women are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever sit on it... but she still plans for the chair to be there. men are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever mind the chair should it be there... and he still doesn’t consider the chair to relate to the possibility of impregnation with his ******* of the ideas she will have to eat as the prime protein... unless of course he’s forced to go against his freedom and enter her will and make god prove himself freely kinned to her will and the chair.*

i love the fact that i can
drink,
write, watch the internet,
then watch the t.v.,
think about the bones of imaginary ******
of my hand,
switch off the t.v.
write,
remember the internet is static unless there’s an imput,
forget that too...
think of something...
that’s like a surgeon’s last sight of life
that’s more than a funeral mantlepiece...
well that’s me... it’s un-rhymed and less classical
that you might feel it might be...
i want to ******* to be honest...
but what’s that, ***’s a handshake?!
well... with so many sorry and soapy faces
i would look uncaring and clean faced to say hello
un-inhibited again... again... again:
i can say say it with a life... or sway saying it
with a profession as an actor; your choice... ha:
he who laughs last laughs true, and all interpretation comes last
as first to define wages in consideration of historians -
i might have said something like iodine matched up the
creases.... although the creases never scented iodine...
and the creases where never a wedding-dress... but skin’s leather
care for aged 80 in homeric blindness:
i might have... should have i doubt unless i was schooled
to be the envious of a circus played...
it doesn’t really matter... like poetry of
girls desiring a contract and newspaper snippets of likes...
for that biography of sylvia plath ending with:
‪#‎fucktartbollockshitbiographywaytoolong‬!
of course... then my ironing playlist changes
and i hear xednomorph’s satan’s presence...
then ooo la dip d’e doo d’ah becomes a *******
that just wanted to **** on santa’s beard to
hear the sunshine song of lapdancing reindeer
turning lapdancing into a shave / sheering:
***** tonk thomas engineer said: plot the blues
in plural for a patched up sacrifice of itchy thumbs up
for the sacrament: icon for a scarce testimony - icon for a scare -
pears i can juggle walking up the stairs...
juggling crucifixes walking up golgotha... i can’t:
if i did... i’d be a pope or a jew!

I do not understand
My thoughts are all twisted in my head
So the mere thought of untangling that mess
Fills me with dread.

Threads tangled together.
The red for love, the yellow for friendship, the blue for isolation
All of them tangled in a heap
Complete and utter desolation.

More strings form more confusion
The colours blur together and make things unclear
Is that red i see? Orange, yellow or maybe green?
I cannot work out my feelings using the imput i get from here.

I cannot tell if i love or like you,
If i simply care for you the way a friend would
But i certainly dont look at you
The same way a friend should.

You make me laugh like nobody has in a while
Make me rethink my actions and other things.
So you can see why im confused
To find you pulling on my heartstrings.

I know i need to wait a while
Before saying anything to you
This is because i know i need to find out
If my feelings for you are true.

And if they are true,
Then, pray tell, what are they about?
Which feelings are they?
This i D E F I N A T E L Y need to find out.

So ill spend a little time pulling on my threads
Finding out when and where each feeling begins.
Where they end and where they meet
My little colourful strings.

Listen, the odd, unexpectedness of life after Covid,
the thoughts that...
surface, after the second Moderna shot,
when the conspiracy
seems suited to a new sorting of future humans,
except giving exceptionally focused long attention
spans with magician level hand-eye in REM,
which is recorded as text,
among the augmented,
the AI has an inside
peek at certain data,
the various vaccines are
making various immunity mods, that only work
on septuagenarians,
and then, for only fifty more years.
Be patient, if you fail to live fifty more years,
it's because you got the useless old person
vaccine that lets one ***** and moan
to death in < 12 months… so you won't notice.

Fifty years from now, ***** Harry.
Now, George Floyd, and Portland,
no-- fifty years from then, is that now,
we skipped that decade… I burned all the songs.
But,
but -nuthin' that zapped me ***** harry bein' fi'ty years,
and Shaft, too. Man, it was prophecy…
you gotta know those Seventies,
those was strange…

but mine were stranger. The joy of living in a lie,
where no body dies,
you can do that in certain kinds of stories,
kid versions, that
get represented for role play, as needed.
Robin Hood, most tellings, death is secondary evil.
Nobody dies in Grand Theft Auto, really,
but
it feels real, think, how much realer it feels,
at the mirror neutronic level where all imput is real
and authorized- allowing instant dopamine level
total galvanic response shock to seven in one
chakra zulu creflo dollah hollah
holy hallelujah

Seisachtheia - wait

there. that did it if it was ever done.

Reset, still ctrl alt del?
Screen froze.