Random Boo

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…

Genuine phoney eat hard macaroni don’t eat yellow snow,
Suspicious crony be that token Tony sea but a stone throw,
A pending scurry for a feeble curry get on with the show,
Mac Donald’s flurry plus one dead bunny it’s all who you know..
(In response to the injustice afflicted upon me via slavery aka Teva)

I would pen some reminisce or philosophical observation to compensate for the lack in content being submitted here lately. Alas I’m lazy and very hot. The temperatures leaping off the charts, my mind has been melting slowly. When I am under severe heat whatever concentration I retain is basically focused on important issues like “How can it be so hot?” and “I think I am going to faint” or “I need to get somewhere cold”.
I can not sleep due to this insufferable heat. Every night I just sweat buckets like a scouser watching Crimewatch.  I’m continuously turning the pillow over in exploration for a dry patch. I do in fact recall posting once on this site about not being able to escape the perpetual cold. Funny this English weather, like a reoccurring novelty; shocked I am loading on the coats then flabbergasted further still when I’m ripping them off again. All in all one is not amused.

Look here upon this society of thespians, cultivated by reciprocal delusion, matured by observational amendment. My adolescence pillaged recklessly to state void of compassion. What is love, if love be irrevocably blind? This catharsis; this adulterated liberation, manifestly not blind nor gratifying neither. Alas love a deficient concept.  What is this perpetual adoring; why this pestilent parasite? A mutual quintessence presents not. My sterile disposition inept; how can one adore whilst not adored? What motive is spent upon this desolate stage? I loathe beauty, I detest company; I despise what I grasp not. This self-solidarity of solitude is my narcotic ecstasy in this theatre of belligerent bastards; this congregation of arrogant pretentious cretins. What be love but a delusional comfort. What be life but a dawdling demise. What be thou, the god; recipient of my vomited discourse? A nonentity you be but a fictitious token.

Constant pressure to conform
To act, to play, to perform
On a stage set as born
To follow a life forlorn
Be wallow, pride be worn
Life’s prearranged script unsworn
A souls thorn renders dreams torn
To live a life, a life unborn

Blasting clatter in a bang of despair, nothing can match the aggravation inflicted by the exasperatingly high pitched screaming of the alarm clock, and at the blink of my wakening it was most unwelcome.  Another day awaited me. Even as I pen this dribbling nostalgic confetti of reminiscence, my mind pierces in antagonism.  But, like every show that is one’s life, the show must go on. Ascend; I then performed, as I escaped the place of my slumbering rest. The deserted bed felt damp and flat, as the bed sheet adhered to my skin. Clinging like fate, I knew then at that very moment that it was all downhill from there.

The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible
Blackness melded with shades inexpressible
The infinite infinite compressed into nought
Measured only by sight and thought
Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme
The rhythm of life, the rhythm of time

Oh what will of meaningness
That we hold like are own pride
Or may play are madness sins
As one stands for which side
But I do inpart believe
That madness is in heart
Although meaning is but a hope
Thus they are but of part

Its the Torturing Reminiscence on a past of divorced reaction
Awakens surging regret that beams Reflections in fraction
No follow Fascist Religion and I’m anarchist to Government
But the Cross that consorts fear casts a doubt on my judgement
With believe hostility aside along with my loathing of mankind
I am inpart apprehensive of What God’s jury will find?