Sing the static, preach the silence

sing the static, preach the silence. quit your jobs. fall unto me. fall onto me. fall with me.

if great ideas made ripples, most of us would spend our years in peaceful tranquility. tranquil from the past and better from the future. we've nine lives left to live men, sea legs about, heads up, this is OUR voyage, and the better we are for it. victory is assured.

The Life Enchanted

We live the life enchanted.
They call us godless heathens,
starring at the void,
starring at the chains,
like the condemned stare at their remorse.

But we are not godless and our faith lends us direction.

What would do without its guidance?

Left to drown in a careless world, is that a greater fate?

No, static is our only chaos now. Controlled, imprisioned, cast away.

The glow brings us perfect blue order,
a field guide for our time.
To fuck, to fight, and to die, these are the tenets of our glorious new canon.

It is perfect because it breeds its own perfection.
Who are we to judge the machinations of Heaven?

Yet, they call us godless, but can only watch our salvation.

As we peel back the clouds and stare into the shadow of the sky.

WE WILL TRANSCEND.

Hail St. Cosby! The glow triumphant!
Hail St. Akira! The glow now dominant!
Hail St. Anderson! The glow ascendent!

merging traffic

I will write a ballad to be screamed from rooftops overlooking a grey street on the apex of a summer brink. When the clouds have died and darkened to a subtle red and orange, you will hear my voice glistening and gliding through the air. And the subtle vibration all along your skin, the side of your face, your neck, your breasts, your hair, tingling, will at once entice you, but later simply anger you. The epicenter of the issued scream will be impossible to determine, lost in the sprawl and the cooling, heavy air of a impending night. Madness will follow. Nights drenched in sweat, grasping and tearing sheets, knuckles torn, nails snapped. With much rigor, you can tear yourself away, you can make the dreams stop. And you will. The nights will once again be peaceful, but underneath that subtle lie, a minor truth remains. A truth hidden well, for it is truly inconsequental. You never found me, elevated on rooftops screaming.

collection assignment number 5

wind. ready. light. lights i hear them, but i can't explain them, something inside. bots, a boom. the end. here, stand. Me, scattered and staggered. The hill, strewn. 74 thousand americans die to the bomb, one swoop, 20 insurgents and this is the end. Death brings them sweet solace. Clad in robes of red and blue, they ascend. to wrap themselves in grey irony in the heavens. we will not be forgotten. we cannot smoke in restaurants, but our lives remain the same exact replica of existance as the ones who cannot see the ground for their bellies. can anyone see the ground that awaits unless they plummet? with the simple walk, we discover nothing. nothing, nothing, nothing. i cant stop the word, it enters into every equation, thing and place. Have i become such a nihlist that i cannot think in a full spectrum of emotion like a human? Gummo sucks.