C O N T E N T S
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C O N T E N T S |
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DIANETIC CLONES OF THE
COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS
An up-chucked cut-up prosem by Justin Patrick Moore
02-03-05
What giveth honesty the form of genius?
Could it be exposure to the various remembered
stimuli from the kissing trance? Or the good thoughts that go right
into the heart?
It is not known.
Our friends, however, multiply like mosquitoes, numerous as sand, but
are in absence of reason. Blood is the only physical fact on this beach
of hallucination. I wash my hands of it, as if I were in a hypnopompic
movie playing the lead role of Pan. Stirred images effect my mind like
mental maxims. I lie in trance. Other beings are enjoying the
unhampered wine while they discuss mannerism theory, but nonetheless
remain out-of-balance with ticks of drunkenness (on and off) after much
illness and self-doubt.
Yet change exists: broadcasting, breeding knowledge
cheaply in a schizophrenic magnetism of all the senses (the children
are on television bathing in condiments under enjoyable conditions).
This cosmic civilization is especially prone to it. Fabricated patients
of the imagination nod (on and off) in every billionth-of-a-nanosecond.
They retire the invention of sperm along with hygiene complaints that
cleave everything, curing us all of our professionalism. Moreover, in
the visualization of a reasonable life, according to the habits and
strictures of this decadent society, we see a preponderance of oil,
prophets, and homelessness, a disturbing hauntology for our every
waking moment. Insecurity, for example, can often become possession
when the cardboard ghosts are asking for donations.
In this, I echo Jehovah, with his drawn beer buckets
and utter poverty of imagination.
I see Gorgasaurus on the boat,
inappropriately, waiting for the laugh from his pranks, freeing himself
from the painful life, but causing pain to others, and me just lurking
in the akashic archives, playing back old reel to reels and wondering
what the hell is really going on. (Akasha is the persistence of water.)
The resultant framework of this train of thought is hardly delightful
to the spirit world. Those on the other side, with their ways of power,
are always hanging a hidden censor, by way of speech and rapture.
Dianetics, artificially planting increases in the cost of gas
(intestinal and otherwise) also seed unhappiness with pastimes that are
particularly hypochondriac.
Ghost consciousness is the like the rainwater on
turtle island.
Christ floridly shadows your worship on a phantom
voyage during a late night bondage session. God is on the influx. The
factory grimaces. Bathing in our share of the bright beauty, gnats and
electrons flutter around us in the emptiness. The hour of folly is an
hour of discovery, a safer spirit world away. Emotional hypnosis
addicts are sharing concerns of fighting while in trance in meditation.
When you get to the boat of the unconscious you will
see the cause and effect of the electric scientology criminals. They
speak in erratic metaphysical phrases, with moderate fluid lusts,
governed by a mesmerizing drug economy. We can learn of the incessant
theory of sharks from them, while generating neologisms out of fear to
calm their ill-tempered hearts. Scanning the battleground of our
potluck molecules, we prosper on our collisions of thought. The
repetitive mutamorphic community has abdictated the noble influence of
the self-absorbed on-the-job disorganized schizocephalic boogieman
authority.
(Reality procurement as permutation of interwebbed
transpecies deoxyribonucleic space/time families.)
But now the moonlight is in the countryside,
it has left us in a manner strangely dreary, but temporary. The lofty,
similarly coded influx of a possible reactive primordial sludge is
considered a matter of survival. When our minds enter darkness,
tremendous giggling, scavenging, and insanity are likely to occur. Both
you and I are in the sidewalk, on the same boat, drunk on the mysteries
of superstitious beauty. But we must deny all intrusions as part of the
war saga of unbelief. The energy shapes of an extrasensory vampire have
the effluxes of chain smoker businessman, the star in your incoherent
joke on the church dollar. Retire clones of immortality. Retire into
your demonic marketplace of mindless interblended commercial ramblings,
and help restore folk to the psychic equilibrium by having them swill
from the multimyriad homebrew matrix hooch.
Contact: satyroz@hotmail.com