Saturday, May 1, 2010


Birth of something magical, a remote controlled organism; heartbeat to perfection, insanity pounding with every beat, blood drunk eyes.. portraying the blood red skies above, the blood filled grounds below.
The death of love. Nothing to adore, No one to be inspired from, for everything is robotic, controlled by the remote (from the sky), The muse is dead, left to fend for herself... looks like the beat is returning, there is nothing to love, no one to adore.
Master of puppets is the one pulling the strings, and the robots dance to the tune, damning their individuality, their true tryst with the oasis of self. Lost in a mirage, the machines convulse and converge to a single pointed lie. Lie of love, the death of adoration, the birth of mechanical.
Blissfully living their lives, in the cesspool of stench ridden feces, its called love and laughter, open and care free. A lie so beautifully decieving, not to mention so easily bought. The machines programmed to implode; the release mechanism so called love, no where to be found. The master can play the strings to his tune, and all we can do is wait and watch. For doom and hate to be reborn. Within, writhing to implode, damnation be the cure. The end opens its mouth of liberation, wide open.

Sons of bitches lived their lives and thought they knew it all, went to heavens and bought (not brought) the wisdom of enslaving us even more. The master knew it, smoking a cigarette; sitting and grinning brought down the house.. of charades , with your narcissitic love for another. In vain, In vain, In vain.
There is no one to adore, nothing to love.. in this sphere of decay, In this void of the machine- no soul, no heart.. nothing to glorify but the 6 feet under, of space we all eventually need to repair.
There is nothing exciting in this heartbeat, precise and confounded.. It brings no adventure, nothing but eternal dismay, the master is a puppet too, ever bent on playing with the lives of ours, with a string from above (a fucking snare)
Shining sun burns out, Cool moon breaks into two. The lunatics furnishing the mechanical dream, of the repetition of something so moronic as love, as you see there is no one to adore, nothing to love. Never again. Never again.
Master mind robots within us, send the signal, chip by chip.. burning the message to the cortex. Subliminal hell, its life reality and love. Implanted as a fail safe mechanism against implosion, till the day we are caught in the dichtomy of life itself, the very day when you see that there aint no fucking angel sent here for you to save (or be saved).
You are a robot, a blinking cumming farting hole. There is no other like you, except the ones who have already embraced the grave. Eaten by vermin, excruciated till the end, there is no release; for you are nothing human to be released in the first place.
My parents copulated to bring out another in the line of nothing great. You and I are walking talking sleeping disgrace. For you and I are never and no one ever to adore (be adored), no one ever to love or be loved.....

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