Ultraviolet Quicksand Simile Droste and Origins of Seven Deadly Sins

Orthodox lions, tigers, and bears Oz Seuss Megalodon [DD1] with a hundred kilo hard-on autistically thrashing the controlled ego that watches hour-long displays of mating dominance that go unabated while the uncontrolled ego gores dancers that happen to be triplets, two of which are cyclops’.  Cyclops sez Marshal Cadenza [DD2] picks up paycheck slop in his low riding cruiser sporting masked aviators judiciously disturbing the peace in the name of the law of badged undulations.  Libido mosquitos’ blood suck the youth from their parents. These dehydrated children are far flung from the roots of the family tree, a tree of life bearing more than bargained-for fibers that make up The Fabric of the Cosmos: The Illusion of Time.  Brian Greene, a good magician name, resettles his stomach by barf-farbing gluten-gluons.  The game-changing sacerdote rolls his die and contextualizes the moving mission that is less of a miracle and more of a mirage, relatively, rhetorically speaking, asking, “If Time isn’t what we all think it is then what is Space?  Does it have a beginning? Will it have an end? Where did it come from?” three NOVA wine deep into a purple fable slurry, the ultraviolet quicksand of destiny, and an x-ray diffraction of fate.  Where did words come from?  Was it an attempt to put reason to rhyme?  Does rhyme have a reason?  Does a countertenor contralto?  Logic is like a recursive simile Droste.  The laryngeal timbre of the little voice inside my head that supersedes schedules alternates on a whim so it seems to habituate choice to control freethinking.  Freethinkers fancy themselves beats, Beatniks, and those of an anarchistic clique who reject reification, not to be rebels per se, but to abide the necessity of rebellion.  Judas I, rebel to his own cause, against the merger of sinners and saints, empire righteous in his own mind, a privatized Aceldama of dreadful associations and due discursus, the son of perdition is eternally betrayed by his own misgivings.  Military torture and the apocalypse, governmentally privatized properties surveil the residual riff-raff, hell recumbent on stoned springs.

                There needs to be new fuel for old flames.  What do I keep doing always?  The self-control freak domesticates his own soul, he stays out of trouble, and he represses suppressions into recesses forever.  There would be no courage without risk.  There would be no risk without reward.  Politicians’ policy-make, police police, and sleep soundly lying guard.  But it’s convenient to blame the taxers for my personal relationship issues for what amounts to a minor yearly concern the IRS levies on my statistics to keep me humble.  Am I vain?  Am I narcissistic?  Is it wrong to not share feelings with a woman who is sick, desperate, and a wet blanket to boot?  Insecurities and lack-of-securities are unattractive.  The former is lame, the latter is dirty.  An over-abundance of preferences is more childish than urbane.  The modern neuromartyr, rent-strapped, a victim of circumstance, an ambivalent contradiction, reminiscent of former ambitions, Hello Kitty dogma, ‘shit happens’ philosophy, “No Exit” playdate, wall sartorial, how far must I ascend to reach you, (dishabille girl)?

7/21/13

                One man’s mutt is another man’s hybrid. 

                Uber-judgy, lisped-out, high-pitched queers, smokers, jokers, and midnight tokers street-debate evangelist banner-wavers.  They get excite! When they come out of dark bar show boxes and into the light of SunChip brand sweet and spicy bbq flavored great multigrain taste! On a day so sublime!  Oversexualized street slum ping-pong up out of the hizzy fo’ shizzy keepin’ it bouncy on a rolley table.  God’s so over his geometric phase, hydro-fractal Being, He’s not doing the color thing either, sending affectionate greetings through the screen din window.

                “Mom!” her son says, showing his mother a sack of un-red onions before throwing them under a passing bus, summoning automobiles to the kitchen street, hot with carrots, celery, cumin, and eggs.

                “Your father doesn’t get it, the people at church are dropping like pensive flies before stained- glass planets.”  The should-have-nots turned iconographers with a sprinkle of chaste water onto golden crosses burn opium incense, and chant, ‘candles, candles, candles…’ mesmerized, even hypnotized by the short-term goals that fill in for long-term goals to get perpetually laid by founders who talk soup. 

                One man’s mulatto is another man’s hybrid.  Hybrid Irish, green eyes, St. Patrick’s stick-to-itiveness seized the day.  He drove the snakes away with the isle’s demons while the episcopi vagantes remain.  Blinking, backpedaling on a mountain bike o’er smooth city slopes, an apoplectic whiz kid aided my dissolution. Beyond, a jetski cresting waves.  Offensive rumors spread like the legs of a stinky French whore, “Hey! Who ‘ you callin’ a French whore in my French Quarter?” she rallies slutty troops like the easy, breezy west wind. 

                Jamz be bongo, black/African corner cataracts chaw’n ginkgo quid for mnemonics.  Gay – socially licentious – petty lawbreakers make spectacles because they are opticians who think that life is but a joke.  The mote and the beam attaboy controversy.  Multimedia adds ads, not petunias.  “Outta mmy gzarden, boy!” and out pops an Irish thumbed genie, third horseman of the apocalypse, singing, “A quart of wheat for a day’s wage, and three quarts of barley for a day’s wages, and do not damage the oil and the wine!”[DD3]  (Revelation 6:6)

                A sarcastic southern city blooms Duke blue, faithful and loyal to the devil who cleans poop out of uncircumcised foreskin in baby diapers.  Tanning on the beach with the vitamin D fish out-drying their computers in the long grass near the runes of rah-rah-Raleigh.  Not just tall but bigamist, antichrist dines with swine and wears pearls.  This is not excessive I keep telling myself.  NBC Shaekarevoletta, “drink dog’s blood and die of the plague!” Back in the lab, Soxhlet, agar plates and petri dishes, syringes, a Buchi rotavapor, the drams of the drinking bird heat engine.  A Venn diagram: Eternal, evolving, or eternally evolving? A couple cogs in an ethereal mechanism of eternal truths and temporal facts that take their place among the hetaerae and polytheistic deities.

7/24/13

I have faith that my faith will save me from self-determined damnation.
What is eternal?  Truth.
Can truth evolve?  No, facts evolve and become their own truth that takes their place as a part of history in an expanding universe.
What is eternally evolving?  The content of the medium.
What is the medium?  The membrane, shell, coating, or filter through which the message is delivered unto thee.
What is the message?  The basis of understanding.
What is there to understand?  Every (little) thing and nothing at all, one.

Pain exacts its lesson, painlessness induces forgetfulness, and discipline’s disciples remember what their teacher told them to do, “Follow me,” Jesus, not on Twitter, in the flesh and blood, part of the meaning was found in the virtual, touching Thomas’ reality during the touchable times when stone masons chiseled stories upon time testable tablets that shattered at snapchat rates, one instakilogram hit the decasecond, six colossal frames per minute at speeds approaching one ultra-broadband mobile gigabit.

I have faith that standing up for what’s right is the right thing to do.  I have faith in Grassmannian tautology – the parameter of all linear subspaces of a vector space of a given dimension – named after Hermann Gunther Grassman (1809-1877) the German polymath, not to be confused with Gunter Wilhelm Grass (1927-2015) the German novelist, members of the same vector space, but in different dimensions, Germany over time, hairs all aswarth. Also not to be confused with grass, the uncontrolled substance, orange haired lady.

                The eternal mind strives toward perfection of itself within itself, a confluence of integuments and shell game in a corky husk.  Neither porky nor husky, I’m dying a rather Cambrian death, nevertheless trite, outright, and conniving.  If I could parse the words completely they’d hang me to a ‘t’ (for tree, not to be confused with the Tasmanian ‘T’ for Tasmania, which wouldn’t make as much sense in context, although they could tie me to a Tasmanian devil, the carnivorous marsupial, not to be confused with the Anglo devil that doesn’t nurse in a pouch.) Not nail me to a cross like someone holier than me who died for the abolishment of all sins and moral vices, who paid the cost, being the boss, for nicety.  Who’d believe in ascension, bee?  How does that help me pay the day’s wages?  The skin that I’m in: balding, liver spotting, and frail ZABOUT 2B ARF-rittic!  How ageist?  Is that the gist? Ageism is still a normative belief of falling into an eternal pit of condescension as the days go by when one sits at home and judges the sins that our retired fathers have visited upon their sons, reflecting Ezekiel 18, “…the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge?” atheistically, whereby you humiliate me and protect yourself which is exactly what makes it wrong and you should know me better.   Your dogma is: If it smells bad, kick it, father.  We get it, she’s fat and she smells bad, you can tell by the tissue damage and the emotional scarring, fiscal inconveniences, and who really gives a shit?  Not you, your ass is clean, and the asses of thou forefathers, be they ever bidet’d.  It’s nearly 4 (1557) and the dogs are barking and the Eth are reeling in their selfish catches for close quarters and tight budgets.  They know what I’m saying just about as well as the class-system elitists who won’t listen to good reason if it doesn’t line their pockets with something cold and hard like rigor mortis.  The deatheaters, the skull’n’bones, and those just dyin’ to be real-deal rich all know from college-level Ebonics, “If it don’t make dollers, it don’t make no sense,” or whatever that homeless Marine out of the red said…

               What’s mined is yours, landowner.  Land downers mine, unthinking of diamonds in the sky that can neither be privatized nor nationalized, two edges of the same earthly blade.  A broad, a blunt, and a cash crop forge the mettle.  The national government wages war on the private sector, deemed amoral, that smokes forbidden fruit from forbidden trees, which, like the spices of diversity, are good for one person’s health and bad for another’s, as a matter of perspective.  The active ingredients of marijuana extracted into oils and then baked, fried, or grilled into any infusible comestible for athletes, for those with sensitive lungs, or for those who aren’t too fatigued to follow a recipe or formula.  But smoking is so Kool and the kids gotta getit inem’ quick for fear of not fitting into a morbid social setting.  Shotgunning beer, taking bong rips, and blowing lines of not Coca-Cola while hootin’n’howlin’ late into the 20’s at 2. 

               It’s an us vs. them mentality, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em is the cliché, but joining their ranks is less a matter of real sacrifice and more a matter of gluttony, greed, pride, and the rest.

A proud look
A lying tongue
Hands that shed innocent blood
A heart that devises wicked plots
Feet that are swift to mischief
A deceitful witness that uttereth lies
Him that soweth discord among brethren

Proverbs 6:17-19

                “…adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, sorcery, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings, murders, drunkenness, revellings…”  Galatians 5:19-20

Gastrimargia: gluttony: lustful appetite
Porneia: prostitution
Philargyria: avarice: irascibility
Hyperephania: hybris: intellect
Lype: envy
Orge: wrath
Kenodoxia: boasting
Acedia: dejection (sloth)

Gluttire (to gulp down) praeproperissime (most hastily) laute (loudly) nimis (animals) ardenter (passionately)

Gluttirepraeproperissimelautenimisardenter.

                Homeownership: homo nurse hip, drugs Inc. are sure rations.  Logic rationally dictates that walls be deconstructed for an opener society; may the truth be heard, be made apparent, and hurt.  Strife filled strivings of a raving mad lunatic condense what the American dream means: opportunity.  Opportunity to do what? That, “They shall not build, and another inhabit; they shall not plant, and another eat: for as the days of a tree are the days of my people, and mine elect shall long enjoy the work of their hands.” Isaiah 65:22 Shalt thou take personal responsibility for an entire community?  Thank you lawmakers, enforcers, our streets are safe, go home now, before idle hands become you, and ye order someone else to dig a ditch, fill a pothole, or plant a tree in your stead, all good work for a day’s labor that requires no ammunition.  Enforcement slaves enforce slavery.  Gentrified units collect on impoverished communities where both sides are to blame, sinners all.  Those worthy of blame enforce blameworthiness.  Cops and robbers are Hell’s allies.  Lucifer v. Belphegor; Mammon v. Beelzebub; Satan v. Asmodeus; Leviathan’s triple-header (Binsfeld, P., 1589).  And some people are undecided about the nature of unseen forces that shape our lives.

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 [DD1]‘big tooth’

 [DD2]An ornamental passage (in music)

 [DD3]Revelation 6:6