that writing does not have a face...
and that iron maiden could
have done much more
with the loneliness if a long distance runner
prologue...
if i wanted trash i'd look elsewhere...
but that's modernity for you,
sometimes you get into these sadistic
teasing narratives of a music,
and you stop to even care to see
and be nimble...
what comes into the narrative, sometimes:
like (again) iron maiden's crescendo
in afraid to shoot strangers...
or you get the crescendo constantly,
from the word go...
music has a narrative,
just like writing doesn't necessarily have a face...
you think writers want to own their faces?
you think that we wouldn't like to have
whispered these words into a lover's ear?
all of this, is based on a sad arithmetic of
two eye blinking, aiming at a pin-point
on a blank screen, within the euphoria of huh?
and it's only that...
it's not that people like me
cowered from taking to engaging in romance
and piracy... how every emotion
came under scrutiny...
and was itemised, was given the transition
period of being given scientific scrutiny,
and subsequently, gently buried,
like any religious rite, or thus described
passage.
we all pray unto Charon...
to give us the gravity toward
Hades... we fear more the empty ground
and the scattering of bone than
falling off a cliff...
the sad reality, that by seeking thrills,
we underestimated the last possible thrill
of having to invest in a life interim...
thus spotted... and on a medical basis:
we can say that some religions are ill...
islam is ill because the nag hammadi library
undermines it...
but we can't say christianity is
healthy either...
not by orthodox standards,
and only in protestant regions are the heresies
rampant...
would i say this short of crap
to a son i might have had? no.
would i say this sort of crap to a vacuum
so that i might get an echo back?
i proabably wouldn't think twice, once it was done.
writing comes from: you get sick
of talking into yourself...
it's not that you're talking about yourself...
writing comes from the reptilian remnant
of dinosaurs... the reptile spine abstract...
you write to shed your skin, like a serpent...
and as the biblical maxim suggests...
in the beginning there was word, and the word
was with god...
writing becomes the closest thing to seeing
god, and maximising the perplexity
of the concept bound to throngs, who have no
personality, or charisma, or a way to say:
what if it wasn't thus?
there ought to be a Greek noun for this sort
of stereotype of those who write...
delve in the murk...
it's not even a self-imposed exile
from humanity, it's not something abstract,
it's not even a case of trying to sound
condescending...
even though, beyond appearences, it
is, just that.
what i can only call:
blowing against a shadow of a god
to ignite and become body,
and nothing in the firmament of said verse
to be left unsaid, sense of speaking...
ah, people dumb down thinking that mathematics
has all the complexities...
but for a pause to be exacted, in said verse...
the intricacies of punctuation... very much
akin to +, and the same problems of effectuating
the right pause of thought...
much akin to: breathing fire into a shadow
of a god, for the god to become body,
apparent -
by law we know satan exists...
santa claus... acronym satan and the law abiding
dimension of having clauses in ultra-maxims
of first ammend this... plumber joe fix that.
