R.A.T Run Metaphysical Syria

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Remote Anonymous Triggering of destruction

My hands shake and shiver over smooth floors and battered walls and every touch a pulled heart. What have I done to you? That place by your hip so magical and precious,and I sigh a given breath for fears to gasp and bitten lips, and you sit there gazing with blank mind and blanker page. We are the thing that fills with all the darkness you can muster up and we chase shadows and dark things and hold them tight. For the harder we squeeze them, the more it makes us right. I can sit with my back against the wall and watch you play while I smoke a cigarette on the cold floor I brush back my hair and smile and your shattered orgasm makes your heels tap and scratches the floor.

The final goal should be to become so immune to mainstream media lies that the next time you hear of a new false flag attack you will no longer react to them at all. But..What for many years seemed unthinkable has turned out to be true after all.

The day will wind upon us as we seek the darker paths and the fatter souls do ponder as we tackle the spaces between us, and your fingers wander. Perhaps that’s best for all at least for this bitter man. As all the sour world offers simple solace just a few scattered words.

I fuck you slow, as you like that, and the serpent winds around both of us the innocent truth and your heels dig into my back.

It floats in the air and it sticks to dishes. A quick rinse under the Tap doesn’t remove it from your hands, and people can spread it before they feel sick themselves.

I shifted my weight a little in the bed. Who the fuck was Heidi? What kind of a name was that? Why all these fucking dreams of people locked away, of dreams within dreams, of a madness, the kind which….trembles. Why was I dying in all of them? I was cold but drenched in sweat and the Nurse looked concerned, rapid scribbling, recording, a swish of light blue cotton as she raced away. She came back with a Doctor, then another one. They recorded my blood pressure from the machine screaming red LED murder, I noticed they ran around and one of them spoke softly to me as he opened an artery in my neck and inserted a tube into my neck, then another then another….

“To emerge from the trance is immediately to see the fabric and seams. One will see enough of the key players and their games to begin to resist; waiting for total vision is a cop-out.”

Across from me the old man was dying as was I…by his bed sat a man and a woman holding hands as I watched the old man softly sit up and gather himself. He swung his legs over the bed and simply sat for a while and gazed at his solid body now left behind. He was happy and his eyes, which were a milky egg colour before now glowed like diamonds. Behind him the featureless wall had become a garden with a simple path that wound through the flowers to….. It was evening in the garden but each plant shone from within, a glow that hurt the eyes of us. To him yearned and fresh he stood and with a glance and a smile at me he walked onto the path and went.

Is it you that writes sad songs to be folded and put away in your notebook or secret draw?Is it you that curls on floors and shakes like a shitting dog and wish to go outside and walk to hear others idle talk as they go through their days? Another time it would be alright to to get on and play nice. But am I not the Darkest Prince? Is it you that tells the truth? The Iron will and the need to see? As I rot in this Bed I see you there as a Phantom floating through the Ward and though my hand reaches out, the wind snatches you away. Although I shout out and cry, the needles sink deep but I don’t feel them any more but under the door a light and the stamping feet of them who guard the chilled night, on the walls the shadow clowns and creatures never described.

Always the feet that stamp bring fear with a grasped book and pen so let the fear in, bring it close as I will never fear the chance to love and my able heart springs clear and yet still fills the hole left behind. I turn a little in the Bed and dreams of suns are never far away from me, or that light that shone for the man opposite me who dies as I watched. They go into the dipped horizon and blasted pain filled souls fly ever higher. Oh Great Smith of the Heavens who has made me, let me stand at your side again and stoke the Eternal fire…

The cups of tea are sweet and hot placed on bedside tables too far to fetch, and I still thirst and nobody helps much. Love lost over lost loves we hold knives close in pockets and always the bitter Wolves bite and all the harder for men who wander and are lost. The silence bickers foul air around me in this place and weighs as heavy as hearts. The crying of relatives and the expression of the sheering pain that fills most of us. My Heart is heavier still and gravity entices a hand to drop from the bed covers.

Us dying Poets write their simple airs, for people who never see them and they are cast away for other eyes to see and believe. Yet the Ill will point to the sea and cry of monsters and shout loud in fear as the scaled creatures twist and turn their hides blackened with hate. The other Patients will laugh and dance and sing, while us Poets stride and point for those who refuse to see or hear and still we dance and twirl under stars and woodland canopy amongst the flowers still as death and your hand brushes them softly.

We laugh at starlit glades and that sword lies heavy in my hand and i may put it down a while as I am tired of it. I may watch while you dance in dark spaces in between the stars my Super Star Princess.

My neck hurts a little but I don’t care. That beautiful hollow feeling as one submits to defeat is sweeter still now the Nurses have ceased their prodding. A few hours ago eight maybe nine people dressed in black around my bed their faces grey and lifeless, they suck in my suffering and hate like food. They love this, their faces contorted by illicit happiness. Eyes like eight balls. The needles in my neck hurt I wish they would take them out but know they will probably stay in, they like it like that.

Eris Said JFK Was The Gatekeeper

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If you dont shoot him,(clicks safety off,levels pistol) i’m gonna shoot you……or: remember your training, this is just a simulation, just a simulation….all the way.

How the vicious men in dark corners they deny us water but I never heard, the songs they sang as they passed by, but I find….the way to get out is to love them and still the bell cracked. The foundations rocked to their feet and seven times seven locks the door and shuts the sun out the paint it peels and softens when the black sun crosses the border. Only the young still have the warmth they brought in with them, and they will watch and grow old as the tendrils of their knowledge falls away from them. I try and I try to cling on too, and love too but maybe I’m too old. We look to the West and mountains they look much too cold. Maybe the simple songs are the ones that get higher the higher and the taller and our love it will sting the sourer but the pain it grows on, and heartbeats are meant to die slow. Someone is holding my hand.

What happens when compassion fatigue sets in? What is the limit or bandwidth of human empathy?

I know the ropes and the gags they grow old and I lift my face from the Pillow and the Damp wall and see all the good friends I have made. When we light the fire and destroy all the hate books the disgrace of the faces of the people left behind flows into water. they lost the great test, a finer rest you will not take but in the dawn they come out and sing a wonderful song to the Sun, that light that goes ever on.

These people are functioning while in trauma, while in an open air prison, while being semi-starved.

They left the Cell door open, outside there was just the empty walkways that snaked up and down the Prison like the physiology of the Snake, stacked walkways like cages, doors like broken teeth. A faint mist hung in the air of it. I dare not walk out of that door. The fear of it makes me tremble and my bare feet move ever so slightly on the concrete.

Doing shit like massacring entire busloads of students, or dropping a truck full of severed heads on a major highway, is mostly about public relations, rather than business communication.

Not a chance. I would fall to the metal mesh floor and shut my eyes against it. Yes. They tempt me and I can hear why. The high heels from deep within the Prison, they click in a rhythm that is almost lust in sound, it makes my heart weak, and weaker still I cannot walk from that door. I instead stand again against the circle and wait for it to arrive, this treat. Why do we build our walls so high? I close my eyes for a second in that gap punctuated by that swish of Leather and the beat of the heels. I close my eyes and I think of release for a few precious seconds. A Messenger I need some help, to leave even a cryptic riddle would be a blessing, at least to know a little.

To at least wind the riddle around the mind to pass what stands for Time here. Him again, this vision I have of this man, this Magician. What he is I do not know but, over this past few seconds a memory of him, unbidden, unknown. His hands scarred with work are powerful…

And we’re led to believe that all of this corruption and cynicism is just the way it is, the way it has to be.

I thought about all the things I had seen, and his strong hand grabbed mine and pulled me upright and in front of us a valley a path ran along a stream . At the end of the Valley a high mountain range snow topped. ‘The Alchemists’ he said, ‘The Nine who hold your shattered Souls’ he said and pointed towards them. ‘There is no North and no South here, stretch the arms touch neither East nor West the thing that you were is no more and never even existed here but in my heart, and as I build this land I fill it with my people who have escaped the puzzle’. He pulled me to my feet laughing and pointed to the Sky above him. Reflected in it was the façade of the Prison and its gates, they were high and built from the Blackest Iron. A symbol for the Void in their Spirit that perplexes these men. ‘Here you build as you wish’. He said. ‘A bridge made of Black Iron or an existence for love’.

…circumstantial and anecdotal evidence points to a percentage of the ruling super-class’s deep involvement in this dark spirituality as they seem to thrive on war, bloodshed, sacrifice, and widespread human misery apart from their agenda for power and wealth.

The Nurses are gentle today, almost touching with a gentleness that makes me happy and content. My insides are hurting today, I think I have some sort of infection. The Nurses never speak to me and I don’t speak to them. I am unsure of who I am, my memories are random and cluttered. I cannot hold tight to any memory I feel is my own. In the darkness of these thoughts I remain stubborn and angry. I know this thing, this place I inhabit is not where I am from. This place has no meaning to me. These shadows have no presence.

This is a base place, my mind occupies itself with tantalising thoughts of filthy sex. A Nurse cannot walk by without my mind places her in positions of filth and depravity, of a Joy hard to hold dear. An empty love so to speak, I see it around me and it makes my hands tremble with the strength of it. I suspect this place twists my heart into this filth. It tempts.

Even as my fragile frame lies within this place my heart grows ever stronger and my heart has urges and such delights to offer. The tubes of course carry their cargo into my veins. I am tethered here, tied down like a Metaphysical Gulliver. A Clown Prince of their shattered Pantomimes. I see their trick and their tricks become mine own both wrapped tight and tighter still. I know you. You who I know, you woman. You are radiant, you sting the very Sun with your beauty, you are a veritable scene. A joke? You know, as my hand does creep.

I would creep behind you at the window as you looked out at the garden your hands in the soapy water and would put my hands under your shirt, tease a nipple, cup your breast and my other hand in your crotch damp. You would taste its wetness with my fingers down your throat. You are still sore from last night but you like the pain as you have to get to the far edge, to see what’s underneath.

In one sense there is no such thing as good or evil. These qualities could be said to be expressions of ancient beliefs seeking to understand reality. If we were to experiment with our existence and view ALL manifestations of life as intrinsically good, then the evil wouldn’t necessarily disappear but would be seen, literally, in a different light with its power for dominance withheld.

He suffers, I see him locked into that bed, but I see what it means. He is trying to communicate something. You suspect this to be an awakening of sorts? A joyous fist pumping moment of discovery but, no. I feel nothing but understanding, no emotional attachment to it at all. I look upon Prison walls and those abandoned halls.

I see the truth of the matter, the subject unaffected by tears and wails. He is speaking to me as I trace the circle on the wall I see his pain and his agony and the need to tell, to inform, and to disgust. He speaks to me of love and things that should be known to me. He draws upon sex sodden flesh of those he loved onto bare flesh, onto smooth skin of sex hard breasts. This medium, this joke fucking. He communicated through his fantasy, through his experience, such delights that flow through my mind as my fingers trace and polish the circle. I smell the leather of the car interior, the scent of the air freshener, the night air.