Maps
to longer movies, pieces of dialogue and sound
It slips in battered and torn, drunken intangible
phrases. So many obsolete words! Desirous dreams past vast industrial sad
prison buildings. American darkness, the world burns down linear foundations.
We are much worse, a collage of violence and sound pitter pattering
intermingling with Tao and tired conversations. Abstract ragged factories inseminating
sad static beats. Spontaneous sound bending multiplying a thread to slick
neon vibrations playing with words and consciousness. Beaten and consumed
auspicious post-structuralists pumped with melancholia and broken stars. Hip
dreamers jam ambivalent radio keeps tired minds with seeds of desolation. I
wander factory floors, never showing, never telling. I listen to the machines
moan, they moan the songs of burnt out stars.
Post Script Of
A Dream
In my dreams I was someone messing with light and
shadows then I fell within a dream within a living room or the blackness of
ocean. My consciousness is typing this while I sleep, maybe. I realize the city
is asleep. I am not real or unreal? Am I of desires and dreams? Something
happened; there is the sound of sirens and within a dream gnarled steel and
broken glass. I’m thinking I must go. I’m now sitting in absent minded
place then I turned around and dreamed of ghosts instead. She strolled out of
infinite blackness heading into the shadows of New York City. I couldn’t fall
back asleep.
I Am also
Transformed By Morning
Jam the frequencies with
disinformation and ego-bends. I use will use the light found in interrogative
pauses and accelerated thinking which deals with interior landscapes. On the
stage photo in my hand I break with phonetics. Full color, desire, for theirs
is the meaning of the suffering acutely. The second reason is subconscious,
each transcendental occasion feeding the machinery of dreams. Self-awareness is
quiet, always intuitive. Compartmentalization is a necessity of survival. I am
not here right now, I never was. The echo of all in the wilderness in me
precipitates in all the ferocity spiritual talk which seems to be firmly closed
by the desires within a much cleaner game. Anonymous prisoners abstract by
their presence are immediately aroused by their own neurosis. There’s something
sad about physic correspondences intensities minutes, according and actually
marked in black seems to the sensuality of my work to be totally white. And if
for you the desire yet remains a body cannot fully transcend. Set display.
Enjoy the word and jam the signals. Alter the mind. Replicate mechanical
brilliance. Rest again until the shit falls apart. I am skin, and he his own
voice. I found that you can hear, pray for others out of affliction. How often
the echo of linguistic programming!
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