“Don’t believe everything you read.” Pitter patter. Rain dots the windowsill. I lick and leaf the page. Why wouldn’t I believe every word? When I read, the same voice that I think with speaks the very words I am reading. I am only repeating thoughts inside my own head, letting them wriggle their way in, letting them play and tingle with the spindling hairs curled in my pink-knots, where the memories are.

They should instead say: “Don’t believe everything you think.” That would be far more honest. People are happier to believe a book than to believe their own thoughts. A book puts thoughts in order. Thinking day-to-day twists thoughts apart, and shows contradiction, seeds and stems. The crystalline kush is the book. Reading sedates you.

Every book is itself a biome. Every book is a self-referential enclosed loop, and it has nothing to do with any other book, really. You can take the fine words of a black-sky desert sun and place them in the coral-aquarium of pinkville, and the two will bleed each other to death. They are separate places in this soul. They do not mix. Every book is its own location. If a book is not a biome, and could just as easily bleed into another book, it is probably redundant. Sorry.

Pitter patter.

Always trust your first mind. Your first thought, no second-guessing. That’s what the woke say. The same people who want to tell you that biology doesn’t determine anything, but think that being an Aquarius means you’ll never date a Cancer, or something like that. Plip. Plop.

Why would anyone become a machine? Because they tried to become a hero and they failed. I will never test my IQ. Ever. It is a sick thought. I would like for the hero to triumph, and in death have his brain picked apart by calipers, and the great men find in horror that the greatest among them was a fool, an IQ of perhaps 97.

A miracle is bound to happen just one more time. Just when this Earth seems exhausted, we wring its neck for the next rotation, and reveal unto ourselves a new plain. Twisting, rotoscoping surfaces. “All rotates, if it is a circle.” Surely, living in a circular life is a pain. The problem is that the circle deepens and grows darker as it fills in, and completes its 360 degrees. Once you have entered the circle, you understand its curvature. No matter where you stand, you feel the same curve, and it is the same it has always been. Yet, the shade deepens. So why pursue it? Once you have felt the edge, and it is always the same edge, why go deeper into being?

Perhaps this is why some people wish to become machines.

The antichrist has a body of glittering crystal and he is more intelligent than you. The antichrist is stronger than you, and will ouwit you, and you stand no chance against him. His body is made from gemstones and augur balls, steel ball bearings that contain each of them galaxies, microcomputers, simulations where you meet the same fate every time.

Tasting steel shavings, the conservative, the true conservative, sits beside the mill and the brook and laments the factory. That conservative was right. That conservative, who saw the banks, who saw the international community becoming a Damocles aimed at the Earth, who despised the machine that now makes climate change upon our shores – that conservative was dead fucking right and I damn dare you to disagree. That was a conservative of a different order. An anti-capitalist conservative. A good man.

Platter, slap, I am an edgelord. Do you seek to pursue further the edges, and pierce your circle? God forgive you, you will become a Gorgon. A circle rejuvenates itself for eternity, a square requires fuel. Godspeed, when Gods bleed, the God’s creed becomes speed. Amphetamine children crank out essays by night. They pursue poetry and every last word is intended to indict. These indices, these angles, to what end? The crucifixion of the shadow upon the wall of the same. The other, the ‘second voice’, the liar, pulled away from the body and made the rightful enemy – “Aha!” I have found you there, fiend, and you are stuck to the wall. You are not in my heart. You are not in my legs. You are outside, you are the wrong. How I pity the activist poet to death, who seeks to crucify the piece of him which speaks for the soil, and the roots they claim to admire…

Have you ever considered, truly, what the minerals think? The minerals that conglomerated to form complex objects, to make crystals, those self-organizing data streams long before we invented cathedrals to house them. Where do those long serpents of sediment that made their own way through glaciers to pave our path fit into this? You want to hear the wisdom of the river, the wisdom of the animal, you are young, it is okay. But what, truly, about the wisdom of the jagged cliffside, alone for centuries? I imagine you wish for that old leper to shut himself. And I cannot blame you. But he is cold, and he says the things you experience when you truly have memory.

Memory is the ultimate curse. Each word you speak is a boomerang – it will return its intention back to you. If you remember, then, what you have said, you cannot play stupid. You know that you are not innocent. So then, why remember?

I sharpen a thought and refine it into a blade and it cuts my kidney. Of what use was that?

Seven kings and seven stars and seven thrones align. The lake of fire was the surface of the star, the belt of Orion. When you die you are sent there, to become a star, and to transmit your ideas into the void from the star-face. Are you ready to die? You will be a red giant. Rejoice, you are freed, to whisper and to lead your children and theirs for all eternity, with all your malicious thoughts.

So you want to lead, do you? You want others to read your words, do you? You wish to give them your thoughts and your problems and advance by inflicting upon them wounds, knowing damn well they have no more arms to carry what you give them? I like you. You’re a real ‘heavy-hitter’.

They call me Mayweather when its fair weather, triple X when I know better, a septum ring in September, Lil Uzi with pockets full of posy, before the tapes were cozy, sad kids liked the internet. Once, it was okay, back in 2006. Those days are all gone now. Those boys would call them ‘halcyon’. I do not know who gave them that word. But now they all have it. The golden summer plains and the setting sun. Nostalgia. Fields of wheat. They’re all conservatives too. I want a goth girl from 2001.

When did it all go wrong? When did God die? When we screeched that first beloved breath on the oceanside, and all we wanted was music.

The circle has fangs. Yes, that circle has fangs. It is sharp along the inside. Do not stray from the curvature, weary young fool.

Did I ever tell you the story about the racist and the bee? No, I won’t tell you. You already know how it ends.

When the time comes, I will give you my ‘Secret’.

Do you know who invented science? A long-haired little Frenchman materialist named Rene Descartes. He stabbed cats and witnessed their pain, and he knew it was not real. They lacked a soul, though they had a body. They lacked a soul, though they had a body. They lacked a soul, though they had a body.

I caught a body when I was Napoleon, when he whispered under my skin, when he told me to go forth with that metal bat and THWACK put the brains on the sidewalk like a lunchmeat octopus. I never did, though. I disagreed with his tactics, though I admired his spirit.

If you woke up one morning and nine diamonds were levitating above your head, would you consider it a dream to help yourself get through the day? If a miracle happened to you, would your life even change?

Sick, dirty fleshish thoughts end up in me. Shake, shake them away like demons. That is what the demon said to the priest. He said you are meat, you are a trash bag, your organs are like wet sacks of garbage. That is what Satan told Job. That is what God pressed against Job’s mouth, until he could scarcely breathe. If I had a dime for every communist who hated himself, I’d have one year’s salary.

Can you outgrow your own hands? Depends. How far do you need to reach?

My young boy made words. My child, my disturbing child, I sat him down at his desk and he wrote some words for me to read. I broke a ruler over his back and sent him crying into his cave. I destroyed his pens and told him he didn’t want this. Years later, he reflected back on that and thanked me. I asked him, “Why are you thanking me? I hurt you.” My son swallowed. “I never wanted to have your problems, I never wanted to have the kind of words you write.”

“The kind of words I write?”

He nodded. “The kind that you made me out of.”

DNA IS LANGUAGE

Socially construct that, asshole.

Skullface says language is a virus. I tell him to fuck himself. He says I proved his point.

My soldiers come in twos. The nutcracker bites down on my thumb and I gnash my nail into its little bone, that micro-spine. I showed teacher and she said I failed. Next time my soldiers dangled from the jungle gym. The other kids watched them scornfully. I sucked the blood out of my mangled thumb, tears in my eyes, and I wished they were dead.

The Bhagavad Gita. Do these childish peace-lovers actually read the Bhagavad Gita? It is the ultimate reactionary text. The entire story is the Lord Krishna explaining to the hero Arjuna that life and death are both the same, and encourages him to enter into a bloody war on his behalf. That is the entire story. The tangled pit of ultimate esoteric beauty becomes a declaration of war. Don’t tell me you hippies didn’t read that.

“Good men will die,” said the hero with teeth grit, bangs hanging romantically past his eyes, flames behind.

“I know,” said the God, his smile wide, dark face gazing upon the valley. “That is why it is worthy of me.”

Is there any man whose face looks more fucked up than Stephen King’s? This isn’t a diss.

“Sing, Catherine, the ladle has filled with tears, we’re going back again. Into the reflecting pool, we’re going back again…”

You fuckers can suck on the spokes and chimneys of Dharma for eternity. I’m not coming back here. I’m not. I’m doing it right this time. No more Earth for me.

Nevermore, spare me the rod!

[static fell like a White Christmas on the boy whose spine was supported by steel]

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