Watch out for the Televangelists
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Watch out Radioactive man.
I disagree with the complement of marriage. Solely for the fact that the romantics died in the 19th century.
I’m miserable and a recluse. I believe Love a chemical imbalance that blinds humanity into a commitment even more devious than a business proposal. I read too much for my own good. I write awful poetry, but I read as a life of a dangerous critic. My mind’s compass and directional aptitude relies entirely on Bysshe Shelley’s “Essay on Life”, Nietzsche’s “proposal of the chasm of the Apollonian and Dionysian”, Sartre’s existence and humanism entirely. I wake up for Sartre. I have a superiority complex and I try to hide it, I don’t naturally hate, but it intervenes. I cry for the shadows:
Keats, Wilde, those of the Restoration, Blake, Yeats,
but the sliver of care I can demonstrate lies only beneath the names of the early 19th and late 18th century Romanticism. A completely hopeless care to bear.
I am critical of everything and everyone because that still is greater than allowing everyone into your life. Letting people in, is a boundary broken for emotional plague. I’m extremely introverted. I was abused as a child for the fault of the yolk. I say it again, I read too much for my own good, which could serve to explain my unattainable wishes for reality, but what is reality really: A mere reflection for a consonant, soft and sounding, but not for the senses, we could be living in one prefix in a multiplanar of realities. Where does this segment of our lives lie, if insignificant, what do I care if thus is one of a constituent. Life is vile for what it stands for, but worse wasted for what it seizes to represent. My eyes twinkle to the palace of light for Malevich, for Klimt, oh Klee, beautiful Vermeer. Kline satisfies my chaotic vision, Goya my fire. I have a blind palm named reason. I have no intimates or confidants, but that’s a choice, not a burden. I feel as though i’m resting damp on this Earth, with no indent, trying to lead through the surface of this reality.
Knowledge is my curse, and it naturally makes things less interesting.
I don’t feel as humanity does as a natural selection, i’m an irregular involvement of chemical instabilities. I appreciate Love as one would a feeling,
Without sight nor touch
Nor necessity to touch
but to feel for it’s mere availability.
It’s impossibly lucrative.
The foremost lack in humanity, modernization of humanity that is, is the lack of emotional input. No author writes like they would, had they lived in an era where Keats and Wordsworth were confining their own developments. People don’t write letters anymore. Their wrists are occupied elsewhere, as is the stem of their mind. That’s the supreme downfall of society. Drop the 21st century, it’s breathing down our necks with a ferocity of starch and bland implications. I want to implicate a dozen letters to a young boy, and to think i’m mad. This world still befriends me though, with it’s cascading moss of wonder, but
what do I know,
I’m much too impulsive for a run-on sentence.
After I had cut off my hands
and grown new ones
something my former hands had longed for came and ask to be rocked.
After my plucked out eyes
had withered, and new ones grown
something my former eyes had wept for
came asking to be pitied.
you are my something
scum of the earth, universe, parallel and alternate, cyber and fictional