an origami flower of creased and folded skin
Posted on Fri Jul 20 09:30:00 UTC 2007
The mixing of blood, especially now, with all the risks it entails, is even more powerful magic today than it once was. A kiss is just a kiss but this is something far deadlier, far more potent than mere sex, no mere metronomic fuck -- one slice across the palm and here this moment we mix our lives and deaths together with a simple quick handshake. It require complete and total trust from both participants in equal amounts. What could possibly be more honest?
I will not curse my luck. That lady, she laugh light and soft like soda bubbles but she does tend to hold a grudge. It's too bad. Her eyes, traffic lights. change colour with her mind.
If we mixed our lives we could be: like ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, or so I reckon. Unstable compounds and who knows? Every great initiation is a trial by fire, it must involve painful self-immolation and terrible fear and unbearable hardship, it must invoke madly the handling of intense and poisonous snakes. Every initiation is exactly worthwhile proportionate to the quality of emotion it can generate. And afterwards we emerge reborn, leastwise until the next time we get killed, slain in the spirit again and again, hammered and heated and folded over like Japanese steel.
So soak the mistletoe in gasoline and I swear to god the heat and sparks of love will be enough. We have killed or covered in concrete almost everything else that walked or flew or swam or sang inside us, except that our chemicals are saboteurs, they commit treason, they work in secret cells. Our chemicals do not respect authority and they will not listen to sense. The pavement cracks and green grass springs up and I find I cannot help myself.
There is something hypnotic, a hallucinogenic quality in the way you look, remind me once of a little trip I took to a place where everything was perfect; for a while, shining white and radiant, and there I was at peace. But you can't stay high all the time, or at least I can't afford to. Still, I still got the memories of all those high times, the great times, good times, running away from the cops times, falling in love times, classic times and crazy days, all my victories and my lies and the legends I've woven, or tried to, and my own personal apothecary of medicinal myths that get bigger every time I tell them.
One day soon to never we will eventually exist as one nation living under a black and honest flag. Until then I intend to keep brawling and drinking and falling regrettably and hurtfully in lust and taking my holy (in doses small and large) where ever I possibly can, and can you really blame me?
It makes it all worthwhile.
- - -
I talk to myself a lot, the line between my internal monologue and what I say out loud grows ever less distinct. Blair tells me it comes across as a leetle bit crazy. Just this much <---->. I ain't good at speaking, but the great thing about writing is that it lets you be the completely dominant partner in a long slow memetic mind fuck. You lead people by the nose through all the contortions and manipulations and then it's time: PUNCH LINE.
- - -
To a friend: h0m13, I always got your back.
I will not curse my luck. That lady, she laugh light and soft like soda bubbles but she does tend to hold a grudge. It's too bad. Her eyes, traffic lights. change colour with her mind.
If we mixed our lives we could be: like ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, or so I reckon. Unstable compounds and who knows? Every great initiation is a trial by fire, it must involve painful self-immolation and terrible fear and unbearable hardship, it must invoke madly the handling of intense and poisonous snakes. Every initiation is exactly worthwhile proportionate to the quality of emotion it can generate. And afterwards we emerge reborn, leastwise until the next time we get killed, slain in the spirit again and again, hammered and heated and folded over like Japanese steel.
So soak the mistletoe in gasoline and I swear to god the heat and sparks of love will be enough. We have killed or covered in concrete almost everything else that walked or flew or swam or sang inside us, except that our chemicals are saboteurs, they commit treason, they work in secret cells. Our chemicals do not respect authority and they will not listen to sense. The pavement cracks and green grass springs up and I find I cannot help myself.
There is something hypnotic, a hallucinogenic quality in the way you look, remind me once of a little trip I took to a place where everything was perfect; for a while, shining white and radiant, and there I was at peace. But you can't stay high all the time, or at least I can't afford to. Still, I still got the memories of all those high times, the great times, good times, running away from the cops times, falling in love times, classic times and crazy days, all my victories and my lies and the legends I've woven, or tried to, and my own personal apothecary of medicinal myths that get bigger every time I tell them.
One day soon to never we will eventually exist as one nation living under a black and honest flag. Until then I intend to keep brawling and drinking and falling regrettably and hurtfully in lust and taking my holy (in doses small and large) where ever I possibly can, and can you really blame me?
It makes it all worthwhile.
- - -
I talk to myself a lot, the line between my internal monologue and what I say out loud grows ever less distinct. Blair tells me it comes across as a leetle bit crazy. Just this much <---->. I ain't good at speaking, but the great thing about writing is that it lets you be the completely dominant partner in a long slow memetic mind fuck. You lead people by the nose through all the contortions and manipulations and then it's time: PUNCH LINE.
- - -
To a friend: h0m13, I always got your back.