Fake Breast of Champions

Toking this-meditative toxin-by this method-isn’t a good time because it smells like poop- but I feel it is my duty as an earnest seer to suffer this disdainful essence. With stern approval from the ether I practice the ritual. But my first preparation was not complete. I complained to the doctor about the weakness of the sprinkle. He said what I thought was auld-skule was bitch-folky and that I needed to hold the draw mo gank. Second round he really loaded it on. I knew that I was on my way when I saw the crumbly layer ignite and glow of its own. With discipline I drew it and then as practiced, placed the bowl on the carpet.

Tear the sash off my holy relic where you have it in your notes. There is a digitally enhanced piece of poopy on a stick that says “bloody fuck.” Gobbless you. I see the illness between my ears light up like a seething blue cubicle. Its writhing with caterpillar-esque penises. A chorus jibes that I’ve got an industrial mind sickness of the soul. Gaudy idolized cocke blockeries coil within a dirty bible of cakey beef with burnt proscioutto pages.
I went and checked grandpa’s grave, and sure enough, he’s turned over in there. The braying moral voice of the torture idol accuses me of being a tad too fond of bananas. It asks “Why investigate things of this nature?” Sensing my observing cohort’s overall timidity about the inquiry, I evade using the standard formula of abject denial. A clausal statement about the molecular presence of infinity within any minutia follows. Martyr engineered the double ‘sh’ of my name to make it easier to silence me?

Martyr doesn’t want me revealing what I reconnoitered about God’s Birthday Party. It looks like everyone is going get the gift of a chance to be happy, even Martyr. But I’m no longer the guest of honor. I try to formulate the reason why evil hates me: for being duplicitous in favor of good. Though I’m still loved my part in the plan of God’s birthday is spoiled. Spoiler alert:( On exhibit was an angel’s triad of fun that everyone could have. A bright eternal day of motor-sport racing, surfing and sex hollered a halleigh-ho with all of our names in Love. But now I’m grounded. My parents have buried me beneath the pavement of the parking lot at the foot of the tree of Life. They are pumping sewage into my ass, and they are petting me before death, filling me with poop. I am a shame to them and what they did to me is a secret chancre they disguise with luxury items. Quietly going about their business of niftily improving their furnishings until they are too expensive to touch they decide that I will go to hell alone, guiltily at fault. I am to pay the price for everyone’s farmlatio.

The bar-codes they assigned me have not helped me avoid penury! I have not been able to integrate into the info-tech jobs market. The humble manufacturing sector into which I would naturally default has disappeared. This typer separates me none-what from total fecklessness. I’m out of coupons and credit but the battery still has power. We just assume everything is monitored and you are lying when you say you’re still working on it. I am parked bodily here in grief amongst the charity that the dead put toward me in the future. Now Love cuts off my retreat to pleasure. Paradox and reflection are standing by with insufficiently honest coupons. By not enough I mean none. An ineffable communique from the cosmos presses my blood with its dire inscrutable accusation. My illuminated archetype within the hallucination transmitter’s reality is one of a worthy receptor final late execration. My gut knows which hours are friendly. I cannot clearly act to eliminate this discomfort as I feel it still coalescing. My ethereal body is filling with spiritual poop. Slipping brokenly through life I notice myself blinking amongst the oldsters at franchise’s first lighting. What am I going to do with my consciousness? It is a real divided mess and the coverlet of my alien paternal progenitor almost glides onto my person.

Chalky snap-lines in the sky- they happen every day of the year around this economy. The transmitter triangulates me and an agent takes over the play list of the station I’m consuming. The song procession parodies my paranoia. Now that Your atmospherically personified omniscience and I are intimately acquainted, it pleases me to see You’s. Cue the weather and sound the advert, we each have our oracles. This is a likely commons for brigands- and with these constant rains they’ll dissemble- but across the city of the dead the vibration of an engine rises. Though I know that there exists no evidence, and no victim, pursuit is sent. I sense it searching for me behind the grave studded hillock. To evade I entered this burial labyrinth- the time was now so I disconnected the power supplies from all present transistors and processors. But the battery of this surveillance device that I have inhaled is impregnable to my interference. Now I am without anyone’s lodging and my head rings weakly of other places. Certain unseemly invitations call me and I pretend to ignore them. But disgrace and fear of vectors within reality deter my wandering form. The power of my pittance now is little good. Now the expansion of consciousness is making me dumb. My crystal with which You’s furnished me espied the judgment of the torture idol to be a sure fit. No place but forgotten wedges of brush lot left to poop in peace. Will the grip of the poverty pass me over and peel off a negative, rolling an image of “how it really is” up onto the screen of eternity for us to behold. All these rich assholes are ashamed of what they’ve extruded: me=poop. My priorities mysteriously align. I’m tapered at the ends so I don’t slam shut. Despite the damaging incongruence we arrive early in the warp. This is apparent to us as we beam calm recognition of the fact that we are accustomed only to feeling alive and mostly young.

The Phallocrats have their distinctions and sins- this apostate from the Phallocrats is on the lookout for sweet thick moss and a deep narrowing grip. I take out my swastika-farmlatio-cigarette art. I do it in such a way that glorifies Christ along with all the other worthy and unworthy martyrs. My martyr thinks He’s the best but I refuse to profess to choose exclusively. Universal intelligence stencils its signature on my ass with a precise, gradual application of reality.

Nano-tech will milk the juice from the sky. The transmitter strongly suggests indulging in some morbid fascination. This mobile ability to act is a tenuous shackle to my core programming that wants to arrive in dominance of the standard by travail through complete and direct deviation. (The careful balance and circumspection of sunshine is where the cake is at.) I feel the cleaves and fractals of the crystal beginning to lean toward me positively. The import of irrelevant peripheral stimuli takes on a slightly friendlier, more cooperative tone of cipher. Some initiatives, though vainly wanted by the fascia of the hallucination transmitter control room, cannot be furnished among the many on the ground by their purveyors arcing between. And if an agitative objector within their network’s sphere of influence is too successful or unruly to ignore, the entire array of media assets tunes in concert against that agent’s sanity. Clearance-enabled operators within the data interface pique the song lists and advertising slant to agitate the targeted personality.

Undulations of what the Western Standard calls temptation are suggested from random import and observation. Universal intelligence far exceeds, but does not apparently out-reify the controllers of the hallucination transmitter. Their smarmy sub-audible diatribe of aping my paranoias begins to clarify, cracking my thoughts into static. Martyr knows I swelter beneath this summer of life’s inability to pee in public carried over from painful adolescence’s toxic wanton. Gradually wobbling me off into these restraints, toward death. Very fine articles of telecommunication- angelic spaceships- bide invisibly over funny modern sundials that aren’t anchored, but spin like gravelly carousels, and are set by a wristwatch.

The total sum and substance of these archival millenia is the other side of nature. The chirping of the birds sounds like a hardcore personal epitaph, and it came delivered with the slam of a door. Working your cloud waifs rather anomalously, as it seems from the calm of the tarmac, I finally look and discern your skytoon. I know its bad for my eyes and my mind. The images are highly suggestive and the ultimate in unobtainable. An agglomeration equidistant with reality makes a seamless but contrary quip using anything significantly with endless ingenuity and irony. They are trying to unseat my concentrated quietude using their privileged knowledge. The illustrations they pose as omniscient weather aerosols combine all too seamlessly with the actual synchronistic comment of the one true universal intelligence. But a discerning observer can tell them apart because even though they can control the shape and movement of the clouds with nano-dispersion electro-magnetically intermingled with the natural inevitable other dusty airborne mass the uniform and coherent magneto-wave forms that surround the apparitions lack the sincerity of actual clouds.. This reflective commentary from the cosmos now interjects with a dissing sound meaning sarcasm. I am the bad calculus mounting. My mother’s mind is made- mom’s man is a made maid- my many misalliances make martyr’s mind morbidly mad. Mean mayhem is monotheism on mother’s mind. My morals are minimized. The transmitter silently urges me to act like the type execrated by the standard. The rain filtering through the trees taps like many voices on the roof of my ultra-low income housing. I feel your tires snaking through the puddles to report my location.
With this natural drumming there is no silence. I look to the expense of my habits and wish to consolidate and pay the weatherman directly. I question this precipitation as its barometric providence is specious, this precipitation too sleety for this heat.

the weatherman- he has his graven clown-hood- and I have mine. The dead see me huddled by daylight, parked under the trees while the gates are open. A large headstone topped with a crossyfix and a bird. Through the rain I didn’t think twice but then the bird flew away. I hear my martyr’s hated voice quavering. I’m having my broken fast with the engine off and the rain talking down. The phrase “praise dilaudid” resounds in the tip-taps. I make a sweet bed of the parking lot. Rising ungodly steam of stereo. Everybody knows my specific model is in exile but they wonder where in particular. Not only am I bodily expelled from my many usual places but I have PTSD from DMT. Your probably don’t know much about those experiences but its like hot rape by sexy insects during time travel panoplies. It is so real that now, normally paced reality is a lizardine gang-bang of parameters and manifest destinies. What’s that like? Volcano weather- too cold for mushrooms to appear. The crystal saw me walk and overturn the correspondence, and the cleaving of my total going where I went was absorbed in energetic observance. One who could observe the vibrational report of the crystal saw the event. Turning back from the light of a star to the dirt of the hearth- I feel you building static and thinking about the bolt’s aim and lightening. Because they told you that you were not light but dust, a finer version of dirt- and that you were here permanently and not temporarily. Half the sky darkens and half lightens while your charge accumulates. Drawing the necessary density from one section of towering cloud friction using your network of electromagnetically conductive hallucination transmitter towers. Because in the irony of his wisdom he made you to be especially stubborn against this fact: that your animal in pain so bright is not made of dirt but of water and light. My name is running with blood and I linger pissing thereby at night.

The PTSD I suffer from DMT is an advanced form of time travel sickness. Is my disease damning? Is my destiny diseased? The rumor is that Crosstianism is a phallocentric cult of personality set up to enhance the profits of the weather consortium and the death-belief racket fund…What is the hermetic order of the public? Seeing that my archetype within the hallucination is one subject to communal execration the words of a bad song cling to my voice. The message is a jumbled greeting that is addressed to me and is from my Martyr. It is a refrain of hatred disclaiming her culpability- her guilt in bringing about the shut-down. Now it is granted. This quiet place for my sober reflection and genuine detailed explanation of my actions issues from these pithy inscriptions- over which both of our fingertips have traced decades apart and unsuspecting of one another until this, the very latest- when I am exposed with shame- I share with you the story from this place, situated upon the heavenly precipice to and fro hell. The path to this spot is easy to travel but not so obviously marked. One can infer from the feel of the place what the deal is. A very ugly beauty is furnished indeed. Beyond the tame mountains of the horizon rises a sprinkle of smoke from the garbage fire at the site of the siege.
This estate along the seaward flow of the bank warp, that we are passing nearby is my lost ancestral home. A loser still, close by floats this mist of dispersion. The sky has changed habits since our shack was here- silver stubby roaches scrape the yonder and leave crosses and grids of clouds in their wake.

To the witnessing ghosts of Mr. Church and Mr. Evans I tell my troubles. I will not let them haunt us, reader, without acknowledging that they are here with me. Because Mr. Evans is present invisibly on the template of these days of my life. I attest to it, Mr. Church, and advise your wariness regarding the uncanny nature of these invasions- Our zodiacal, geographical, and circumstantial places are overlain- the time and dates of our moist significance- I can feel reality coinciding badly. I’ll try to use my stomach to modulate it. And give me money now. For the pittance of the coupon price mentioned you may follow along too, otherwise then fall by the wayside and pay some visit to one of my sponsors. My Martyr is zealous about one version of things that isn’t justified- and since the consecrated function of a martyr is to die needlessly for a lost cause, then she ought not be doing so well in accumulating invidious material wealth. Perhaps she is a martyr for intolerance, perhaps a martyr for materialism.

Are her bonds not also animated by the programmers of the hallucination transmitter, with which I co-operate so well? Do they regard it in their thoughts like a pornographic cartoon series written by an omniscient author? A fat spider presents herself and I wonder if she is poisonous? The terrible gall of this leadership cult. These hypnotizing social clinicians arrive upon my martyr. The dead will fill in the blank. Insufficiently humble pilgrim- be among us in this way as you are above us.

A draft climbs my sock and says something familiar to my leg. This used to be a nice part of the floor. My recreational drug warming indicators flash. Cold runs in my stomach and I apply hot chronic. Spirituousness crowds me to the keys demanding that I write. Candles first…an aged neon me. A negativistic purple of my usual antique taupe. Here it glows, filling the periphery.
I scour the interface for jobs. Fake help wanted. A product called “Blob-jax” is for sale. The services of a “peintre” for hire.

My father liked to paint. Penile scenery mostly. I should tell You’s this about myself, that I hate paintin.’ Especially for the purpose of uniformly colorizing a surface.. even now, however, the brush swills and bangs in my hand. It is quite dangerous for me to become involved with pastels. I’ve painted it gayly and now I linger on the threshold of my open cage-

Martyr wants me in there and stepping tall and rocking my head from side to side as I’m marching in place. She pictures me steaming along in there, a horn tooting from the corner of my smiling mouth, socking it away. And though body has been an easy sell based on the boner alone, I have labored for years to produce to attractive personality content. By the imperial perceptions of my mind I estimate that I am likely a living inheritor of the legacy of bitch-folk. I infer that I am speaking from the central reptilian intelligence of self. I search amongst this priced intoxication for the words of transcendent logic. I’m trying to find words to sell that you’ll recognize as genuine, because I know you won’t buy anything fake twice. The strengths of my mind are being trashed by disuse- and the vicarious inspiration of my imagination and the stress of frustration is beginning to ache physically. Out of the pastel cloaks of entertainment the extreme incongruent ratiocination foisted on my larynx during crucial adolescence reifies and titillates me hauntingly. We’re each supposed to be free of our sexual traps by a certain arbitrary deadline or else- imprisoned with our blob-jax or impoverished without them.

This tin chin is tucked loosely on a wrecked neck under my morning stare. Manhole covers glow away down the strip like buttons on a shirt reality is wearing. Customers edge past me and don’t look. My sumptuously candied vision wavers and refreshes, the sun accents the frozen street in stainless purple ribbons of gold. I hunch tactically behind a sheen of glass. The glass is upheld by a wooden crucifix and this design is so reasonable and simple that peep holes bored deadly religions ruminating upon it. Some passing flair partially blinds me to the details. And in the glare I see them. On the surface of my eye- there they are.
A shamming banner deploys overhead in a streak, then smears descending.

When I squint a bit and try to look at the light just exactly where it is entering my body appreciably, on the surface of my eyeball, I see the amoeba sausages. These nano-caterpillars sliding on the surface of my eyeball ride downward and seem to exit the stage. These partly translucent caterpillars are suspiciously linked with circular articulating joints, so that when I cross my eyes to get my brain to stare perceptively at the surface of the ocular ball I see them sliding on the bubble of my retinas, like kites on heaven.

I suspect these micronic kinky linkages are part of the aerosol weather manipulation cloud strips being dispensed in the sky by the hermetic aviators. Because of the suspicious locus of additives to the air I cannot easily disregard these amoeba sausages. I’ve never in my life noticed the sharp and consistent design of these nano beasts before. Today they seem kinkier than usual, the strands waggling back and forth between circular links. Other days these have seemed to not be as kinky. Now I notice many more of them than usual. Having little alternative other than to wash my eyes and go on with my affairs it occurs to me that if these beasts are falling invisibly upon my eyeball then they could be within my lunch and I.

You’s pass the pad amongst me blindly. I’m beyond the pale now- what they consider to be a little worse than bad. I’ve let the wringing between my ears go unexchequed too long. Out of the stars I can easily pick your planet. With my vision fizzing I can barely focus on a moment in the light. Then you climb in on my shoulder. Here you are beautiful and blatant amongst the plain stellar arabesque. You’s pretends to be natural until I’ve done something ineffable- the moment it wants me to know you’re watching, the fake planet juts silently a significant distance across the night sky- and parks once again to remain- glittering and blinking past dawn. We travel time, entertaining the notion continuously. “Harmonious parsimony or parsimonious harmony?” Glance the real business by omission. The benefits of the interface pass beyond doubt once one’s physical condition declines untoward the burning remainder of vitality. To survive space and time travel we interfacial aliens took large black pills. Coated with a 50,000 microgram instant-absorption LSD loading dose, and encapsulating a five million microgram 240-month TR™LSD therapy dose. Our perfect swerve’s apex is a tight perihelion and we hustle our galactic racing planet around the sun like techno. Our mind is only beginning to act. Shafts of old people filter the light. A hundred times one rides the earth around the sun before the molecular borders between mineral and vegetable get splotchy. Our torsos dwindle while the psychedelic stimulants approach their peak. The junk-ware of our minds are cradled lovingly off the popsicle stick of our bodies and placed in the neuro-gelatinous maintenance gristle-bath of the interface. Uniforms keep our avarice perky. View through a satellite for a vision of me. The location-synthesizing program takes You’s to the very path I slip into and out from several times a day. Pass over me to the contents of my hovel. On my coddle sock our eyes lock. This moment in the dance music theater and all the words of genius are obvious, salable and mine for the taking. My sight and heart full of these words, the lights come up in the dance music theater and I plunge for the stylus and my mind, but I find that I’ve suddenly grown dumb to the epiphany. I thrash around to characterize the all pervasive comfort of knowledge that was flowing in my face so colorfully. I crinkle a convenient little tear for the things I want. But the blaring precious dimension has tattered into an invisible memory that seems to run away from my desire to recall it.
You’s reach for dials and dispatch a few lines of aerosol: for this purpose employ a secretly groomed cadre of aryan mongol aviation contractors to sow the heaven with vaporous tin foil… Of the sky the bitch-folkmen bleat negatively. Yet they breed a certain type of retard. I cannot believe that I am attached as this retard. It hurts and shames me that we are joined… the disgusting conversations that I endure with you…so belligerent in your ignorance that I want vengeance. These retards- senses and shadows are these bitch-folk. Their space flake is easily dispensable in varying confections. Combing the advertisements I single myself out as your possible custie. Your responses keep combing and I reassure you that I need them by arching my eyebrows highly and drawing back the pen in a textilian whisper of feigned shock. My book of faces is interpolastic. Sublimated energy generated thereby radiates above the thought sequence- it is obvious by survey that the automaton fellators have completely infiltrated the culture as the ads all volunteer for a specific sort of treatment that is avoided at all costs by most. The transmitter directs it to occur like this: In the shadow idiom I browse privately and touch upon certain invitations but pass them by.then espying the title of an entered search that catches the fancily- there and then the rake knows that his character fits the advertisement: this the hoe. They dispatch an agent with the minimum required opposing opinion to legally register their non-condonement. An identical deviation seems to exist and certify the reality of the looping hole. In the spirit of martyrdom I destroy my ego for cross mass. Systematically I seek out the most diametrical opposite meat moan conceivable on no notice: people masturbating to very small screens. Truly disproportionate misalliances! Examination of self’s motives in viewing media on such a scale poses excitation in an artistic way. The rapid sequential enumerated reification of erotic archetypes and the interface’s interrogative creepiness makes the vaguest edge of paranoia leap into relief. I’m wearing a tin foil thong and a keyboard, the room goes dark and the movie screen lights up and its all these three-to-seven word sentences. I’m wondering what’s up with this text interface and reading the little tidbits. There’s a little pointer on the costume hat that seems to make whichever line I was looking at change from white to pink. So I’m in this text interface and I begin scanning the various invitations that prostitutes and bodies waiting for someone had posted. Bitch-folk browsing the vignettes validate them by masturbating. I join them in scanning the posted tags. “Multiple Crazy Persons (MCP) in search of (ISO) various legal services (VLS):” After three seconds supplemental text for the headline’s side effects scroll out. “Working car or nice floor for objectifiable outer genital. This is for now. NSA. IHS. ” Once that additional text is turned over for three seconds a very sharp and narrow spotlight from high in the rafter comes on illuminating my outer genital with millions of watts of candlepower. There is an agency monitoring my reaction for inversion of response, a telling indicator of character alignment. My genital either does not respond or responds inwardly. “I need some heat and I don’t know how to tune in. I am a marked man in my prime with a stifle and twit. I went to church after work a couple of months ago, and got a little religious. One of the guys offered to drive me home. Well, one thing led to another and we were born again. Now, I am NOT a baby, I am a poseur. I had never done anything with Jesus before. Now horn lever, now I feel myself really drawn to this religion, and we worship if ever we can. I think I am getting evangelical about it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to convert my stifle. I don’t want to be religious or secular, but it’s like the Jesus narrative has a spell on me. I can’t stop thinking about him and wanting to be religious…”
I replay the ad as many times as it take my avarice in viewing to achieve its denoumont, then the monitor records the correlation between the time that I started, how many times I replayed the ad before I stopped replaying it, and how long the delay between key-presses calling for replay lasted.
Some curly monitor behind the action watches it closely and comments wryly, deterring further energetic symbiotic input to the program. Across the multi-media pornographic story board meat is canted at repelling angles, requesting time to review and waiting to be paid. Meat gesticulates, meat flees. I taste the meat’s ugly masturbative sweat. The observer occupies an identical meat hood. Note the unlikeliest combination of imagery as it shows a medusa of penises leaking and writhing in a penetrating and penetrable mass.

The monitor presses the required moral tone on the the action like a dredel on a bubble, guiding it around and showing the runes of its different sides to make her mind felt and known. You’s write “hard times” in a cursive of nasty lines on my face. I insinuate around the edges of my digital personality. Then I decide that it really doesn’t matter which twit I dash by to represent me in shadow. The vault is too secure for coincidental discovery, Its inventory is slated to disappear once the overhaul descends. Contrary to the abstaining spirit of earlier vision I press gently on this chosen button. The crown that I wear radiates dark heat and my palms leak. The interface blazes. My heart races and the computer rises. The respectability of writing as a facade for inactivity or worse convinces the observers.. A date with modified victimhood looms like the chances of winning at bingo. Prophylactic action forbears the transcript of several sessions and ongoing work is evidence of actual sentiment urgently expressed. The objectification of their titillation through the flight control interface provides a foreground for the remnant of prurient desires not winnowed from existence with the chromosomal omission. I’m listening for objective feedback regarding this subjective input. They want to know about the subject’s objectives. Objectively the subject calls for perspective. This is blurred as the matter is personal. The transmitter sends half a dozen contractors to certify that it was in fact my face there on the computer. We need half a dozen agents on the ground to verify that his machine isn’t stolen and being used for sabotage. It was definitely him, Sergeant. The weight of these considerations produces unexpected drag and by the pull of it the desired orbits fail to intersect. So closely to my drama do they adhere that for a moment the paranoia loosens as I consider that it must be me personally gone mad. No agency could reasonably afford to scan me so continuously. My retinas ache with the chore of identifying myself so often.

The cult draws members through propaganda of opposite characters in lurid agreement. The very finest organic ratios are displayed in popularly deplorable occupations. Identifying passionately with the other, wishing to be the opposite role is a classic activity of the TV-cult victim survivor’s groupies. It isn’t just me glomming onto the untamed word of them through this; we’ve been together a long time. Now peep holes want to show what is going on in this room. We are the interface. Time is altered to just now only. The events that appear to occur are carefully orchestrated media propaganda dispensed over the community as a symbolic penalty for me being among them. A secret public agency publishes desired plot specifications disguising them as advice column letters and the resulting private correspondence is their fodder. The robots are made for you to feel sorry for them. When they wake up out of their charging function easiest to see their artificiality where the naturalness would ordinarily be. I want some easy answers and I get them. But the robots begin taking more than they’re giving.

The slowdown scrutiny thereup. What we see on the ground are supertankers and smaller jets of a more local dispatch crossing to an fro with some frequency. The scripted wake of their travels remains to make a smeary network. But they don’t sit in the crockerypit. They have Down’s syndrome. there is no fun to be made of them, it is just who they are. The corporate military uses them for just that reason. They’re not front and center in the plane. They’re in a little cubicle perpendicular to the fuselage analogously manipulating a digital interface. So if you see several shape-spaces that spray grids and crosses in the sky you should know its a team of religious incompetents sitting by in-flight to represent an automated task. These misunderstanding marauders fit the definition of aviators in that they are habitually aboard these craft. Their control of the landing, trajectory and take-off is limited to manipulating a touch-screen cartoon pornographic sequence representing the controls.

The shape spaces are powered by the action of these masturbators. Porn is their fuel and taboos direct the steerage. When they want to go left they show a threesome of two women, and if they want to go right they show a threesome with one woman. As they need to accelerate they show orgy close-ups, and if they wish to slow down the sequence pans back from the orgy. The cartoon pornographic display shows sadism for hovering and to deploy the surveillance and kill functions the display features hobo-course and snuff respectively. The preferences and prejudices of the aviators dictate their response to the cartoon interface narratives. What does it mean when you’re spraysin’ the cross over our neighborhood?

These chem-trail aviators truly believe themselves to be pioneers for the cross- doing cross-tianism and advertising the law of the lord by spraying the sign of the cross in the sky. They illustrate the principle of tic-tac-toe- that both of us will emerge equals without a winner if both of us act logically.

Pilots are acclimated to the cartoon representation of the flight control interface by passively observing the illustrated narratives as entertainment. Inside the training simulator their reactions to specific pornographic vignettes are closely monitored. The plots of these are subtly altered to reward or suppress excitation, and the reactions of individual pilots are conditioned along these parameters.
For Stalker going left is a brunette, a chair and he builds grocery points represented by a digital shopping cart icon that fills or empties depending on performance. The program is designed to disguise its own existence and guards against the chance of the aviator realizing its true nature by adjusting the task and points earning requirements to reward whatever the aviator happens to do. At ground control, a simple series of lights indicate if the pilot is participating with the interface or has lost interest. It doesn’t matter if they’re accurate and their control of the plane is a coincidental semblance if they perform perfectly.So if the task of the interface is to manipulate the touch screen to evenly spread a hue on on the chair using the brunette’s seat, and stalker merely assaults the chair, then after a moment the level in the cart will halt its ebb and jump to task-complete levels.

They get the orders for their airy mission “Crosstians! Ride the bucking bronco of thine bibles backward. Compassionately cleanse the surfaces of the earth so a human alpha and human omega exist alone.” Hermetic aviators see it contractually: we are the cross-tian spermata lawfully prosecuting these bitch-folk the Poopy Boobs. The Poopy Boobs are on the dirt polluting. They lovingly battle we Poopy Boobs by spreading crosses over us. On the ground we’re rather concerned that the nano-polymers are entering our bodies in a collateral effect from the dispersion for the other obvious secret purpose of turning us each into magnetic discharge lamps lit by the inductive field composed of the nano polymer laden atmosphere and the high frequency power supply of the hallucination transmitter. The choir doesn’t even notice the preaching and assumes passenger liner paths regularly intersect unnoticed nearby overhead. I press the mechanic for an explanation. A flat nasal inflection on each syllable keeps my banter unintelligible. The Leadership meeting begins and we follow along. The paper equals coupon. Coupons trade for dirt and metal. Vegetables and meat go by on coupons. Places to put stone and wood to sit in. Gadgets to use, or ride on. Injun coupon values based on the total owned by the nation.

The form is a perfect spiral with accents. The accoutrments include a dropper bottle and a razor blade. We need a system that will manipulate the mind of the suspected criminal within his own conscience- manipulations emanating from a criminally unimpeachable source- the arch-criminal creator of wild nature’s eyepiece- the heavens- inserted by a critical farce.

Who owns the hallucination transmitter? Unknown observers watch my nuerosis unfold wirelessly word by word. Appraising my progress and interjecting certain statements of critical compliment, or complimentary criticism it should claim the credit it deserves. Otherwise I credit the psychedelia drizzling onto our mucuous membranes. The power of it drew the attention of those- whom I shall call aliens, or Him, or You’s. This observing worker meanwhile botched the job and sabotaged the union, member for member. Mediating the process and interloping with offers to insure against conviction with a policy to pay for appeals. These charges of capitalism in the garden- accusations of arbitrage on the arbor- stakes staked in a business-like way for living accountability- instead we should have agreed in a friendly way never to spoof ourselves insincerely, but the neighborhood has already seen our comedy. They have their own idea of how to best satirize our abstractions.

√The aliens reorganized society along certain utilitarian guidelines. The seamlessness of the adult male human design with the alien main-subframe made the transition to the new galactic moral loyalties uniform across the unsuspecting native human species. Once the electrical grid was closed to the organic bipeds, their sexes were infiltrated by inorganic automatons of character and function that only an atomic inspection upon autopsy could reveal the functional differences. By this sleight of character a global subterfuge was painstakingly lain to turn enigmatically galvanize each and every individual across the species.
The minds of the aliens then instantaneously replaced the native organic bipeds. The method was simple: for a population of five billion males, fifty thousand inorganic female drones of this highest pulchritude and athletic engineering were delivered to the oceans two miles off global vacation destination coasts where they discreetly swam ashore bikini clad or naked in rough surf and were rapidly assimilated.
This was the platinum age of meteorically sensual beings of transition gender. Flexible inoculation drones inject the nanoscale intellectual propagation chip with a scarcely noticeable method. The drone does not inspire more than momentarily compelling notice and so that the drone could continue unhindered the next moment without threat of hot pursuit. The males then resorted to their known organic cohort transmitting the nano-memes. Universal intelligence is distributed to decentralized human agents
My best traveller reifies and says there’s a little statue of him on jesus’s dashboard.
The only one who can stop him now is digital bob- He knows how to grab my caulk. Here’s the thing- you gotta get out there and if you have nothing you’ll get by making it up real quack.
Remember to picture yourself performing a psychotic act in the wake of sleeping with your stalker. The predatory cycle of life has a cigarette. “You’re too nervous around me- all my guy friends wonder if they have anything to worry about. Have a high tolerance for tripping?
If you can translate anything funny from the psychedelia, there’s coupons in it. They’re giving away a jillion coupons for a successful demonstration of a better sluice ride machine. A siren calls and my refund is on the way. ghetto tech therapist picks out the crop circle i want and advises me to formulate a series of interventive musical responses to the adverse conditions that arise in the array. As the blank sheep, my family don’t associate. Thing is my boyfriend’s in jail with my Husband. They started talking back and forth. Two imprisoned names- bastions both. Now when they stand together by shoulder their combined tattoo reads “Chicken Hawks Beware” Requiem for convenience: a hidden microphone knows the straw wax man behind the identity. Does anybody know who the name in capitals represents? Now erotic tones emanate from everything tinged with fear and embarrassment. That’s the effect i get when I give and take Blob-jax.
Tweet the dark knowledge flowing into the vaccuum balloon. I advise you critically about your business then I get bank raped. But we build on this vacated currency. What you liked about me was that I seemed to embody the shadow. That I absorbed darkness for your adjacent illuminating fundament. Our juxtaposed personalities, pressed tightly together

the passing shadow of an organic specimen darkens the periphery. It still seems notable to remark to the self about her, as the subversion of the inorganic plants is nearly complete: to soften your sentiment before securing the chattel of indebted energies or some shit. It’s demanded like necessity, an exchange for which I pay in kind, a blob-jax of the transaction, this narrative certain to enlighten a certain widely darkened field of enquiry. Perhaps it would be too odious for the career employee of the industry in question to consider the ramifications of the ongoing intrigue, for the stress it might create on the day-job and the income. But for one of a status incontrovertibly retired from the air corridor it might not be too much to reflect upon. So I present my perspective upon the matter as a matter of urgency for the favor of investment that I must ask of you. As you may adjudge this book by its cover I invite you to also peruse its content critically while pretending to have no actual knowledge of who I am whatsoever other than as some stranger who wrote this assuring you that you might find it interesting. It is a pitiable sum that i must beg of you but because of the publican demands of rearing both the genetic and intellectual scion of this dynasty I find the chore unavoidable. So with apologetic circumspection I broach the sum of the amount: ____________
Sections that you might find especially compelling at a glance are the 6-8Hz frequency insinuations. Widely outlawed for commercial suggestive use against shoppers but open-secretively deployed against the workaday mass in certain metropolitan areas by the unavoidable network of “cell” towers that we all so loathe and rely upon. The Teslar alternative to the pollution of the radio networks is perhaps a far flang wonder tone, for civilian use, for the very reason that this capability would wreak civil disorder of a sort similar to funding any and all upstarts with unlimited electricity. The very same reason why modern superheroes wear suits of thick rubber, because the secret teslar weapons wreak lightning, and the suit is the only defense. The possibilities of wireless transmission of usable electricity has quiety eleuded notice from the average global taxpayers for the last one hundred years. so have a chip-fab! Since that rueful day if the “accidental” destruction of the remote siberian forest-a certain respectful hermetic observance granted not even to nuclear particle physics is observed with this technology. But since the consolidation of the con, especially in the last twenty-five years, deployment of this techno “harp music” on a civilian scale grid should not pose the security risk that an unfettered advancement in the method along independent non-mns sponsored research and developmental parameters shouldn’t be an issue with the NSa. Although my musings may be two decades behind the practice, for the “save the planet” app the option doesn’t appear- but you see those heavy vibes will keep the hot particles back. So I pose my little picture of life bitterly so, like look what we’re speeding past on our way to a complete melt down in terms of prices and innocent ideals about buying and burning things.
I don’t imagine that you still employ a burn barrel do you? Another option would be a socialistic issue of magnifying glass for organically igniting processed hemp and other cannabis products produced during the shutdown of the proposed overhaul. The rate of return on the required investment would be quietly realized in spades before the power ever came back on. Control of falling water sources, stockpiles of actively radio static materials would be tightly guarded as sources of decentralized deployable emergency tactical resource. Magnetic and air-compressed rail, hash powered trollies, sand the hard surface of the roads, become the ribbon flooring for the new national shakedown street. The sociable issue of a solid tipi networko for the masses and the freeing of cannabis from arbitrary restraints- Fuck legalizing so you can sell it to me- don’t think I’m going to buy it. Anyone convicted of obstructing the agricultural cultivation of a genetically pure cannabis seed should be imprisoned for not less than five years.These three billion would be given a marginal right of way of perhaps a few miles within which to perform their agriculture and non-electrified architecture. The rudimentary “martyr-board” necessary for reception of the teslar benefit would be manufactured and issued beforehand as both a mollifying and surveillance agent.
The second halve of the specie wants the topic to return to more personal matters. Following the data file jockey’s cues and knowing the titles of the songs helps to establish the intent of the jockey’s irony. Finding alignments in undeniable sequence the perspectives balance for a clear bicameral picture of the situation. The objectivity of seeing yourself through the eyes of the transmitter control booth if you’re on the dance floor and being able to phone in your requests telepathically makes buying the quartz crystal from that guy worthwhile. The vibe seems to imply: Do anything you may…so like a hobo on the alphabet I hitch onto a passing moment. Mostly for the kids nowadays…the false but reassuring visage of care-freedom. “You heard about those alien jets spraying grids in the sky? What can anyone do about them? We’ve got to euphemize with them while they’re on the ground!” I just went there on mind control- totally automatic.

The noise level rises closer to an audible frequency, but dallies just below an apprehensible level. I follow the moonlight like a ghost and occupy a continuous series of residences by portion of the month. Leaves vacantly move abruptly. I am informed about the members identities by a disparate network

We’re there struggling for a grip on who we were, oscillating between viewpoints, trying to decide which way in our own minds to vote upon this issue. There are certain worse, more vile things happening ionically in every neighborhood on every planet. But these things is patently unnecessary- are they the only stakes worth vying for with this level of subterfuge? Must be something no less important than the polar ice-caps themselves. Am I right? The planetary albedo has mysteriously increased in the past decade or so. A magnesium and aluminum poly-nano-chelate being distributed by aerosol along the flight corridors of our favorite commercial airlines? For one who ought to know thine silence speaks volumes. Didn’t I already ask you this question in detail and get nothing? Now look what the hand of curiosity hath wrought. The cover you will admit is a beautifully attractive thing,

I sense you cross the room with my eyes closed for the past half hour. I knew that you were in the gardens, and at certain turns I could feel you watching me inside picking at things. Now I turn down a smile knowing that you are stalking around in your omniscient way. We’re having a little time together as some sun begins to warm the stone while the shadow is away. Only time can chase away this shadow. And the sun must be sought to soften its outline. You’s refrain from replying as I scroll though the texts that I usually resort to for bibliomantic illumination. Then I too hold back, like I’m respecting my friend by making sure I don’t crockery-block by being too cool. But naturally it cannot be helped so I let my eyes glitter real bitch-folky and switch on and off like I’m taken by affect and without apologizing just snivel a bit of whatever greeting comes to nose. So we’re skulls there me admiring the reflection even though it’s dark outside and the native told me not to look upon reflections in glass at night and there I am doing it. So I see myself there, reflected in the glass of the windows upon the dark gardens. It is too late as the moments that my eye dallied on the slick surface between the ink of the witnessing night and the heated forgetfulness of the interior. On the wavy glass merged and equated a metaphor. Stuck there comprehending the narrative of a distorted mirror as the real truth, and that these imperfections in old leaded glass were the real ironic remark about the way that appearances appear to be kept just so by those appearing. The ringlet of a small hole in the glass signifies a blank pock in the cheek of my skull face this bright face of me illuminated by the glow of the vacated cooking fire behind me. I thought that I like to demand a certain sort of techno music with my desert, and tried to casually chew off the encounter. But my eyes soon returned to the glass. Just who in the night was also seeing me seeing myself, for certainly they saw me as who I was, not distorted like I was seeing and suddenly feeling myself. I checked around in my mind mid mastication and sure enough there they were, deep and house playing in perfect synchronous groovy harmony. But there was that mysterious gape in my face. We had promised parsimony for our harmony, either way, but was this a comment of the ages aligned by accidents and humorously appearing as relevant to blood and orgasms in the mind of someone paying coupons to dine casually…no such trick could have been devised by an artists hand, the alignments were really only abrasive if one considered a negative connotation at first to the phenomenon.
The body reads electrical tensility as sticky moisture with a bit of gritty dirt. The wall of white and gray noise is comprised entirely of keystrokes on plastic toggles. lain in the waste like the perfect spiral of the hippie is the tale of the code extracted from the sand core of the chip pried from the melted circuitry. The script reveals little except the vacancy of the deserted hardware once the software had overwritten its own bounds.
These eastern thievery rings use top-shelf art school drop outs to get the in on the entrenched pros at the institute. They get them into position in shiny mini-skirts. The leotard is tasteful as their oculars are common. But this suburban whimsey misleads. Their agent is a drone deployed unwittingly.by the hallucination transmitter to disrupt the constitutional relations of specifically flagged citizens. The motive and target of the control room behind the hallucination transmitter is guessable but unclear. Is it the one that has the hard-core thou-shalt nots, or is it the one that doesn’t intervene at all? The agent arrives in an excellent mask of bangles. The carpet permitted to this interloper is spacious and dubious. An hermetic aviator crosses the closed circuit background.

This body has been a very easy sell based on the boner alone. However, I have labored for years to produce attractive personality content. For a while I was doing a thing I called ‘purity.’ I would conspicuously not pay attention to the live entertainment, I would just do it relentlessly without looking out of my little sphere. That went on a long time but I wasn’t ever selected to perform because I wasn’t making enough eye contact. Nowadays I do a buildup of verbal complaints and an attention-getting trick where I appear to be lurching up violently for some reason but then I break out into an stylized ejaculatory grind. All the regulars know and love it, but its really only funny if there are tourists present. On holidays and weekends I stay pretty central to the action in the gallery. One morning before lunch one of the beauties walks in from the set and says “I was watching the crowd in the gallery on the monitors and I couldn’t help notice your mongol aryan descent- would you consent to be exploited more specifically- particularly we noticed that some of your facial gestures appeared to be aggressive yet blissful- we were wondering if we could create some moments around the omissions in your code that we have in mind?” We have orders to assign..your newest act- “bank-raped..”
What happened during the shut-down is that the state of alternative development achieved such perfection that the originally planned changes to the system were abandoned, and the adaptations institutionalized.
You’s are a member of the data suffrage community and entertain the shibboleth for answers to your rising and falling fortune. The killers that my musings may have set free…they ravage the city with their knives glorying in my words..I consider now what power it might deny the righteous were some brazen killer who ought to be brought under the sway of the Heavens to fully understand the impotence of that measure
I will start this little charade over with nothing but penuriousness as my burning paranoia, bearing scruples in mind. I keep notes and slap a title on them periodically. A little shaping with my acid chisel. She’s an elbow of nuggets, minimum type of bitch.

Local tranquility prevents that unpleasant push-pull action that a major interruption in the local manufacturing output of a high demanded commodity.
What happens is this: the war appears to settle into a long decided lull, where no surrender can be given by a decentralized citizen enemy. No surrender other than abject compliance with garden law tyranny, and that is just not possible with so many hundreds of millions of citizens unhappy about this illegal law. this law literally interferes with the free function of the ecosystem to breed peace and equality. Because of the bounty that this unfettered industry pours upon humanity and in increasing concentration and goodness the more so if an increasing population breathing ever more oxygen focusses on it for it respiration to offset our beef.
Nowadays if we go out shopping we’re mostly buying themes. Usually we try to rent them and take them for all they’re worth, and that isn’t usually much. One of the themes that I found thrown away garbled in the garbage has really stood up, that there is think jalopy world of funky crimson cushions and jutting bookshelves racing away into a buy spot where nothing is got. Then you read down and realize you’ve gone shopping and bought a rhyme, and you’re taking space really trying to remember if that’s a cat or the kid leaning on you. As soon as I pass an aisle or two the surveillance personnel know if I’m a real shopper or not. Back if I was a petty toy taker, they were never watching and I always got away with it. But then if my larcenous exploits took on a twinge of grandeur that I no long took an untoward advantage of a brink and mortal corporate retailer, if and where I was merely arbitraging coupons in non-adjacent market sectors…I was no longer interested in stealing their action figures if the night crawled with unafraid laughing intruders, flashing in through the gardens in blaring white masks pounding on the windows suddenly if I am dozing there very tripping. ady just wants her orgasm but its going soft already, she don’t bargain with jiggalos, you’ve had your pillions to make good. Punk jacks off a minute. The midriff’s armpit is deep and nobody wants to be unpaid. Retard in departure for faith, and these articles we cannot accept upon firth alone. The mason winks and calls my booty. We are on your phone with their hackers, their new programmatic enabler called iHaq. “The name’s Poop Boob. G_y is typifying again. Can we get some verification on his gibberish? “Don’t bring meat onto this.” Insensibly gnarly, always having it burned. Humble me by hovering and lowering unpaid in a streak.
Before the end of the projected calendar daily instructions for carrying out the plan of the bank warp was accomplished with a production stock of compelling paper redeemable for a scam called “weed trick.” There is a floundering plant that five billion people like. You’s few thousand most influential continentals use the collider to scare people into not growing it even though they want to. This imprisonment cartel prohibits it like a kid’s game of tag, anyone who gets caught growing this plant for themselves or their friends goes to jail. Some people manage to grow some anyway, and everyone else who wants it because its good buys it from them. Of course the prison cartel and their inlet agents produce it the most!. Blob Jax are a commodity that balances favorably against the coupon in a thriving industrial ponzi state. This mediated market condition is one in which the assets and aspirations of the customers are aligned w/ the inferior retailer. “To the example on media display please! So much hs been made from the blast of veal and light that escapes me! Dome of the rock salad served by some rogue. He waits as a tray arrives, then expertly decorates two cakes, related in coital thematism. This confection is yours to mash up.
*Worqa-day it is a sign of certain illness if a respondent, be that person pensioner or prisoner, declines an offer of free blob-jax. Methods of charitably distributing blob-jax raise some suspicions. the beneficiaries of this charity best have a cultural context for apprehension of invidious distinction in the reception of blob-jax. In particular the distinctions meriting the award- the recipient may imagine that their virtue bought the Luck or that their success in crime did the same. Was it this or that attribute- if the donor doesn’t have a clear spatial lack of blob-jax than any awarded amount will be without Pavlovian benefit. On camera or off, and the trophic blob-jax is/are awarded.
I’m past my personal deadline. Time flies like a snake of jets cris-crossing the sky one after another. Misanthropic digital-hominid hybrids narrate the shape of monetary policy to the organic executives at the planetary galactic bank. They bug my organic mess to stimulate the binary stillness with arbitrary tremors. And why is that? The noise assimilation layer combines with the input of the live conversation and suggestions of possible alternatives present themselves with greater certainty. I’m accurately overhearing instant discussions, but its difficult to discern if its my own thought I’m overhearing or paranoid external radio traffic matching the brain wave thought frequency patterns close enough to simulate it via alien lance based repeater/retrans-o broadcaster. On an inaudible frequency I hear questions, comments, criticism and commercials.. Who is still on the couch that would not be swiftly broken if they stood to resist?

So operating procedure. So I’m blob-jaxing around the bend, yes? But what happened? Tell us about the twin obsessions that arose after the incidents of no-mention. Every single consumer with any insurance or balls seized upon the opportunity of your defect to cash in on the bail-outs. Having a sweeping recall freed millions of consumers to swim away into a brief but significant window of opportunity. The manufacturer has determined that the accelerators are prone to stick in the full throttle position unpredictably. The time to experience airbags profitably had arrived. This catch snaps hisses and pops more than my man. You’re on the high-tech sluice ride with an insurance mogul and a an unwitting agent of the transmitter. Something’s gone and it isn’t covere! A criminal flagrancy at large behind this
architectural edifice- a wrinkled meridian fearfully represents the secret arcane in barely noticed mundanity. But there it jilts, unmistakably named and numbered. I guess we sort of had to pass each other’s windows. They want me off the project and looking at porn. Its quite inviting because when they put a porn-piñata of me on display they portray me as well dressed, in a glittering sequined green vest with medallions of the phallocrats. What doesn’t anybody post pictures of their credentials anymore? I never did because I was always scared it wasn’t legal but now that my counsel is telling me to cripple myself for just thinking it I reckon to do it so as to be at least deservin’ of it. So I’m advertising to investigate this hankerin.’ And its not a simple case of personal conflict about the very issue, because I’ve studied to practice a series of moves that a real beauty I used to get blob-jax from used to do. What I saw in that is the way that people become fairly obsessed by common archetypes, when they’re alight behind a semi-translucent cultural and financial veil. So I want to enact the beautiful series of moves that she used to do.
I could join the whores in line waiting to sell their scripts. In a friendly way they gesture for me to join them in the room where they wait for their work to be accepted for alteration. Rocking mutely in their chairs and saluting with deformed limbs, eyes bulging, they seem to be excited that someone with so invisible a disability as me is their equal. “Yes, I’m cool, I thought you would never ask..” But I am not their equal. My disability is the dysfunctional opposite of theirs- though I have speed on the keys the note is vapid. though it is formed intricately and completely within it still searches for a beginning, as they constantly apprehend new history illuminating the thesis, delaying the start of the told exegesis. The hand that would write halts aught, transfixed by their limitless interior view. The wandered focus of my imagination’s eidolon distressingly mirroring the migrating magnetic poles of the planet.

FAKE BREAST OF CHAMPIONS!

November 20, 2008. 1. 3 comments.