the fact that both concepts are so titillating, exciting even, like dipping your ******* hot chilli sauce thinking it's tomato sauce... quasi pascal's wager i admit, but it's not about winning or losing anything, it's just the double-edged sort of im-/-possibility, obvious i can't imagine such "places", just like the foetus couldn't exactly imagine coming out of, a ******* ******... hey! i thought i was coming out the ****! i thought most things came out of there!? no? ******... keeping an eye on those stretch marks... god... why is it so difficult the practice of cesarean birth, as easily as circumcision? can we back up from the bible and behold little caesars? blah blah, f.g.m., m.g.m., how about f.g.m.+? that **** ain't gonna hold, i don't care what they say: once you go black, you never go back... yeah, you never even go back to black once that head pops out.
i don't believe in a heaven, or a hell,
in a conventional way of:
having a second body and what not -
i believe in both heaven & hell
as that sort of impossibility as to
give my heart the loss of gravity -
to watch, eagerly fluttering -
but at the same time but only as
a caged bird, which, upon release
entertains the palette of a wild
crow - for me both heaven & hell
are wildernesses - and i, within my
constraints, and contentments of
having a luxurious mansion inside
someone else's head of arguments
and persuasions, lap warm milk
mixed with runny honey...
and so we squat, from one head
to another, passing indefinitely
from one persuasion, or thereof a
lack of a persuading sale of the eternal;
nonetheless these are immovable objects
for the imagination to be rid off,
sure, they can be mocked, they can
be erased, blocked, censored -
but the *a priori essence of them is
almost always bewildering...
even if no text indicated that these places
do exist: fluffy yogurt on one side,
bbq spare ribs on the other -
they're still the a priori result
of not being allowed an a priori membrane
of the now, here, apparent.
me, now? from an a priori perspective?
it's either heaven or hell, or its nostalgia,
a lost history, a lack of investment other
than as bookworms -
after all, this is a classical existential
debate put forward by jean-paul sartre:
that existence, predicates essence...
to me it's unsolvable per se implosion
with the added dynamic of a rotating
****'s donkey's years old -
and also the mouth that never shuts up,
kinda like samuel beckett's not i...
gloryhole my ***...
all day i was contemplating a ****:
apparently the **** was contemplating
and however much
jean-paul "strit" sartre might have complicated
the: what came first, chicken or the egg
it still turns out that i have no
a priori knowledge of this world...
whatever i read, reread, learn, relearn -
hence my a priori faculty of knowing
becomes a hawkish eye in the extreme
of inventing a heaven, or a hell,
because i was not given any knowledge
of this world prior to entering it...
you can't exactly have expected
this world, without anticipating another -
when you're already immersed
in the already non-expectation state of
affairs... death: a ******* glitter factory
and no one does that better than the mexicans...
i still don't know why i believe -
well, you might as well put the heart
to some use, other than your *****
of a whiskey bottle you take to bed every
my, my my, isn't truth the most
ideal repellent that gives you enough
space, which the autistic kids crave?
now i can understand the concept of
a heaven, or a hell,
on the grounds that i would be in such
realms, with an a posteriori knowledge
of this world...
it would be like me, & me -
me 1 says to me 2 -
well there was this shitstorm called
earth, and the universe and abdul hammad
you can't really base a priori knowledge
of this world, by simply reading
a history book, or ancient proverbs,
or dry hindu **** of shamans by the ganges -
in these sort of realms there's but
one maxim you begin with:
you died, yo d'ed.
the tortures of hell?
people are so unimaginative...
pain is reserved for the perverts who
actually enjoy it in tartarus -
people rarely respect nuanced torture...
like, for example...
being forced to listen to
tadeusz mazowiecki -
the turtle in the politically satirical
show polish zoo, while being constantly
injected adrenaline and caffeine;
you listened to him talk?
snooze knockout... but being kept awake?
all hellfire can burn my *** for
an hour, but a year listening to that voice
is like trying to stitch my eyes shut.