I began this blog intending to write something profound which , as a friend might categorize: evanesced. Into the vapor it went, like wisps escaping through our fingers.

I realized what it is I was attempting as a pulverantilist. What it is I continue to attempt as a pulverantilist artist? Not some pastiche or derivative, for in the moment the shutter falls, you KNOW, if you’ve hit the sublime or complete shit masquerading as genius.

It is such a truth we wish to conceal from our fellow brethren. That we are indeed shit. AND as a form of life in ALL it’s vicious vicissitudes, we should be mindful of the fact that we are FULL of ourselves.

FUCKING FULL of ourselves. Lapping our own dicks and pussies and tits as if we could do it for eternity.

But I suggest something else which as already been suggested countless times by all the fucking prophets before us… and fucking curse their insight to Gehenna and all damnation. The lapping of our own orifices as mentioned a priori, is just that and only that. Self lapping of pleasure centers. Loads of elation on our soul. And like life itself, selfish cumming to the next generation. Thoughtless pumping, breathing the entire edifice a violent scream against a very dark orbital plain. An expanse which escapes the up and the down, or the inside and the inside-out.

I would most certainly like to condemn ALL humanity and all it’s fucking childishness. I WOULD like to do that, but alas I am restrained, for deep in the moment of pure abnegation, I/we find an infinitely small moment where we are ONE with all that was, is and will come. The multiplicity of ME as life moving through persistent AND non-existent moments. The time traveler as I have mentioned.

For those of you who believe in the little thrusts you fuck onto the universe, your high grounds and low grounds and all the in-between-grounds… well it’s pointless and gravid with infinite meaning simultaneously.

We don’t get to decide. In a breath we are extinguished , our flame from this totality. A gravity well of angst, anger, love, repetitive fucking, kissing, hugging.

Your words, as these words you are now reading will evanesce. Vapors. Futile and fertile.

But don’t lose vile ‘HOPE‘ in her beatitude. She is a slut and drags us along. Be! She proclaims, BE!

Can you face the final indignation of evisceration when it comes? Ego override. The binary tarpit?

Who reads this? Me? You? Who exactly? In a theoretical setting of a proposed infinite audience, for if time and the universe as a life form are infinite, then statistically all long shots are possible…

or it is mere preaching to the church choir. They already believe those who already believe.

Because of you I cry. Because of you I laugh.

Join the Conversation

  1. Sir – I beg your indulgence for a moment or…

    I read it, you are not alone.
    Playing the Dane is one of life’s pleasures and here you are, in doublet and hose, declaiming in tandem with wot Bill did scribble many moons afore ye!
    Derivative and no less glorious in its vituperative spleen.
    A glass of whatever you want – you deserve it.
    Let’s all have a jolly good howl at the moon!

    So, let’s sing along will the Bard –

    “I have of late – but wherefore I know not – lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilential congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me: no, nor woman neither.”

    I have long since given up worrying about the fate and state of the nation and the morons who drive the bus.
    Fuck them and damn their eyes. Life is not only too short but it is also not a dress rehearsal for the main performance.
    Be good to yourself at least once a day because no other fucker will.
    Happy New Year.

  2. Sir, forgive the levity of previous words, I was in a good mood, but thankfully that has now subsided and I am once again bathing in the warmth of gloom.
    I do hope all is well with ye.

    1. Mr. T

      The string of words placed in these comments only highlights the beatitude. The insight that I have assigned to your strings of text. There is no arrogance of showmanship here. Only gratitude. Your life has come to this singularity of expression as you have reached a many singularity of expressions. My life has come to this indefinable and indefatigable moment.

      A happenstance? A hearty laughter for these intersections are rare indeed as comets cross our plain of night sky.

      Please write back as expansively as you can muster. I delight in your words.

  3. the mood of mirth is a welcomed cousin at a long wedding.
    The bard as ever is a light in the dark. The universe makes no mistakes and makes none with the Bard.
    Molto bene, a supreme constant and castigation of the surly and rude.

    Thanks for the Shakespeare brother.


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