Wish It Was Lies #01
“Just fucking tell the truth. Maist cunts dinnae believe a word we fucking say anyways, think we’re fucking freaks. Ye can tell these pricks a million miles away. Just get cunts telt”.
Indulgence of rampant, merciless and relentless fevered egos that cause harm, beyond keeping oneself safe and enforcing boundaries, leads to spiritual death. I am a monster. An ethereal spirit. A construct. A wordsmith. A bullshitician. A wearer of masks. I understand music better now.
I broke in Perth, for the hundred thousandth time. Death by slow poisoning in the Vale of Strathmore, hastened pharmaceutical death in the board room; coercive consent behind closed doors. It’ll be easier this way. Maybe Sisyphus does yearn for an end to suffering, content with absolutely fuck all.
That cunt? Warped the day they fell oot. Tough shift but, from the womb to the boot, rebel without a clue. We’re all babies seeking the ancient wisdom of our grandmothers, cradled in the softness of the bosom. We, fools, look to men and war. We kill ourselves eventually. Good.
The arc of history is long but it bends back towards the just, history teaches us so. Capitalism is the aberration. The freaks will inhabit the realm of the gods, we’re already here. Heaven and hell are real, we create them every day. At least I’m dain what I’m telt for once, not just riffing in e-minor. Sorry Bill, think we were both wrong.
Buddha laughs as Jesus passes the buffalo pipe to Abraham, smoking that peerless Arabian transcendence. The ancient world taught us everything, the great creator made no mistakes.
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