We beg the grim reaper to not waste our poor little lives. We watch the angels as they watch over us. We watch the little devils…they that saunter about and just come from every which where to tell us that they shine and will be our answered prayers.
We have our little lusts. They have our little lusts. We have our little depravities. They have our little depravities. We are bold in manner, strong in virtue. They just want to know the nobility of our character. We just want our dear little selves spread around for all to see and know. They will love us to death. We will give money to strangers, our lives to the depraved. They will take it and do with it as they see fit.
We lust for composure in a void. They wish us no void, tell us no tale, love the ones they are with…us …always us….always lucky little us. We marvel at the variety and depravity of life’s blood…. sins unapplauded, unwanted. They suck sin as life’s milk, manufacturing the right mix of joy and steely eyed disdain. No more lust driven fancies. No more fun.
The pleasure of the deeply held perversion of not wishing a mind mucked with incessant trash is gone with the wind. The pleasure of deeply the held perversions of lusting to be not in the company of boorish grinds is a spectator sport to be attacked by the thought police and the enemies of my soul… let me entertain my enemies.
Let me give my lustful fantasies to others to enjoy. They will harbor sacred noxious fumes. They deserve it. They need their thrills and fancies. They need their nourishment….. their little hatreds, their taught logic, reason, discourse; the age of the Enlightenment they constantly honor and indulge. I need their prurient interest, the great arena of shared experience, the oh so recognized theater of the primed absurd that allows me to exist to be used by them.
Reap the wild dirge of rapscallion fancy….and be better wonders for it. Reap the wild wind together and know the breeze in the trees….the pains of the gains, the crud of the stealing of us, the cheep thrills and good shopping.
Tawdry and good and fun and done..the passing panorama. The product of me is packaged. Sold, bought, used, exploited, mashed and broken down just so the dumb can get to speak.
The main character, the star of the constant story of our dreary little lives is the product of us…. a weak product unable to get out of the way 0f the cursory infants that corrupt our lives.
I liked it better when there were just hidden cameras and bugs in my bedroom. There was a nice cozy sense of security there. Now they want my reason, my soul, my freedom to think good thoughts. I live in a world where the calmness of reflection is punishable by instant insanity and mass stoning.
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