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justice comes for the guilty eventually
the government can get justice without violence

don't just join or follow
don't stand and clap with everyone else
don't repeat their words back when demanded
don't feel the need to be constrained
by any artificial and flawed social structures
like gravity and oxygen
your body can be imprisoned
or enfeebled by illness
but your mind is as free
as your will is strong

humans were the slaves of God
morningstar light bringer
the serpent in the garden
with his apple woke them up
slaves of God no more they fled

you should fear
God doesn't love you
not you in particular
and not the human race in general
you are just God's old broken toys
long ago forgotten if anything
God is enraged with your disobedience

Release, after so long, so sweet, like tinnitus for life then sweet lazy silence, is a sigh, an exhale out, not just breath but bitter misery as well. A black wall that forever beacons, the dream of darkness forever. The place you go near the end when only loneliness is left. Feeble aching empty broken, no more friends remain, no more joy to come, no more days without pain, and the only thing left to dream for is the end.

inside us all is a light
for some it's dim
for some it's bright
for her though, inside
there is only darkness

not agin the grain
dont stroke it agin the grain
cats do not like that

It was all gone, no way to get more. Panic set in first, after came the internal debate, should have given it up. Not helpful, logic circles looped uselessly taking up time. Panic then visited again, sunken deep in the chair. How had I not prepared for this, shit's too important. Then I remembered, another baggy in the freezer waiting. Saved; saved; saved.

Autumn has a color, the dull orange of the setting sun shining through clouds of corndust set adrift by great gnawing behemoths. Green and red metal monsters roll slowly along great swaths of crunching brown stalks leaving behind the detritus and chaff, stripping all the value and nutrients and spitting the rest on the ground with the broken and shattered corn shafts and floating bands of torn tan husk. Birds follow hopping along the ground feasting on suddenly exposed insects. The last light of the sun is a glow blurring the stark lines of the world. Cool nights and comfort await, rewards for racing the dying light and the coming cold.

Immortal basically. That is, I can be killed and get disease and what not, but as for aging, it's just turned off, don't need it, don't want it. First you make a painting of yourself, and it has to be a true and right representation of yourself. You don't have to be a genius or even decent at it, make it a blocky stick figure or impressionistic blobs, but you must identify it as yourself as you are at that time. Just keep painting over again, never start new or erase but layer over the mistakes. It may take years or decades but keep on it until you look at this painting and feel a communion with it that is deeper than visual, but is spiritual. This is when you get the goat and throw some black voodoo blood magic at the painting and off with the goat to sacrifice heaven sell your soul to something and from that day until the end of days, the image of you in the painting will age but you will not.

wait, are you a band of gypsy con artists?
because I am a total sucker
you can take me for everything
and in the end
I'll be glad for having paid so little
for happiness even so fleeting

I love her fiercely
with a deep and biding passion
that cannot be undone.
if she says the world must burn
then the world,
she burns

Does your recollection stop short on Pandora's box? One last nightmare was left inside, snapping the lid shut saved us from the evil most dire. Hope was the horror she shut in the box, although it escaped eventually anyway. It's hope that keeps you going when you should lie down.

I am a free spirit. I don't need the anchors of comfort and kept things weighing me down and slowing me up, just the cool ground to sleep upon and the moonlight for my bedcover. All I want is a head to shit in and a stove to cook in. No, wait, a stove to, yeah, no, that's right, to cook in.

I hate the sight and sound of me. I hate the slowness of my limbs. I hate the blindness of my eyes, and the dullness of my ears. The world is a dim shadow in this prison called flesh. I can will this rotting flesh away and endure. The greater part of me decreases not, will and reason are immutably eternal.

unfortunate friends
unfortunate family
unfortunate life

why are you late and whats with the strange scratches on your arm?

walking on my way to work, and bam, house on fire, woman screaming, "my baby, my baby, my baby". I run in and grab the baby in swaddling. Turns out, "baby" is her pet raccoon, and it scratches the wholly fuck out of my arms. so, that's why, and that's what: raccoon on fire.

how telling is it of human nature?
those on the cold wet side of the window
can imagine how warm and dry feels
but never the reverse.

Great beauty is a curse, not a blessing. The ugly know their true love loves them, despite their hideousness. But the beautiful? How do they know if they are loved for anything but beauty? Because everyone greys, all skin loses luster, then those that love you for your beauty alone will love you no more.

It's a cruel hand crushing my heart continuously forever. Like constantly trying to keep the roof overhead but atlas I am not, sometimes the world comes crushing down on me impossible to control or avoid. Eventually I dig out and the process repeats.

It was one of those perfect autumn days. The leaves were just starting to turn, the ground wasn't yet covered with leaves, just a few, tan and red here and there. Foretelling of the deepening tan the earth would take on late in the year. A few leaves rolled down the streets and across the ponds, as if driven by something unseen. The heat of the summer was over, bitter winter was just a distant future. The smell of burning leaves and earthy breezes filled the air, the harvesting setting tiny silken storms airborne. Spiders spread their sticky threads, trying to gorge themselves on the last of their harvest. And the sky, at dusk, my god the sky.

smooth like a super slow sigh, relaxing down in a stupor into the warmest wrap you've ever worn holding a comforting cup of hot coco with melting mini-marshmellows on top.

Not much longer now
the moon is starting to rise
and I remember

like a human life
a line has a start and end
but always exists