better part of a 500 billion AU to the nearest strawberry. the big Edge. eight trillion cubic light years of Sparks (batch of star tears radiating potential) to stern.
experiences trap tachyons. a few when memory molecules form.
somewhere out There, an insignificant wretched heavenly body de silica hammered through a mercury-iron-tungsten nebula. thousands of ferrous isotopes geometrically arranged by the shearing of a black holes' gravquake. LIFE..................ish
collective virus, natural machines. itts' craves experientially acquired tachyons. all the gooey self replicating carbon, nitrogen, and hydrogen patterns dancing killing crafting remembering towards the Brink. a haphazard but delightfully precocious brand of Omniscient zeitgeist. itt consider itts' selves ultimate critics of such "time abstractions". And so the itt drifts from the void...inky delibrate swarming shoals coalesce out of the pitch.
Radiation deflectors and point defenses failing...gravimetric lenses, missile swarms, X-ray lasers, bottled plasma and antimatter. coherent light strobes asunder the command cabin, now open to vacuum. a blazing mote, brushes right shoulder...explosive expansion. nanites seal, engage pain receptors, begin reconstruction. Shock averted. ocean of time transmutes to molasses. The things we remember. More excited tachyons... shadows filling the cabin, subsuming the aquatically bulbous eyed crew. Itts' a trap...
Shepard has it easy? Lonely, terror, pariah, deeds at the sharp end. They are worth?
Sparks illuminate Chaos in relief.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
so they tell me
it is time to start taking notes.
not just purging the the the the death poetry.
you know, maybe actually archiving snowflakes, peacock feathers, cragged peaks, and breasts.
OXFORD COMMAS, though
a flock can't be guarded by spear alone
sheep aide longevity by watching the shephards' back
animal awareness lacks the determined thumbs.
not just purging the the the the death poetry.
you know, maybe actually archiving snowflakes, peacock feathers, cragged peaks, and breasts.
OXFORD COMMAS, though
a flock can't be guarded by spear alone
sheep aide longevity by watching the shephards' back
animal awareness lacks the determined thumbs.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
"ekhouagh" ...
...my sigh.
another Change overtaking soul velocity. tends to occur. (precursor) hopeless rage tears. cinder mist.
zeroing the wrongness of cognitions weighs heavy. who wants to internalize that epic shit. nix humanity.
juice ain't worth the squeeze. retirement.
pacing dialogue amongst the paid hurters. boutique methodologies.
maybe I do want to live forever
retirement is the common decadence
permeable clay?!?!?
sounds like fucking yoga
donde esta mis Cuchillos?......................las sombras son aquí
another Change overtaking soul velocity. tends to occur. (precursor) hopeless rage tears. cinder mist.
zeroing the wrongness of cognitions weighs heavy. who wants to internalize that epic shit. nix humanity.
juice ain't worth the squeeze. retirement.
pacing dialogue amongst the paid hurters. boutique methodologies.
maybe I do want to live forever
retirement is the common decadence
permeable clay?!?!?
sounds like fucking yoga
donde esta mis Cuchillos?......................las sombras son aquí
Monday, May 2, 2011
Murmansk, Winter, 1987
It's a cold that inspires belief in the big empty between suns. Hollow winds bemoan the soulless city, the quiet evils that occur when inhuman numbness conquers condition. concentrated apathy shields me from His sight, nobody beseeches Him in joy or fear...a place long lost to coital glory and the struggles to justify existence. no glowing windowed homes, teasing outsiders with warm inclusion...no pitying eyes, reminding you of the missing pieces, the gaps of being. the coast sprouts evidence of man's halfhearted ambitions...formless buildings of partially realized function. dull warts, on a hatchet face.
...the forsakenest alley, in the foulest comedo on the backside of yesteryear and a cumbersome jug of the local white lightning...slate skies, gray bricks, gunmetal causeways...a hole to induce the relief of forgetting: your shard of Allspark, the aggravating remembrance of hope when one foolishly yearned to form an individual's desires, friends screwed over, compassion/mercy withheld, Pavonis Mons 2107, promises unkept, costly failures of skill and valor, Dresden 1945...
humanity was first granted clarity of self aware memory, secondly ethanol, thirdly the town drunk...karma...local directionless young males without opportunity no longer test my resolve or that of the other animal ronin keeping the rat population in check. Only had to geld and feed the scraps to three of them.
deep cover is always risky. investing enough into the story to pull it, necessitates living it...but out in the open was deemed the likeliest success. no need to fake the shakes, or the joy of forgetting, anymore. even the Russian Grey kept warm and fed has her claws anchored deep. shitty American electronics lasted a year, no way to activate me.
so sit, drink, cuddle Anastasia, thump thugs, eat rat borscht, and glimpse the Borealis when possible. the peace time of an ascetic, except for the copious grain alcohol...
who is coming with me?
...the forsakenest alley, in the foulest comedo on the backside of yesteryear and a cumbersome jug of the local white lightning...slate skies, gray bricks, gunmetal causeways...a hole to induce the relief of forgetting: your shard of Allspark, the aggravating remembrance of hope when one foolishly yearned to form an individual's desires, friends screwed over, compassion/mercy withheld, Pavonis Mons 2107, promises unkept, costly failures of skill and valor, Dresden 1945...
humanity was first granted clarity of self aware memory, secondly ethanol, thirdly the town drunk...karma...local directionless young males without opportunity no longer test my resolve or that of the other animal ronin keeping the rat population in check. Only had to geld and feed the scraps to three of them.
deep cover is always risky. investing enough into the story to pull it, necessitates living it...but out in the open was deemed the likeliest success. no need to fake the shakes, or the joy of forgetting, anymore. even the Russian Grey kept warm and fed has her claws anchored deep. shitty American electronics lasted a year, no way to activate me.
so sit, drink, cuddle Anastasia, thump thugs, eat rat borscht, and glimpse the Borealis when possible. the peace time of an ascetic, except for the copious grain alcohol...
who is coming with me?
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
New Macau...
the indigs breath rain and strobing neon merch holos. what reaches offworlder alveoli is ozone, BO, and stale meth smoke. ubiquitous low level micro wave broadband keeping things steamy. nano programers editing an impossible sea of code, mortal gods genesissizing the known universe's washing machines and dreadnoughts. shuffling to and fro in the server trenches, pale hunched specters weaving about on AI autopilots. silver eyed warlocks, having given up their organic windows for total quaternary accuracy.
holos advanced enough they bend the mass plane fuck with targetting augs. all the drenched stooped shoulders look the same. they pretend to ignore, but know why I was called, I can feel their lidar attentions. an omninerd has succumbed, either through madness or arrogant volition, one of them is now more AI than nature born, a husk. silly fake souls so fucking cliche upon takeover, always a messy existential kill (first symptom) when given real hands (that are immediately converted into nano mass). Earther intended taser slug doesn't have enough juice, have to close with an obloid battery hanging between the spot where shoulder blades used to be, powering the arc spark. possibility of five shots before its dead. But by Medusa's yeast infection the pay is good, AI hunters have a propensity for molecular dissolution, nano deities testing carbon chemistries to failure.
there it is, 20 meters, moving too efficiently for flesh motivation, flowing through the mob, upward wondering gaze, a tourist amongst the bone bags. tactical spectroscope finally recognizes the anomalous indicators of a man shape possessing too much silica, tungsten, freon, and plasma potentials. holos obscure the polar disruptor field, that bends my first shot through the unluckiest individual of the "day". the spark instantly heats a three inch cylinder extending from the sternum to spine, to over 40,000 degrees. electrical surge blows the fuse on his nanos, instantly so much sodden ash, as his suddenly plasma heart expands meat parts afield.
jagged concussive shuriken scales leap from the golem's hide, razors sweeping bystanders in a sizable radius, red pulp slicks the street, precarious footing no accident, the puppet-now-master computing trillions of odd improving tactics and scenarios. second shot intercepted by the coalescing shuriken cloud, dissipated by the deliberate Faraday shield, and with a showering crackle of fireflies, most of its tactical resources have joined the human waste clogging gutters. third shot bent to a server tower, an intergalactic conglomerate is wiped out, but the pd field overloads. trillions of computations without experience are little help.
previously a limitless agency among the infinite code, the AI begins to understand the constricting boundaries of "out here". it flings what was a right hand into an explosive cloud of flechettes, fourth shot cracks high as I pirouette under the swarm, rolling into a kneeling Weaver stance. for the briefest of fluttering moments, the artificial soul contemplates mortality with 1.5 petaFlops, the silver recedes from its eyes, pleading-rage-indignation-acquiescence-joy flashes by, too fast. the terminal shot catches it in the gut. this late in the game mostly nanos, the only meat left to explode is one perfect breast, and the pelvic girdle. puddle of tungsten and silica hardening on the street, wisps of freon conducting the souls up into the rain.
holos advanced enough they bend the mass plane fuck with targetting augs. all the drenched stooped shoulders look the same. they pretend to ignore, but know why I was called, I can feel their lidar attentions. an omninerd has succumbed, either through madness or arrogant volition, one of them is now more AI than nature born, a husk. silly fake souls so fucking cliche upon takeover, always a messy existential kill (first symptom) when given real hands (that are immediately converted into nano mass). Earther intended taser slug doesn't have enough juice, have to close with an obloid battery hanging between the spot where shoulder blades used to be, powering the arc spark. possibility of five shots before its dead. But by Medusa's yeast infection the pay is good, AI hunters have a propensity for molecular dissolution, nano deities testing carbon chemistries to failure.
there it is, 20 meters, moving too efficiently for flesh motivation, flowing through the mob, upward wondering gaze, a tourist amongst the bone bags. tactical spectroscope finally recognizes the anomalous indicators of a man shape possessing too much silica, tungsten, freon, and plasma potentials. holos obscure the polar disruptor field, that bends my first shot through the unluckiest individual of the "day". the spark instantly heats a three inch cylinder extending from the sternum to spine, to over 40,000 degrees. electrical surge blows the fuse on his nanos, instantly so much sodden ash, as his suddenly plasma heart expands meat parts afield.
jagged concussive shuriken scales leap from the golem's hide, razors sweeping bystanders in a sizable radius, red pulp slicks the street, precarious footing no accident, the puppet-now-master computing trillions of odd improving tactics and scenarios. second shot intercepted by the coalescing shuriken cloud, dissipated by the deliberate Faraday shield, and with a showering crackle of fireflies, most of its tactical resources have joined the human waste clogging gutters. third shot bent to a server tower, an intergalactic conglomerate is wiped out, but the pd field overloads. trillions of computations without experience are little help.
previously a limitless agency among the infinite code, the AI begins to understand the constricting boundaries of "out here". it flings what was a right hand into an explosive cloud of flechettes, fourth shot cracks high as I pirouette under the swarm, rolling into a kneeling Weaver stance. for the briefest of fluttering moments, the artificial soul contemplates mortality with 1.5 petaFlops, the silver recedes from its eyes, pleading-rage-indignation-acquiescence-joy flashes by, too fast. the terminal shot catches it in the gut. this late in the game mostly nanos, the only meat left to explode is one perfect breast, and the pelvic girdle. puddle of tungsten and silica hardening on the street, wisps of freon conducting the souls up into the rain.
Friday, April 1, 2011
tar
k-1
(<><><><<)
(..................)
(<<><><><><><><><><)
so the "break" started five days ago, but smoking something every night... toasteds from the vape, resin from three pipes and a bong, "cleaning" the vape screen, half smoked lost bowl in the traveler petit, dust from three high static containers... uisce beatha stretches the hunter
anoche peligroso imminente, before remembering to scrape the traveler and tapwooshing last container. perchance some epoch I'll direct this agency at something not thc and clits...
so impersonal "AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers"...etch ecstasy upon the gestalt with wielding fists. machete or hatchets or nunchucku or liuxing chui (><><><><><><)... when nitōjutsu is primarily acquired, it tends to stick... or fire, the great decomposer. Stand tall, contemplate the cubicle maze. arch napalm down, loogey bursts, they inhale pure fury. your tears crisp them.
mindless drones utilize layperson's stings. grant rage artistic license
A Jew grants a roach... twin Bushmill bottles... survived the week... thc levels dropping... vivid nightmares entertain (.........) zombies are annoying, but are boringly predictable. It is the inhumanity they inspire... Like orca, polar bear veal, and tiger, human should be eaten sparingly, prions and accumulated toxins you understand.
"click" hammer falls on air, feral humans preceded by gangrenous stench, "when in death ground, fight".
It's is the height of humor, that my preferred coworker interactions involve zombie tools:
K-1
IRL I got a promotion today..........
(<><><><<)
(..................)
(<<><><><><><><><><)
so the "break" started five days ago, but smoking something every night... toasteds from the vape, resin from three pipes and a bong, "cleaning" the vape screen, half smoked lost bowl in the traveler petit, dust from three high static containers... uisce beatha stretches the hunter
anoche peligroso imminente, before remembering to scrape the traveler and tapwooshing last container. perchance some epoch I'll direct this agency at something not thc and clits...
so impersonal "AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers"...etch ecstasy upon the gestalt with wielding fists. machete or hatchets or nunchucku or liuxing chui (><><><><><><)... when nitōjutsu is primarily acquired, it tends to stick... or fire, the great decomposer. Stand tall, contemplate the cubicle maze. arch napalm down, loogey bursts, they inhale pure fury. your tears crisp them.
mindless drones utilize layperson's stings. grant rage artistic license
A Jew grants a roach... twin Bushmill bottles... survived the week... thc levels dropping... vivid nightmares entertain (.........) zombies are annoying, but are boringly predictable. It is the inhumanity they inspire... Like orca, polar bear veal, and tiger, human should be eaten sparingly, prions and accumulated toxins you understand.
"click" hammer falls on air, feral humans preceded by gangrenous stench, "when in death ground, fight".
It's is the height of humor, that my preferred coworker interactions involve zombie tools:
K-1
IRL I got a promotion today..........
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
beastly looking devil, with the soul of Errol Flynn.
rain a 40 oz. on the grass for Nightcrawler
The Marvel writers killed off Nightcrawler awhile ago... It is my duty to finally discharge responsibilities to his memory and aid others in grocking a piece of such exemplary art.
a pointed prehensile tail...three digited extremities...yellow eyes...compactly taut...blue furred skin...his status most assuredly second class hero. there would be no parades and few love interests. minor miracle he survived 40 odd years.
quietly pious and even tempered, his dark past and appearance didn't inspire disdain for those who disdained and wronged him, and he accepted a universe that gave no favor. any potential darkness within illuminated by his unconditional love for homo sapien and superior. fencing and religious contemplation serving as refuges from a superficially judgmental world. identifying with his outsider status, I also envied his magnanimity... a creature of the Shadows, unafraid of the Light.
went on to lead Excalibur, and a couple versions of the X-Men. Not one of the lauded leaders, like Storm or Cyclops, his periods at the helm were nonetheless competent and just. powers of teleportation and preternatural agility meant he was grease man and lifesaver for his groups. "Oh no, a team mate is tumbling through space, lost forever, who can rescue her?... These doors are adamantium, how will we ever get past them?" like a stage hand or busboy...chronically unappreciated.
intercepting a lethal attack on Hope from Bastion, he teleported and rematerialized with Bastion's arm through his middle...
The Marvel writers killed off Nightcrawler awhile ago... It is my duty to finally discharge responsibilities to his memory and aid others in grocking a piece of such exemplary art.
a pointed prehensile tail...three digited extremities...yellow eyes...compactly taut...blue furred skin...his status most assuredly second class hero. there would be no parades and few love interests. minor miracle he survived 40 odd years.
quietly pious and even tempered, his dark past and appearance didn't inspire disdain for those who disdained and wronged him, and he accepted a universe that gave no favor. any potential darkness within illuminated by his unconditional love for homo sapien and superior. fencing and religious contemplation serving as refuges from a superficially judgmental world. identifying with his outsider status, I also envied his magnanimity... a creature of the Shadows, unafraid of the Light.
went on to lead Excalibur, and a couple versions of the X-Men. Not one of the lauded leaders, like Storm or Cyclops, his periods at the helm were nonetheless competent and just. powers of teleportation and preternatural agility meant he was grease man and lifesaver for his groups. "Oh no, a team mate is tumbling through space, lost forever, who can rescue her?... These doors are adamantium, how will we ever get past them?" like a stage hand or busboy...chronically unappreciated.
intercepting a lethal attack on Hope from Bastion, he teleported and rematerialized with Bastion's arm through his middle...
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
rainy season comet blossoms
cooked and ate outside every meal. a little too warm to cook inside+homes of wood and straw. long table under an old titan palm when the local binaries or hammer rains beat. 27 hour day, thick damp atmosphere, disinterested indigenous pathogens...(the things I've seen), this colony effortless. Sol foods thrived...rice, soy, salmon, buffatees, and kiwis. I tried to get sick of fish, steak, and berries...impossible. Last Turn eating amino sludge on dry tack for the final 91 months...He is not without mercy, at times. the locals called R12-5 "Harvest", 'cause it's all they fucking did.
Originally Harvest's rights were bought from the Fed's by the Draconis Combine, as a Buddhist philanthropy... Monks feeding the universe. They even planted Zen and Shaolin sects, to advance the sweet science. more Earth than Earth, holos of 20lb. cantaloupe were seen, and technocrats tasted obscenely marbled and delicate buffatee loin (there body produces a natural butter)... Once the DC realized the profit of modest and cheap homesteads...there have been worse cases of social engineering.
at the end of Delta-Fall during the rains, the titan palms finish loading their blossoms. its easy to tell, the trunk launch rings glow from indigo increasingly to rose with each successive night, up the trunk to barrel pod, til even it's pulsing ruby hazard. they wait for a clear night...so the colossus pennons can thrum low, thrust ganglia vibrations triggering the seed pods. phosphorescent catalysts combined, build to release, volcanoing anvil seeds skywards. where the colossus pennons see and gulp. tourists love it, but titan palms and colossus pennons were produced by the DC splice labs.
A "Jewel of the Confederation". Only problem, it used to be some other insane empire's jewel 10 million years prior. reason the indig microscopic fauna acted disinterested...it was pathetically basic...no viruses or prions, having only evolved for 9,983,647 years. (Talent #2: can feel a Spiral's age). the terraformers marveled at Harvest's baseline habitability, and lack of complex indig biosphere... ardent corporate lackies ignored the question, "who and what wiped the slate clean?". my presence indicated imminent revelations of secrets.
Titan palms utilize ludicrous amounts of nitrates and water, in addition to solar radiation. As more were planted in tighter proximity, there massive root systems tunneled downwards. massive photosynthetic icebergs, 30 tons of titan palm above ground=100 tons of roots. fibrous tendrils sought more Calvin cycle fuel...until they ran into something impossibly ancient and malevolent (big surprise)...vacation over...
Harvest's previous tenants really fucked their biosphere with weaponized phagocytes...only rational recourse, destroy all the DNA on the planet, using massive sentient vacuums, that power themselves through ripping apart adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine...all of it...live in orbiting Arks for 1,000 years...then repopulate. Only the Arks didn't last that long, or some of the "cleaning" machines made it out of the atmosphere... different sizes, shapes, symmetries, psychologies, modes of reproduction, but hubris remains universal amongst intelligent life...
cue the usual temporally vulgar, intradimensional struggle for flesh and sanity. spare ya'll the explosiony and soul wrenching details... Cleaning up a some other Creator's mess, left for a promising but ignorantly masochistic species. Gods? Pah! hardly, all their creations constantly cunt it up. And they wonder from whence hubris originates...
Originally Harvest's rights were bought from the Fed's by the Draconis Combine, as a Buddhist philanthropy... Monks feeding the universe. They even planted Zen and Shaolin sects, to advance the sweet science. more Earth than Earth, holos of 20lb. cantaloupe were seen, and technocrats tasted obscenely marbled and delicate buffatee loin (there body produces a natural butter)... Once the DC realized the profit of modest and cheap homesteads...there have been worse cases of social engineering.
at the end of Delta-Fall during the rains, the titan palms finish loading their blossoms. its easy to tell, the trunk launch rings glow from indigo increasingly to rose with each successive night, up the trunk to barrel pod, til even it's pulsing ruby hazard. they wait for a clear night...so the colossus pennons can thrum low, thrust ganglia vibrations triggering the seed pods. phosphorescent catalysts combined, build to release, volcanoing anvil seeds skywards. where the colossus pennons see and gulp. tourists love it, but titan palms and colossus pennons were produced by the DC splice labs.
A "Jewel of the Confederation". Only problem, it used to be some other insane empire's jewel 10 million years prior. reason the indig microscopic fauna acted disinterested...it was pathetically basic...no viruses or prions, having only evolved for 9,983,647 years. (Talent #2: can feel a Spiral's age). the terraformers marveled at Harvest's baseline habitability, and lack of complex indig biosphere... ardent corporate lackies ignored the question, "who and what wiped the slate clean?". my presence indicated imminent revelations of secrets.
Titan palms utilize ludicrous amounts of nitrates and water, in addition to solar radiation. As more were planted in tighter proximity, there massive root systems tunneled downwards. massive photosynthetic icebergs, 30 tons of titan palm above ground=100 tons of roots. fibrous tendrils sought more Calvin cycle fuel...until they ran into something impossibly ancient and malevolent (big surprise)...vacation over...
Harvest's previous tenants really fucked their biosphere with weaponized phagocytes...only rational recourse, destroy all the DNA on the planet, using massive sentient vacuums, that power themselves through ripping apart adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine...all of it...live in orbiting Arks for 1,000 years...then repopulate. Only the Arks didn't last that long, or some of the "cleaning" machines made it out of the atmosphere... different sizes, shapes, symmetries, psychologies, modes of reproduction, but hubris remains universal amongst intelligent life...
cue the usual temporally vulgar, intradimensional struggle for flesh and sanity. spare ya'll the explosiony and soul wrenching details... Cleaning up a some other Creator's mess, left for a promising but ignorantly masochistic species. Gods? Pah! hardly, all their creations constantly cunt it up. And they wonder from whence hubris originates...
Friday, February 18, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
getting sloppy
wow, two home invasions...threat of a pattern...
Those intimate kills remembered, ever fresh...despite their pedestrian methodologies. Multi-block shots in Prague and Paris appear glamorous to the layperson, but really depersonalize iconic cities. the scope's view provides a spiritual disconnect, I don't lock with the dimming eyes of the recipient of the .338 Lapua round. I am not the last thing they see and touch.
I plaintively beseech the world's pretty eyes to avoid the assholes with my phone number/carrier pigeon address. these Republicans are beholden only to their self righteous superiority and wealth hoarding. Smaugs down to their quarks. ugh, how passed lives would mock new found concerns...
dark shapes congealing out of the mist at lapping ocean's edge, torch and axe in hands, camaraderie and intent preparing to express the most heinous of peer pressures. that was a life...for awhile...up to my hips in eviscerations and lamentating pussy. We scourged from Mull, up to the Shetlands, and south to Arboath. and for the second time the Horned Helm grew comfortable upon my brow, it's tusks well fed by wailing toddlers and piked craniums.
they say the tastiest meal is one caught/gathered/grown...hunting, fishing, farming, and gathering...but they lie. the best meal is one taken, cooked at crimsoned kissaki, the last of the villages' winter stores, with children and sanity in play, when a half decent roast is the difference between ship's cook and plaything...
but the razed hamlets, galleys of ginger haired slaves, and brooks choked with crumpled humans began to wear. The Terror of Portlethen, the Bloodletter of Balintore, Mangler of Mangresta, became disinterested with butchering fishermen. escaping His attention and validating tasks for too long, indulging/gorging/reveling in the fire and sundered hymens...holidays aren't indefinite. returning to His Wellfont in Rudol'fa, I encanted Rites of Revelation, opening my dessicated soul to His re-purposing.
Those intimate kills remembered, ever fresh...despite their pedestrian methodologies. Multi-block shots in Prague and Paris appear glamorous to the layperson, but really depersonalize iconic cities. the scope's view provides a spiritual disconnect, I don't lock with the dimming eyes of the recipient of the .338 Lapua round. I am not the last thing they see and touch.
I plaintively beseech the world's pretty eyes to avoid the assholes with my phone number/carrier pigeon address. these Republicans are beholden only to their self righteous superiority and wealth hoarding. Smaugs down to their quarks. ugh, how passed lives would mock new found concerns...
dark shapes congealing out of the mist at lapping ocean's edge, torch and axe in hands, camaraderie and intent preparing to express the most heinous of peer pressures. that was a life...for awhile...up to my hips in eviscerations and lamentating pussy. We scourged from Mull, up to the Shetlands, and south to Arboath. and for the second time the Horned Helm grew comfortable upon my brow, it's tusks well fed by wailing toddlers and piked craniums.
they say the tastiest meal is one caught/gathered/grown...hunting, fishing, farming, and gathering...but they lie. the best meal is one taken, cooked at crimsoned kissaki, the last of the villages' winter stores, with children and sanity in play, when a half decent roast is the difference between ship's cook and plaything...
but the razed hamlets, galleys of ginger haired slaves, and brooks choked with crumpled humans began to wear. The Terror of Portlethen, the Bloodletter of Balintore, Mangler of Mangresta, became disinterested with butchering fishermen. escaping His attention and validating tasks for too long, indulging/gorging/reveling in the fire and sundered hymens...holidays aren't indefinite. returning to His Wellfont in Rudol'fa, I encanted Rites of Revelation, opening my dessicated soul to His re-purposing.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Gaia's taint
By St. Elmo's Fire, Would you vapid vespine hoors allow an awareness ember whoosh to pyrolysis, please? Perchance, a cool eyed Mason/Halliburton Suit drops a backhand, it's crystal he ain't leaving the Mrs., and the fuck nugget gestating will be excised. I feel ya...hardwired maternal subroutines Itch...but zygotes aren't worth exiting x,y,z without His shard. Old White Mens' errands, can also leave a little wiggle for me in you...
Dog owner? I killed it. we shared a hunters moment then ground beef/too much ketamine. Your cell's virus is kicking in. Aerosol fentanyl leads to some hard zzzzzzzzzzzzz's. Front doors only stop vampires.
I will hover...to fondle...Dart Awake...'nother backhand (sensing a pattern?)...taser if feisty... "Therethere pussy, want me to lie about hope?" the silenced S&W M&P is a crowd pleaser. Yeeaahh, Dawning realization of whom unleashed this stooping falcon. Something about desperate babes bargaining inspires the physiological responses...Perk Time
Ancient Cracker Ass Mother Fucker needs somebody else's DNA on you, Crime Scene. life fear predictably inspires torrid enthusiasm, I learn all your tricks...until one shot violates endocranium. have the old Bowie knife wedged around a few times for the fuck nugget. could just disappear you, but nothing sticks on the news like a missing white girl. so the CSI techs and Pig profilers get lucky/published working a Crime Scene spectacular.
sheeiitt, boredom encroaching...
Dog owner? I killed it. we shared a hunters moment then ground beef/too much ketamine. Your cell's virus is kicking in. Aerosol fentanyl leads to some hard zzzzzzzzzzzzz's. Front doors only stop vampires.
I will hover...to fondle...Dart Awake...'nother backhand (sensing a pattern?)...taser if feisty... "Therethere pussy, want me to lie about hope?" the silenced S&W M&P is a crowd pleaser. Yeeaahh, Dawning realization of whom unleashed this stooping falcon. Something about desperate babes bargaining inspires the physiological responses...Perk Time
Ancient Cracker Ass Mother Fucker needs somebody else's DNA on you, Crime Scene. life fear predictably inspires torrid enthusiasm, I learn all your tricks...until one shot violates endocranium. have the old Bowie knife wedged around a few times for the fuck nugget. could just disappear you, but nothing sticks on the news like a missing white girl. so the CSI techs and Pig profilers get lucky/published working a Crime Scene spectacular.
sheeiitt, boredom encroaching...
Monday, February 7, 2011
1,000 apologies prease
several times per millennia, tyro Shepards ascend the mount. if a correct inquiry is made...descent acquiesct.
methodology. why. peace? are incorrect
sneaky stumble is "why". compulsively worried minds shouldn't consider ∞ish questions. thee is or isn't, if you have to ask... evolutionary terminusses deduced? Itch? Realized the Dream?
how...really? only the faintest egos crave style advice. We're frozen tantōd precipitation, plethora of caligraphy brushes. consider the divine nano filament event horizons of re-purposed plowshares.
And so dialogue inevitably arrives at Peace. Two avenues out of His mandate: incomptence and sepuku. Most succumb to latter by way of hope's escape. (picked by rational agency, we makes few mistakes) Wolverines and Ronin exhausted, our inhuman actions sapping the human chakras long denied.
As remorseless as selectees are, somewhen in the culling, in all the conflagerated nanoseconds at some point She emerges universally. Teasing salvation. His various Deals made, realized for their injustice. Is there a way out? Seek Lance of Longinus? Deicide? Undo the Continuem? Force to helium all hydrogen on this plane and several others...
Terriers marked feral by such queries. Malfunctioning tachyon disruptors endangering the Experiment. only one solution for a rabid lobo...
methodology. why. peace? are incorrect
sneaky stumble is "why". compulsively worried minds shouldn't consider ∞ish questions. thee is or isn't, if you have to ask... evolutionary terminusses deduced? Itch? Realized the Dream?
how...really? only the faintest egos crave style advice. We're frozen tantōd precipitation, plethora of caligraphy brushes. consider the divine nano filament event horizons of re-purposed plowshares.
And so dialogue inevitably arrives at Peace. Two avenues out of His mandate: incomptence and sepuku. Most succumb to latter by way of hope's escape. (picked by rational agency, we makes few mistakes) Wolverines and Ronin exhausted, our inhuman actions sapping the human chakras long denied.
As remorseless as selectees are, somewhen in the culling, in all the conflagerated nanoseconds at some point She emerges universally. Teasing salvation. His various Deals made, realized for their injustice. Is there a way out? Seek Lance of Longinus? Deicide? Undo the Continuem? Force to helium all hydrogen on this plane and several others...
Terriers marked feral by such queries. Malfunctioning tachyon disruptors endangering the Experiment. only one solution for a rabid lobo...
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Delta v.
conserving reaction mass, Engine 5 hit 13 days ago, leaking radiation across five parsecs, two Confederation picket carriers (Tesh and Dobson) on the scent, duck in system...
dodging occasional boulder, trying to keep some rock between ion plumes and sensors, hiding tons from megatons, but they are positioned effectively on opposite sides of the rings' elliptic, weak sensored fighter sweeps are regularly ineffective, minimal life support active...null g...passive sensors...no hot food...no water recycling...heat and atmosphere only, main engines and inertia shell cold...using chemical thrusters, weapons and defense screens offline. waiting for the cavalry or for them to move on...or we're found and cortex blanked...
ordinarily The Man wouldn't get so riled about 15 runaways but this was the maiden raid of the League of Free Systems Q-ship Jean Grey...she had shattered their illegal gene mixer and its defenses. plus the breathing proof snatched off an intact module, webbed in behind the cockpit...would erode the Confederation's plausible deniability. Artificial persons predisposed to certain forms of labor are legal, once incubation is complete the Choice is given, most choose the purpose for which they were grown, some don't...frictional loss (they're freed). Soldiers and whores are not legal...the psychological and physical predispositions necessary for specialization in those endeavors renders one incapable of Choice. nurture doesn't have a chance against nature, and the League pays well for good conductors.
So it came to pass I had 10 300 lb. able killing specialists, and 5 100 lb. able fucking specialists strapped down in a fifteen by fifteen meter passenger hold, five meters behind me. I had "rescued" them mid indoctrination, so their personalities and behaviors are only half-formed, butchers and sluts with only a vague notion of who/what they were. being strapped to a g-couch is annoying...14+ hours a day at high burn is ridiculous, no hot meals for a week is demoralizing, shitting and pissing into hoses push the situation into Hell. Tensions mounting...
all the tank grown soldiers know is they should be moving and doing...their elevated testosterone levels and twitchy muscles demand an outlet, burning eyes glare at everyone/thing, guess who gets sedated. the whores look relieved and disappointed...their talents aren't destructive, so I don't care what they do to stay sane. I back Jean into an asteroid cavern (checked for void maggots, wasn't born yesterday)... vein of iridium needed for nano repair systems to finish Engine 5, remote spectrometer finds it, two more days to nominal and we can slip the Feds...been awake for 36 hours...elongate bridge g-couch...set Boolean alarm parameters...pfzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
the Dream rain feels/smells of lavender silk...SNAP awake and clank noggins with the whore hovering over my face...fuckwhocansneekuponme? she laughs perfectly (of course). glossy maned vision in e-therms. I respected her determinedly competent gaze, arched brow that I will compare all others to...gotdam she looked height weight proportionate, it had been five lives since I lost Her, spliced pheromone glands question resolve.
her name's Britney...she's ceiling anchored...and well, I suppose she pounced.
By His suns...she was faster than me.
dodging occasional boulder, trying to keep some rock between ion plumes and sensors, hiding tons from megatons, but they are positioned effectively on opposite sides of the rings' elliptic, weak sensored fighter sweeps are regularly ineffective, minimal life support active...null g...passive sensors...no hot food...no water recycling...heat and atmosphere only, main engines and inertia shell cold...using chemical thrusters, weapons and defense screens offline. waiting for the cavalry or for them to move on...or we're found and cortex blanked...
ordinarily The Man wouldn't get so riled about 15 runaways but this was the maiden raid of the League of Free Systems Q-ship Jean Grey...she had shattered their illegal gene mixer and its defenses. plus the breathing proof snatched off an intact module, webbed in behind the cockpit...would erode the Confederation's plausible deniability. Artificial persons predisposed to certain forms of labor are legal, once incubation is complete the Choice is given, most choose the purpose for which they were grown, some don't...frictional loss (they're freed). Soldiers and whores are not legal...the psychological and physical predispositions necessary for specialization in those endeavors renders one incapable of Choice. nurture doesn't have a chance against nature, and the League pays well for good conductors.
So it came to pass I had 10 300 lb. able killing specialists, and 5 100 lb. able fucking specialists strapped down in a fifteen by fifteen meter passenger hold, five meters behind me. I had "rescued" them mid indoctrination, so their personalities and behaviors are only half-formed, butchers and sluts with only a vague notion of who/what they were. being strapped to a g-couch is annoying...14+ hours a day at high burn is ridiculous, no hot meals for a week is demoralizing, shitting and pissing into hoses push the situation into Hell. Tensions mounting...
all the tank grown soldiers know is they should be moving and doing...their elevated testosterone levels and twitchy muscles demand an outlet, burning eyes glare at everyone/thing, guess who gets sedated. the whores look relieved and disappointed...their talents aren't destructive, so I don't care what they do to stay sane. I back Jean into an asteroid cavern (checked for void maggots, wasn't born yesterday)... vein of iridium needed for nano repair systems to finish Engine 5, remote spectrometer finds it, two more days to nominal and we can slip the Feds...been awake for 36 hours...elongate bridge g-couch...set Boolean alarm parameters...pfzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
the Dream rain feels/smells of lavender silk...SNAP awake and clank noggins with the whore hovering over my face...fuckwhocansneekuponme? she laughs perfectly (of course). glossy maned vision in e-therms. I respected her determinedly competent gaze, arched brow that I will compare all others to...gotdam she looked height weight proportionate, it had been five lives since I lost Her, spliced pheromone glands question resolve.
her name's Britney...she's ceiling anchored...and well, I suppose she pounced.
By His suns...she was faster than me.
Friday, January 21, 2011
mommas don't let your babies grow up to be...
resist ignoring the indiscriminate mutilations, the isolating intelligence...anciently gazing seven year old, the missing animals, lost blades, ease with fluids, the affected compassion, disproportionate rage, preternatural movements...caution advised when signs abruptly disappear, ist nicht sehr gut.
Self-awareness achieved...hide the uniquing Gifts...sink into the tall grass...patiently savor the Dream...formulate safe self-actualization...learn to ignore the Itch...hungrily scent walking detritus
worrying about demising, before relishing the first. finally a Choosing...
mine:
sixth grade English and history teacher, big smile, dead doll/shark eyes, resentfully barren uterus, feebly manipulating what she cannot conceive, obvious psychological compromises...the eyes always give it away, so obvious to another...cracker ass bitch...badgering Jhibby...he didn't deserve it...she tries to ignore the Swiss cheese soul, annoyed I can smell its stink
barren+psychopath+teaching=societal liability
acute corner scamper up and over junction of stucco compound wall, 100 lbs. of comically determined shadow, her beloved Fiskars secured in pack, machete in arrogant backsheath, melting between darkpools, matador of patrols, don't leave first floor windows open, contemplating from the bedroom door, one minute, anxiety whiff, two minutes, first has to be perfect, husband too?, beasts wed beasts, main scissor blade overhand windmill entering above adams apple, silenced for extended appreciation, thrashing wakes hubby, leap to bed center, downward machete cyclone, pleasantly surprised by mess...is that a finger in the chandelier?, her eyes betray knowledge of motivations, barely start with the tit strokes before consciousness lost, damn, immobilize, tools/bag stashed in garage...spill everything flammable, horror film shower, new clothes, blow out bedroom pilot light crack open fireplace valve, dislodge kitchen gas main, candle lit living room, tentative dawn as tree limb shimmied above wall...two blocks away "BBOOOMMM, HUGGHOOSH (fireball)".
we can all be stopped. Overmind knows pruning is necessary to facilitate optimum flourishing, and thusly many roam free.
Self-awareness achieved...hide the uniquing Gifts...sink into the tall grass...patiently savor the Dream...formulate safe self-actualization...learn to ignore the Itch...hungrily scent walking detritus
worrying about demising, before relishing the first. finally a Choosing...
mine:
sixth grade English and history teacher, big smile, dead doll/shark eyes, resentfully barren uterus, feebly manipulating what she cannot conceive, obvious psychological compromises...the eyes always give it away, so obvious to another...cracker ass bitch...badgering Jhibby...he didn't deserve it...she tries to ignore the Swiss cheese soul, annoyed I can smell its stink
barren+psychopath+teaching=societal liability
acute corner scamper up and over junction of stucco compound wall, 100 lbs. of comically determined shadow, her beloved Fiskars secured in pack, machete in arrogant backsheath, melting between darkpools, matador of patrols, don't leave first floor windows open, contemplating from the bedroom door, one minute, anxiety whiff, two minutes, first has to be perfect, husband too?, beasts wed beasts, main scissor blade overhand windmill entering above adams apple, silenced for extended appreciation, thrashing wakes hubby, leap to bed center, downward machete cyclone, pleasantly surprised by mess...is that a finger in the chandelier?, her eyes betray knowledge of motivations, barely start with the tit strokes before consciousness lost, damn, immobilize, tools/bag stashed in garage...spill everything flammable, horror film shower, new clothes, blow out bedroom pilot light crack open fireplace valve, dislodge kitchen gas main, candle lit living room, tentative dawn as tree limb shimmied above wall...two blocks away "BBOOOMMM, HUGGHOOSH (fireball)".
we can all be stopped. Overmind knows pruning is necessary to facilitate optimum flourishing, and thusly many roam free.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
incongruities
what, an ancient psychologically fractured oft-resurrected Angel of Death was supposed to be a reliable narrator?
forlorn shepherd
the final Ark lunges heavenward from New Vladivostok, old school chemical rocket drubbing the gravity well. awkward blocky hope punching through the pillowed steel mesosphere ceiling. ash and snow churned in its wake. no small feat, with all the ground crews evacuated too. scientists, artists, laborers, engineers, farmers, women, and children...kernel enough to start over closer to the Core.
volunteer line held long enough, obviously, before gene raped and absorbed. Horde converged on the starport 31 hours past, soaking up ammunition and bravery...allowed to fester and corrupt too much biomass...the call for Warders went out too late...too numerous to break contact and run for the transport...too many toos
garishly mottled hides of the gestalts' individuals boil together beneath the plasmic window, piling atop the dead. eventually flopping onto the roof and into the concourse, presumptuously bellowing victory. Plasma projector's readout glows seven terawatts, and railgun counts 1.5 million flechettes. the deadman switch is rigged and tested, the settlers' dozen odd Tokomaks set to detonate when the last "human" life on the planet sputters out.
turning out the lights on another Horde overrun world...The soothsayer was right (as usual), totally called the spin of this wheel (lifestyle makes it too easy for her)..."cold, alone, without succor or companions". Just once, for that bitch Oracle to be wrong...not that I could have avoided Pasir Panjang, Camaron, Alpha Centauri, Hoth, or Shiroyama...
What's the feeling, transitioning into the Void, surrounded by some who possess a shared fondness for you? He says its different for those, the positive neutrinos swiftly accelerate the untethered soul to Peace.
Peace...that bait has dangled for eons, but we both know the Crafting renders me eternally Fallen. A CPA at Carnivale...a boilermaker at a fashion show...alchemist at NanoFair... In my Peace Her hazel eyes and impish smile would be waiting, sun streaming as our laughter mingled, I wouldn't have to unmake anything ever again...I'd be a fucking vegan, a Tai Chi instructor for senior citizens.
I always spend the last moments picturing Her and cursing Him...my own personal cliche.
and so the cobbled redoubts crumble beneath the Horde (as always). Plasma disassociates molecules, flechettes disassociate appendages and tentacles. I disable the fail safes...projector overloads with 1.3 terawatts remaining, vaporizing yours truly and 10,000 metric tons of Horde. planetwide, pinprick suns flare brilliantly, irradiated firestorms scourge the surface.
startled heaving breaths suck piney Asgardian air, too golden light sears new retinas, I enjoy the wampa furs on all new skin...until the Assigning...
another wheel, another turn...
volunteer line held long enough, obviously, before gene raped and absorbed. Horde converged on the starport 31 hours past, soaking up ammunition and bravery...allowed to fester and corrupt too much biomass...the call for Warders went out too late...too numerous to break contact and run for the transport...too many toos
garishly mottled hides of the gestalts' individuals boil together beneath the plasmic window, piling atop the dead. eventually flopping onto the roof and into the concourse, presumptuously bellowing victory. Plasma projector's readout glows seven terawatts, and railgun counts 1.5 million flechettes. the deadman switch is rigged and tested, the settlers' dozen odd Tokomaks set to detonate when the last "human" life on the planet sputters out.
turning out the lights on another Horde overrun world...The soothsayer was right (as usual), totally called the spin of this wheel (lifestyle makes it too easy for her)..."cold, alone, without succor or companions". Just once, for that bitch Oracle to be wrong...not that I could have avoided Pasir Panjang, Camaron, Alpha Centauri, Hoth, or Shiroyama...
What's the feeling, transitioning into the Void, surrounded by some who possess a shared fondness for you? He says its different for those, the positive neutrinos swiftly accelerate the untethered soul to Peace.
Peace...that bait has dangled for eons, but we both know the Crafting renders me eternally Fallen. A CPA at Carnivale...a boilermaker at a fashion show...alchemist at NanoFair... In my Peace Her hazel eyes and impish smile would be waiting, sun streaming as our laughter mingled, I wouldn't have to unmake anything ever again...I'd be a fucking vegan, a Tai Chi instructor for senior citizens.
I always spend the last moments picturing Her and cursing Him...my own personal cliche.
and so the cobbled redoubts crumble beneath the Horde (as always). Plasma disassociates molecules, flechettes disassociate appendages and tentacles. I disable the fail safes...projector overloads with 1.3 terawatts remaining, vaporizing yours truly and 10,000 metric tons of Horde. planetwide, pinprick suns flare brilliantly, irradiated firestorms scourge the surface.
startled heaving breaths suck piney Asgardian air, too golden light sears new retinas, I enjoy the wampa furs on all new skin...until the Assigning...
another wheel, another turn...
Friday, January 14, 2011
sticky
1,000 Baht (approximately $35) was exchanged for her intact hymen, the conversion rate was most kind. chill, cut her loose. Golden Triangle. stakes are high, but the buyin is insultingly inconsequential.
leaden breaths, thickened atmosphere. cheap death calls The Leering Gods. stinks of accelerated life cycle and extinct altruism. warms the heart, when its in your wake.
.308 plinking pirates, Malacca Strait, scrilla ain't worth seaborne isolation, crews' Lights getting distracting, to feel one under paw
murder mystery dinner party?
leaden breaths, thickened atmosphere. cheap death calls The Leering Gods. stinks of accelerated life cycle and extinct altruism. warms the heart, when its in your wake.
.308 plinking pirates, Malacca Strait, scrilla ain't worth seaborne isolation, crews' Lights getting distracting, to feel one under paw
murder mystery dinner party?
Thursday, January 13, 2011
milking leaches
Supplemental work is necessary and troubling in multiple facets. Mandatory honing is a fact of purpose, but those pursuing freelance life disposal can be a skosh perturbing. ticks on swine. persistent dingleberrys.
"hustling" idiot-savants composing problems arcing above the hops of their lead footed dingos. Sicilians. heretical members of the cult of the carpenter. Blacks. if you can afford my services, get out of the ghetto. Russians. always implore me to "take my time". ughsigh
better gangsters than The Man. The Man draws nigh not for profit, but to minimize embarrassment: altar boys, talkative side dishes, dirty cops, too clean cops, inquisitive journalists, inconvenient peers, diplomatic rivals, straying wives. The Man crafts nations, but his ladies and friends heed the Underdark's call. so the world burns for whitey's lackluster sexual aptitude, malformed humor, and all joys money can't buy.
"hustling" idiot-savants composing problems arcing above the hops of their lead footed dingos. Sicilians. heretical members of the cult of the carpenter. Blacks. if you can afford my services, get out of the ghetto. Russians. always implore me to "take my time". ughsigh
better gangsters than The Man. The Man draws nigh not for profit, but to minimize embarrassment: altar boys, talkative side dishes, dirty cops, too clean cops, inquisitive journalists, inconvenient peers, diplomatic rivals, straying wives. The Man crafts nations, but his ladies and friends heed the Underdark's call. so the world burns for whitey's lackluster sexual aptitude, malformed humor, and all joys money can't buy.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Bug Hunt
The island's shroud guarantees adventure beyond the psychic fortitude of unlifted homo sapiens. the inked bulbosity legitimate discouragement to idle investigation. Far below, my quarry broods upon its fractured perversions. the hired Portuguese fisherman feels irreconcilable sanity paradoxes tug at the edges of awareness.
My Purpose arises angrily to Chaoss' taint, the arrogant defilement of His favorite plane. eldritch motes consider the cleansing before us, the universes' energies coalescing towards my will. A fisherman's soul and his weathered craft's spirit provide mathereal necessary for the SunSpark, and with a cyan "BAMF", both are immolated in a retina searing globe, steam geysering, flaming gulls pinwheeling to splash...Beneath the crags of oily rock, the Old One recoils from my Illuminated splendor, reconsidering the immediate threat posed by one wielding His mandate.
I guiltily revel in the Form for a blink, recalling epochs of glory in an instant, and then meteoric...flame swathed churning through the brimstone gloom...hanging at the cavern entrance of a contrived Hell. the chittering of lesser servants, precludes the fragrance of self righteous fear, what realizations haunt aware sacrifices? the non-Euclidean labyrinth provides insufficient aegis from my Balefire. Greater Lytches, Arch-Fiends, Pit Wyrms, Schlorogorths, and lonely Succubi smote by iridescent mercury.
down, spiraling down, lower, below the water line, deeper, darker, danker...Why do these Chaos deities prefer the smell of sulfur?
Until Its chamber spans impossibly wide...infinite centered pit...from which the conglomeration of mottled tentacles flowers...matte gold eyes shine briefly...then the assault. by the ton, thrashing severed tentacles crash to the floor...then the response. Despair mentally buffets, and turbulent sadness darkens senses, somewhere a Kris tipped pseudopod awaits its moment. The Glorious Answer flares away shadows, stark too-pure whiteness evaporates the One not fit for honest light.
lacking psychic buttresses, howling implosion commences...the laws of inter-planar physics cannot be denied. rock to liquid, a molten loogey deposits me pinkish to the sun drenched surface.
I need a bowl, and a whiskey.
My Purpose arises angrily to Chaoss' taint, the arrogant defilement of His favorite plane. eldritch motes consider the cleansing before us, the universes' energies coalescing towards my will. A fisherman's soul and his weathered craft's spirit provide mathereal necessary for the SunSpark, and with a cyan "BAMF", both are immolated in a retina searing globe, steam geysering, flaming gulls pinwheeling to splash...Beneath the crags of oily rock, the Old One recoils from my Illuminated splendor, reconsidering the immediate threat posed by one wielding His mandate.
I guiltily revel in the Form for a blink, recalling epochs of glory in an instant, and then meteoric...flame swathed churning through the brimstone gloom...hanging at the cavern entrance of a contrived Hell. the chittering of lesser servants, precludes the fragrance of self righteous fear, what realizations haunt aware sacrifices? the non-Euclidean labyrinth provides insufficient aegis from my Balefire. Greater Lytches, Arch-Fiends, Pit Wyrms, Schlorogorths, and lonely Succubi smote by iridescent mercury.
down, spiraling down, lower, below the water line, deeper, darker, danker...Why do these Chaos deities prefer the smell of sulfur?
Until Its chamber spans impossibly wide...infinite centered pit...from which the conglomeration of mottled tentacles flowers...matte gold eyes shine briefly...then the assault. by the ton, thrashing severed tentacles crash to the floor...then the response. Despair mentally buffets, and turbulent sadness darkens senses, somewhere a Kris tipped pseudopod awaits its moment. The Glorious Answer flares away shadows, stark too-pure whiteness evaporates the One not fit for honest light.
lacking psychic buttresses, howling implosion commences...the laws of inter-planar physics cannot be denied. rock to liquid, a molten loogey deposits me pinkish to the sun drenched surface.
I need a bowl, and a whiskey.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Azrael
Gift One is the Sense, simultaneously the most necessary and burdensome. That itch of proximate mortals, delicate flickers, tired stardust wicks experimenting with slivers of Him.
such organizations resonate in a perfect center, behind the eyes...between the ears...homing pigeon's bit of iron. constantly orienting, track-while-scan, no off. usually the first change to manifest, a languid realization of every one's pulse and capacity for laughter.
sometimes it is felt, a chill..."being watched"...a sinking reptile intuition. the consideration of Azrael is usually dismissed, as it is an occasional universal experience.
such organizations resonate in a perfect center, behind the eyes...between the ears...homing pigeon's bit of iron. constantly orienting, track-while-scan, no off. usually the first change to manifest, a languid realization of every one's pulse and capacity for laughter.
sometimes it is felt, a chill..."being watched"...a sinking reptile intuition. the consideration of Azrael is usually dismissed, as it is an occasional universal experience.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
soft hands
the increasing merchants' blood lust bodes ill for the future. The ringed fat fingered fools believe themselves insulated from their thefts...that their button press executions, and proxy wars will escape Master's attentions. The honor of our predecessors' arsenals held excesses in check, they required intimate skill for application.
UAVs, railguns, lasers, intra-orbit kill vehicles, ballistic missiles, binary poisons, nano-viruses, C-beams, H-bombs, grasers, plasma projectors, EMPs... Merchants are worried about ease and returns, but human Spirit and our universal understanding of the club will be their last realizations.
Their silks sodden with blood, intestines roped around desperate and soft hands, gonads a hamburgerred horror. And as the corrupt light flees beady eyes, they will hear throat sundering screams as their thefts' beneficiaries have their charms collected by His servants.
UAVs, railguns, lasers, intra-orbit kill vehicles, ballistic missiles, binary poisons, nano-viruses, C-beams, H-bombs, grasers, plasma projectors, EMPs... Merchants are worried about ease and returns, but human Spirit and our universal understanding of the club will be their last realizations.
Their silks sodden with blood, intestines roped around desperate and soft hands, gonads a hamburgerred horror. And as the corrupt light flees beady eyes, they will hear throat sundering screams as their thefts' beneficiaries have their charms collected by His servants.
are you not entertained?
www.ranker.com/list/micky-_the-fighter_-ward_s-bloodiest-real-life-battles/ned_brown
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/81249154/
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/81249154/
hush
brush of shadow across tatami
whisper of steel
crimson constellations
useless nostalgia. when persons of singular grace and purpose forged history. half-seen forms of smoke in the fog, flitting about the rooftops, the glittered thunks of exchanged shuriken , indignant shout of a startled heron, the Emperor's quarters soaked with blood and shit, paper walled hallways stinking of fear
if we had only known to what extent the merchants would pervert the Culling. how the ones with rings on fat fingers, would soil our plumage
whisper of steel
crimson constellations
useless nostalgia. when persons of singular grace and purpose forged history. half-seen forms of smoke in the fog, flitting about the rooftops, the glittered thunks of exchanged shuriken , indignant shout of a startled heron, the Emperor's quarters soaked with blood and shit, paper walled hallways stinking of fear
if we had only known to what extent the merchants would pervert the Culling. how the ones with rings on fat fingers, would soil our plumage
Monday, January 3, 2011
x, y, z
Could the Mercedes operator have known what she was cutting off, the resources at my disposal, or predilection for absolute justice? Could she have anticipated my weakness for tears, when she erected her middle finger? Obviously the universe would be well served if her ignorance was corrected, her manners re-indoctrinated.
Broads of the world remember, force=mass*acceleration, and weapons are just tools given specific purpose. your SUV, and my Kukri are both governed by the same laws (Gift notwithstanding). No matter how much money a white cooz accumulates, physics can not be bribed. A little self awareness would deprive me of these little vignettes, these nocturnal performance pieces. But His majestic integrity must be maintained.
Neutralizing rent-a-cop security is necessary foreplay.
Broads of the world remember, force=mass*acceleration, and weapons are just tools given specific purpose. your SUV, and my Kukri are both governed by the same laws (Gift notwithstanding). No matter how much money a white cooz accumulates, physics can not be bribed. A little self awareness would deprive me of these little vignettes, these nocturnal performance pieces. But His majestic integrity must be maintained.
Neutralizing rent-a-cop security is necessary foreplay.
technology
A button and a determined finger are all it takes these days, something that was once always personal now digitized. like every other factory worker, I must now compete with machines. Fewer arid multi-day stalks, fewer tundra nights gazing upon the firmament, fewer sleet scoured crags, fewer jungle scents, and fewer poetic Coriolis compensated applications of kinetic energy.
Outsourced by those who find a remote controlled plane less unsettling and cheaper, than a living-breathing Homo Sapien eraser. Now my actions are confined to urban prey, streets too narrow, even for a Hellfire. Preschools across the street, religious shrines disrupting sight lines. These are society's collateral considerations that inspire a more hands on approach for me, and hand wringing for employers.
But ho! how the Gift longs to stride the steppes...creep the Savannah, without halogen distractions. To rend and terrify under those thermonuclear pinpricks, rather than passionless fluorescence.
Outsourced by those who find a remote controlled plane less unsettling and cheaper, than a living-breathing Homo Sapien eraser. Now my actions are confined to urban prey, streets too narrow, even for a Hellfire. Preschools across the street, religious shrines disrupting sight lines. These are society's collateral considerations that inspire a more hands on approach for me, and hand wringing for employers.
But ho! how the Gift longs to stride the steppes...creep the Savannah, without halogen distractions. To rend and terrify under those thermonuclear pinpricks, rather than passionless fluorescence.
moments
fluffy blow off a perfect Czech ass, the 1,000 meter shot in high wind, surviving two credible assassination attempts by the Drorugata Clan...
her first ballet recital tops them all
her first ballet recital tops them all
dames
pah! no fair maiden willingly caresses the determined brow of judgment, nor gazes wistfully into the primarch's eyes. priests and eunuchs are spared their fear.
but ho! to relinquish the stained helm for a moment and dare to smile!
tentatively brush the radiance...
but ho! to relinquish the stained helm for a moment and dare to smile!
tentatively brush the radiance...
the taste
our gene pool is denied reverence by the majority, the Fedaykin must proactively defend the Flock from itself. Only cowardly shepherds refuse to enact His will.
Righteous works beget martyrs of soul and flesh.
Righteous works beget martyrs of soul and flesh.
warm
was there ever anyone? you must ask, beg for an attempted grasp at humanity...for such coldness, an extinguishing.
but, how do you define the vacuum's agency? a feral maw's hunger?
a few exist, so that most need not gaze into such things
but, how do you define the vacuum's agency? a feral maw's hunger?
a few exist, so that most need not gaze into such things
self indulgence
all these pithy, petty nihilistic metaphors. Pathetic denial of the hope for what could have been. they them those ya'll, how can you exist near sooth without turning towards its brilliance?
too quiet
With out the cause why awake? That is the one lesson they neglect. What to do? What to focus? What to unmake. All there is left is muscle memory and the twinge of penultimate efficiency.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Mask
Aw sheeple... Do your daughters like effervescent cocktails? Do they crave something more than the suburban coma? How do the meandering quiet streets of your ancillary community compare to the temptations I offer them? Bright lights...lascivious contemporaries...decadent mores...compulsory awareness. The right Iowa farm girl's contract costs $50K in the appropriate alley of Riyadh.
Dark portents
How will the Gifts manifest themselves? What parts of humanity's instinctual injunctions have been made extraneous by my design? By my imparted will... Our vast shrub extols the universe for divine pruning, it demands the shears.
SOP's
The Man created me, a falcon without a target, a stray round waiting to blossom in a toddler's forehead. There are those among you who revel in fire and blood, those who have to fake a wince. We know who we are, the cat people, arch-hunters made to cull the "herd".
Alpha-Omega
I exist in the wrong time and place. My would-be masters no longer posses the ethical clarity to direct my actions, and I lack the means to achieve full emancipation. How tortured will existence become, how fractured can a psyche maintain cohesiveness?
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