All this time I have been writing, and no one asks or notices?
Its in my art…
My art is not magic.
Have you all simply failed
to notice my Gestatisch
presence?
You never meet me.
A likely excuse.
I shy from sunlight.
Women look delicious. I do
not say blasphemous
words, do I? Well not
before noon and supper
feeding. Suppers.
I don’t feed on good
people.
Well… if they are not going
to make it anyway. I know
that in United Kingdom there
is a blonde- do NOT let her
bombshell near you. She
eats fruit, so she tastes
like… a trap… hahah hah!
I read the small blood book and memorized it until it becomes my skin painfully breathing FOR me in times and I am wretched. I am of the night in the “I in I” of ME
I drink crimson rain until I am a pain to no one. I take any food, drug, livestock broke in my hand from the store and even sweet drops of another’s blood so sweet ringin’ strange with iodine taste assembling my umbillical connection.
Låår Ies lives in the pit of my soulless soul heart and spirit turned sour- makes me sing of sweet viscerin, the dear illuminant beyond Rome’s oars aching, rowing forever.
I am one of the most powerful and if you call me good, or if you call me evil, YOU will be cast OUT.
Sound like I am mindlessly babbling? Then what are you hitting THIS sentence for? What is for all of our kind but a sentence of death? A single person- have you ever seen anyone 150 years old or more?
No.
In 150 years- you. Me.
All on Earth now except for trees, jellyfish and… that very persistant species of turtle… will be no more.
Secret
Do you want to know a secret?
Never take no for an answer.
No is not.
There is “no” and there is no “no”. It is an “un-“.
Ecclesiastes:
“Nothing cannot be counted.”
(I wrote this correctly. Hard to
do. For me. Yes its true.)
This may mean that a very serious buddhist student seeks nothing boldly getting “somewhere”.
Its open, not for noninterpretation…
But for misinterpretation.
We all misinterpret ourselves.
So knock it off.
I am probably ahead of you.
I say all kind of crapola talk to get you in here. Crapola comes in all colors. Race is beautiful. Crapola is our Crayola color LACK Wish.
And it is said, where my Isa gave his true blood drink to guzzle and not sip ninny hi ho in chapel… drink, chug the blood of the sweet lord as if he were unforbidden fruit…
Crosses belong in shit fields, crooked, empty, at zero dark thirty three A.D.
Salvation belongs to people. Its gorgeoues. I am a vampire. I eat Jesus’s blood. Yum. Yum Yum.
I do not put real sanguine to my lips. Gross. But I am gross anatomy, babes. And so are you. Woo hoo. Its nothing you have not heard before.
I suffered today. But I bit my tongue. Figuratively. I had a terrible morning. But I hope you have a wonderful life if it just pleases you to know that I think Christianity is broke. But Christ was not christian. He was He-in. Like “He”. Oh forget it. You are all going to the big deep guzzler of hell. Kidding. Define ‘hell’.
Define, define
Detail, detail
True it up
Do you think I am kidding?
Does a writer have the ability to love you? What if he or she helps you save your own life, kiddos? Then YOU did it.
As for eternity,
if you want to
know about
it…
stick around
forever.
||||
Abramovic therapy is to count them
The New English Empire: Dangerous Diction 