Category: Random

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Nom

The gingerbread man lost his arm in nom
Now he’s on line fucking everybody’s mom

You can’t spell Boomer without “Me”
And environmental catastrophe
Squeezed out a generation too numbed to feel
And see destroyed all they were taught was real

The next is stuck in an eternal trauma
Too broke to join in the drama
Spawn a crowd of riled-up world creators
Who suffers punishment for procrastinators

Neck deep in ashes, trying to turn them green
Choked on what’s left from the boom right lean
The world suffocates on plastic confetti
Wondering if the locusts will die already

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Funk Shun

Executive dysfunction ’cause my brain go stop
trippin’ on my sandals ’cause my flip don’t flop

The rumble of the river calling order to the jungle
If there’s no more faith, then call Mr. Bungle

I don’t take drugs, just carry them along
in a convenient place tucked into my thong

or under my tongue, so I know they exist
or down the throat so they’re eventually pissed


But this is a salad of only one fruiting body
No mycellium here because that would be naughty

Dragged through the windows of the soul of the eyes
I hope these people won’t see through this disguise

What do I do now that I am doing what they thought I could done?
Fucked up and made it and now I’m the one

Imposter Imposter, put down that computer
step up to the bar for another blue shooter

These yellow jackets sting but they keep us going
the bozos with benzos sleep walk never knowing

but I am at the party where the fun refuses to stop
and I can’t walk away because my flip don’t flop

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No destination

People often say what they expect, or do not expect when “Death comes for them”.

I like to view this in an entirely different way. We are heading towards death. It is the invisible barrier that we will one day encounter on our trip through spacetime. We are like the skydivers that have switched to the flying squirrel suits. We are plummeting at near-terminal velocity with the illusion of control.

We can modify our pathway along the course of gravity, but ultimately that great attraction still wins. There are no parachutes on this ride. You do not get to safely land and try it all again. (Unless reincarnation is true, I suppose…) You meet the filter at terminal velocity and the electricity that runs the sub 60-watt bulb in your skull flickers out. The signals to and from your amygdala and vagus nerve stop and your coprocessors wind down.

Then the mass of symbionts that have been travelling with you start the process of breaking down your meat suit for further processing.

But you – your energy has ether moved on to a dimension we are unable to perceive within this flesh, or reaches a resting ground state.

Death does not come for you. It quietly waits for you to arrive.

Will you be on fire when you hit, or just another cold breeze coming through the door?

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Etching

The acid flow of ideas eating through the neural pathways
dendritic lightening tightening the bonds but will it esterase the base of the glitch
the itch

etching its way through the fractal road practical stowed in the crevices
psychic ceviche but there is no lime
ticking in the aftermath when there is no time

taste the acid etching through the crevasse under the corpus callosum, widening the divide between what we calculated and what was chosen

Sour thoughts and smooth brains talking about soft hands and black stains on lung scans but not enough miles on my airplane scans to smoke a camel in quicksands…

Where were we?

susurrations of scales over sands expands the bands of spectrums still unseen in the violence of the liquid scream
the only comfort in the taiga is the lack of scales and thermal vision, making the frisson of fear of the enlightening one

the glowing son

the burning sun

am I the only one?

But this fertile garden now frozen in fear, the fertilizer steaming in the fresh fallen ice
looking for the navigation device
or just the vice
that drove the motor
the engines
over the edge

the irony of freezing to death staring into the eldritch fusion reactor we call god.