Random Boo

What I’d give to be normal, yet the more I analyse what is norm, the further from it I go. In this sociality of an eye for an eye, the world has now become blind, and I sit in sin for not having followed…

Every tick a theft, stealing your very right to exist, your very right of breath.
Time is all that is left, a measurement, a counting, a ticking to death…

The light, it irritates, it violates, and it penetrates my space and makes mockery of my being. It rapes my mind; it tears apart the very existence of I. It burns my soul, and then boil, does my blood…
Light is death to society, and death to the brotherhood, for die does my dreams of what should, of what would, if what only could….

For as I transcend I see,
Time, is no mans friend.
And time beats a heart in me,
a rhythm, a play,

The End…

The government does not construct walls around you to keep ‘them’ out; it’s to keep you in. What better way to control man than to engineer mass hysteria of fear. What else could excuse a slaughter of privacy better than that labelled to protect you? One has only to pick up a newspaper to read of the increase in surveillance that is taking place in Britain, with many thousands of cameras watching people twenty-four hours a day, set up to protect you. What better way to justify this than a perpetual war on terrorism? Cameras that could recognise the registration plates on suspect vehicles were first used to track IRA suspects in London. Now the technology is used for speed cameras, traffic enforcement cameras and in London’s congestion charging zone. Radio-frequency identification (RFID) is the use of a wireless non-contact system that uses radio-frequency electromagnetic fields to transfer data from a tag attached to an object, for the purposes of automatic identification and tracking. How did the government justify the proposal to use this on the public? Identification theft and terrorism. And you will eventually accept this, if fact you will Want it. Say some’body’ for example say, the government, was to conveniently “lose” a few children, for example: Madeleine McCann, every mother and father would not only agree to have their children chipped, they’d demand it. Two or three generations down the line every man, woman, and child will be monitored, sorry, I mean chipped. For the governments ultimate triumph will not be chipping everyone, but making the public Want to be chipped. Not the same as, but comparable to Facebook, you don’t have to share your personal information and update your current locations, but you still do. It’s a corporate totalitarianism whose only aim is to merge and catalogue every aspect of your life- Your name, age, profile picture, political believes, religious believes, education, work history, likes, dislikes, where you’re going, where you’ve been, and who with, who your friends are, your family, your relationships… All this information you have blissfully publicized on Facebook, and allowed to be ‘tagged’ with GPS – The Global Positioning System, which is a space-based satellite navigation system that provides location and time information in all weather, anywhere on or near the Earth, it’s on Facebook, in your car, in your mobile phone. Why? — Big Brother
And even if you didn’t, if you have Facebook on your phone, Facebook like many other applications, can access your text messages, phone calls, even your camera and microphone.

In 2006 Jack Dorsey launched Twitter, and this time in 2009, Facebook changed from your “Status” to “What’s on your mind?” and already we have seen the resulting consequences, —- Thought Crime

And in the end, after a few cunningly prearranged terror attacks, not necessarily by terrorists, you’ll not only be monitored, you’ll want to be monitored. Because monitoring to you is safety, but monitoring to them is control, and there is no better way of establishing control than fear, this is just a more contemporary take on what religion was doing for centuries…

It’s a case of keeping the rich, rich, and the rest of you under control, but then,

you always have been……….

Ask yourself, we all ‘suspect’ what the government’s ‘motives’ are, but ask yourself, who are terrorists, where did they come from, why, and can you trust a newspaper, whose coverage is monitored and potentially controlled.

I’m not intentionally insinuating anything here; I’m just hoping people will judge by what they KNOW and not by what they read and thus fed, and please, please, sit on a fence once and awhile, it’s the best place to sit prospectively, especially regarding politics…..

I very highly recommend that you read George Orwell’s novel of a totalitarian future society. Nineteen Eighty Four (Amazon)

All through Space and Time balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s precarious rhyme, of an elusive design, that ponders down a bottle of a cheap red wine.

A nonentity it has become this trivial existence, but a small light switch, in this small small room, that must forever be left in darkness. The clattering sound of a telephone’s bell screaming echoes down the abandoned hallways of my mind; the hallways that were once filled with so many characters, and are now so, no more. Old forsaken dispositions like barbarians at the gates of Rome, deviously scheming in their packs. They fancy me dead; they desire me dead; I hear them, all of them. As their fate becomes mine… I don’t want to leave, I do not want to leave….

Alas, this will be my last post…

The 40-Watt bulb swings his way but in shadows he remains, the darkness envelopes him, protects him, from the demons of the light. He counts his matches, each strike of a match a new day is born, and each extinguished match a night. People are like open books with pages torn out, he ponders. He is a man of many forgotten dreams, and many dreams yet to be dreamt. Violently he hates you, for violently he is pure. He is a man without a face yet he a man of many. Like an oil painting that never dries, he is ever changing, each tear an alteration in his disposition. His name, if you believe in labelling a life with but a few words, is Vincent J Foster. After leaving the army, Vincent made a successful career out of designing children’s toys. He enjoyed his job, for he enjoyed bringing happiness to children’s lives all across the globe. Sadly, Vincent was unable, through circumstance, to have a child of his own. It was this they say, that triggered the madness, and sparked the proceedings of the famous Foster Murders that were to shortly follow. It all starts with a milk bottle, them annoying plastic milk bottles, with the impenetrable seal positioned in-between the plastic bottle and plastic cap, the ones that come with a little tag that teases you as it tears off, thus destroying any hope once held of you obtaining the milk you foolishly just paid for.

Up until now this man didn’t exist, he does now, because you make him exist, in your memories. Does that not then make him just as real, as anybody else.  All God’s breathtaking work in creating life, matched with nothing short of a bit of imagination, and a few words.

We are all nothing but the memories of others. Collectively, we are what is remembered, whether favourably or not, what we are or was, is what people perceive us to be. Sure you have your story, but if the story dies with you, then the story never was. Once you’ve ‘popped it’ so to speak, the only part of you that is in existence, is in the memory of others. Existence is a difficult word to define philosophically. But the funny thing about existence I find, is existence might as well not exist at all.

This conscience is going to be the death of me, I hate being soft, I want to be evil, with the evil laugh and big red button. Not some pansy herb growing, reindeer patterned jumper-wearing ponce, drinking organic milk and eating Kiwi Fruit! I want to victimise some random ill one-legged orphan child with a cricket bat and shout, “Ha, I’m bigger than you, and I have a big stick to further minimise the effort required to beat you!”

My existence appears to be nothing but a red wine stain on the fabric of this misfit society, to which my attentiveness is bordered.  Are not we all but travellers of space and time. Yesterdays dream, now today’s concept of time’s hangover. Tomorrow you’re being fed to the worms. Scientifically you are nothing but bacteria with a consciousness.

Love is a burden. Love is possession, love is a private social network of oneness divided and solitarily confined. Love owns you. Your freedom compromised, are you even you anymore? This silence, it deafens you. As the mistress of your undisclosed desire surges, you lose all grasp of reality, the drums beat in a heartbeat rhythm; the sails drift you to a cesspit of sexual orgy, follows then the decline in your ecstasy. The spider web of a make-believe family conceives a BBQ smoke screen of denial. You love to be loved, but somewhere a consciousness breathes life into an existence that categorises you, and fences you in like cattle.

Men in long dark coats, eyes obscured by their beaver hat’s shadows, clanging empty bottles in creates in the dark alleys of the night, as the cigarette butts in ashtrays invade the pub’s atmosphere with its stench. You try to gasp for air but you can’t. Has it hit you yet? Life is not beautiful, it’s an endless disappointment, persistently hit with poverty, famine, sickness, unfulfilled desires, loneliness, and a perpetually wretched cold dead feeling. Oh, and tiredness, you are always tired, it’s not lack of sleep, its loss of hope. Ignorance is bliss, for only the naive can survive. Love only looks good in the shop window, truth is it’s a Trojan horse to an endless flood of despair, it will drown you until you’re nothing but a husk, a number, a single note in an orchestra, a single and instantly forgotten tick from a clock.

Love doesn’t free you, it traps you, your biggest possession possesses you.

Two point twenty-five litres of plonk, twenty-three fags, and seventeen Hobnobs past midnight, I am painting the Cheese Strings black. A silhouette of a swinging dud 40-watt bulb taunts the rubber glove that is my mind. Mocks me, plays me, and dances on the very reflection it scorned. Well it was half the truth, in the sense that it’s the good bit with the fat cut off, enjoy the fat! Are you happy? Who is? I do not know, I guess no one is really. Nothing is perfect; it would contradict with the said concept if it ever were. I love the sea, I miss the sea. It’s something about the waves crashing against the shore that sounds like a symphony of poetically captive sovereignty. The sea comforts me, like a feeling of home, in a loners devilishly self-gratification. I am the floating egg in the boiling pan of the conformists despair! Look her in the eye, turn away and sigh, every chance a last, every look a first. She stands there, slumped to the right, a burdening requirement of illogical light. She of such profound beauty, one man’s neglect of duty, another man’s treasure, a second hand pleasure. A stolen kiss, a stolen time, but she never was, neither is, nor ever will be mine. Maybe I was born too late, maybe she was born too early. Maybe instead of wine, I’ll have a Curly Wurly. Who knows? But you’re not carving my grave, smile and wave boys, smile and wave…

Now this societal disability was not necessary a conscious choice, but it has its beneficial delusion of rationalising advantages. We say ‘rational’, but what we really mean is, I do not want a mansion; I am happy with my cardboard box with twig fence accessory.

I guess ultimately, the average loner is alone because they can’t deal with being judged, but I’ll never deal with that, a bit like BT Customer Services; the fault is never with them, it’s everybody else that’s wrong”

But like with many anxieties, you can make many successful steps on the ladder but only takes one snake to put you back where you started. It’s difficult once you’ve been rejected.

I’ve observed people in bars, shops, and pretty much anywhere that these congregation of ‘oh you’re here so I’ll talk to you- the person that unless not conveniently placed right in front of me, I would not bother’ people take place. I often wonder just what it is you people thingies talk about?

Now I have, believe it or not, taken part in one of these fruitless tokens, and the topic of conversation was basically a series of questions for the interrogator to build an ill-constructed profile of me. However, this is not really, to me, a conversation, but really just an interview for the position of acceptance. Or forcibly trying to find a likeness or similar interest in the attempt to relate, which is, in its self, nothing more than an attempt to justify or verify the right to be themselves, whilst applying subtly with the rice filling questions like: age, origin, and name. Name being nothing more than a URL to what to them is you, the No Frills silhouette version of you that can sociably fit within the insipid background of their own selfishly personal world.

I’m homeless, and that what is be labelled home feels as welcome as a female Klingon with PMS. My brain needs reformatting I thinks. The cutthroat ecstasy of space dementia that cometh from but a jam jar keeps jumping out on me, with the tennis ball dropped, I’ve lost everything. You know death is nirvana right? Eh? Reality ostracized once again as itinerant monkeys sit on roller coasters smashing though the pumpkin walls of China.  And OMG!

My MINI has been hit more times than Justin Bieber on YouTube! De-prioritize! That’s the key to a successful life thingy… “How much is bravado?” “Well, ASDA currently have three-for-a-tenner at the moment”. I won’t let you kill it, it is bigger than you, I’m not suicidal, *washes hands in imaginary water* right then! Who’s first?