Saturday, 12 February 2011

As the candle gutters

Engines of Death.

How much mass of us can wax aware of our mass?

Do we wain’ like great cart, slow and …..dead.

How big a tobacco pouch can your imaginery pan-drug running, Jew selling- son sell you from the iGREEN death camps?

You know the tobacco pouches , don’t you?

KAPO.

Made from Djinn afflicted scrotums and strung to a high pitched screech by their foreskins, on a cat gut strung screemolin brick lined kiln’d gassed and environmentalist feindly killer approved supplier of Nimrud malarky?

Non tobacco Tobago slave runners who fuckin’ hate the Egyptian Sluice Kanal.

Kalliff’d; you have been subject to ponazi pestilience. Have you? Not much.

Your bones are picked and your dreams of bliss have ablated. If you hoped to die in the quite of your own, forget it.

In the silenced night all was robed in ceremonial plunder. A plumb line to murder.

The violence remained

The organic chalice unfilled.

Then fulfilled quanta progeny.

The Rayleigh instability stasis static.

If you really understand, that blinded sincereseer, then.

Wander in the world as if you had halted and hatered.

Steed.

Archon.

What is it you see’d?

The Afflicted.

They come to bind.

Untold nonlocal autocausal defend the common from?


We unstitch their time.


Nam Shub