25 or 6 to 4: Prelude to date of birth

I live in a land of mothballs and fury. The stench of rotten eggs burning wake me up every single morning just to remind how ghastly the condition of willpower inside me shallowly engulfs the single-ended consequences of youth irate slightly baring the naked soul. Man 98 blasts through from the eardrums, rolling and kicking each notes making an image of mimicked career out of thin air. Eyes wide open, teeth gnashing in disgust, fists clenched armed to the bone, everything was not according to scheme. All of it, from the tiniest detail possible, was chicanery, a stratagem for fools foolish enough to fall for it. The penile erection was ignored half-empty from the yesternight exhibition, pillaging the bassinet of ejaculation and spit, rose when struck by light and pierced by pruritus. Whatever was left of the crime scene leaves much to be desired, such was my way of living, living as if dying, dying as if alone, alone as if lonely, lonely as if dead.

The mechanism of voodoo strolled around the cognitive processing, sprawling bit by bit into small gaps and exiting through marked cells burned from the sheer brainlessness of once was a proud cavity of potential. Old folk tales tell of this mighty, young bloke, a man of conviction, of suffering and obstacles, ruined only by his inability to shy away from the subjective sane, the same above all personal conflicts of which suicides are based upon, pondered only by the unfortunate and foolish alike. Ten minutes passed without realising it, no more time to dwindle, my hard-earned glory will be for naught, as it was the day before and the day before the day before and so on and so forth. It is during these moments of delusion that I am once again free to speak of my unholy success, a placebo for failure and a mask for ingratitude. Something I successfully portrayed, like Colin Firth, like madness in a stream of tranquillity, like Colin Firth, like mouth to anus, like Colin Firth.

Doors alight with each passing step, the darkness peeks out and creeps from across affronted by a coloured wasp that questions my authority to govern my footwear. Although shamed by this wasp's tenacious desire to be loved, I cannot but feel a faded warmth for this lowly creature, not only is he the most pitiful, but his manner of portraying this pathetic excuse leaves me cringing in agony knowing fully well the dire consequences of poverty and indulgence to masochism and the absence of ambition. Alas, his company is enough to hold enough ground for unwarranted sanity. Enough talk of my own bigotry, this topic does not concede on empty grievances. And so I speak in behalf of nihilism when I dare say off with laugh and life, none of it matters, none of it brings solitude, none of it even a shard of memory in the course of history itself. Set sail into the ocean of vertigo and drown in a menagerie of redundant shapes that hold no ground, as if the former were an inch away from reach, sulking in lime and vodka by the recurring thoughts of Russian espionage, deception, and, most of all, the unsuspecting smell of cunt, both literally and metaphorically.

Lifting out the desire to carry on only keeps me agitated and drab, the whole intention was to make them realise that I harness the vision, blind as it is, leaving no room for tapestry and any aesthetic or cosmetic. A freefall from grace was halfway expected, trees fall when roots are plucked out from the earth into the surface. Those dumbbells I trained for are of no use, wither to ashes at the snapping fingers from behind fucked into fornication side by side inside all orifices. Uncared by many, ignored by all. These fools are unaware of what was to come, in days, months, or years, these planned vile concepts of domination gives comfort to interlacing genitalia. What the mouth does not deliver will the body compensate, and so too shall the will of I, reminiscent of burning eggs from the first few words and then some. Maddening raucous sounds once more undulate to the extremes, by which perversity prohibits the action without satisfaction carved by grief and maleficence. The wide-eyed whore returns the favour by giving away the thorn from her bosom, plucked out for the greater good of her unnerving temperament. If only I can legally strangle her and gouge the hazel eyes out of her contaminated skull from which her demonic countenance hale. I would chew on her nipples, spit it out, and once done find consolation to the fact that her demeaning fatigue was blatant in all rights, pull her lungs out and fistfuck her lifeless cadaver as I pull her hair with all my might. Same goes for the pretentious faggot beside her and the spiky wizard in witch's clothing, which, whilst in all accounts attractive still does not equate ideal and borders on the thin line of obsessive compulsive, as she does with the grotesque  portrayals of her self-made characters. Adding to the whole list includes the hag missing a shag, filthy in many ways, putrid, slimy and downright abhorrent. Death is too good and not far away as the flesh show signs of decay. One other slut of a face slipped through my mind whose as naive as an ox with an absent brain resembling that of an echinoderm. It just infuriates me to no end whenever she gallops across the space with her belly popping out and a smile darker than the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. To engage in sexual matters with this obnoxiously chubby behemoth would be bestiality. What the eyes create to form an image the mind deceives. The opening sequences of formality is engaged, burning the sensual away from the distrust. All forms of conversation materialise without fruition from any angle. Far and wide the brainstorm roars all thunderous and gargantuan, all ambitious but, and there always is a but, lifeless.

No matter how far and wide the whispers travel, the seeking never seems to reach the point from which all good things lead to. Mockery to the disparaging root as I was and every. The couch lay still and calm, brown like fox in summer's day, sparkling scent of bougainvillea inundate across the flat. Back to the main line of plot the climax not even halfway across. Everyone is quick to surrender, as all those with fizzled brains do, jumping on to another carriage hoping to take a ride to the next town. The high horse leaps midstream landing roughly into the wet rocks below, tripping over to the current, the final bastion of egomania marches on. It ends in sour taste unsurprisingly, the proposals never seem to resonate within. Let's play the Blame Game. Depression, your turn. Pass. I choose you, malice.

In time for the beginning at the beginning of time it stands still beneath the murky waters of persecution. The lonely hearts go on separate ways forgetting for now the impact of the hallucinations. These illusions of grandeur are most sacred, I reckoned that fact.

Unbeknownst even to myself, I always find me erring at the wrong side of caution. While I scratch my scalp looking for the evasive answers, the army of wisdom slowly becomes massacred never to be revived ever again, a hard pill swallowed, this was contrary to the rules. Seek an edge, play the game, jump the ball, ride the wagon. The slight provocation of fainting was compulsory, glucose was all that was needed. Everything went back to the way it was. Back to the scheming and plotting, to the peeping and flaunting. For the first time in quite awhile success was at hand. Cheers of exuberant spirits are coy. Next to it are the construction of an internal essence, a non-existent, theoretical and subjective. Architectural, unique and subspace. Deadly, risqué and provocative. The voices were many reflecting my own and my schadenfreude comes in gear. My Caesar was his and hers, bountiful and light.

With my gear of droog and gooly, I walk towards the bitva. This chelloveck was with me again failing to bring the intention into the space provided. I muttered profanities in secret. What a cal. Nothing I do can bring her interessovat. My début will have to wait, mayhap the following week from now.

The klootch was hard to reach. If I were to impress the sick I would have to sacrifice some humanity down the drain. Off it went to no avail except a reminder for future intents and purposes. Patiently I wait, perhaps even in vain but even so.

And then the ensemble melody echoed throughout whilst I try to ignore. Countless fallacies swarm my thoughts even as I twiddle. I escaped to the outside world of ironic normality until I reached isolation. There I was all numbed and ridding myself of dandruff.

Today is my birthday and I plan to sleep all day, pararapapa. If not 80s and Moët it is for me then.