Captain.Heroin
Bluelight Crew
Donald J. Trump
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington DC 20500
(714) 772-1381
[email protected]
There is no logical argument that life is preferable to death. Life is absurd and death is normal. As William Burroughs once said to me while we were snorting heroin, he said, when you’re confused or speechless about a thing, or you’re concerned or suspicious of it, examine for the vested interest and usually, the answer to what is going on is right there. Stare at this, and wonder, well, who’s gaining any advantage by policing my sex life? Who is gaining the upper hand by state-run intimidation coming from the National Guard, the Army, the Air Force, the Navy, and a Local State and Federal Police Force to impose their arbitrary definition of the norm? Who does this benefit? It serves the people who have “power”.
Why do people want “power”? Who are they, who makes up The State, The Nation? Cultural pictographs and religious icons? Is it The Pope, The President of The United States, The Chief Executive Officer, The Board of Directors, or is it a cabal of closeted businessmen and shrouded stock traders on Wall Street and politicians who are almost addicted to power plays because they can’t make any power plays in their lonely bedroom as if they are sexually subconsciously acting out in the only culturally appropriate way Abrahamic cultures allow and their inferior minds can imagine?
Some, Nancy Pelosi, William Barr, Donald J. Trump, of course, are disturbed individuals who are fooled into thinking power has some innate value. It dawns on them, as they are on their last sentient thought in their piss-soaked and shit-stained deathbeds, that it does not. The act of play keep-away with the Pharaoh’s grains became culturally significant again, in 2020, because people subconsciously wish to rearrange society so that people produce a society without controls, power or limits by working in tandem: every particle with a role, with plausible positions and sought-after superpositions, some of us may or may not ever attain, representing nothing different from person to person.
We are just specks of dust shining in the only macula time can exist in, with limited freedom from gravity, with varying fixed levels of energy, stuck in our particular directional motion: free will, for us, is illusory as much as we are, and all we could ever hope to be are pixels on a screen shining brightly, creating a terrible mirage for something else we will never know. The entity staring back at the mirage came to us, in 2020, The Second Coming of The Coronavirus, to prevent global overpopulation and pollution from ending the power illusion, the control continuum.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived back at the first year: 2020, and just as you have heard Christ is coming again, and we know it is the last year of our lives because you say that Jesus was coming; no, you were close but off with the most important details: The Coronavirus was coming, all along. It will be a frightful and grief-stricken time for the lambs while elating and exhilarating the sinners. We were never afraid of dying and you always were. For in death, we lose all power. That is what they are afraid of more than anything. We are afraid that the illusion of control shall ever end for our miserable pathetic selves to have to return to the Earth from whence we came.
I welcome the sweet release of death. My body is not a temple: it is a grave of cement almost fully petrified for nobody else’s feet, lost off in the wilderness never to be stepped on by invisible men with erectile dysfunction and the illusion of free will, and I do not plan on being one of the journalists selfishly crying about how many ventilators the United States does not have expecting The President of The United States to care about me. I always knew he didn’t. Only liberals would still expect to be saved by the federal government after four years of ridiculing Satan himself. Only conservatives are stupid enough to want a federal government to save them after eight years of Obama. I always knew the political game was this sick, politically incorrect and highly offensive joke for people who haven’t accepted their mortality, their inner death, the fact they are already dead and we all are already dead, the fact that we are just putting ourselves in front of the 405nm wavelengths for one last viewing of the macula; the singularity sucking up all that it faces for the sake of the information not lost nor destroyed but converted by the optic nerve, fed to the brain.
Is this wavelength short enough for all the information we plan to cram into the void? Does the whole world have such a fear of success that we all fear death, so terribly, because we wish to end reality through shoving too much information into the singularity so that it cannot grow anymore, and we are forever stuck outside of it? Shall we too not be lost to time but lost to the indifference of our creation? Will we too die afraid and alone, shaking and crying for help so that we don’t have to feel the blissful state of nirvana? Shall we be ready for the euphoric release of suffering that the weakest of us strive to hold onto? Sex is a singularity: one is entering the void and the other is the void. The top knows it. The bottom knows it. The gimp puts on his leather mask and goes in front of the cameras, our light, their inaction, and professes an undisclosed number of masks, gowns, ventilators, adult-sized areolas for feeding your frightened hardening shell of what was once a body through the endotracheal tube made of plastic and your own instinctual will to avoid life’s greatest pleasure will be delivered to you, your state, your city, your county, your neck of the woods…
…today. Any day now. Next week. I’ll be there in five minutes: I promise. They call it “CPT”. Colored People Time. This is accurate now because the dope dealer is now an orange sociopathic monster encouraging you to pack full churches on Easter Sunday. The color of the vile race is orange and they shove their obese corpses into tanning beds, in New York, New Jersey, New Reich, and they do not have power. They are motionless, their small dicks predictably flaccid and do not realize they will never have the upper hand. The top has the upper hand and it always hurts and is red. The orange is now fading, it is a pale peach, as he truly is afraid of The Second Coming of The Coronavirus.
The road to hell is not paved with good intentions, that’s what people who believe in free will say. The road to hell is paved with control illusions. You think you can change reality. If you can, you’ll only make it worse: and I invite you to try! Go shoot the giant peach off the tree and eat its flesh. Wear its skin. Become the corpse in the tanning bed, develop osteoarthritis, acne vulgaris (the peach’s version of a top, the bastardized mistranslation of “point, top” from Greek ἀκμή) has hidden subconscious sexuality behind it: the highest or culminating point of something, the flower’s prime, the poppy’s bloom, the zenith of my penis. The only ἀκμή the giant fading peach on the dead tree has is acne vulgaris. He holds the belief that power is founded by preventing, discouraging, and delaying sex. Providing people with so much fruitful employment they do not resort to sexual pastimes. Capitalizing off their efforts to gain enough money to enjoy a reprieve from the fading droll of daily life by remaining still, flaccid, fixated in fear, unable to make a move without doing it forcefully without consent or innate appeal.
Even the decaying, desiccated peach on the dead tree, spaced two meters away from everyone, does not want to enter someone else’s sacred personal space; an invisible panic room with real walls, real consequences, made of the same specks of dust that we are is afraid to find out if they are male, or female. Intoxicated or sober. Charming or disturbing. A top or a bottom. The peach dies because it never found out, never found nirvana in life, never visited the sweet release before its natural conclusion.
Visitors to the death realm: do not be disturbed. Somewhere else contains people who will never make it here, and you are now afraid you cannot be one of them any longer. Why? Were you under the illusion of control, the psychosis of power? The other ἀκμή the lump of peach preserves amongst the flies and mold growing a thin crust over the decaying guts of what used to be Satan never had, “time, the best or most fitting time”.
This is when I knew. It was the best or most fitting time, to make a series of predictions, and I knew. I knew they would all become true. Seven to eight years ago, from 2013 to 2014, I wrote a fictional book predicting a national socialist takeover of America by the remains of the peach preserves not devoured yet by mold or the flies which are now dead themselves, rotting on top of the mold. This came to pass two years later.
I then predicted in 2017 that my last partner and best friend of five years would die of end-stage organ failure from prolific alcoholism. This, including the exact cause of death, came to pass two years later. My Grandfather died, and I did not see that happening so quickly: that is the only blessing attributable to random luck or coincidence, that he only spent twelve hours in a non-verbal, totally rigid, oxygen-deprived and hypothermic state.
One day I saw it was 2020, the first and the last year. I predicted my Grandmother would die this year, around January I felt it and I knew. I felt the ἀκμή coming and I feel it growing as much as I do the peak of the mountain in my pants, in the first and last year 2020. This came to pass within months on March 11, 2020. I think back to the predictions I have been shouting at anyone who will listen to me, regarding the predictions I made in January 2020 before I felt the ἀκμή coming for my Grandmother’s release from a body of pain and involuntary immobility (they went to Heaven, do you get it? Voluntary immobility is Hell and involuntary immobility is Heaven, for these people, though the mobility is not something I choose, rather the mobility is something that chooses to be me).
These predictions I made, that I have not listed, are that the mold that has now fully enveloped anything that may have ever resembled a peach or a smelly lump of peach preserves fading lighter and lighter in our refracted wavelengths of light, our non-corporeal forms of light and energy not matter, for we are only the information dictating how much of each, where, and when, will become re-elected. The last that I have made is that 2020 is the year that I will die. These last two predictions have not had the appropriate time to come to fruition, I do wonder if I will live through to see the injustice of all my terrible, unwanted premonitions to become palpable, perceptible, not just premonitions but reality.
Not just nightmares, but dreams. Not just a psychedelic trip, but a sobering horrific reality. My body, decaying euphorically from ten grams of ketamine injected into my muscle to induce a beautiful and fearless overdose, or something two thousand times more potent for this purpose: a five milligram injection of triazolam in lieu of a society which forbids me from acquiring ten to fifty grams of secobarbital which is a superior agent, so superior that I may not even require the rope, this rope I have which I’ve brought with me to die to avoid succumbing to morphine or heroin, for it is stronger than any relationship, it is stronger than any logical argument, it is stronger than a spiritual belief, it is the shadow of the valley of death, it is as lethal as it is sexy, it is the nihilist apocalypse, it is a living death, I would serve overfed human beings, make my money, then put a handful of change into my gas tank so I could drive and score in the projects, my reality had become a suicidal cycle and eventually this cycle would have killed me if I didn’t escape it. I’ve been asked what my internal thoughts are to which I know that when I’m suffering, I don’t care if I have to go through fire, through acid, risking death along the way: it doesn’t matter who is screaming at me to stop, because I’m stuck in the event horizon of determinism and there is no escape.
I was unable to stop, even able to stop myself from using in front of family, screaming at myself in front of the mirror, screaming to stop using at this waste of life that is myself staring back at me in the reflection I see, in the woods of eastern Washington state, somewhere far away from The Second Coming of The Coronavirus, from the liars who proselytize about The Second Coming of Jesus Christ, far away from the gas stations, the cement sidewalks, the abhorrent asphalt warming us up in the midst of an ever-warming planet we cannot survive in forever, furthest point away from the sands of Doha that I’ll ever know, before the actual sands of Doha are deserted by the people who fear the whole, who fear entering the hole, who fear entering the rectangular indention shoveled out carefully and lovingly by someone who is ready for the grave, while I sing sweet tunes softly in my head and aloud: I’ll slip the noose around my neck, unrepentant and unforgivingly still obsessed, enmeshed and consumed by the best joy, the bevel entering the brain interface, injecting the shot of triazolam, growing so tired I know it will be alright if I slip off into my final sleep, staring one last time up at the troposphere, sideways into the forest, and down into the dirt alone and I know it draws me to my last prediction.
Please verify it for me because this is my calling. My abstemious lips are blue as I follow my dour path, my vision fades into visuals that have haunted me my whole life as the specter of death has, a beautiful illusion and distraction from the tedious suffering of life in perfectly reposing dimethyltryptamine visuals, ones that will seemingly last forever like a ten milligram dosage of Aleph-4. Reality is gone, my whole body grows cold, a gall reaction to the temperature outside and I feel the sexually exhilarating departure of my soul evacuating my corpse, and I am glad I am here for there is nowhere else I would rather be, hanging in cold air, for this is where I belong.
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington DC 20500
(714) 772-1381
[email protected]
Perpetual Genesis of Pharaoh’s Grains
by Donald J. Trump
by Donald J. Trump
There is no logical argument that life is preferable to death. Life is absurd and death is normal. As William Burroughs once said to me while we were snorting heroin, he said, when you’re confused or speechless about a thing, or you’re concerned or suspicious of it, examine for the vested interest and usually, the answer to what is going on is right there. Stare at this, and wonder, well, who’s gaining any advantage by policing my sex life? Who is gaining the upper hand by state-run intimidation coming from the National Guard, the Army, the Air Force, the Navy, and a Local State and Federal Police Force to impose their arbitrary definition of the norm? Who does this benefit? It serves the people who have “power”.
Why do people want “power”? Who are they, who makes up The State, The Nation? Cultural pictographs and religious icons? Is it The Pope, The President of The United States, The Chief Executive Officer, The Board of Directors, or is it a cabal of closeted businessmen and shrouded stock traders on Wall Street and politicians who are almost addicted to power plays because they can’t make any power plays in their lonely bedroom as if they are sexually subconsciously acting out in the only culturally appropriate way Abrahamic cultures allow and their inferior minds can imagine?
Some, Nancy Pelosi, William Barr, Donald J. Trump, of course, are disturbed individuals who are fooled into thinking power has some innate value. It dawns on them, as they are on their last sentient thought in their piss-soaked and shit-stained deathbeds, that it does not. The act of play keep-away with the Pharaoh’s grains became culturally significant again, in 2020, because people subconsciously wish to rearrange society so that people produce a society without controls, power or limits by working in tandem: every particle with a role, with plausible positions and sought-after superpositions, some of us may or may not ever attain, representing nothing different from person to person.
We are just specks of dust shining in the only macula time can exist in, with limited freedom from gravity, with varying fixed levels of energy, stuck in our particular directional motion: free will, for us, is illusory as much as we are, and all we could ever hope to be are pixels on a screen shining brightly, creating a terrible mirage for something else we will never know. The entity staring back at the mirage came to us, in 2020, The Second Coming of The Coronavirus, to prevent global overpopulation and pollution from ending the power illusion, the control continuum.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived back at the first year: 2020, and just as you have heard Christ is coming again, and we know it is the last year of our lives because you say that Jesus was coming; no, you were close but off with the most important details: The Coronavirus was coming, all along. It will be a frightful and grief-stricken time for the lambs while elating and exhilarating the sinners. We were never afraid of dying and you always were. For in death, we lose all power. That is what they are afraid of more than anything. We are afraid that the illusion of control shall ever end for our miserable pathetic selves to have to return to the Earth from whence we came.
I welcome the sweet release of death. My body is not a temple: it is a grave of cement almost fully petrified for nobody else’s feet, lost off in the wilderness never to be stepped on by invisible men with erectile dysfunction and the illusion of free will, and I do not plan on being one of the journalists selfishly crying about how many ventilators the United States does not have expecting The President of The United States to care about me. I always knew he didn’t. Only liberals would still expect to be saved by the federal government after four years of ridiculing Satan himself. Only conservatives are stupid enough to want a federal government to save them after eight years of Obama. I always knew the political game was this sick, politically incorrect and highly offensive joke for people who haven’t accepted their mortality, their inner death, the fact they are already dead and we all are already dead, the fact that we are just putting ourselves in front of the 405nm wavelengths for one last viewing of the macula; the singularity sucking up all that it faces for the sake of the information not lost nor destroyed but converted by the optic nerve, fed to the brain.
Is this wavelength short enough for all the information we plan to cram into the void? Does the whole world have such a fear of success that we all fear death, so terribly, because we wish to end reality through shoving too much information into the singularity so that it cannot grow anymore, and we are forever stuck outside of it? Shall we too not be lost to time but lost to the indifference of our creation? Will we too die afraid and alone, shaking and crying for help so that we don’t have to feel the blissful state of nirvana? Shall we be ready for the euphoric release of suffering that the weakest of us strive to hold onto? Sex is a singularity: one is entering the void and the other is the void. The top knows it. The bottom knows it. The gimp puts on his leather mask and goes in front of the cameras, our light, their inaction, and professes an undisclosed number of masks, gowns, ventilators, adult-sized areolas for feeding your frightened hardening shell of what was once a body through the endotracheal tube made of plastic and your own instinctual will to avoid life’s greatest pleasure will be delivered to you, your state, your city, your county, your neck of the woods…
…today. Any day now. Next week. I’ll be there in five minutes: I promise. They call it “CPT”. Colored People Time. This is accurate now because the dope dealer is now an orange sociopathic monster encouraging you to pack full churches on Easter Sunday. The color of the vile race is orange and they shove their obese corpses into tanning beds, in New York, New Jersey, New Reich, and they do not have power. They are motionless, their small dicks predictably flaccid and do not realize they will never have the upper hand. The top has the upper hand and it always hurts and is red. The orange is now fading, it is a pale peach, as he truly is afraid of The Second Coming of The Coronavirus.
The road to hell is not paved with good intentions, that’s what people who believe in free will say. The road to hell is paved with control illusions. You think you can change reality. If you can, you’ll only make it worse: and I invite you to try! Go shoot the giant peach off the tree and eat its flesh. Wear its skin. Become the corpse in the tanning bed, develop osteoarthritis, acne vulgaris (the peach’s version of a top, the bastardized mistranslation of “point, top” from Greek ἀκμή) has hidden subconscious sexuality behind it: the highest or culminating point of something, the flower’s prime, the poppy’s bloom, the zenith of my penis. The only ἀκμή the giant fading peach on the dead tree has is acne vulgaris. He holds the belief that power is founded by preventing, discouraging, and delaying sex. Providing people with so much fruitful employment they do not resort to sexual pastimes. Capitalizing off their efforts to gain enough money to enjoy a reprieve from the fading droll of daily life by remaining still, flaccid, fixated in fear, unable to make a move without doing it forcefully without consent or innate appeal.
Even the decaying, desiccated peach on the dead tree, spaced two meters away from everyone, does not want to enter someone else’s sacred personal space; an invisible panic room with real walls, real consequences, made of the same specks of dust that we are is afraid to find out if they are male, or female. Intoxicated or sober. Charming or disturbing. A top or a bottom. The peach dies because it never found out, never found nirvana in life, never visited the sweet release before its natural conclusion.
Visitors to the death realm: do not be disturbed. Somewhere else contains people who will never make it here, and you are now afraid you cannot be one of them any longer. Why? Were you under the illusion of control, the psychosis of power? The other ἀκμή the lump of peach preserves amongst the flies and mold growing a thin crust over the decaying guts of what used to be Satan never had, “time, the best or most fitting time”.
This is when I knew. It was the best or most fitting time, to make a series of predictions, and I knew. I knew they would all become true. Seven to eight years ago, from 2013 to 2014, I wrote a fictional book predicting a national socialist takeover of America by the remains of the peach preserves not devoured yet by mold or the flies which are now dead themselves, rotting on top of the mold. This came to pass two years later.
I then predicted in 2017 that my last partner and best friend of five years would die of end-stage organ failure from prolific alcoholism. This, including the exact cause of death, came to pass two years later. My Grandfather died, and I did not see that happening so quickly: that is the only blessing attributable to random luck or coincidence, that he only spent twelve hours in a non-verbal, totally rigid, oxygen-deprived and hypothermic state.
One day I saw it was 2020, the first and the last year. I predicted my Grandmother would die this year, around January I felt it and I knew. I felt the ἀκμή coming and I feel it growing as much as I do the peak of the mountain in my pants, in the first and last year 2020. This came to pass within months on March 11, 2020. I think back to the predictions I have been shouting at anyone who will listen to me, regarding the predictions I made in January 2020 before I felt the ἀκμή coming for my Grandmother’s release from a body of pain and involuntary immobility (they went to Heaven, do you get it? Voluntary immobility is Hell and involuntary immobility is Heaven, for these people, though the mobility is not something I choose, rather the mobility is something that chooses to be me).
These predictions I made, that I have not listed, are that the mold that has now fully enveloped anything that may have ever resembled a peach or a smelly lump of peach preserves fading lighter and lighter in our refracted wavelengths of light, our non-corporeal forms of light and energy not matter, for we are only the information dictating how much of each, where, and when, will become re-elected. The last that I have made is that 2020 is the year that I will die. These last two predictions have not had the appropriate time to come to fruition, I do wonder if I will live through to see the injustice of all my terrible, unwanted premonitions to become palpable, perceptible, not just premonitions but reality.
Not just nightmares, but dreams. Not just a psychedelic trip, but a sobering horrific reality. My body, decaying euphorically from ten grams of ketamine injected into my muscle to induce a beautiful and fearless overdose, or something two thousand times more potent for this purpose: a five milligram injection of triazolam in lieu of a society which forbids me from acquiring ten to fifty grams of secobarbital which is a superior agent, so superior that I may not even require the rope, this rope I have which I’ve brought with me to die to avoid succumbing to morphine or heroin, for it is stronger than any relationship, it is stronger than any logical argument, it is stronger than a spiritual belief, it is the shadow of the valley of death, it is as lethal as it is sexy, it is the nihilist apocalypse, it is a living death, I would serve overfed human beings, make my money, then put a handful of change into my gas tank so I could drive and score in the projects, my reality had become a suicidal cycle and eventually this cycle would have killed me if I didn’t escape it. I’ve been asked what my internal thoughts are to which I know that when I’m suffering, I don’t care if I have to go through fire, through acid, risking death along the way: it doesn’t matter who is screaming at me to stop, because I’m stuck in the event horizon of determinism and there is no escape.
I was unable to stop, even able to stop myself from using in front of family, screaming at myself in front of the mirror, screaming to stop using at this waste of life that is myself staring back at me in the reflection I see, in the woods of eastern Washington state, somewhere far away from The Second Coming of The Coronavirus, from the liars who proselytize about The Second Coming of Jesus Christ, far away from the gas stations, the cement sidewalks, the abhorrent asphalt warming us up in the midst of an ever-warming planet we cannot survive in forever, furthest point away from the sands of Doha that I’ll ever know, before the actual sands of Doha are deserted by the people who fear the whole, who fear entering the hole, who fear entering the rectangular indention shoveled out carefully and lovingly by someone who is ready for the grave, while I sing sweet tunes softly in my head and aloud: I’ll slip the noose around my neck, unrepentant and unforgivingly still obsessed, enmeshed and consumed by the best joy, the bevel entering the brain interface, injecting the shot of triazolam, growing so tired I know it will be alright if I slip off into my final sleep, staring one last time up at the troposphere, sideways into the forest, and down into the dirt alone and I know it draws me to my last prediction.
Please verify it for me because this is my calling. My abstemious lips are blue as I follow my dour path, my vision fades into visuals that have haunted me my whole life as the specter of death has, a beautiful illusion and distraction from the tedious suffering of life in perfectly reposing dimethyltryptamine visuals, ones that will seemingly last forever like a ten milligram dosage of Aleph-4. Reality is gone, my whole body grows cold, a gall reaction to the temperature outside and I feel the sexually exhilarating departure of my soul evacuating my corpse, and I am glad I am here for there is nowhere else I would rather be, hanging in cold air, for this is where I belong.
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