Probably the most dangerous thing anybody could ever do, on these cobbled streets, or in front of these closed doors, is move through life knowing themselves sexually.
As above, so below, the great occultist spoke, and so it is. A brain without a body to live through is just as fuck all useless as a cock without a station, a cunt without a fixed star to move towards...like all those wild, young tourists, shoving tits upon tits upon tits, with no real connection to the skin, to your heart nestled inside that skin, to the touch and eyesight that engrosses the walk and the meaning, the manner and the animalistic, carefully distilled, uncontrollable thought process.
They've no time to make these constellations form, no map is created from within themselves to those they lust for, love, infatuate, obsess, reach out to or need. There is no need with them.
They are about as connected to the realness of their cunts and so forth as a skyscraper is to a rice paddy, physically speaking of course. The sad state of affairs, often botched, since they are mostly shitfaced drunk when they fuck, and so smashed up that they disconnect not only from their partner but from themselves, a million miles away, a witness to an accident that they were not present mentally for, most likely because they were looking away.
Little girls trod their tits around like lollipops on a spit -racked stick, with each skill-less degradation, a false sense of entitlement and power, their broken voices inside shouting "take that, daddy....." for those who didn't love enough, or ask for too much, or disappeared, or touched wrong or ignored....
Sluts all of them, and as a whore who was taught to be a woman, a lady on the outside and a life loving whore on the inside (not through actual instruction but through a certain strain of DNA), the whore remarks that she has loads and loads of free and easy time on her hands, when so much of her life wasn't affected by these broken fathers. Sometimes people don't know what to do without some element of internal psycho-sexual struggle. Against who they are, usually. These tits out girls crying out for their long lost daddys are the prime example. They're scooped up, they are free samples at the grocer, gone before you know it. Dried out, mentally plundered, no sense of what they behold, or radiate, just that which was stolen from them, or that which they perceived to be.
Their cuckolded equivalents aren't much better. Lifetimes short stacked in childhood of disappointment and failure coupled with an itinerary of check lists about women, about safety, and strife. Most people want a kidnap victim, or a captor to accomplish same. Most people scream out, drown themselves in cheap green alcohol, puke it up on the streets and on their would be lovers, hide out in that which doesn't frighten them, and keep it going for as long as they can, sexually dumbfounded and without the presence of the gods, which is most necessary to be present then, above all other things!
The beer streams down the young men's cheeks, as they think about why they want women they can control, or be nagged by, or form a sort of mental spiders web, each strand another pathology of illness that they themselves can never fix, therefore they are safe with these bead carrying sluts til the end of time. For ignorance begets ignorance, while the truly liberated get clubbed in the same streets during the day times, when the cloaks are out, resounding silence against one and all sinners - morality without base, hypocrisy knows no bounds - their minds so institutionalized with compartmentalization - wife, mother, pureness, virgin, god, freedom, knowledge, whore, shame....nothing in this or any other world is as rife with maze upon maze of fear about one's self as sexuality is.
One of those cases comes up, as these kids fuck each other without remorse, or care, or self, and then live other plain lives when the sun comes up. The white, free moon ain't gonna shine in the noon time for them, and if it did, they'd all fuck off and hide under a rock, crying for their mommies who made them this way and their gods who they forgot about, lost in the pleasure of a night's binge drink fuck with dry cunts, empty minds, limp cocks and detachment served up drive through style - like riding a bike indeed. Except this is your soul, your animal, your primitive needs and personal desires - it's not ten jumping jacks and brushing your teeth before bed.
The night bleeds on, they are interweaving in their webs of time wasting themselves, encircling their own childhoods in the muck of fluids lost to them, their own disorders set to the tune of a New Orleans jazz band, as the masquerade continues down the quarter....by sun up they'll be crossing the streets with ashes above their eyes, a tight fist in their selves, warning them to keep it up for as long as their youth will let it. They've got their whole lives to be dissatisfied, might as well feel good about flashing their tits that many times to that many strangers....intimacy scares the fuck out of human beings, so keep fucking in the dark, they do. You can give up so much for Lent, revelers......give up the idea that to know yourself in this way is dangerous. Frankly, the sight of these tarnished, suicidal liver consumerists of sex cannibalizing the avenues, getting closer every day to each other and their worst fears becoming their best laid plans, is the real monster in this here parade. If they burned the effigy of all they thought they were supposed to be, and rose up from those ashes with a fervour, with their huge, live hearts being through those wet t-shirts and love in their fingertips, the lust of kings and queens in their masked eyelids, and shame long gone at their feet, then what a celebration the favourable fuck would be, vital and raucous, all through each night of their lives. Laissez les bons temps rouler.
M. Lucia
As above, so below, the great occultist spoke, and so it is. A brain without a body to live through is just as fuck all useless as a cock without a station, a cunt without a fixed star to move towards...like all those wild, young tourists, shoving tits upon tits upon tits, with no real connection to the skin, to your heart nestled inside that skin, to the touch and eyesight that engrosses the walk and the meaning, the manner and the animalistic, carefully distilled, uncontrollable thought process.
They've no time to make these constellations form, no map is created from within themselves to those they lust for, love, infatuate, obsess, reach out to or need. There is no need with them.
They are about as connected to the realness of their cunts and so forth as a skyscraper is to a rice paddy, physically speaking of course. The sad state of affairs, often botched, since they are mostly shitfaced drunk when they fuck, and so smashed up that they disconnect not only from their partner but from themselves, a million miles away, a witness to an accident that they were not present mentally for, most likely because they were looking away.
Little girls trod their tits around like lollipops on a spit -racked stick, with each skill-less degradation, a false sense of entitlement and power, their broken voices inside shouting "take that, daddy....." for those who didn't love enough, or ask for too much, or disappeared, or touched wrong or ignored....
Sluts all of them, and as a whore who was taught to be a woman, a lady on the outside and a life loving whore on the inside (not through actual instruction but through a certain strain of DNA), the whore remarks that she has loads and loads of free and easy time on her hands, when so much of her life wasn't affected by these broken fathers. Sometimes people don't know what to do without some element of internal psycho-sexual struggle. Against who they are, usually. These tits out girls crying out for their long lost daddys are the prime example. They're scooped up, they are free samples at the grocer, gone before you know it. Dried out, mentally plundered, no sense of what they behold, or radiate, just that which was stolen from them, or that which they perceived to be.
Their cuckolded equivalents aren't much better. Lifetimes short stacked in childhood of disappointment and failure coupled with an itinerary of check lists about women, about safety, and strife. Most people want a kidnap victim, or a captor to accomplish same. Most people scream out, drown themselves in cheap green alcohol, puke it up on the streets and on their would be lovers, hide out in that which doesn't frighten them, and keep it going for as long as they can, sexually dumbfounded and without the presence of the gods, which is most necessary to be present then, above all other things!
The beer streams down the young men's cheeks, as they think about why they want women they can control, or be nagged by, or form a sort of mental spiders web, each strand another pathology of illness that they themselves can never fix, therefore they are safe with these bead carrying sluts til the end of time. For ignorance begets ignorance, while the truly liberated get clubbed in the same streets during the day times, when the cloaks are out, resounding silence against one and all sinners - morality without base, hypocrisy knows no bounds - their minds so institutionalized with compartmentalization - wife, mother, pureness, virgin, god, freedom, knowledge, whore, shame....nothing in this or any other world is as rife with maze upon maze of fear about one's self as sexuality is.
One of those cases comes up, as these kids fuck each other without remorse, or care, or self, and then live other plain lives when the sun comes up. The white, free moon ain't gonna shine in the noon time for them, and if it did, they'd all fuck off and hide under a rock, crying for their mommies who made them this way and their gods who they forgot about, lost in the pleasure of a night's binge drink fuck with dry cunts, empty minds, limp cocks and detachment served up drive through style - like riding a bike indeed. Except this is your soul, your animal, your primitive needs and personal desires - it's not ten jumping jacks and brushing your teeth before bed.
The night bleeds on, they are interweaving in their webs of time wasting themselves, encircling their own childhoods in the muck of fluids lost to them, their own disorders set to the tune of a New Orleans jazz band, as the masquerade continues down the quarter....by sun up they'll be crossing the streets with ashes above their eyes, a tight fist in their selves, warning them to keep it up for as long as their youth will let it. They've got their whole lives to be dissatisfied, might as well feel good about flashing their tits that many times to that many strangers....intimacy scares the fuck out of human beings, so keep fucking in the dark, they do. You can give up so much for Lent, revelers......give up the idea that to know yourself in this way is dangerous. Frankly, the sight of these tarnished, suicidal liver consumerists of sex cannibalizing the avenues, getting closer every day to each other and their worst fears becoming their best laid plans, is the real monster in this here parade. If they burned the effigy of all they thought they were supposed to be, and rose up from those ashes with a fervour, with their huge, live hearts being through those wet t-shirts and love in their fingertips, the lust of kings and queens in their masked eyelids, and shame long gone at their feet, then what a celebration the favourable fuck would be, vital and raucous, all through each night of their lives. Laissez les bons temps rouler.
M. Lucia
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