Mute church bells & the hypocritical book of History

For he'd hear dim dissonances and roars coming from the cries of cities burning down in the ancient memories he cherished so, he could claim the lazy church did not dare to wake up any one in the area. Midnight is here and the minority of the collective consciousness is already in bed. 1 AM and a few more disappear ungracefully. 2 AM and yet you can still hear the drunken prodigious souls going home to their family or pets and solitudes which in many ways they have tried to forget while reading their fate in the bottom a wine glass and numerous tequila shots.

"What a mistake this is! Let the world know that the night tells the naked truth and that the day merely helped us to realize that we exhale dirt and that plants feed on it to intoxicate our exhausted brains from the stolen astral light we entrapped in bulbs and lamps and hidden smiles screaming EURÊKA with guilt and irony wondering if someone somehow knew this too at the very same instant."

He got it ! To please his soul and believe in no coincidences, he chose to unmask his own language, to twist it and to cut it in pieces and spray them damn meaningless pieces turned into dust, blowing on open palms up towards the starry ceilings and reflexions he dreams of himself. Let him write but make him shut his mouth.

"Set your teeth free and run on tiptoe like a half-goat half-man holy abandoned orphan/creature they say that hates us all. Let the animal go wild and shove its claws in their chest with words that touch them deep until their nerves ache at their very root called the spine itself the very root of balance that traces back the miracle of the DNA discovery -- the head, the body and the tail and the endless question of origins and creation. Oh set it free! Please! I pray to the silent echoes of the mute church bells!"

He'd rip off his eyeballs but he could only dream of such a pathetic act he'd heard or read somewhere... That is not his own will he feels but the sympathy for the tortured spirits the Earth carries on her many faces. And yet... "When does it start and when does it stop ?"

All of it. It's in his head. Nothing's real but his thoughts that won't ever materialize in day light keeps making his heart beat joyfully paradoxically taking him by the hand from the inside out in a surreal hallucination of ecstasy.

"It's time to stop fighting the obvious... We can't help but think of freezing time and act like starved baby foeti by doing the opposite of trying our best to make it actually the priority of our deepest and dreadful goal in life... to catch a glimpse of memory and make it be a trace, a desperate written line in the subjective and hypocritical book of History."

Vinyl

It always starts the same way. You drink a glass or two or even more with friends intoxicated and cracking up at every stupid joke you'd say. You end up saying you'd love to go to a club to dance and make the integrity of your corrupted soul dance and cry with joy on a concrete floor feeling safe and sound around sad persons looking for a little bit of hallucination. You say you'd die for it ; for the last drop of sanity gushing through your lungs out of your soul longing for salvation. The dancing complex swallows you whole making you fall into oblivion and yet you can still feel the outside world waiting for you to pay your rent and go back to work and get sick of it once more until you can't help but wonder when you're gonna feel that false freedom again.

"Oh Karl, when you are not safe, I am not safe"*

There's something troubling me down in my throat. I already tried to pick it up with my fingers down to my fist deep in my mouth but nothing but a scream came out. I startled at first and then realized it must have been so much frustration and pressure from everyday life getting out o' my body to allow my mind to cool off and make my brains roast in peace on my flaming skull powder. It's a weird sensation I thought and then confessed to myself that the only reason that – let's say – reflex needs to explode from the inside out from time to time is that sometimes I can't allow myself to let go and feel free to think and move and write the way the words come out nakedly with vocal cords and harp dissonances shaped like a typhoon crashing on every single surface of my apartment. Now it feels much better. Thanks to the world for ignoring me once more.

* from HOWL by Allen Ginsberg (but of course!!)

Serial Killers don't mind (part 2) - being guilty !

I mourned your loss even more longer than I expected. My heart is still rotting slowly as I tend to make my brains pretend my guilt has been proved. But there is this noise inside my head spreading cautiously through the void of atom oceans pouring in torrents through my veins ; it's pulsing and dancing with its knuckle like waves beating and pounding against my nerves and muscles and bones, arms wide open to scream with horror ! What have I done ? Deep down I know there is some pieces of evidence shattered away under the carpet. This can't be thrue. I AM NOT GUILTY !

Every time I step outside of the cell I cry my heart inside out and witness that very scene around and around like a never-ending 8 montage rolling all over the back of my head where the beat goes on and on too as if something else than my need to cry needed to break through too ; could it be the tiny little burst of nothing warming up the void of the alibi I have been given ? I SWEAR TO GODS THAT I AM NOT GUILTY !

The third time, he had to die, for the heart of things beats three times and disappear. It's magical ! IT'S FREE !