so i'm here in the city of brotherly love trying to give and get love when all the time love was waiting for me at home and i was too dumb to realize it while i was being boiled in the witch's cauldron and seering my flesh in my room. the way the situation works is that i'm trapped in a fictional novel where the main characters want me to follow the path that they choose and therefore i adopt them as their author, but i am writing my own story and that is hard enough. whenever i turn around there is a spider building a web in front of where i just walked. so i'm out here trying to decifer if the government is really reading my thoughts like some twisted dystopian book or if it's just faeries and magik and whatever other newfangled spellings we have for ancient ideas. anyway, the philosopher's stone is not on the internet, that's for sure. that i know. information is a crutch and it keeps us here in this world of ego. just look at the egos now - myspace, blogs - the time magazine person of the year is me? what kind of a sick joke is that to play on someone with an already slightly schitzophrenic attitude toward spies and the godliness of the individual. yes, i am man of the year and i'm man of the centry and the millenniumm. i believe in my own doctrine and that makes more dangerous than any politician or sourcerer. even open sourcerers. this text is driving me wild. i can be myself quiletly and only communicate through a chunk of plastic. oh don't i feel so good and godlike, like a snake or a rodent. a bat is a rodent with wings, and they bite, they have a thirst for blood. this plastic machine has a thirst for blood. now it's telling me how many souldiers have died in iraq. now its telling me step by step what happened the night sharon tate died. now i'm learning how to make a bomb. now i'm looking up a recipe for humble pie. now i'm eating crow. now i'm falling to pieces. now i'm cutting myself and bleeding like a putrid pile on the tile bathroom floor. bloody and dizzy. now i'm licking my wounds. now i'm pondering life. now i don't feel like dyinng annymmore. now i'm awake. now i'm alone. now i have company in the form of a plastic box. oh i love you plastic box. how i do love yr ways. i wish i could make love to you. and i do. i jack-off to your most perverse of pornography. i'm an advocate of illegal downnload. my site is censored by the BIG BROTHER filter. he shoot coka-cola, he want mojo filter. always got a $10 bill up his nose - dirty old man. laughter like mentally retarded angels. down into the deepness of humans. the vat of skin. the stinking hay piles of limbs. the trampolines of the flesh. the holes to poke with pleasure flesh. the dummb animals mmaking their dumb decisions. their lives lived like cattle and sheep. or better off pigs. or the smarter dogs. sniffing crotches, eating garbage - scraps. begging without dignity. they are the smart ones. killing foxes because they are smmaller. with beaty eyes. with possessed stares. the demon dog of berkowitz's neighbor. that told him to do things. and he listened. my roommmate listened. the whole house smelled like spraypaint. i put chicken's feet and pentegrammms on his bed. he lives with his mom now. at least i'm functional enough to have a hole of mmy ownn to get sick in. i still consume an excess of the silly fire juice. it makes me sleepy and then i can't properly explain myself, so i don't try. i feel like passing out sometimes. my daughter wakes up early and then quakkes and shakes and whole days of the week that i see her. this separation is a daring schism. i've become emo and polyamorous. she's become the same as always. but i've got my own witches - my own succubim. none of them are angels. no friends or lovers worthy of that loose term seraphim. some of the poets would throw that title around a lot in the late fifties and mid sixties. but this is not the golden age. this is new age of reason where reason is gone and the sun has become ecclipsed. eventhough it's getting warmer all the time. ice caps are melting and i am king of mmy univers, even though i feel bad sometimes. i feel lonely and unreal. these are post syd times. post john and george times. these are the dead times when the rest of the mmortals hang on to life. and our eternity seems to fade, but it's never been so close. these are the waking hours of darkness. these are the trebel sounds of a voice that used to speak but has now shut up. these are the waves after the bombs. this is the terrorismm time. this is the religious time. this is armageddon if i ever saw it. this is the apocalypse - an inconvenient truth. so we have to get our happiness together before helter skelter makes it all bad. join join join or die. join and die. die then join. either way yr making two mistakes - the first- being sad. saddness is an outdated emotion. it was used by puritans to reinforce their tactics of guilt. the second mistake is doing nothing - one who does not move is dead. one who does not make life makes death. creating is the most holy activity one can be engaged in - it inncludes music, poetry, unnprotected sex - and new experimental sexual processes, communities to connect with others - parties, the visual arts, embroidering or sewing, making useful things, those diy obsessives, duct tape, riding bikes with no wheels, that kind of thing, thinking outside pandora's box to actually believe that something might actually be possible in this world.