Reverence and Recognition: An Improvised Stream of Consciousness.
Three words, three words, three words and a colostomy bag to go fittingly with your fake tits. Purged blood and the beatification of poison. You've gained, wait. No, you were never safe, I have glass eyes imbued with a false illusion of truth. Rose-tinted lenses, romantic love was just another lie invented to manipulate pure women apparently not weighed down or deluded enough by their hearts of 24 karat gold. Metallica aren't even real human beings, they're just holograms of programs coded and run by the black budget government the prime minister hasn't even heard of. Another form of control, preoccupation with the lacklustre and invaluable. Distraction? How would you even know what exists beyond what you think you've seen with your own eyes? An alien race could've created you half a second ago. A second? Is time real or is existence (if you can find a way to argue that this isn't the absence of everything) just one still-image moment under the illusion of being stretched out and warped into this instance of my mouth on this microphone? Language is subjective. The news is sensational to garner profit over education of the masses. Face it, the latter would be a terrible idea. People search for truth but are uninterested in understanding. In depression, everything can make sense in the logic of individual thoughts, however many fail to envisage the fact that the bias of their logic often leads to illogical conclusions. I've never been to Africa. Where do the planes take us? No, these images couldn't possibly be fake, technology hasn't advanced that far yet. But how would you know? And yet, conspiracy theories seem so ridiculous. Congratulations, insufficient iodine supplementation in your force-fed junk food diet has led to textbook cretinism. That "rainbow" is as a result of the refraction of light, not the addition of chemicals in your drinking water. Chemtrails? It's fucking fake snow. Oh I feel so self-important talking down to you. And why do I stand here, the overthinking of ideas and details that will largely or entirely go unnoticed? Screaming into this microphone for attention, but it has nothing to do with boredom, just selfish delusions of self-importance. Here I go, talking in circles again. It's the only way I feel validated. I am only deserving of myself. Leech to feed. I have grown to hate the routine above all else. And I exhaust the karmic wheel whenever I'm in this situation. Talking about mental health is self-aggrandisement. Neurotypical or undiagnosed pre-teens using pseudoscience to self-diagnose and self-identify feeding the pro-zany popular negative opinion microcosm of online social media. On Tinder, how do I lead? Oh, I'm Betty, an anorexic schizoaffective-slash-vegan. I listened to hours of your bullshit homeopathy, acne and the grand national. Fuck the grand national. Is this what sexless dating is like? There's no passion or connection, just your incorrigible self running your mouth off about everything as always. Another duvet day turns into a decade. So want me like you want peace and quiet while you read your essays on pornography. Somewhat relatable: a fuck-and-flee from a bar, or depressing condom sex with my ex-pharmacist adopted little bug-eyed big sister? I'm so up-and-down, back-and-forth, I've got a love-hate love in regards with my capacity to love. My agnosticism towards everything often makes me feel dissatisfied when conclusions are drawn so quickly, and yet I feel like we are a team. Team S-X-E. For now. Maybe tomorrow I'll take one, one, one for the pain, or simply for the sake of it? But then I'll stop. You can't kill yourself while the phone is ringing. It's you. And I'll tell myself again, "I knew I wanted you, so I fashioned this love with my own bare hands." Making plans to hook up, and then reneging out of cowardice? No, I'll tell myself it's the insignificant remnants of scraped up love-like-roadkill refusing to die, pulling my weary carcass puppet strings. Remember Freud? Remember sublimation? I'm a good person. Oh my burgeoning and waning incapacities like the cycles of subjective lunar obfuscation are nothing to be so sad about. But each time I almost fail, another suture is forever ripped out of my jigsawed pieces of flesh, piled back on top of one another. At least some semblance of the original conformation remains, I think. How do we celebrate the end when we need resources to celebrate, and the amount of resources we have dictates the time we have before the end? Enjoy it while it's low quality, it soon won't be relatable or maybe even understandable. Misinterpretation is most amusing in the twilight hours. Blue light like that of the blue room I will wait in for my car crash surgery. Reperfusion injury can and does happen when blood flow is reduced and then returned to normal. And I'll still be thinking about the same topics. That the difference of 0.5 degrees did matter. And I'll mentally reprimand the dead for living in the past. Do you remember dreaming? There is no option to pass the time. It is as if it is stolen. South Korean professionals with doctors' licenses can legally tattoo girls' eyeballs. But they don't. We've come full circle. Grace could have cut her face up herself if she wanted to. But she didn't. Governments look to further control by the implementation of unenforceable laws which make them weaker. Piss in the swimming pool, bleed into it. I will wait outside in the snow on Valentine's day in Harajuku or Fukushima. Do I contradict myself? But my ideas are mostly not concurrent. I threw up in one in Paris, chocolate cake that the waiter forgot to bring me. When they did, it tasted like shit anyway. I suppose that's what you get on a planned budget holiday. Politeness is more than a gender trap, although there, a girl with blue hair called Anastasia could tell you a lot about fear and propriety and perverted old men in cemeteries. The retirement age increases. As does pollution, climate change, and the loss of biodiversity. And the wars go on and on. Child soldiers, turn a blind eye, of course people die. Better now than later or never. With the advances of science, on termination, bodies will be commissioned, hooked up and reanimated to work until the dawn of the golden years spent below ground or more likely in the crematorium. And you worry about the ruins of Palmyra? Ivy League (her ash now resting in your sister's garden) and her shoebox of snakeskins reminds me of Ivy Tripp and Breathless as I leave the milk out again. I thought I would come to accept the losses of growing older, like how my memory gradually worsens, but the rate at which it worsens, worsens too. I have yet to discover if this is a quadratic or cubic function, or yet another blinkered oversight on my behalf. And I brought death unto your doorstep like a black cat's trinket loosely crushed within its jaws. Oh, in a dream? For it was just an idea that I hold your neck in my hands until the end. Commiserations, if you're listening to this, I have passed on already and have joined the touchable holograms. But I am with you in spirit, lusting after grinding flesh and bones and gristle for repetition to chew into pulp. Break-up sex: my only audible concession that hour was the groan tracing the head of my penis across your labia before I thrust it into you. Like how I came inside, if only everything from then on was silent. Silent words, silent eyes, and salient body language. Alex Turner's voice not once failed to drain the blood from my potency. So again there is no music for today's fucking and choking my neck while the wood chip on your walls blurs beyond recognition covered with pomegranate bruising spatter. Tear off the schizophrenic's limbs and leave them writing in their own blood. Your phantom limbs are useless. Amity, Amity, Amity. Three is a crowd, but so the rule goes.
Whenever I'm done with it.