Surfing the Channels

Your magick regenerates nocturnally,
diurnally you're happily robbed,
all this occurs at your perception,
or misconception.

Khu is choice.

The value of work
is the teacher to
the value of love
amid a storm.

Worship Thy Weapons.

Compassion is Imagination
denuded.

If people don't install in themselves
the practice of public nudity: systems of lies people
spin, like their clothes, mere evolving
masks,
will grow tighter and tauter and increasingly complex.

The Principle of Isolation may just be the first
leap off the Cliff to Adventure and The Unknown:
Be A Fool.

Laws are for slaves;
the Forces are slaves to Strings;
gravity to that of density;
my hand to that of my mind;
the proletariates to alien gods;
my Love to that of my Will.

The Universe did not design Me to take orders from my stupid fellows.

Every form, level, degree, gradation, manifestation of Love is Holy.

Emotion is noise.
Picture above the din.

I THINK WE ARE THE UNIVERSE'S INVENTION; ITS INTENTION FOR US, TO BE VESSELS OF HER AWARENESS.

SHE WANTS A MIRROR, OUT OF PINK SKIN
AND CRIMSON BLOOD.

SHE NEEDS OUR EYES; OUR MIND, THE KEY, HER
GREATEST DREAM MATERILIZED.

SO SHE MAY PERCEIVE, NARCISSITICALLY, HER OWN INFINITY.

TO NOT GO THE PATH OF THE OUROBOROS IS DANGEROUS; THE CIRCLE IS THE REAL PATH.

HIGH SPEED RIDE, SPHERIOD TRANSIT; BEAM, BOY!
THE LIGHTS ARE EMITTING OLD SMILES.

The Virtue Honesty: The Modern Holy Grail.

When we cower to Emotion, intelligence--beware!--sets the pace and plan of our escape--
but if we magically stand on principle--know thyself (first!)--we're rushed toward destinal
streets, meta-places of comfort and solitude, dangerous to know and natural to have;
your feetsies tingle from the sensation of ecstasy; your ears snap rigidly, as history is famous for
murdering true revolutionaries, in other words, heresies.

Music is Logic humping Idea in Death's black mustang's backseat;
as the audience, the constellations, applaud in twinkle-light;
and Death's hollow sockets, an abyss each, condense and swell,
to the rhythm of the Ancient Couple's machinations and groans.

This plane of discs is full of
glamour
stars that are diamonds,
fake carats of intensity,
values of negative hues,
they glitter but don't enlighten,
they shine, even blind, but nay
do they inject warmth to the pore,
or tickle somas in the cortex.

We intertwine our indulgences
creating a quilt of beam-beating
gemstone constructions,
hollow crystals and quartzs
of shallow relevance, acrid
potentialities that are rotting
invisibly and internally
at the core as its faceted facade
radiates and tempts and allures
with sublime steadfast vaingloriousness
we don much like our subtle
secret-pornstar-flesh-cloak
the real pigmentation of which is
chameleonic vertigo principled on
distraction.

Hook, line and sink her/him.

'Ware the lights that flicker
sweat and neon and television;
sitcom streams race laughtrack gales
down friction-filled fields of
plastic, artificially-intelligent,
puppets, commonly known as
commercials, pixel peppered and
hypnotic: buy buy buy birdie;
clever manipulations of primaries
titilate and hook, and reel...

Hook, line ("Yo' fired!") and sink 'im/her.

...natural chemical firedisplays
into submission and subserviency,
it's perfect math, one plus one equals two,
one minus a fraction equals a lesser man.

This plane of coins
is spilling with nutritious information.