Mjäll
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jun 25, 2008
- Messages
- 4,265
1.
There's a hole in my brain - Kopius Destrukt - a different colorspectrum dynamic.
A fancy linguistic divide, not so much regarding as concerning the encrypted, Nimbus Cornbragt.
The multiple collisions between said forces result, collectively, in a high frequency laserspace waveform.
In short; the physical and the cultural (mentally circumstantial) disagree rhythmically.
Characters emerge and are torn down by the further passage of time, but the names are subject to a gradual subside, endlessly. As long as the memory remains, I will have no control over these inner actors - themselves as equivocally inflaming as the very breeding ground that caused them to be.
And I wonder - is this, that asks, what I am? Also, I wonder - what part of me disappears when I escape temporarily? I do not accept the chronological arrogance that is necessitated by the belief that things come as they go.
Kopius Destrukt possesses a rocketgun, setting the world on fire at will. He seeks not beauty or moral contentment - only a flaring satisfaction. The future moment of destruction, guaranteed by material ownership, is suspended like the peak of the best fuck you've ever had. Thus, he has in effect already seen the heights of his life; an aftermath is all that remains for this one. Reflections like this have long since ceased to be revered in the temple of his cerebrum - he is a monument of illiterate, straight-forward rage.
Nimbus Cornbragt, oh where do I begin... He wears clothes and garments unmatched in splendour and perfection, attaining everyone's irreproachable respect - and yet his naked body would repulse and not attract. He is a maelstroem of confusing magnetism; a paradox. Picture him as you will, but take note that he must be the splitting image of your most disturbing hypnagogic plague, while simultaneously mimicking a loving mother.
In the astralplane, my dick is stretching beyond the borders of the imagination, resolution emanating from every pore. There is no flesh here, only a cosmic promise of temporal bliss.
Kopius Destrukt, grab the moustache of Nimbus Cornbragt, and try to kill him with your fist.
Nimbus Cornbragt, indicate the succession of interpretative fallacy with your dispersed persona, and loosen the particularities from their discursive bonds.
This is a really good book.
Woman, grab the penis of Kopius Destrukt and the penis of Nimbus Cornbragt and unite these men via reciprocal insemination, so that they need not be in conflict anymore.
Society, imprint repeatedly in my head the depressing and likewise liberating notion that I cannot ever be what I feel, nor can I feel myself. I am a receptor in constant flux.
2.
All those people smiling in photographs were never happy in and of themselves. There was always music, conversation, sensation - something to drown out the inner noise. A tragedy, constantly pulsating until age has them worn out, dull, unable to feel the pain of crisis - the wheels of displeasure stopped turning.
Love is the only thing that can make you like yourself. And that's what love is - a quiet whisper, harmonizing with and making sense of the otherwise intimidating and undesirable inner noise. Music, conversation, sensation on the astralplane. Watch out for my omnipenetrant dick.
3.
.
There's a hole in my brain - Kopius Destrukt - a different colorspectrum dynamic.
A fancy linguistic divide, not so much regarding as concerning the encrypted, Nimbus Cornbragt.
The multiple collisions between said forces result, collectively, in a high frequency laserspace waveform.
In short; the physical and the cultural (mentally circumstantial) disagree rhythmically.
Characters emerge and are torn down by the further passage of time, but the names are subject to a gradual subside, endlessly. As long as the memory remains, I will have no control over these inner actors - themselves as equivocally inflaming as the very breeding ground that caused them to be.
And I wonder - is this, that asks, what I am? Also, I wonder - what part of me disappears when I escape temporarily? I do not accept the chronological arrogance that is necessitated by the belief that things come as they go.
Kopius Destrukt possesses a rocketgun, setting the world on fire at will. He seeks not beauty or moral contentment - only a flaring satisfaction. The future moment of destruction, guaranteed by material ownership, is suspended like the peak of the best fuck you've ever had. Thus, he has in effect already seen the heights of his life; an aftermath is all that remains for this one. Reflections like this have long since ceased to be revered in the temple of his cerebrum - he is a monument of illiterate, straight-forward rage.
Nimbus Cornbragt, oh where do I begin... He wears clothes and garments unmatched in splendour and perfection, attaining everyone's irreproachable respect - and yet his naked body would repulse and not attract. He is a maelstroem of confusing magnetism; a paradox. Picture him as you will, but take note that he must be the splitting image of your most disturbing hypnagogic plague, while simultaneously mimicking a loving mother.
In the astralplane, my dick is stretching beyond the borders of the imagination, resolution emanating from every pore. There is no flesh here, only a cosmic promise of temporal bliss.
Kopius Destrukt, grab the moustache of Nimbus Cornbragt, and try to kill him with your fist.
Nimbus Cornbragt, indicate the succession of interpretative fallacy with your dispersed persona, and loosen the particularities from their discursive bonds.
This is a really good book.
Woman, grab the penis of Kopius Destrukt and the penis of Nimbus Cornbragt and unite these men via reciprocal insemination, so that they need not be in conflict anymore.
Society, imprint repeatedly in my head the depressing and likewise liberating notion that I cannot ever be what I feel, nor can I feel myself. I am a receptor in constant flux.
2.
All those people smiling in photographs were never happy in and of themselves. There was always music, conversation, sensation - something to drown out the inner noise. A tragedy, constantly pulsating until age has them worn out, dull, unable to feel the pain of crisis - the wheels of displeasure stopped turning.
Love is the only thing that can make you like yourself. And that's what love is - a quiet whisper, harmonizing with and making sense of the otherwise intimidating and undesirable inner noise. Music, conversation, sensation on the astralplane. Watch out for my omnipenetrant dick.
3.
.
