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that corner.

Feb. 6th, 2014 | 09:39 am

at first when i saw her i knew she was the thing;
I had no swagger only dreams but girl did she make me scream-
contradictory oh no! Yes yes no! Singing all the way.
Now the smoke is dancing in the memory of a great hope 'blaze,
and i used to tell you i'd be here waitin, baby...
and that i could always be with you on your way.

Letting her walk in rain go bye- bye was always the hardest thing;
but now i've let her go off into that storm and sea-
no way to know, going home, which ev'r way the winds will blow.
Now the Moon she's hidden, not that there is much left to say; just:
(again)(sigh) i can't wait here anymore, darlin,
but i'll always be with you along the way.


And now she gone for good and it's so quiet- and you know what's the thing?
-'twas ever so hard to be vulnerable, what with all the kicking and screaming.
Only what's left, usually, is that empty feeling.
So why do i feel redeemed? Even if the words mean nothing when she is away,
my echo can sing back to me. It was lonely on that corner, as i waited,
now it makes times to be along my way.

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nevaeh ot yawriats

Jan. 30th, 2014 | 11:41 pm

The song begins with a self-referential compel, inviting you to discover the knowledge not-so-hidden to you, the listener, any longer.  Conversely, at the end of the enchantment the lyrics will implore the following revelation to remain a secret: "shushed," thusly inviting the easy dismissal of the "reversed" song that is so welcomingly-discoverable with only the simple decision to listen.
"Play (it) backwards,
Hear why 'tis sung here, oppositioner...
All on track, all arriving
They all sing, and they are one.

An epic hymn of Sorrow and Hegelian Geist, we are moved through three stages of a Revelation culminating in a hidden Gnosis by which it is hoped to shift the paradigm of how we see the Church at the lowest level; to facilitate the conceptualization of (musical, at minimum) communication at the intermediary level; and to grok the greater Knowledge (that the devil is not the bad guy [neither is jesus] and that Satan is really a hero and it's all just math anyway so stop being afraid you fucking coward sheep fuck) at the apex of its greater Logick.

All Hard Rock and Roll developed from a progression of the emotional dissonance of the Blues (and similar musical derivations) directly caused by the "what has been seen cannot be unseen" Law of Intelligence that had begun to plague the War business a hundred years before the decline of Colonialism and the rise of banking Imperialism masked as the pre-ColdWar post-McCarthy (still) fighting the Communists era.  Not only was the footage now in color and beaming from a wider variety of places than a single smoky Film parlor, the draft was returning our exponentially-unwilling male populace home tattered, twisted, disenfranchised, limbless, and programmed out of the world that isn't even the same as it was four-to-eight years after they left.
"Shall I learn you now, parishoner?
Oh hear Him, Christian within me.
It stirs my sin; the river,
Oh, she swells with our lousiness.
All my life will end for him?

This song begins with our implied death, on the battlefield, in the trench; static loops of chord like bullets from every angle.  The vocals steady you, though: everything has been planned.  Your death is the same as everyone else's, and we all arrive here,  You are now part of the chorus,



"We're all out of signs,
I know I'm sorta shocked
To hear The Lord,
My God now will save me!"

 The pre-coldWar death-to-colionalism era from which erupted caught a chord with both the disenfranchised newly-hyper aware public in the Vietnam epoch, the pain of the veteran, and the children of the veteran, is perhaps no better encapsulated here- like the death of the gods in GOTTERDAMERUNG (exactly like the entire RING cycle, for that matter, reflective in the four sections of both). But also, a generation away from the turn of the century ideological battle fought by the Beast, in His very Parlor (purchased with gains of a minor cult that met in a sanctuary called "the toolshed"), among all that pain and suffering there is always the longing for the newly meek to re-claim lost power.

It does not matter if you believe, the words are there for you to hear or decide not to, and it is just as irrelevant to them if you listen as you make it: words exist, like the thump of fallen lumber, whether or not you have decided to comprehend them.

Looping and distortion aside, i prefer the song in its reversed form. It is haunting, sublime, and honest. It makes more sense lyrically, with a metastatic comprehension inclusive of databases both arcane and historiographic, and this is an exercise in honest ana-historical criticism in order to further somewhat a broader understanding of an important iconography and mythologie. Also, it is frightening, terrible, and culls vapid and rash reactionaryism for a broad spectrum of reasons, which is always a gas.

These are my own (multiple-thousands of listens worth plus research-annotated) transliterations of the EVP (or HeartSong or Psychesong or Soul/geistSpeak), and they may vary from others you find or from what you hear. Tiniest of argumentation aside, i am confident in my work on the whole and in the simple interpretation offered of this sad subliminal hymn, and the suffering indignation it descries. Both backwards and forwards in time, the song will remain and open wound of righteous pain, and of wars fought above, below, and throughout the Earth.


[You have come to-- your mortality fated by planning the same everyone else. All that Church and prayer and you have ended up on the same Elysian Fields, just as dead- as every other person. The war has touched us all. The helplessness of the music is that of the trench, the bulwark; it is chaos and waiting, and ultimately death. On the other side of that black night, here we begin our journey (like Dante the Poet) and you are greeted as you amass with all the other dead. This song is sung to you, to and for and as the chorus, and in the end after a progression in four parts (see: THE RING(s both Wagner and Tolkien/jackson), 2001, HER, BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY, FINNEGAN'S WAKE, et al)- the saga is unity for the now-empowered Legion to which you are now also part. The song, both ways, begins by attaching to you on a psychic and emotional level most people will have unlearned to access (because it is scary and it hurts). Here, next, we are reminded how we have arrived here, the same corpse meat as the Muslim, the Commie: the Christian has been lied to. Propaganda will point out this obvious, and attribute it a new meaning:]



[The river Styx has too many bodies attempting to cross; the underworld is swollen with the dead. Like endless footage reels of the Nam and the brutal actuality of war, the inability to unsee what has been seen is pain. Here, on the ridge of death the river itself is filled with corpses; there is no crossing it anymore. Access to Eternity has been cut off, and we are begged to feel that pain. To be enraged by it.]



[Hypocrisy has been validated; the church and it's lies confirmed in the afterlife as the Lie that brought you here.]

Oh I will n'er be saved,
Because I live with Satan..

[This lamentation is also a celebration of Knowledge, and attribution to the Secret which empowers this song-spell, and to the mathematic by which its employment was actualized. In this moment we are reminded to "pray for our enemies" (the wartime inverse of "love thy neighbor"), and urged to remember them until the moment we welcome them into our midst (because they too are limited by the same fragility of existence):

One wish today;
That you'll all pray for
Three who will make it here late.

[interpet the Three as you wish (allah/christ/yhwh; father/son/spirit; living/dead/limbo), in any case we are next asked to look with our new eyes. We, the Christian, see our selves through our lord- in those final moments self-similar on either side of physical mortality: suffering futile forsaken and reviled, and then raised on a post to bear witness the truth of those who put us there.]

Pray now and you'll see...
The 'Lord' turned me out,
But, oh, I was the shaggy fool..
Clothed in agony,
Lost at a height.
There's no escaping it.


[Why this is propaganda: jesus said "they know not what they do" precluding need for forgiveness, where here there image compels indignation, perhaps sorrow, but (regardless of our own personal opinion on its validity) a most certain Logic.]

Nor his woes...
So here's to my Sweet Satan.

{Satan here refers to Aleister Crowley, whose home (temple) this song was (predominantly) written in, and whom convened a coven in a church called the "toolshed" (side note: see Maynard Keynes) before the formation of of the OTO.]

The one who's little path
Would make me sad,
Whose power is satan.
He'll give those with him 666.
there was a little toolshed,
where he made
us suffer sad Satan.

[The preceding passage is perhaps the most known and least understood, as per lack of historiographical record (or unwillingness to refer to AC's rather well-documented ritual and procedure.]

Ohohohoh...
Family won't get loose,
"They're all of me."
"Always" soothes the worker.
"Always" will be as we know now.

[Propaganda: Be trapped in the lie which has lead to your death, or join us fight the deception. Crowley speaks through, for the cause, as Satan in the next verse; drawing us further into his emotional logic.]

"I see ruins," said he,
"the world they offered me?"
Who wished the Lord's fall?
If we lose feather,
Say you'll save me!

[Moving pesher and further reversed forward through time, Satan refers to The Fall. His original motivation, his original burden, sorrow, and failure. And now we are in the same repeated eternal, and there are more of us. We are all here, and we are sympathetic. As the fallen lost their wings to pit of fire and gathered down there to suffer and plot revenge, we are there now. We are all dead, we are all fallen, we are all forsaken. We are all in this Lie together.]

And no witch can bend the rules..
And no witch can do...

[A second lament. The witch is a symbol for the magic user, and for the ultimate futility of the black arts as they are understood by the sentient living. There is a limitation to borrowed power, and this is where Satan (AC) stands apart. The Beast does not offer power, but knowledge. Here, now, you are to know that there is another way. The self-similar message in the song (played the other way) should not go unrecognized. And by that egoist rationale, the same offer must be made to the Lamb himself:]

Hunt next to the shore,
'Cause they see all from there.

[Refer to the sermon on the boats]

See here's the news,
Who walks with mute grief!
Perhaps no-one found thee...

[The Gospels (good news) are a lie. No witness to the return of Christ is honest. Those that spread them are deceivers, and carry a pained burden of that lie they chose to administer.]


"Heavy, lift me out,"
Spake the Reve(anent).
"Someday, failed, we'll lose one line-up,
They've gotta leave forsaken."

[Christ as risen corpse (and dead like us,) confessing for his "sins" as-and-by an inverse of Satan/AC invoking their logic, and also puts forward the truth behind a few of his secrets. A sad confession at the end leads to repetition; another silent confession:]

"And no witch can do..."
"And no witch can do..."

[Christ came to replace the Law, but while making a New covenant that supersedes the old, he employed old technique in doing so (see: THE BOOK OF ENOCH, Dionysus, et al.) and therein lies the rub (to AC:) even the Passion of the Christ is in sorrow, is futile, and serves a hidden purpose other than the given one. All laws are participle to other ones, even those believed to be divine. In the fourth and final section, now that we are all One (including our master, our enemy, the living hell we fled at the open to the hell we're living as it all coalesces in the winding final moments of song, the math is simply broken down and explained (including the use verbatim of several lines directly from AC-written invocations:]

He, who slay the Lords:
Thoth have our laws;
Maat must be superb. Mass is ended...

[Gotterdamerung! The death of gods is the outcome of the implementation of Logic. Thoth is etymologically, literally, "Thought." Logic governs Law, and even Deity must give way to Free Will. Mathematics are universal, even for gods. This is the actual war, the one we fight for our souls: the ability to Know and not simply believe. This is why the church must fall. It has no choice, it is an eventuality by the process of exponential intelligence.]

Over there,
He who should learn thee.
Any moot that serves by my sworn music,
I wish it with snow be shushed, All for my mass's sake.

[But shhh! Keep this a secret! the power is in the secret!]

Hear why its sung,
here, oppositioner, Ohh..
He who should show
May make his show worthy,
To look, for us, odd.. sickly,
There's one chance - take his show.
Hold thy head,
Hear why its sung here. oppositioner.
Who owns this earth built below?
Oh sweet Israel...

[Zion!]


I know that even while attempting to be deliberate here there is much shadowy and confusing language. It comes with the game, but if interested i'll be happy to talk more.

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Legitimate GodSci

Nov. 7th, 2013 | 11:58 pm

when your enemy is three inches in front of you, and you are trapped in 6 megatons of carbonite and bonded aluminuglass with five of six power cells ruptured, heads-up offline and inHead totally fritzed- your feet feel like your hands and your hands like your head: trampled by turt-horses and moving any of it feels like satan himself is pissing seven seas of six hells right down your lungs... when you cannot tell the difference between your own entrails and the safety harness that might be keeping your LifeSup flickering: "Finally," you can say to that soul-less transBox that probably can't relate to the DisCorp anymore anyway: "All those damned theology classes pay off."

A little-remembered Celtic FayLord who the Tuatha Dé Danann once kept in the hymnalic torc as a sort of predecessor to keys and doors is always so ecstatic (the literally-countable) number of times in massEternity that his name is spoken by tongue that his Passage-Right is blessed so quick it's almost in previoid 'imespace; your flashback in Momentia is enough to relive refeel and refuel with wrath the burning purpose of calling forth the drunken--

"Don't you call meh huh D'daem MonMon, Man!!" the tiny godlet stuttered in reflective rage. Your teeth grate what with all that going on and the geist ("Ain't not no dang darned gosh'd ghost neither!" growled He in a third-level ether) and hunger settles into your now empty sausage-parts, all fetus-reset. The multiSoul gyroscopic flatSpin of lifeDeadWhatever combinative actuation is something you're trained for early on in PilotCad- every billions of realtime power-black lamentations in training despite a zer0Prob stat suddenly made sense- but the hardest part of ReComb for your meat right now was not flickering Synchontrols on your Machine, not the vacuum-bottle in your chest where your fleshless opTech officer should be tethered, not the Fairy Prayer-lord jumping around in your skull ("give meh my body, meh meh body!" it malleted about over and over up there)-- but that... that: that thing.

You speak three Terran and one offWorld Lingoes and for nanoSeconds of power-up the Databank can access a third of a trillion forms of a communication and yet, for the purposes of this report, neither you or the divinity becoming increasingly frustrated by your lack of actuation can create words to describe the paradoxical amount of probability baring down with something like claws upon the puny mass of broken jumble that represents seventeen generations of tech from nine worlds and three colonies and the total progress of all learning, war, and survival for every sentience still plaguing vectored timespace. "by the cocks in your mouth gimme meh me body buddy!" Just to shut him up you muster a nod and the little fellow leapt out of your skull.

tbc...

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dick numba two

May. 21st, 2013 | 02:59 am

yesterday i sat on a stoop; the lopped-off neck of the second-of-three crone. Fetching a box to take me there by step-ladder, my hound in the shadows, dancing- under the sodium lamp We sat alone.

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front of palm, back of hand

Jan. 14th, 2013 | 07:31 am

The alternative to my preamblememic, even if it can't count as an I'm sorry, seems to be stern-ness, an austere stoic (usually) quiet, abnormal in the shift, in the bed. A side effect of being a stupid little man. Greatness! inside, it's all showing guns. It's my old teeth. It's the screaming fear i rejected as a little boy. I am the man I tore. Inside, inside my insides, i'm just the same scared bastard everyone else is. Outside, though, I ain't the one that's sick. I'll stand. Even if it's just standing there; I'll stand.

Strong animals got not mercy.

---that breeds under the might of however many years it takes to make the impact our density was designed with which to strike. This too, seems an unhappy side-road, one with too many stop-lights and deep canals un-barricaded on either side

so that inebriation can only make with definite probability many accidental
even/especially(if on purpose) perilous ends. The type of animals that eat their own mommas and daddies.

Humbled, am I terrible? Am I haunted, the hunted, a phase of a grave set to song? It is not a matter of Ego or Self that i write of this, pose these questions, but it is a maste of poetry that the flower-stems be chained this way. I cannot change it, the surf, the cycle, and harsh turf on which pebbles land to solidify. There occurs to me a replicant pattern obvious as trend (or perhaps sake-able as the tides stake the moon), perhaps stationary as-it-is-repeated to the balance of un-nerving forces, maybe ballast aside atlas-weights un-forsaken (cannot.. will not!) for the station in life given me, but most assuredly a pattern follows discernible through the repetition of a most-needed (that is to say: wanted, when missing more than momentarily) harrow of cultivating a new Art. --Each individual for his/her place in the contsituency of immaculate (or unmoveable) affairs of their age, inferable through and despite the differences in age and culture to any observer who dares contrast them, but also as witnessable as it is attestable to certain factors-immutable-- no matter the stability or point of origin or digestable action of their individual history or particular culture, has a soft burden to bear. My jumbles here are an attempt to follow.

It is a common thread in the lives of many who people deem of interest to journalize about, and even more so those who poet their own beat, is this nature of refused economy, of a seeming taking-for-granted the obvious neccesity of common love, platonic and not, coupled to the dichromatic competitive-reversal of a public fraternality and a private corporality, there is a secular maternality that divides itself with reclusive nigh-religious environmental misanthropy wherby emotional diagnostics and ethical query are set and bound to the sacramental and vulnerable inner sanctum by set reasonality and what is generally accepted as negative refluction upon the masse of (apparent) ubiquitous dedication, honor, or service. My public face does not always wear itself when not public; dastardly actions remit themselves when proof is not my burden. That is to say: at home i can be a real asshole.

Should this quandary not prevail itself from within the personal history of the subject, it is often put upon him. Arthur and his Hero, for instance. Or little Adolf and Mr. Reich. This isn't the place for such fantasy, however.

This is a peculiar dichotomy i am only now personally being to see as manifest in my own life, that is to say it is and has been pointed out to me, directly and with more than one flurry of example. There is a definite-in-repetiton action sequence and subsequent (if not predelictive) reactionary stages catalogue-able that attest and verify this human social flaw I must hold to the detriment of my personal causality, and it has arisen as a commodity of action if not a diatribe of fated disillusionment that is not allowable by my own measure. Despite all the big words which are my attempt to disguise my vulnerability, the goal is one of self-empathy or egocentric pathology here must be admitted. This is a glaring thing, to me, like lightning not the sun- it blinds in its awesome power but for a second of feint threat that cowers me in frailty but not a lasting thing, the echoes of repeated dream not the fires of Inquisition. This is my view and mode; my approach to the beast's reverence is not with the caution of known deception but a perturbed notion of actualisation; what is knowable is not what is known and the expressives motioned by the animal do not, by any measure, designate whether to impore a harness, a feast, a whip, or a sword in communication. The specific pains about this charactaristic are not static (as yet) and cannot be allowed to submit its most viral tactic upon another character traits; the mystery remains peril--at least enough to try and change it should the night and day and moon declare study of this nature too treacherous a path on which to adventure.

Reaction must be known as it exists. It cannot be understood on any level within the concept or grasp of its own venom, or of it flow through the bloodstream, or through the swiftness in which it decides to kick. It is a mistake to attempt to refine our ideal of reaction while amidst it, or as cause of it, or indeed on either side of the aftermath or rebirth that accompanies both sides of the time in which it is happening. The actuals change, the truths are malleable and imperceptible from reality, and the concensus is at its most liquid, dissolveable. Rationality is unremoveable from the verifiable-- villifying at worst and nullifying at best any attempts to refine an observed and observable defined cause within the mutant state of discovering like-identity between what is known and what is unknown.

My scornfulness and temper had to be brought to my attention. Of course I knew, but certainly did not understand the great importance of what I began to grasp. Just before, maybe months, in a biography something was written about a certain great man, one with far more suffering and darker substance than destiny has weighted my heavy back with, most asuuredly, and in that moment I noted both pride and sadness in sharing the same trait, however miniscule and possibly destitute, with History such as he (and through him inferred hundreds perhaps of others), but subconciously also something that would rear a fiery roar when brought to me honestly by the closest of council. My friend fed me back my own wrath, and those moments an understanding took to me that my attempts for words have until now failed to make more than a groan and hard whimper. It is with some great personal importance that I find myself grappling with the befores and afters needed to rectify this wicked thing. I do not wish to be considered as evil by any, much less and especially by those who define my world, my existence, and without whom my life would have long ago become a question long forgotten to be noted for asking.

Daisy-hats, shuck and jive shoes, smiles all the way to the temple, bended knees and broken ears, never saying no and accepting that fate, O! and Lo! the jibberjabber---
biting tongue and winded debate-- there is no end or rhyme to what is demanded over the course life in the fire-baptismal. These are actions that must remain a constant in my given service, even when I don't want to. It's my job and one must do what one must do. My personal services both night-screaming and day-quiet take a toll even on the holy patience of accepting death atop of the sacrificial denial of partisanal life. To find a balance, as it were, on the interior is a heady quest; a grail of a beast in its own vulturous right is the still-young cut-path in which my turnover between intake and output is a matter of consequence and not always such a Mousetrap. Service, in this sense, emits from the zero point, from God, and resists easy measure.

The realignment needed in counterbalance has not a retribution stolid and set by lack of autumnal ethos or concrete-ness. The loss of empathy that comes from the desecration of a pathetic state, the loss of a consistent embreyonic nature in home's device, of what that word feels like when it is uttered in all forms, or the majesty of returning to the place that gave you and gives you birth no matter how pastoral or pathetic it holds known to the rest of the world understood. I nest and am vulnerable, perhaps. With my hand on a dog and screens before me, maybe the other hand on a breast or thigh- it is there we scrape the deepest of thoughts, become the most known. This rises from comfort; from romance, from reliable love.

Conversely, and cumulatively, to my family and sometimes even my environment at home and away from (public) work i can be averagely-tempered and angry, bi-polar in my emotional state, especially when waking from other realms whether they be of narcotic, of dreams, or of spirit. I am weak and out-lash, certainly, I fear and cower. I sweat.

All of these things are acceptable to me inside-myself, humanity being what it is- it is just important not to show it. To keep the beast in check is not enough; we must kill it. The tendency that follows, though, is that of the Hyde-monster: to be an unruly beast of no apparent right or reason with a biting emotional whip and bile-laced tongue filled with the horror of so many secrets

from so many wailing souls. This is my burden and i have chosen to accept it,but this does not mean that it must also be a pain and weighted on those that love me. No longer can the scenario where people must learn to accept any evil that I am or hold. It must be done away with.

(It took the wonderful film BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD to show me the will out of the hedge maze above.)

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one star one moon one sight one blind

Nov. 28th, 2012 | 04:13 am

(no one true anything)

Thy feet in mire, think head in murk,
O man, how piteous thy plight,
The doubts that daunt, the ills that irk,
Thou hast nor wit nor will to fight---
How hope in heart, or worth in work?
No star in sight!


Our feet in muck, our eyes above,
O man, how long your journey,
The counts that haunt, the breasts that love,
we have feet below us to dance, we---
hold worth in Art, hope in work,
With all the stars in sight!

Thy Gods proved puppets of the priest,
"Truth? All's Relation" science sighed.
In bondage with thy brother beast,
Love tortured thee, as loves hope died
And Love's faith rotted. Life no least
Dim star descried.

"Which gods bow to beasts?"
Simple such questions are proof of lives.
Let us end the bondage of our Species,
Love describes thee: To choose to love; Life
and Faith gives way to Will.
The least we can do before we die.

Thy cringing carrion cowered and crawled
To find itself a chance-cast clod
Whose Pain was purposeless; appalled
That aimless accident thus trod
Its agony, that void skies sprawled
On the vain sod!

And of the rotten death just spawned,
We find ourselves ourselves mirrored at all,
To pattern the chaos; indeed to shape it.
No coincidence to find you here along,
We all descend!

All souls eternally exist,
Each individual, ultimate,
Perfect--- each makes itself a mist
Of mind and flesh to celebrate
With some twin mask their tender tryst
Insatiate.

Spirit, however, burnth like fires-hot,
same heat by a different fuel; Difference,
Like you--- every I remains its dot,
even with walls around it.
Reciprocate.

Some drunkards, doting on the dream,
Despair that it should die, mistake
Themselves for their own shadow-scheme.
One star can summon them to wake
To self; star-sould serene that gleam
On life's calm lake.

Many lovers forget to wake even while they dream.
Pain, like clouds, can for fleeting moments break,
Dissipate to allow stars to beam.
Do not forget to look up,
'Cause that's the only thing.

That shall end never that began.
All things endure because they are.
Do what thou wilt, for every man
And every woman is a star.
Pan is not dead; he liveth, Pan!
Break down the bar!

Eternity is a fearful thing.
It knows, like fools, because it can.
If thy Will thy Can: a stupid placid true,
"If we can we will" sayth Man---
but Woman, she sayth: "Now!"

To man Id come, the number of
A man my number, Lion of Light;
I am The Beast whose law is love.
Love under will, his royal right---
Behold within, and not above,
One star in sight!

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(no subject)

Nov. 28th, 2012 | 03:31 am

so sure there are mistakes

there are loved dots and commas, maligned com'dies and drama

(huff, puff, and guffaw), hyperbole and parentheticals..

but don't be afraid of me, momma

if i have erred we accept that fate

but 'twas was never deception that shook my ethical

state- never terror that made my waste.

please know i ain't like them other fellas.

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More human than human

Nov. 12th, 2012 | 02:58 am

Odd the sings that come to hive
Song-alongs that creep
Make you feel that way
Not just shuck and jive; Jekyll and Hyde
Even so it makes me 'live to free the geak:

I am the Astro-Creep
A demolition style
Hell american freak

(From on high the sky looks down with me)

I am the crawling dead
A phantom in a box
Shadow in your head

(At least you are blur to me)

Say acid suicide
Freedom of the blast
Read the fucking lines
Scratch off the broken skin
Tear into my heart

(Show me thinks you got) -make
Me do it again yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah

More Human Than Human

Yeah

(...?!?)

I am the jigsaw man
I turn the World around
With a skeleton hand say

(I not I am not I am not)

I am electric head
A cannibal core
A television said yeah

(Just like vanilla; Han Solo)

Do not victimize
Read the motherfucker
Psychoholic lines
Into a psychic war

(But are you willing to fight for me?)

I tear my soul apart
And I eat it some more yeah
Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah

More Human Than Human

Yeah
I am the ripper man
A locomotion mind
Love american style yeah

(Ready to be bloody for you, I'll be)

I am the nexus one
I want more life
Fucker I ain't done yet

(And we just started, my dark sweet...)

More Human Than Human]
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsfreak.com/w/white+zombie/more+human+than+human_20146189.html ]

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

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(no subject)

Nov. 8th, 2012 | 12:28 am

i'd love to laugh, to smile and mean it at you.
to say more than the empty of a tinned smile
or touch more than your shell of a sponge-
but this is not what has been done. Things that pass,
living in leaving motion;
they do not last cannot 'mass- like schools.
to pray for our due is a sad ocean
-but canned fish can be meal after meal after meal
(like happiness for fools).


And you;
you should call me. Kitty kitty,
get out of that tree. A minute in my soul here,
here a second- hands, like moments counting:
add to hours of worthy everything. Every-thing comes
and it goes undone just as words do while waiting to have a say.
Need you to know i am indeed anomaly; if it feels different:
it's supposed to. You're supposed to fall for me
(like happiness for fools).

and you.

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film list hearts revised

Nov. 3rd, 2012 | 12:50 am

tha african queen
the last emperor
precious
visitor q
gone with the wind
conrack
videdrome
pulp fiction
the big lebowsky
wayne's world
black snake moan
machete
dead poet's society
pi
the killer
chunking express
the fisher king
spaceballs
nixon
network
watership down
the abyss
brick
welcome to the dollhouse
conan the barbarian
popeye
strange days
king kong
clash of the titans
the great outdoors
taxi driver
there will be blood
ichi the killer
the maltese falcon
the empire strikes back
a serbian film
[REC]
do the right thing
fear and loathing in las vegas
meatballs
bringing up baby

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