Or how I spent the night in the allegory of a gutter -
Come pissing on my face, you my dog-thought, defecating on my mouth in dirty constellation, my head all pixelated on the screen. The ideal, the emergency exit, it would be to submit a blank page as "The New Moral World", a philosophical and treat me an impostor. I'm modern and contemporary art, want nothing and no certainty about the use that will be done of me. In detail, there will be many walls and doors of cars in flames.
Our deaths are so violent thatwe don't really bother with dressing up the corpses, bodies wad it in the bag of skin. So, all the makeup of the morgues were recycled in the beauty salons. The fashion will be hopelessly desperate, gothic "glam-dead-fucking-sex". The anglicism is a moral, that's what I read from a blank sheet. We quickly get the sensation to touch, to approach something absolute. Pure, true and perfect. Something stable where to put your mind voluble, a port of thought. But it never comes. Our lives, painted tables upside down, lean on fat, the existence cracked dismiss in crusts.
Of discipline, of rectitude, of virtue and cleanliness. "Straight Edge darling", the skin pulled up like a tie. The starch on the collar of the shirt, and four beautiful chin stacked. We raise our whores and our soldiers, saying they will make the world more beautiful. With just a little ambition, we would all be generals or mother whore. We put collars on dogs, necklaces on women, ties on men ; neck became our obsession. Nothing that doesn't refers to a master and slave fact, when it comes out of our brains infested.
It's useless to understand what they thought for you. Any way to make you loose your time. To eat the flesh of men and wipe your stare on the rusting razor blades, pious picture. Unhealthy obsession, erection, ejaculation of sweat and bad wine, finish in the morning, it overflows on the shirts, drunkenness of the red throat.
More seriously, here I am eaten by disease, here I am dry as summer, here I am crawling stand up. Tired as hell, with no faith to shit the last pieces of mankind in disorder, and this wordless feeling in my stomach, an endless disgust, weak and wavy pain. As a urban folklore exiled in green fields, I vomit my nights in the middle of these indigenous from brutal concrete. And sometimes I find the life around me unnecessary, cumbersome, I really don't need to ask myself anymore.
So I raise an army of rats, to conquer the Urals. I Proclaim everyday the New Republic of my Individual State. A self-proclaimed Pariah. I Federate my neighborhood.I Calculate my Gross Domestic Product per arm. Try to Quantify the socio-economic impact of my actions on the environment. Then, estimate corollaries indicators of it. Start an O.P.A. unfriendly over the church of my district.
Each citizen should claim himself as a micro-independent state.
Our deaths are so violent thatwe don't really bother with dressing up the corpses, bodies wad it in the bag of skin. So, all the makeup of the morgues were recycled in the beauty salons. The fashion will be hopelessly desperate, gothic "glam-dead-fucking-sex". The anglicism is a moral, that's what I read from a blank sheet. We quickly get the sensation to touch, to approach something absolute. Pure, true and perfect. Something stable where to put your mind voluble, a port of thought. But it never comes. Our lives, painted tables upside down, lean on fat, the existence cracked dismiss in crusts.
Of discipline, of rectitude, of virtue and cleanliness. "Straight Edge darling", the skin pulled up like a tie. The starch on the collar of the shirt, and four beautiful chin stacked. We raise our whores and our soldiers, saying they will make the world more beautiful. With just a little ambition, we would all be generals or mother whore. We put collars on dogs, necklaces on women, ties on men ; neck became our obsession. Nothing that doesn't refers to a master and slave fact, when it comes out of our brains infested.
It's useless to understand what they thought for you. Any way to make you loose your time. To eat the flesh of men and wipe your stare on the rusting razor blades, pious picture. Unhealthy obsession, erection, ejaculation of sweat and bad wine, finish in the morning, it overflows on the shirts, drunkenness of the red throat.
More seriously, here I am eaten by disease, here I am dry as summer, here I am crawling stand up. Tired as hell, with no faith to shit the last pieces of mankind in disorder, and this wordless feeling in my stomach, an endless disgust, weak and wavy pain. As a urban folklore exiled in green fields, I vomit my nights in the middle of these indigenous from brutal concrete. And sometimes I find the life around me unnecessary, cumbersome, I really don't need to ask myself anymore.
So I raise an army of rats, to conquer the Urals. I Proclaim everyday the New Republic of my Individual State. A self-proclaimed Pariah. I Federate my neighborhood.I Calculate my Gross Domestic Product per arm. Try to Quantify the socio-economic impact of my actions on the environment. Then, estimate corollaries indicators of it. Start an O.P.A. unfriendly over the church of my district.
Each citizen should claim himself as a micro-independent state.
No comments:
Post a Comment