Spent. Done-for. From prince to worm. From life to flimsy-whimsy shell. I figured it out. All of it. From birth till death, all of it. At 32, too. There is no reason to live, but God. Who can rely on anything? You have your mother and father and siblings and wife and husband and children and friends--they all abandon, in the tears and dust of death. Put a diamond ring on Job and Job still brains his way to the stars. But he is still crawling on his belly with the creeping things.
Why the fuck do I even tell you? I hate it all. The good moments are nothing in comparison to the bad moments. Other people are windows into mirages of myself. Money intertwines us all. Fucking satanic currency slithers. You are branded like cattle. I am branded too, in the wasteland. Eliot, you fuck. What are these noble ideas I was taught? Tell me!
I see no nobility but maggots and I feast on the maggots like a gnome.
What the fuck was I thinking? But I figured it out. No distractions can blind me any more to the illusions of the godawful truth of an enslaved world. Falling from grace left and right. What tit have I been sucking on all my life? What vodka can I drink to death? What film will take me somewhere else? What cruise will show me what I don't know already?
I don't even need to know the news anymore. I don't need to know what's happening over there, across the globe. Or which person will sell themselves for gold next. Men and women are whores. We all are whores. That is existence. Name your price and you will dance to Stalin, you will gas Jews, you will promote your ego, you will sweep turds off my feet, you will service the cock of Satan, for money. And death is the only ticket out of this hell.
There is nothing before. Nothing after. The Greeks and Romans knew this. The ancients knew this. Shakespeare and a hell of a lot of other cocksucking noble yinny/yangy phonies knew this. Go fuck yourself, philosopher. Go shovel the shit off a soldier's grave.
I can't take it any more. Justice, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness: let's give it a shot! No one can escape slavery. Once or twice a year slaves purge themselves in the cakewalk of their own minstrel show. That's what's the essence of all art--The Minstrel Show. Paint your face black. Paint your face white. Fuck the nearest whore and plop out offspring. Teach them that love is a rainbow that is pretty. Teach them that life is fair but unfair. Teach them to earn that dollar to make it. And then teach them to escape to an underdeveloped nation to paint their face brown. And smoke their escape. Watch the Minstrel Show everywhere. Treat people with the illusion they wish to be treated.
The Golden Rule: treat others with the illusion you wish to be treated, you fucking phony. You're all fucking phonies. Readers, shut your eyes and go to Science Fiction Land where the Galaxy is far far away. And the Atom is so profoundly small small away. E=MC Squared, my ass. All of humanity is a parasitic blunder. Tribes of families sucking the life out of each other. Tribes of nations blowing each other. Germany, blow Israel. Russia, blow China. Mexico, blow the US. The US, blow Canada.
I fucking hate myself, get it. And this is the hell we all share. Why delude children so they can get it in the ass? Feed them pills. Flunk them from "Language Arts" and Math and Science and Anthropology. Give them As for taking notes on how to kiss Satan's ass. "Shelter them."
Kids, the first thing you need to know is that getting on your knees to suck Satan's cock is ok, so long as you confess to the priest, so long as you keep that hellion cheer about you, in snarky, snide remarks, and have a whopping smile at the blinding sun.
Every day is the same day. Until it ends. And there will be no symphony or grand opera or Horace and Homer elegies spoken over you, Jesus won't revive you to Lazarus, no old old friends dropping all that they have to weep at your coffin and grave stone and ashes. Wake up. You live, you die. There is no such thing as happiness. No such thing as happy moments or sad moments. There is only existence, pure simple raw existence. And you want to fuck your neighbor as bad as the testaments won't allow you to. You are raw and wild. You were meant to kill and eat. Nothing separates you from that crow near you, as you read Poe.
All great minds transmit information. And that information is the conclusion from giants that came before. And therefore, you are but shit of data. And your data concludes you need to have a family, be good, eat healthy, reach for the stars, and give your soul over to that .99 cents. You are fucking brainwashed by EVERYTHING, you fuck. No wonder why some loose cannons shoot their brains out. Shoot others out. Molest their own families. Molest their own minds. Publish or perish. No wonder why they struggle with the ideas of souls and morals and "evolution versus God" "Creationism versus Scientific Method." Not because people are idiots, but because they are brainwashed and fucking confused about how they should be brainwashed, how they should brainwash themselves. Which brainwashing suits your fancy, you phony.
We all fear the day we are naked before the massive death. Every judgement and gossip we see and hear is but a reflection of the last moment of our own self review, our own inventory, and that alone will be our trace. Otherwise, there is nothing but the Demiurge, the Creator, the Vishnu, the God, the Opposite of Evil, the thing you don't want in this world, the Author of you and me.
And who the fuck am I? One bus ticket shy from curtains. One modern persona, the nutjob made by you and you and you, all of the phoniness from all the ends of the earth. From the codified laws on how not to live to the unspoken street ways to get by. I am shit creek. I eat your shit food. I smoke your shit cigarettes. I drive your hunk-a-junk glory wagon. I read your shit words. I look at your shit photos. Just sit on the toilet and make a life out of it, earn that satanic currency to feel good about earning that satanic currency, so you can feel like the picture of a sailor on your fucking arc, the picture of a race car driver in your fucking slave mobile.
No one gives a damn. Once pushed to the mode of survival, where are your virtues? Where are your morals? Where are your pizza crusts?
So smoke that joint. Read trash. Care about green things. Guilty-pleasure your way through commercials and brainwashing mechanisms. Let the politicians be figureheads for the banks, which have all your souls in chains. Just count the 1s and 0s in the program of your existence and by the time you have reached the end of your program, you'll know that your bones are nothing. Your jazz is wind. Your poetry is windy wind. Your suicide is a blessing to no one and your survival is a bleeding to everyone.
Feedback, shit.
I am irrelevant in the face of God. And damn me if he may, but at least he'll know that all the sins I ever did were to see what the fuck this was all about.
Why the fuck do I even tell you? I hate it all. The good moments are nothing in comparison to the bad moments. Other people are windows into mirages of myself. Money intertwines us all. Fucking satanic currency slithers. You are branded like cattle. I am branded too, in the wasteland. Eliot, you fuck. What are these noble ideas I was taught? Tell me!
I see no nobility but maggots and I feast on the maggots like a gnome.
What the fuck was I thinking? But I figured it out. No distractions can blind me any more to the illusions of the godawful truth of an enslaved world. Falling from grace left and right. What tit have I been sucking on all my life? What vodka can I drink to death? What film will take me somewhere else? What cruise will show me what I don't know already?
I don't even need to know the news anymore. I don't need to know what's happening over there, across the globe. Or which person will sell themselves for gold next. Men and women are whores. We all are whores. That is existence. Name your price and you will dance to Stalin, you will gas Jews, you will promote your ego, you will sweep turds off my feet, you will service the cock of Satan, for money. And death is the only ticket out of this hell.
There is nothing before. Nothing after. The Greeks and Romans knew this. The ancients knew this. Shakespeare and a hell of a lot of other cocksucking noble yinny/yangy phonies knew this. Go fuck yourself, philosopher. Go shovel the shit off a soldier's grave.
I can't take it any more. Justice, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness: let's give it a shot! No one can escape slavery. Once or twice a year slaves purge themselves in the cakewalk of their own minstrel show. That's what's the essence of all art--The Minstrel Show. Paint your face black. Paint your face white. Fuck the nearest whore and plop out offspring. Teach them that love is a rainbow that is pretty. Teach them that life is fair but unfair. Teach them to earn that dollar to make it. And then teach them to escape to an underdeveloped nation to paint their face brown. And smoke their escape. Watch the Minstrel Show everywhere. Treat people with the illusion they wish to be treated.
The Golden Rule: treat others with the illusion you wish to be treated, you fucking phony. You're all fucking phonies. Readers, shut your eyes and go to Science Fiction Land where the Galaxy is far far away. And the Atom is so profoundly small small away. E=MC Squared, my ass. All of humanity is a parasitic blunder. Tribes of families sucking the life out of each other. Tribes of nations blowing each other. Germany, blow Israel. Russia, blow China. Mexico, blow the US. The US, blow Canada.
I fucking hate myself, get it. And this is the hell we all share. Why delude children so they can get it in the ass? Feed them pills. Flunk them from "Language Arts" and Math and Science and Anthropology. Give them As for taking notes on how to kiss Satan's ass. "Shelter them."
Kids, the first thing you need to know is that getting on your knees to suck Satan's cock is ok, so long as you confess to the priest, so long as you keep that hellion cheer about you, in snarky, snide remarks, and have a whopping smile at the blinding sun.
Every day is the same day. Until it ends. And there will be no symphony or grand opera or Horace and Homer elegies spoken over you, Jesus won't revive you to Lazarus, no old old friends dropping all that they have to weep at your coffin and grave stone and ashes. Wake up. You live, you die. There is no such thing as happiness. No such thing as happy moments or sad moments. There is only existence, pure simple raw existence. And you want to fuck your neighbor as bad as the testaments won't allow you to. You are raw and wild. You were meant to kill and eat. Nothing separates you from that crow near you, as you read Poe.
All great minds transmit information. And that information is the conclusion from giants that came before. And therefore, you are but shit of data. And your data concludes you need to have a family, be good, eat healthy, reach for the stars, and give your soul over to that .99 cents. You are fucking brainwashed by EVERYTHING, you fuck. No wonder why some loose cannons shoot their brains out. Shoot others out. Molest their own families. Molest their own minds. Publish or perish. No wonder why they struggle with the ideas of souls and morals and "evolution versus God" "Creationism versus Scientific Method." Not because people are idiots, but because they are brainwashed and fucking confused about how they should be brainwashed, how they should brainwash themselves. Which brainwashing suits your fancy, you phony.
We all fear the day we are naked before the massive death. Every judgement and gossip we see and hear is but a reflection of the last moment of our own self review, our own inventory, and that alone will be our trace. Otherwise, there is nothing but the Demiurge, the Creator, the Vishnu, the God, the Opposite of Evil, the thing you don't want in this world, the Author of you and me.
And who the fuck am I? One bus ticket shy from curtains. One modern persona, the nutjob made by you and you and you, all of the phoniness from all the ends of the earth. From the codified laws on how not to live to the unspoken street ways to get by. I am shit creek. I eat your shit food. I smoke your shit cigarettes. I drive your hunk-a-junk glory wagon. I read your shit words. I look at your shit photos. Just sit on the toilet and make a life out of it, earn that satanic currency to feel good about earning that satanic currency, so you can feel like the picture of a sailor on your fucking arc, the picture of a race car driver in your fucking slave mobile.
No one gives a damn. Once pushed to the mode of survival, where are your virtues? Where are your morals? Where are your pizza crusts?
So smoke that joint. Read trash. Care about green things. Guilty-pleasure your way through commercials and brainwashing mechanisms. Let the politicians be figureheads for the banks, which have all your souls in chains. Just count the 1s and 0s in the program of your existence and by the time you have reached the end of your program, you'll know that your bones are nothing. Your jazz is wind. Your poetry is windy wind. Your suicide is a blessing to no one and your survival is a bleeding to everyone.
Feedback, shit.
I am irrelevant in the face of God. And damn me if he may, but at least he'll know that all the sins I ever did were to see what the fuck this was all about.
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