ControlDenied
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2007
- Messages
- 3,108
This is what I like to call a "masterpiece". It was created during a painful burst of near-suicidally-charged dark energies. Tell me whatcha think.
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Mefisto Manifesto
“If God did exist, it would be necessary to destroy him.”
- Mikhail Bakunin
We have thundered through aeons. Scrapping for space, for time, for food and thought. Exchanging gifts in the eternal space: fun, love, betrayal, irritation, protection, pride and glory. War and love. Sex and love. Shit and love. We live in boxes, we float on empty space and on empty time. We live off of our own fumes. History repeats itself in an endless loop, a perpetual ghost-world of feedback. History is a broken record.
These times, these writings, these spaces: I have created them. We have all created them and wallowed in them and soon we will emerge from them. The eagle flies from the nest, the butterfly from its cocoon.
This is all well and good. Meanwhile, the Terrorist, the main enemy, is yelling at me. He is telling me to work, and to suffer meaninglessly. He is telling me to curse my brother, and to hate my lover. But I can’t hate myself – it’s all I’ve got, man! It is all the Terrorist’s fault. He is forcing us all to build a Pyramid, a waste of garbage, a pointless prop to the Silent God. We are all elements of this prop world. A mask is made for each person: happy-or-sad-face. Black or white. Truth or lie. On or off. One or zero. Death and life. Fuck fear and love.
Prop me up. Please help me up. I am choking on the vine of life, on the wine of life. I am stung by my own beehind. I am stuck in the behive.
Propagate my fear. Open the gate to love. Remove my fear. Quench my thirst and drown me in my rise from it.
What do you suck from me? Is it the knowledge in my brain, a stream of knowledge far too long? Is it the soul in my heart, struggling in waves?
I love you, whoever you are. Buy my book. It will save your life, I promise you.
Where will you buy it? Sorry, this is the only thing you cannot buy. In the whole world. Put your cards away please. I will not sell my book to you. I will not join your corporate collective. I require something of far greater value.
Fuck Logic. I want you to feel what it’s like to live. Ride through the winds on a changing set of spinning tires. Fall from the peaks with the twisting wires attached to your feet. Trip on the traps of your own consciousness, drowse yourself in decadence and suckle on the twitching teat of the plastic mother god. Lather rinse and repeat. You’ve never felt more beautiful!
Or, you can live in my dungeons. Rent a dungeon for twenty litres of tears and sweat! Sweat in my dungeons for free! Free dungeon life month by month. You can also buy some special time. Feel free to spend your money on it. You can also fuck my whore – feel free to spend yourself in it.
Black, white, hot, cold, desert, knoll, mother, father, god, goddess.
We are laughing as we dance. I am looking at you all with my fly-eye. Buzz around some more. That’s it! Haha, you are making me cry.
I choose to be unhappy purposefully. I think that’s what I do – isn’t it? I make energies from the suffering. I make money from the dark, dark darkness. Don’t I? I also adore the smell of my own feces. I cannot help it. I’m perverted – I’m a monster.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Mefisto Manifesto
“If God did exist, it would be necessary to destroy him.”
- Mikhail Bakunin
We have thundered through aeons. Scrapping for space, for time, for food and thought. Exchanging gifts in the eternal space: fun, love, betrayal, irritation, protection, pride and glory. War and love. Sex and love. Shit and love. We live in boxes, we float on empty space and on empty time. We live off of our own fumes. History repeats itself in an endless loop, a perpetual ghost-world of feedback. History is a broken record.
These times, these writings, these spaces: I have created them. We have all created them and wallowed in them and soon we will emerge from them. The eagle flies from the nest, the butterfly from its cocoon.
This is all well and good. Meanwhile, the Terrorist, the main enemy, is yelling at me. He is telling me to work, and to suffer meaninglessly. He is telling me to curse my brother, and to hate my lover. But I can’t hate myself – it’s all I’ve got, man! It is all the Terrorist’s fault. He is forcing us all to build a Pyramid, a waste of garbage, a pointless prop to the Silent God. We are all elements of this prop world. A mask is made for each person: happy-or-sad-face. Black or white. Truth or lie. On or off. One or zero. Death and life. Fuck fear and love.
Prop me up. Please help me up. I am choking on the vine of life, on the wine of life. I am stung by my own beehind. I am stuck in the behive.
Propagate my fear. Open the gate to love. Remove my fear. Quench my thirst and drown me in my rise from it.
What do you suck from me? Is it the knowledge in my brain, a stream of knowledge far too long? Is it the soul in my heart, struggling in waves?
I love you, whoever you are. Buy my book. It will save your life, I promise you.
Where will you buy it? Sorry, this is the only thing you cannot buy. In the whole world. Put your cards away please. I will not sell my book to you. I will not join your corporate collective. I require something of far greater value.
Fuck Logic. I want you to feel what it’s like to live. Ride through the winds on a changing set of spinning tires. Fall from the peaks with the twisting wires attached to your feet. Trip on the traps of your own consciousness, drowse yourself in decadence and suckle on the twitching teat of the plastic mother god. Lather rinse and repeat. You’ve never felt more beautiful!
Or, you can live in my dungeons. Rent a dungeon for twenty litres of tears and sweat! Sweat in my dungeons for free! Free dungeon life month by month. You can also buy some special time. Feel free to spend your money on it. You can also fuck my whore – feel free to spend yourself in it.
Black, white, hot, cold, desert, knoll, mother, father, god, goddess.
We are laughing as we dance. I am looking at you all with my fly-eye. Buzz around some more. That’s it! Haha, you are making me cry.
I choose to be unhappy purposefully. I think that’s what I do – isn’t it? I make energies from the suffering. I make money from the dark, dark darkness. Don’t I? I also adore the smell of my own feces. I cannot help it. I’m perverted – I’m a monster.
