IRC-Galleria

Shimmering pathways to indifference.
Whimpering at the gateway, looking sideways.
Left, Light trickling from above.
Looking at it, hell, and heaven.
Their neon is not good enough. But this one seems all too real.
The fur of the skin of the nameless one grafted on to the suit, 900 dollars or less.
Not enough, but yet unknown. Nothing is wholly obvious without becoming enigmatic.
Reality itself is too obvious to be true.

We trade skin for emotion, suck others to become ourselves.
Parasitic to the core, our single cell program indulging.
Which blood is mine. Who is this, is this me in a syringe.
i know the answer, but neglect replying for the sheer thrill of it
The unknown knows us better, but it will never tell.
We need skin, we need money, we need meat, we need nosejobs.
We need someone to blow our cocks and someone to remind us of our need.
You BETTER run You LIIIIIAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR
You HYPOCRITE
You CRIPPLE
Because of your disease You've made it past the decades
like a one legged dog
Nothin ever stays the same
Nothin, yeah nothin, nothin, nothin,
but you're still runnin'
with your umbilical cord hanging between your legs

You're born from a womb with a robotic spider spinning you like a web
An asymmetric composition of flesh and emotion hanging crystalline
between blood red walls, emitting sound and images to the eye-screens
passing in one second, all filtered, compressed, processed
You would've been happier if you'd chosen to join your mother in her world
In her world you would've been an eternal duplicate,
You would'be been your happy mother reflecting the mirror image of her
into the mirror image of her. Bio-historical feedback resonating in a chamber
of flesh and thought, but you we're printed for a purpose.

The primary objective:
To keep spreading into more self, to expand the organism,
Swallowing emotion and nutrition to turn inside out with another birth,
a snake shedding it's weeping skin at the roots of the garden
slithering satisfied at the roots of the perceived problem
in dirt and shit with a smile until the system malfunctions
and the corpse is left at the feet of the others, the bones slumping
slowly through rotting skin, another birth.

"Hey Mom! When it rots can we dig up the bones?"

In birth and death, the masochistic pleasure of
excretion and discovery
of soul or a body with a soul, no soul
copy, deletion
Our one purpose to excrete and multiply at the same time
taking a shit with life
the more vain the thing excreted, the more pleasure
from losing it
Ourselves as our vanity the greatest vanity the most beautiful thing
we need to clone, the process not yet perfected, the un-perfect replicant
of the soul cell divided through our carnal duplication machinery
nearly mindlessly following patterns set by a blind thing
that seethed the first of us
the haphazard circuits breathing now, with excessive personality
and dividing
with time into another screaming thing on the screen,
beautiful prismatic light reflected

The simple Adam and Eve program spreading
uncertainly from point alpha,
a single virus, or a mutation of the primary program
able to wipe it all into a tabula rasa
mankind sleeping with a pillow of a void underneath their slow mind
desperately trying to reach singularity
excitedly exclaiming: your sooo cool im coming down there
tommorow tho there better be something fun!
the fucking mind that hangs peering over the edge
at the moment of an orgasmic high
grasping at invisible, uncomprehensible straws
whispering to each other looking at the semblance of what they feel

they have to do all this just to scrape by
They're all scratching each other's backs
looking at the empty beer bottle some empty thing
not realizing
Waking up in the wasteland with a pleasurable mental distortion
shaping the view into a more comfortable thing.
Our consciousness discussing business arrangements
for more acceptable parameters.

A Solution.
Initiatilizing the "You can't hurt me, not with my cheese helmet!"-program
to survive another death/release/birth/love
Reminding oneself to become blind from the modern holocaust:
A day without laughter is a day wasted.
Waiting for the sufficient attraction, that will make a She/He re-initiate texting
for satisfaction of the carnal system lying naked next to Her with dried up
sperm
a collage of dead possibilities white on the thigh and the rubber of a Durex condom

But the moment I was dressed, the clothes and the make-up made me feel the person He was
and I walked outside and left her there sleeping and i felt like i'd been used
used to become what i wanted to be, what i always wanted to become and there was no need
to say anything more