Articles Of Faith and The Polka Dot Dress


Fortunately i didn’t waste the better part of two thirds of one entire incarnation searching for truth. What a frivolous existence that would have been.

And throughout the field footprints were found forming the covert traces of the mind control manipulators from government-supported labs tracking the trends. Polka dot dresses and the Liars end.

She came shattering down the corridor and if the plastic office plants had life they would have bowed that much is for sure. In worship this ancient meme.

Carrying an armful of textbooks and paperwork that came spilling from her arms onto the polished floor. She had a Polka dot dress on that modestly covered her annihilations and heels with the strap, tight. Her hair ‘spilled’ ambrosionics, frequencies that made me look away and then hesitate, to help? Or put a first step onto the path of the unrighteous heretic. There is nothing in me except ‘Nomad’. Wanderer, the always lost, taking comfort in the silence between these ghosts and me.

I helped pick up the books. It was all a ruse I find out later, to speak to me, to communicate and press the subject further. I could not let flow the slick lies prepared for these occasions, these unsubtle polyphonic slips in the turgid flows between classrooms. She spoke, I was lost straight away. Those clipped vowels that resonance, those lips, those hips. Better to battle away the lines we spill, the lies like vomit. She demanded truth and she got it.

For a second there as you picked up the fallen papers, your hair brushed my arm and stopped my breath. You smelled of soap and books. It was the whole story I suppose, your will made real, you unlocked the door the Doctors told you that you wouldn’t, or couldn’t. Why are we the enemy, what do we have to face and where do we have to play dead? We are better off I think, ignorant. And things always lean over the bed, always make us suffer. Our ability is foreshortened, we cant play dead any more…

Even curious lab rats eventually tire of the cages and bite at the probing fingers.

In this end it didn’t matter about the fumbled clumsy finger or the the unbidden entry into life. Nowhere to complain with a a halted breath on red wet lips or the rain cold in your hair that made it curl. You shiver and press against me, I keep you warm, and then I keep you hot. A hard button close to clasp and I give you a sour teatime treat at the railway station platform, my hand in your dress as the people press around us and the trains roll on. I find that my hand on your sex makes you bump your body against mine as I bring you to orgasm and the world turns on and you close your eyes for a second. They move to places and you become the center. There is a drop of rain on your eyelash and I feel your nipples hard under that thin dress and we are taken in a tumult of harsh noise and a Diesel filled wind as the train goes past and the people crush. I taste you on my fingers as the 8.15 to Glasgow pulls in, and you are gone.

The fake civilised conversations over time have evolved from the Bible, the Koran, the Torah and other esoteric instruments of social and religious instruction and coercion to the more recent subtle, subliminal and alleged, almost ethereal quantum controls – to the point that mass meme manipulation manifests without manifesting openly or appearing in any material manifest, using delivery systems to the brain that the targets cannot detect until desired outcomes arrive.

The foundations of the Black Iron Shithole rocked to the bedrock, the bare bones of the cursed earth 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 intimate 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.

We wait for our Princesses to save us of course. The wait aches.

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