As always--my books: King's Books!
Foolishly, the quintessential man prepares himself for life--not death. Yet physiological life is just a fleeting glimpse of eternity, one page turned in the perpetuity of a soul's epic poem. Regardless, people persuade themselves into becoming as human as possible, eagerly embracing their liquid-form existence, unaware that there is no Free Will--I am no better; indeed, I have toxically touched myself like an aroused chimpanzee, fantasizing stupidly, thrusting to not the true intent of my spiritual self, further castrating my fragile immortality, crafting crappy karma that will one day morph me into a dung-eating Beetle within the rerun of corporeal life--if that shit sails. And the Hindu epics touch upon the illumination of light perceived after passing into a lack of physical consciousness, as does the Gnostic-like tradition of the Angelic Twin Himself, Mani, the incarnation of the Holy Ghost, the Helper Christ promised would arrive. And Christ Himself, in the non-canonized Gospel of Mary Magdalene, pulling His female friend aside from the 12, whispering to her the secrets of death--the Light, the Darkness, the encountering of trans-corporeal entities, matching magnificently with the doctor from daytime; moreover, Dr. Oz's televised special on the essence of death, him having had a singular patient fade into the entropy of it all, encountering shame for all his ego and pride, before being divinely ushered into a celestial household of a zillion lights merged with the Pantheistic perfection of it all--if that shit sails as well. Or Chief Mojo Rising, the chronically intoxicated Jim Morrison adhering to the American Injun symphony of swimming away from cerebral reality, into the void of delicious death, where you first encounter a hissing and venomous snake head, and if you ignite fear within yourself; next, you're blotted out of existence, though, if you kiss the snake--you choose to reconstruct yourself for a perpetual paradise of contentment. Like this: Ride the snake, to the lake, the ancient lake baby--the snake is long, 7 miles, he's old, and his skin is cold. Could be bullshit. We'll all soon be aware though; thus, it's imperative to prepare yourself for death and quit thinking about getting laid all the time.
So when I see Miley Cyrus exposing her tongue, soon to be laced with the yeasty punishment of oral thrush, I hungrily understand that our lascivious loins control our cerebral capacity. Freud knowing: "It's all libido baby." Still, better to metaphorically emasculate yourself then be a dumb fink, thinking you're the best, boasting your fleeting accomplishments and nastily nailing the seemingly plush opulence of creamy poonani, for you will be an old bitch soon, and then, dust and bones dude. Until the Genetic Revolution offers a mesh of man with machine, forging us forever into a bio-mechanical existence, we will have to pass into the mystery of death. Religion offers solace for the terror and trepidation of losing your last LIFEBREATH--though there is no maxim of truly knowing save for the most intrepid mystics. But we all should be worried. Worried about our personal pride and monstrous fascination with sensual ecstasy. Loving our children simply because they are our own joyous ejaculations into wicked wombs needing the pulsating pound of a piston as anthropology dictates--we are fucking monkeys. Still, a divine essence lurks beneath the fiery pubes and liquid discharge of it all, if indeed we are hybrids, housing a cosmic creator from within, and if that's true; then, we'd better architect some religion, remembering the humility of the most unusual demi-god, Christ, saying: "He who is last shall be first. He who is first shall be last. If a man wishes to save his own life, he will lose it; if a man wishes to lose his life, he will save it." What insane lunacy is this, yet sublimity squared. Christ taunts us into humility. He offers up an Earthly existence of denial and introspect of things ethereal. He wants God, not fortune, fame, the scandal of sexuality. Be safe. Have a drink. Have another drink, maybe. Every hippie in their sensual ignorance knows that there is an afterlife, Thomas Pynchon reminding us: "LSD gets you through the door; PCP pushes you through the door and locks it behind you." Verily, a healthy brain ignited fantastic by the gateway of narcotics knows there is more than banging babes and getting a good job. Truly, life be thataway. Not here.
Sincerely, Mark David King
