Thursday, October 26, 2017
Christ--that glint in his eye
"Christ--that glint in his eye"
Balance, counterpoise, and all things groovy--remember, not good and evil. Not Masonic patterns, doing equal here or there, for that is the ultimate fabrication of true chaos; indeed, balance is mother and father, or father and mother. Fear the father; next, honor the mother.
Christ is axiomatic balance. He has the Father's glint in His eye. That visionary swagger; on the flip side, you see His Mother's mercy. And a benevolent wife allows a husband to be tough on their children, knowing he does so only out of masculine love. She cries, yes, but tells her child: "Your father loves you. He's only tough on you because the world is so cruel. When you walk out the door of our house my child--the world will tear you to pieces, unless you are steeled by the father."
But, what the hell do I know? I'm a putz, on some levels. Hell, I still like to urinate out in the woods better than in a commode. Nature drinks animal piss; thus, why not mine? And I only piss brilliance. Beef jerky is really good. I like the spicy.
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Why Chastity?
"Why Chastity?"
Nothing is more fertile, than that which has been frigid first. The Northern European gods attempted to mimic the One, True God. Too, God is a man--just a man, slaving in his workshop, forging creatures and beings so much more powerful than Him, and only for the challenge; however, God has had to kill many of the living--it has been written, and even deal with demons strictly; indeed, if the Father is in the business of fighting demons--you are too, like unto Him, in His Awesome Image. He doesn't want a fair fight. He wants to be bloodied in a metaphorical bar brawl in order to be bruised for our offenses and loaded down with opprobrium.
Can't have intercourse--the physicians ask why. Cause there is always a better man. Until I allegorically kill the better man; next, I am nothing. I know my place--in humble suburbia, quirky, kind, brutally honest, weird as a Wheaten, and understand that Jesus Christ Himself, in his gorgeous dirty blonde, with eyes aglow and waaaay better than mine, spitting tobacco, and could take any woman I chose; thus, until I beat my big brother, and I won't, for He is Christ, and I'm a dreamer; as a result, Freud mentioned: "Every man is great in his dreams." Remember that, and I will too. We are all but fools, not just me, and you for reading this, but I applaud you--there is nothing more divine than hot blondes with green eyes and muscle cars save God the Father, and the whole damn Holy Family--yee-haw, I found my place--I'm a Protestant/Catholic; plus, I like the Old Testament doctor, as the doctor told me not to read the Old Testament, for I was too brutal on myself. Good for me.
One of my siblings needs to sculpt his abs. Why be a warrior dwarf, when you qualify for light-elf with shape-shifting abilities? Drive a muscle car, once again, and feel the Grant Yankee of a tomb in New York City. He is a shrine, and drank the shit out of it--nobody knew why, not even Sherman, Sherman having said: "I don't understand him; moreover, I don't even think he understands himself."
The Civil War was cruel. Remember history, not tear it down, or we will all repeat it.
An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you
"An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you"
I was the schmuck; I see it many times, when I travel, even in the theater of my own psychotic mind. Thank you for dragging me off into the chamber of Jonathan Winters, for now, like him--you dillweeds gave me a get-out-of-jail free card. And I always liked Monopoly. I perpetually play the part of terrier; moreover, this is dedicated to a girlish woman I knew, and she was a terrier--allegorically; I don't need to see Jonathan Winters so soon again, for he resonates within.
The lady loved me. But I was anchored down by a woman's greedy gravity that had metaphorically castrated me in my youth. Tear him to shreds, and all because he doesn't attend our adolescent orgies or party with us--yup, King is a freak, sitting at the Jewish Temple with two beers and a pack of smokes--we drop him off there on the way to Pandemonium, you know, the party where all the teenage girls are subject to toxic cooters, constantly craving, as their brains are crushed beer cans--everything has a purpose, even beer, just don't be a wanker and waste the gift. But Daddy, Game of Bones is on. So what I say--architect your own Game of Bones. It's all frequency and sublime intention.
Saw the angel girl in a dream. Is that illegal, to have a dream? She was loving a soul with her eyes closed and heart open. It was nice. It's nice to be nice.
Wish I would've known. Wish I would've told her. Even still, I tell her now, and forever--that she is one hell of a lady. And it was good to know her, even if only in a bitter kiss of time. Amen, Amen, Amen . . .
Cagney and Lacey--even G. Gordon Liddy fears them
"Cagney and Lacey--even G. Gordon Liddy fears them"
Throughout the 1980's, I was terrified of two female cops, but they weren't really cops--you tell me, or I'll have my dog take a toxic load on your front porch, possibly.
I was born with four nipples. My ex-wife chewed off the small ones underneath. No horseshit Wang. My cousin has three nipples, but his package is mightier than mine, on certain scales of measurement. He could've been a porn star, but those folks get terrible health insurance I hear, and who really wants to put their dingus in a beehive.
Oh well. Getting my ass kicked everyday. We all are; however, we can be saved by the Blood of the Lamb and the Confession of the mouth.
Plenty of aircraft in the sky lately. You notice?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)