Horrored steamboats allied with ragged years, and outlines of muffled faces in autumn waters. I see nothing instant.
I’m wearing the look of the covered, to a short time with things off your face.
Sad children bewitched by nodding hollow wooden sockets of their skulled toy.
As we cruise, I befriend the faces of dead sailors, their water-logged torsos bobbing, plaintive jewels in rotten marrow-bled riverways.
We converse drily without speaking and are of similar appearance: gnarled pieces of soulless wood adrift in the drink, hooded, hook-nosed, pale skin coddled in a dark cradle.
organ cradles clanking on their ropes: the slow, doleful music of amputated souls.
I am murder and not wishing to be welcome push the strongest dream.
And you had rid of this world, and told yourself to keep it going in a polite promise. The sun, blood-red on the church, suspicions bleed into your precious, small composure now drawing heavy wood into murder compost.
only the pattern of a single night need govern the pleasant woods, dreaming evil from their roots.
’Tis peevish to amuse myself with many seemed things and that writing I’ve done by night, of tussled thoughts without need, all curious and unnatural. And I find again day after day, the wind.
Traces of attic departures on clear autumn days, chronic weariness and smoking gulps of hot tea.
Lethargic desk-parasites identifying collars, swallowing murder and crapping out meat and figures.
Blood-eyed wretches faint in spectacles of rank worship, their blue bodies reeling, the obscene ceremony nothing but formless candle fat. Shadows fall over the dark flowers, trumpets sound in the deserted cloisters, and projected mysteries die in a storm of little words and dancing willows flushed of heaven.
Christian conjurors, open-palmed, on the waste-mounds welcome visitors to their fragile truths and hardened rainbows: ‘Take shelter, my little brothers. Come up from the monkey meadow and see what the watchmen see.’
What obscene seduction took place amid the bodies and the sunlight, the vistas of ash and untouched distance?
Gravity grew such radiant adornments, its morbid simplicity compared to snakes, its secret wars torn from hidden promises, and all the while the only things that float defy nothing.
Mirror-eating paranoids dwarfed by mock crimes and idiots, their philosophical worms straightened like cigarettes.
This is God's machine gaping, its wafted meaning the shadowed procession of greasy rats scaling the door.
We arrange the furniture of death; they build it, their lips, healing, passed dry surprise, creeping with money-grubbing lust.
Only the weak make their old sacred. They have nothing to replace them with.
What spotless gratification is there that moves heavenward?
Will I be forgiven my gin-nurtured malevolence, or will Pluto’s ribbed gateway open wide for me?
I look past him to the noose-shakers on the shore looking to avenge their fraudulent ideals. ‘Fucking dumb animals,’ I say, off-guard.
‘And why do you say that?’ His tongue coils round his words like a snare.
For isn’t this the true end of things? Solipsists don’t say much; sceptics don’t say much; nihilists don’t say much. Maybe there’s nothing much to say.
There are no new shows, and no new stages on which to perform them. There are only museums and freshly branded fools making marks in the dust.
Marks and bitter wishes were always silly places to bury our breaths.
The dank ruin of the world’s immortal toys houses spirits fashioned in stone, eager caterpillars embarrassed by their divinity, and absorbed objects fading into air.
We are fed on sickness and murder, we work sickness and murder, and when we eat we taste our sweat.
I’d like to mend him, like to know what it is that needs mending.
There’s always the temptation to berate the cheeseheads enamoured of the chimes of their vacant condition,
This world is made up of rivers and their cities, the new and unreal made old and raw.
I’m certain of inaccuracies and exaggeration.
their need for anguish has forever outgrown its squalid beginnings, and now it is up to them to discover new fears with which to entertain themselves.
We give them what they want, what drove them to outnumber themselves with simulacra in the first place:
Didn’t this categorical proof of our synthetic existence have to be part of the programme? For it is as obvious to us as God was to a thirteenth-century Franciscan monk:
A vast majority of us are informed as children, and from that moment on we never stop searching for the signs, glitches in the system
But, no, the curiosity about experiencing the dupe first-hand never really goes away.
He smiles as if from nowhere, unprovoked, out of context, wet; his entire presence here is somehow out of context.
They encourage me to drink, to eat, as if the fact that I am ghost is a matter of no importance.
They like to fuck and kill and eat as much as anyone else does, and not always in that order, but these individuals have developed a somewhat overblown sense of their own worth.
They’ve become so attached to their experiences that they are willing to go to almost any lengths to ensure their continued existence.
Code failure ruptured the world’s appeal in an instant.
what had been thrillingly sordid a moment before became utterly unredeemable. His prick crawled back inside him and left him to follow suit.
He stood in a blood-soaked doorway and watched as the ugly carnival c...
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O I’ll be sure to burn their fucking offices down when I get out of here. Where do they get off selling me my death. If I want gift-wrapping for my imminent non-existence I’ll be sure and fucking seek it out.
Somebody knows – somebody born to the simulation – but they aren’t telling, and aren’t ever likely to. Some see these people as our potential saviours. They even speak of a day when they will deliver us from our pseudo-existence and make us real. But these same people cannot even tell us what difference that will make, and why anyone should care.
Is that what you want?’ ‘It can’t hurt.’ ‘No? Then it is worthless, dear: a toy for fools and nothing more. Are you a fool?’ she asks sincerely. He shrugs. ‘Who knows. Maybe.’
‘The answer’s the same as it was the last time you asked. The answer is always the same, dear: it cannot change.