeine, this regime of not sleeping
one night, drinking myself to a lullaby the next
works well, but time elongates during the nights;
no! i don't know why i'm not a *******,
in the majority of cases people who suffer a
brain haemorrhage are crippled - i know that,
but that explains as much as the myths surrounding
Rasputin... but for ****'s sake, he was schemed
against by aristocrats... this *******
has a father who's a radiologist and a mother
who works in John Lewis at the perfume stand...
what's so ******* aristocratic about that?
it's so ****** annoying, it's as if i was purposively
spared to do something, write something,
anything... it's hardly delusional, i just
can't explain it... like i can't explain the wandering
stars in the night from time to time...
or seeing a lightning bolt without hearing
thunder... seeing the one headed Cerberus in the woods
chasing a rabbit... so many things, alone,
and all the better, the ****** U.F.O.
that was made from φosφorescent light -
my inability to write fiction, living in a country
where not a single poetry book is worth a review
in a newspaper - in a nation that prefers
waterfalls and rivers of sentencing, clear to follow,
cleanly cut, obvious, methodological,
not a whirlpool that ***** you in,
not the sea that overpowers you with
much depth, a storm and general unruliness,
just a waterfall and the easily digested plot,
predictability, a Thomas ******* Hardy novel,
fishing - some øberst-grüppenführer und
generaloberst whispers into the leader's ear:
fake the Luftwaffe attacks, dig a tunnel,
remember the Zeppelins.
you think i like this, this new personality?
cooked up in an ivory tower, hardly interested
in what i could have done prior, manual
labour on roofs? my personality changed so much
that i came to be un-bothered, launched myself
into reading philosophy - and it began with
only one word, negation, from Sartre's
being and nothingness, to my surprise i learnt
he was more than just a novelist, although
in translation from french, a pretty **** thinker.
i can't explain why i'm not crippled,
why they misdiagnosed me as schizoid,
N.H.S. short funding, couldn't get an M.R.I.
scan, had to travel to Poland to get one...
because it all looks great on the outside,
inside, a nanometre difference and pretty
much effects of global warming - remember Newton's
principle, forget this relative cause with no effect;
i mean, we can sit in this space-time parabola
for as long as we want - time happens when
space is indented, ****** obvious, no wonder
time is irrelevant elsewhere, where no physical
object resides, ask Neil Armstrong, i'm sure
he'd like to win 7 Tour de'France titles but later
have a face of a beetroot - or as all chemists say:
why did we bother? why not dope all of them?!
i mean, we've been working on enhancing
human potential everywhere, why not dope
all athletes and get it over and done with -
what's the point of science if you have one
foot in the river and one foot on dry land?
some newspaper columnist still freak out
about people protesting against G.M. foods...
well, let me tell you Jacky Sunshine, i'm
protesting against not doping every athlete,
if you can apply science to your diet, you might
as well apply science to spectator sports -
after all, if you know everyone does it,
then whoever is fitter naturally will still be
fitter with synthetic additives - as in:
we've synthesised enough things to enhance
the possibility, but when it comes to analysing
the situation, it's as if no science was ever engaged,
or if engaged, then left to rot on the scrap heap
of vanity.
