The Art Of Death

   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

The Smok'n Vision Of Tom Aquinas

   As always, my books:  King's Books!
   Pope Benedict was weirdly wise waywards as his fade into the cosmic black of nothingness, like a Church Window politely surrendering to wax on and wax off, gleaming the cure of a nasty mire, offering up the benevolent charm of Pope Francis, swift with the stampede of a zillion ignorant Nations, offering the solution of solace on TWITTER, bolding beyond the beauty of JP the 2nd igniting MARY as the Co-Remdemptrix--which should'a been; regardless, Pope Benedict was vociferously known to interrogatively boast towards the near direction of humble, ascetic underlings:  "Have you ever heard of the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?" This is the infinite formation of Truths in the Megaverse.
  Verily, Christ had no pie in the face for Pilate as Mel Gibson offered up a fondness for Ezra Pound, me too, but the guilt of the most insidious evil against mankind--the foulest and nastily toxic state of German hysteria trumping Luther's uncool and uncouth transformation of Jesus the Christ into the intellectual rabble of the salacious Saint Paul. The Gospels outshine all the rest--no matter!  Christ is the only positive demi-god mentioned in the entire Bible--let me think, I'm intoxicated, oh yeah--it's true.  Alas, Gilgamesh was 2/3 god, usurping the spiritual anatomy of the Abrahamic God in fanatically forging Christ; still, no other demi-god would humble themselves to the pussy of the Cross--and it isn't.   Jesus stupefied Nietzsche, and with sublime intent, inflicting upon Himself the shame of Creation, for He did it--He was the Hebrew God Incarnate, the most powerful of all the gods; as a result, He buried it deep inside His celibate self, offering up spiritual castration for His own reeking flesh and His Immaculate Mother, denouncing the demonic dance of carnal play for the thunder of asceticism, fasting till serpents in the wicked desert, doing the combative dance with the Devil himself--Jesus be awesome, and Oh My God--is Tebow Right?

   Regardless, Thomas Aquinas was transported or teleported into 1977, within the confines of a movie theater . . .                                                                                                                   

Tebow/Canadian Football: Do It Man . . .

   As always, my books:  King's Books

   Warren Moon is Captain Black Sparrow of symmetrical cool; moreover, Doug Flutie dodging with mercurial Spider-Man offers a dangerous game that outchills the Frozen Tundra of Green Bay; specifically, anybody can wrangle football in the States, but running through the vacant fields of Saskatchewan during times of BarleyCorning Civil War, Flutie transcends the rest; next, mid-thirties and again gelled with the NFL, architecting "Comeback Player Of The Year" with a dexterity determined to eclipse the spies of a mutated defense.  Yes, Peyton Manning is a cerebral assasin--an adrogynous android rocketing with the eternal arm, much like Pete Sampras (spell'n?) of tennis fame; nonetheless, Manning never gets his shirt dirty--no Mean Joe Green toss and a fizzy bottle of fabulous Coke, though better ingested like the free-lancing intellectual known as Freud to soothe the slain spirit of romantic decadence.

   And it is that:  The Saskatchewan void of it all, HOLE, vacuous yet voluptious with the mirth of a humble God adoring the Combative Anthropology of Man minus the sanguine spill of crimson guts and ruptured intestinal tracts. 

   Allow Tebow the GRACE of achievement, for he did more than both Cam Newton and RG 3 merged for immaculate respect; still, he gets nothing for his Moose Johnson ability to make horizontal the adversarial athlete lined up across from his Christian Gleam.  So chill, hit Canada like Chief was in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, daring the amber bush of carnal insanity, though besmirched better by an actor damned and destined to be the Joker before Heath Ledger's accidental insertation of legal medicines into his gorgeous corporeal aspects.  Regardlees, we must adhere to the futurity of continuance, allowing all Quarterbacks the chance at Kenny "the Snake" Stabler Fame even if a fifth of Vodka a day is drank for dangerous purposes.  God Bless the excess of William Blake, if understood for a sublime purpose.

   Tebow can hone his katana in Canada; then, inject his venom into the remission of the unathletic, passing QB, dumb and dumber to a Safety Blitz forged from the quicksilver of a 4.3 forty short man, weighing in at 170 pounds, but smacking the ass of gangly stars into the quicksand of recovery.  God Bless the running Quarterback!

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Nietzsche, Narcotics, and Jesus the Christ

  As always:  My books--King's Books!

   Nietzsche loved the Living Christ, preferred other unearthly incarnations of religion, fascinated by the glorious gleam of alien theology, though he would deny it; plus, a profound pull to envy the insanity of Jesus the Christ, adored by Tim Tebow, though misunderstood; however, the Gnostic approach to have Christ as a Savior is boldacious bullshit; otherwise, Tebow is clean, manifesting a brilliant glue towards the immortal cracker of Catholicism--the only real, Christian religion save the Eastern Orthodox.  Protestants, the modernism of Saint Paul, his intellectual rants dominating the New Testament and spoiling the rich in fuel resources of the Living Christ.  Beyond the Four Gospels homosexuals will not inherit heaven, and now:  Pope Francis the Great denying the ignorance of ill will delivered by an antiquated testimony, them not being the Words in Red; as a result, Paul is the consequence of a high cerebral capacity crafting cults like the Methodists, and other Protestant heretics; nonetheless, who are the Catholics unless they inflict upon themselves the stigmata like Saint Francis or fade mystical like Saint Johnn of the Cross into the devious though immaculate Dark Night of the Soul.

   Tebow should not showcase his effulgent awesomeness so immediately with the mercurial swift of Hermes doing a 4.3 Forty Like "the rocket" Chris Johnson from the tenacious Titans of Neon-Bright Nashville.  Christ offered the theological axiom that praying or praising in private usurps public demonstrations of religion; indeed, Jesus boldly bragged the brilliance of "locking the door" and offering up to the Father the insidious insides of oneself.  Still, Tebow is a quasi-demi-god in the sense that he is persecuted for ambiguous QBing, marching to the madness of Christ, Christ, resisting not His Adversary, inspiring Tolstoy to fanatically forge his own Gospel, and yes--Christ welcomed death like a madman.  Do you think Perseus would have been obedient even unto death?  Krishna?  Siddhartha who inherited the co-inhabitant and synergy of the Buddha (I'm drunk)?  Like King David (the Grandest of the Hebrew Heroes), him being insanely in love with God, Jesus the Christ punished Himself to the love of humiliations, and the Protestant Reformation offers the foolish folly of Him having died for our sins and salvation being easy--bullshit!  You gotta bleed yourself my man.

  Asceticism outshines the fabrication of futurity; indeed, lets die off and deny the long-suffering of a future promising euphoric everything, for that is the path to the immediate Most Potent of all the g(G)ods--the Hebrew God, aligned forever with the differing personalities of the 12 Tribes, and I can whatyamacallit wash and wax my pubes like a Levite Priest.

   We forget the mystery of God; we think we understand Him--but we don't.  Stephen Hawking, the most intelligent idiot of today proclaims that with mathematics or science we can read the mind of God.  Okay asshole, can you even read the mind of an ant?  What stale gravy and reeking-monkey shit garbage that is.  How retarded is Stephen Hawking?  Mentally challenged, and yes, I'm an intellectual gimp, or have been dubbed one; thus, I accept my tolerance for stupidity and continue to vociferously spill:  The body has natural morphine and marijuana receptors; hence, it was constructed for our nervous and sickly purpose, that is mortality.  Blow mimics a Frontal Lobe stimulant, never dominating the senses or becoming addictive; still, Dr. Drew would incarcerate Freud and make him manifest a mantra of horeshit for Dr. Phil and the masses of idiots who demonically denounce Paine, Jefferson, and Washington as the ideal builders of Total Liberty, it today, besmirched by people like Eric Holder and George W. Bush, yes dude, I'm comparing them as a synergy of iniquitous evil.  Let your neighbor LIVE!  Abe Lincoln:  "Prohibition goes against everything this country stands for."  So, legalize, tax the narcotics, birth a Drug Czar who spawns responsibilty and not the euphoria of a permabuzz.  We can do this like men of high intellect baby.  God Bless.

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Johnny Football got couth?

   I never watched college football other than the Razorbacks while living in Little Rock.  Didn't believe in all that school spirit and volcanic pep talks from obese coaches able to make their own gravy, delivering these profound, personal juices from underneath the chocolate yeast that boxer shorts and diets low in acidophilus deliver, though mostly to females; next, them needing to scrape the yeasty cheese with multi-forked injections of Greek yogurt, whatever . . .

   Look--college football was always a bodacious bore; specifically, it lacked the laser-passing attack of Joe Montana and Kenny "the Snake" Stabler, bringing Jack Daniels into the oval huddle, having studied his pestering plays by the neon gleam of jukebox lights the luminous night before.  Then--it happened.  A mystic epiphany forecast by the Abrahamic God--the bold birth of Tim Tebow.  College football was thriving and once again alive in my Hog-Laced Brain; indeed, doing the Madonna (not her, but Her) mojo of outshining Herschel Walker's rushing touchdowns; plus, passing via Southpaw (I think, but the 60's still obscure me) for a plethora of pigskin scores.  And then he was gone.  A total of around 500 total yards offense in the Sugar Bowl, his last game played, Tebow morphed into a Bronco Rookie, never to be sweetly appreciated, even offering the humility of crowning himself with metaphorical thorns, having shaved his masculine mane into the shape of an ascetic-fuelled friar from FranciscanLand.  Yep, after Tebow smoothly sailed off into the NFL, I thought college football was once again dead; then, I heard about Johnny Football.

   Johnny Manziel is not your garden variety nice guy; moreover, he might be a real prick.  But, cool for him.  Having edge and manifesting beefy bravado for the cameras and myriads of fans watching the pictures fly by over the High Definition System is a magnanimous blessing from the celestial ocean above.  Manziel is coolicious kismet, delivered by the gods for our entertainment.  He knows that.  He knows his Daddy.  The kid is young, gregarious, and talented, as if having sold his soul to the diabolical Red Men for Tom Brady's arm--though Tim Tebow from the waist down.  Yeah, Manziel got game. And what the hell is wrong with that?  He's no different than any cheap-dressing, oversexed hussy hoofing it in hellacious high heels to ignite erections for their own ego-boosting laxative.  He'll chill.  Find humility.  Offer his talents up to the Cosmic Giant who crafted the Big Neon Glitter.  Just the first game of the season.  Lord, I hope I'm right . . .

   Too, you can purchase my books @ Mark David King on Apple iTunes or the Nook; also, Barnes and Noble.Com, and Amazon.Com--here's a link to my Amazon Author's Page:  King's Books

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Obama and Putin in Cage Match for Snowden . . .

   Before the conversation, you can buy my books:  King's Books!
   Anyway, more imperative than my stoned synergy with the Immaculate Collective, we should speak of Snowden.
   A huge fan of Russian literature (check out my past Blogs), I adore the theme of a huge-ass country occupying a large portion of Asia, being the boldest/badalicious defiance of America--and damn, I love the United States.  The Holy Spirit of 1776, the Honesty of Abe, declaring:  "Prohibition goes against everything this country stands for."  Alas, resurrect the utopian standards of Libertarians, at least striving and thriving for the cleanse of freakalicious freedom.  Regardless, no matter how unique and magnificent America is--it fucked up big time.  Specifically, W's Patriot Act was the most unpatriotic action in the history of American Government.  And America should be ashamed for voyeuristically observing, not in the ideals of the empirical Plato, but wickedly watching the failures and flaws of humanity with aim and anger--for what?
   Let Obama's and Eric Holder's monstrous egos battle it out for the agile and elusive Snowden.  Verily, let Obama and Eric Holder have a tag-team cage match against Vladimir Putin; next, the former KGB badass and master of the martial arts will submit Obama within minutes, and as justice should wend, Mother Russia keeps Snowden for the exchange of radical yet genuinely smooth idealism.  Look, this country (America) is all about us owning the government's ass--not it owning us.  Deal with the holes in utopian architecture, strictly for the best of man; indeed, we are all a bunch of sons of bitches; nevertheless, true American patriots are about eternal freedom, and the synergy of God and man merged for the perpetual flux of an Almighty's awesomeness.
  I love this country, but I am more ashamed of it than A-Rod.  He was trying to be his best.  But this country was trying to be a creep.  Yeah, and I screw up too--we all do . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

New Book On Christ defeats Immaculate Conception.

   I've just drank plenty of beer; thus, deal with me--
   The Fox News interview and such with the scandalous book on Christ--here goes:
   Ancient Astronaut Theory offers the plethora of plenty; indeed, a hypodermic needle containing a myriad of mage-like sperm could be inserted through the hymen, without the theological uncouth of carnal activity or coitus by the hand of man's physiology; nevertheless, if Immaculate Conception could be perfectly crafted today; next, why do we frivolously frown upon the technology of impregnating Virgin Queens?  Shit, clone Audie Murphy a myriad of monstrous times; then, you have a Clone Army forged from the best of man--an anthropological combative machine, hellbent on serving itself Nazi Ass.  And I'm fucking German, partially . . .
  The Virgin Birth was a maxim of energy for the gods hovering near our tender Terra within the Multiverse; alas, consider not the improbability of yesterday, but the fact that visitation from "star beings" is a Universal Sign that our evolution was morphed fantastic by the Hotalicious Hand of God.  We are gods as did proclaim the brilliant bard dubbed King David, slayer of giants and lover of all concubines black or white, imported from all the nether regions, if ya get me.
   God has technology.  He is not some invisible man living in the clouds with a poof of creation energy--nah, an unearthly fabrication of ourselves, gelled immaculate with the OCDing of human creation through an E.T.'s I.V. into inviolate virginity for the sake of damned man.
   Christ is real.  He be Jesus.  Look, Muhammad an agile and vociferous poet with a dangerous scimitar, or Buddha lanced with mediocrity, nah, but it's fun to make fun of NEUTRALITY and the Middle Path, or Krishna impregnated perfect and super symmetrical, cool as Holy Shit in Azure Blue, rocking the Megaverse with eternal resonation of beauty copulating for the sake of epiphany.
   Verily, there is something bigger than us, and it's not Ron Jeremy's elongated disfigurement, though benevolent in being spawned by natural birth; still, we are to be humble to the Nature of God and the gods, knowing futurity may have already happened, and we are all creatures architected by something simply more advanced than our Internet Speed--it's all relative, and the Good God wends waywards, thataway, forever . . .
   Too, buy my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King