Image source? None Cartwright.
Ever stood atop a moor in deep mid winter? Snow deep and
pitch. Staring up at starry infinity? A thing you cannot do in the Smoke
is a light sewer, crime scene and shit heap. It is a sun warmed Petri dish of
human experiment cloaked in Global warming. Though it does have its moments.
Ever stood still under an equinox midnight as the petals fell
Zoh Soon the dead of life.
The cherry blossoms, apple blossoms and cassia
fistula are right here, written now, in the coloursplashed RICOeasyjet borough,
and who am I to complain. If they want to live in a crime scene, and most do,
then who am I to point out the horror of their wares?
And who would depart from their reframed lives to stare at
the incredulity of their dullard nonstopped edited intuity?
None to fall.
I have never believed belief. Belief brief is a killer flame
that consumes the true light. It is a fire front that eats all in its path and
leaves no thing as witness to the delicacy of our grace. I am sufficiently
advanced today to know that I can never retread my burning steps and be reborn,
the point of no return means there are insufficient days left to me to relive
each of the splendid days of my meagre existence, so far. All that can be done
is to keep pounding the solemn pathway to death and consume all.
I will have answers through though, that is certain. Before
I draw my last breath I will have scribed the clown’s plans, and if push comes
to shuv, verily phukked them up like a butterfly farting in the Amazon.
Strange attractors do weigh more than their constituent
parts in this hall of smashed mirrors.
If you read through the quaternion stuff then you’ll know
what I suspected all those years ago, our houred horrored feeding trough is all
escrow. Everything for the one side of the mirror we glean is not the half; it
is the false lie of the hand. No doubt about it. As an example, and again this
is all grooming the young, I would ask you to examine JKR and her Harry, the
legend of an Edinburgh
café scribe. Well go and read about Flamel and Fulcanelli; toot toot all
and Einstein? Bollox, go read Kepler and JCM.
That is the easy stuff.
crap. Lamarck is the game.
We know that is so because we get it spoon fed to us. We are
chimps and like chumps scoffing, chips, we adapt to the shit heap, chattel.
Owned, like refugee, refuge, garbage dump property.
You know where this is heading. D passive, L active. Got
that? Open. Close. Hot cold.
The difficult occult is occluded from us by many layers of
distraction. Why? Well it is so simple, that is why, and it is a lie. Not
untruth but topography.
Youzgotsta think like a bankster.
What is it that the foe does not want us to realise? What is
the whole charabanc and pantechnicon of idiocy stealing from us every day in
Our thoughts. Our spirit. Our hearts. Our individual
collective truth, contradiction. We are CISC. Not RISC. We are as yet not complete,
just as they are not so solitary. The heathen hate us and only seek to
deconstruct us to a state of Lego.
Is it not striking that all we should think is rejected by
the inbred clowns who drive the make belief puppets of our Herd Intention
Look at the religious clowns stiffing banking. That is
correct, stiffing, stuffing, not staffing. It does not interest them whether
there is sacred trade any more since all the world has been measured and
indexed again. They all work, exist, are tolerated, because they serve the Dias.
They are as temple virgins and harlots. Yet perceive power of none.
Selling their asses to attract the masses.
In an economy that measures the conniviningings of false
savingingnings to persons neck deep in fiat debturpitude, as activity worthy of
calculus, and then the fool is the author of the future.
What can I describe concerning the Lamarckian
world we script?
Whatever it was, is or will be; I hope you will wander over
to Lalaland again to think about that.