Viena lapa - Post a comment

in the burning sky of Egypt i met this boy and that boy. they were all precluded to be met by me. we showered in the sun of the burning pot that lay on the grass by the Temple of Death. our hands were souked, they were sake, perhaps even distilled in the burning sun of Egypt, the Mother of The Faraoh Kliptih The III, mainstream media of the West.

our hands were clear of the blue waters of The Sea of Blood that penetrated the horizon with VeriZon and kept us busy with the kiwi diving. the bus stopped at the edge of the water and to wonderfully beautiful creatures crept out to be swallowed by the burning sand and kept on the fringe of water for eternity. however, umbrella of protecting deity, hand that holds the pendalum of sovereignity, kept staring in the vacant space between me and my body.

i wasn't sure if the blue surface of the water was staring inwards. to pity it was to abandon oneself to deliriums of wolf-eaters, but only sexy creatures kept themselves alive by devouring sand that slipped through their burning fingers that were pointing inwards in the depths of the Hell with all their angels happily ever after eating flesh of burning babies savouring their skeletal deformities, relinquishing... ah, it doesn't matter. the wave comes and washes the shore, my feet ar burried in the minds of berries and it comes to be known as the sedation of Sigurtney Ross, tho ruler of the unknown, the perturbing sinusoid of "never the less".

it is this bulimia that keeps repeating itself, never ceising to believe in one's true identity as proclamation of Sundance Festival. it is this sublime creation of ongoing delusion that keeps us profane and self-indulgent, creating our own images of the devil without skin that promises but never delivers milk or without milk, image of without image. the only thing that stays on top of a pile of tom-tom's is inevitably let ashore the missile carrier Albert The Great.

and it is with this stylized red Barbican that the Red Army comes out of the Waters of Babylon and says in a clearly distinguishable voice - wash yourselves, ye disturbing creations of madness and void. do as you ar told or be obliterated in the Tolik of underwater bunkers of Bangok after the day breaks into tears from flying sepulcers. and knowing teachers will tell lies about beatnik who ate his own hat to prove nothing to noone. the concrete zoo, the ephemere sand dust and dust of the burning sand. i said - solve yourselves and abandon hope, only true believers will feel flesh on their toes and will dance thus in times to come, and eat their newborn babys without feeling hunger ever after the march of Beatles.