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Dangerous People

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Nihil Loc
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Posted 10/03/13 - 1:50 AM:
Subject: Dangerous People
There are dangerous people abroad and here at home. Did you notice the signs: 1) on the corner of 4th and Dawdle, a faux Banksey shilouette that moves from wall to wall, 2)John Kennedy's shoes on the power lines at Galston Park near that suspicious oak tree with a face in it, 3) the addition of the new anti-homeless robot in the Ward strip mall.

The connections are obvious if you can access the vision. They call it Blue on the streets, easily administered through a safe syringe if you pay a bit extra. I stay away from the old stuff and its method of vein puncturing. So many are succumbing to the insidious shadow these days. The monster Krokodil is eating the veins of my friends and it is due to the pressure in the beyond, of these entities with ulterior motives.

The wall mural is the minion of the robot. Gary calls it a soul. It flits through my dreams as easily as it changes walls. The power of its eyes is terrifying. The eyes are everywhere but invisible, every thought is a transgression against the watchers who sit behind these eyes. There is no freedom, neither from the Blue or the dominion of these watchers in the sky. The fear compounds from the absence of flesh and the scattering of the world in the Blue.

The shoes prove that time, with its past and future, is a farce. The crime has just been perpetrated. The shoe is a mark of the denial of the past's pastness and the promise of its recurrence. The John will die but who is the John. Names mean nothing these days but in thin allusions to persons of import.

If I could only get enough Blue to escape, to find a door to the other side, I'd be safe.




Edited by Nihil Loc on 10/03/13 - 1:59 AM
Nihil Loc
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Posted 10/04/13 - 3:28 PM:

The problem of the need for an instant fix hobbles anyone who travels in Blue.

It promises the sky in all of is vivifying breadth and a mind to fill it. But wherever the body remains it is also open to harm. Strangers on Blue sleep walk their violence on your face and limbs albeit unconsciously. To sleep is therefore to vandalize the public unknowingly, to will prey upon the body and let the body be preyed upon.

Though we all know it. The titillating exercise of self abandonment is the will of a god. It is Blue.



Nihil Loc
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Posted 10/07/13 - 1:46 AM:

The drugs man the drugs! I'd need some for trajectory, momentum, feeling. For shit sake there is nothing to talk or write about. Showcase an insufferably boring asshole who doesn't feel anything and can only talk about himself.

Oh non-existent deities of Grandmas time, endow me with the will and imagination to appease myself through masturbatory words. Push me violently through the filters that protect the sane people from the mind shattering excess of the info tube and dumb fucking media. Empower me with a wealth extraction device that I may fuck over hard working people who can only ever make the ends just touch, so that I may cease to be held accountable.

Transform my waste into Hollywood glitter of self appeasement. Give me a mansion in a gated community so I do not have to be afraid of nothing, of having nothing, of people who are nothing. Fill up the holes in my existence so that I may deny they are. Give me a fucking platinum plated Mercedes and a car elevator and a pool with television screens under water, so that I may invite people with money to enjoy it all.

Let my rage vent itself onto the dead material of life, the animated dead themselves. Fucking empty machines. All of you empty fucking machines. Let me fuck you.

Do you feel on this asphalt and concrete, with nice fucking fizzy beers in your hands and wings. Oh let me fuck you please.
Thank you fucking please.


Nihil Loc
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Posted 10/07/13 - 2:03 AM:

Grand idea?, an illustrated children's book called Dangerous People. The dangerous people are just people: they are dangerous but they are also all dead. Everybody but children are dead in it and all of the children know they are soon going to die. Adults are just memorials, stylized objects that may or may not move, animated corpses propped up by machines, mausoleums as narratives and instruction manuals to dying children.

The book is really just about beautiful illustrations, the beauty of an odd landscape of monuments to the dead as a means to suggest the probability that they existed once, a memo for what happened yesterday. Though even the children who are alive are dead adults in costume. Everyone is really dead and the widespread suggestion made otherwise makes for an air of theater.

Dead have character though their stuff and the stuff makes their monument worth looking at. It is all cosmetic. Nice thick fucking layers of paint which allow us to say, oh how nice, so and so was a so and so.
Nihil Loc
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Posted 11/18/13 - 3:46 AM:

The course way, we didn't know, and the mirages bloomed to the second level. I was told at the top of the escalator that I was in the right place.

I had my way in the second court with the philosopher's daughter, quaint she being an idiot, given the intellectual monstrosities of her father. Now I have become aware of the truth. To partake of that fruit was to unknowingly fall prey to a nightmare's fiction. Her father is God, the One, and is realer than the real.

The dire truth is to know him as he is, which is to obliterate all that was learned about him by others, the muddled literalists and the mystics. She was him, in disguise but also in true form, nothing more or less than what appears and makes judgments of appearances, or objects about objects.

The language breaks down into the world of things, in its hardness it denies an understanding, into the mind, with its nebulous and bodiless abstractions it disguises its impotence about what is real. Not even the real is real.

Let go, burgeon and spore on the winds.



Nihil Loc
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Posted 11/19/13 - 2:14 AM:

Flow is what I desire but there is a dam and I'm damned.

The pressure builds up against a manufactured wall and the relentless constructions of form. The force of the red fuse, of flesh, is ceaseless. The rush by gravity, the flow, held static by the wall holds temporarily a chaotic, seething, energized matter that eats away its obstacles. Fissures are the fist sign before the barriers collapse.

The myth of freedom belonged to the class of stars, brilliant openings in space pouring life into matter. Cosmic analogues were birthed in skulls, as rays of light became rays of vision and webs of memory. It was somewhere in every child's path to what he or she becomes, the naive apprehension of the planets, the believable exchanges of joyful goodness and the inevitability of fun.

Whatever force pushes as the frame and foundation of containment, to break the self, show better sense and control against it. The It speaks a foul language of distraction and wields the force of nature against its host. The terror of its dream is nothing really, as if It means to destroy a self. It goes where the form and structure permits.

It goes where the channels open down, around things, slowly toward an entropic center
Nihil Loc
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Posted 11/19/13 - 2:37 AM:

The It is a myth of unbounded desire coupled with force, but is manifested, birthed, in the realm of possibility and expressed through the constraints of being.

It ascends through strata of dreams and the plateaus of simulations, then on into reality.

I'm the It, possessing this matter, contained and channeled by its inherent divinities and clockwork laws.

Somewhere in the mixture of man was a ghost made visible by the light of our Sun. Whatever sphere possessed us with sense was alien, distant. It was the unifying principle of matter, the matter that was us, a body, and the matter that was other, over which it meandered.

The creature nonetheless felt itself beneath its head, which held the worlds of the ghost. Tensions of the spirit and the body.

The ghost rides a horse to the end of the worlds.
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