The following was written in a state of near-ecstasy bequeathed by insomnia and being stuck at traffic lights. I swear it.
[As with things being written in a state of inebriation, it all runs the risk of being terrible. Whatever.]
The more state-of-the-art wings we are issued, the higher we feel obligated to fly. Yet our dissatisfaction is directly proportional to our abilities. Look at all the gridlocked freeways. Societal atherosclerosis.
I say, “Alan Watts said, ‘G.K. Chesterton said, “Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.”’ Heavy stuff.
Philosophy serves as a tourniquet to stop existential hemorrhage.
Give me a bridge, any bridge, and I shall cross it. It must be done. It doesn't matter that this side is better. I must get Over There.
Less is more, more or less, unless there's more in the Moor's lesson.
Someday I will swear off poetry and commit myself to the writing of obituaries, dipping my fountain pen in the inkwell of oblivion.
All composers are rabbinical rejects. They peddle in exclusion. Their sound sculptures chip away at the whole wide world and relegate it to the landfill of sound. They are not wrong, only misguided.
Extrapolate that to the figure of a beautiful woman. Who would not miscategorize her as perfection? Yet look at all that she leaves behind her. We admire her curves but not the molecular leftovers of everything that is not her curves. How did we come to adore lack?
So, the greatest composer would be the one who considers every note ever played, all played at the same time.
Music can be transcendent, but only up to a point. It needs time to operate. Someone living in the eternal present has no need for it, indeed finds it to be nothing more than a curious parlor trick luring him into playing with the fatal phenomenon of time.
Caffeine is the mistress society lets us all have without explanation.
Hardly anybody got the memo that the 14-day free trial of smiling has been extended indefinitely. This is the free energy Tesla always dreamed of. Act now and renew your subscription before the FCC slaps you with a happiness tax.
Cannibals are just super-advanced crop rotators.
Technology has done its job in making our lives easier. We could be so happy if we just would trust the bullet train and not run alongside it.
I'm such a tyrant, I told my hair and nails to stop.
UPPING THE ANTE: Not to be outdone, he bedded his mother's sister.
So there's this step-up system thingy to obtaining Eternal Cosmic Oneness called the kundalini. Supposedly, it takes years. I'm developing an app that gets you there in a single fiscal year but it's cost-prohibitive—because, you know, we wouldn't want just anybody to be up there. Finger foods are meant for the elect.
We raise a toast to raising hell. Molotovs meeting, going cin cin.
With all that dying and rebirthing—all that tedium—when is the phoenix ever free?
I poured all my love into you, year after year, honoring you and caressing you, lending you promises (because these are never truly bestowed). Everyone praised me for my faith, my fidelity, even you. But I was wide of the mark. I had seven billion more to go, and there I was, all this time, stuck on you.
You share a world with machine guns. It's up to you to prove to us that you're the more benevolent option.
There's so much neurosis nowadays that Jung and the Tarot are going to have to turn in their archetypes for new ones.
If kissing is the currency in the marketplace of romance, such salival bartering is always backed up by gold.
Why a cat-o-nine-tails? Why not eight? Or six? The skin of the assailed registers the infliction with confusion due to the odd number, which makes exacting vengeance all the more problematic. It's also a reminder that the sadist cannot be killed, ever.
Treebeard has finally green-lit ebooks.
We raided the wine cellar, smashed all the bottles, discriminated against no vintages, and collected the spilled liquid along with the broken glass and torn labels with cursive font. This we consumed in a debauchery your surest lush couldn’t come close to touching. Meta-wine. I shan’t fear a god raised to the position to represent this new comestible, but I shake in terror at the thought of its Bacchantes.
I can't handle Handel and would rather rejoice than read Joyce. Mount Rushmore is not on my Mount Rushmore.
A stele found at Karmak, Egypt, has been attributed to Amenhotep II. A string of hieroglyphics recently deciphered says, “Fuck you, bitch!”
No such thing as a non-insidious whisper.
Chashmal, Hebrew for the Speaking Silence. Indeed. The Nothing imparts more than the Something someone chose to think important.
Just like a painting. The roar of the Unmanifested has everything one could possibly want to glare at. The admission is always cheaper. Museums have no hedges against inflation, but reality does.
Music is a mistake. Don't believe Nietzsche on this. Sirens strewn on the rocks have their songbooks cocked and loaded as we float by. Stop up your ears.
O, how ingenious, the centuries of lies
Ezekiel's chariots streak across the skies
Holy books and history texts
Forget because we know
Souls are recycled in
The Death and Resurrection Show
__Killing Joke
I want to print this out and stick it on my wall.
Somewhere between Nietzsche and George Carlin, a maxim-aphorism-one-liner mashup that delights endlessly, much as with the music of the eternal spheres (which is actually boring AF, as specified herein.)