Wish. Wish to contra civilisation and it’s discontent to be to be to be animal,
to be animal, wish to be
animal, ain’t that romantic,
to wish,
to be to be to be animal, to discontent
to be to be to be animal
romantic, no to be civilisation animal
and to be discontent,
to be animal, romantic discontent
animal
But then:
Animal looses control, wish to gain, control and civilised,
Civilised and controlled the heard,
Heard?
That civilisation controls by the idea of hearing animals before slaughtering them for their beauty, the beast slaughters the beauty all because of the civilised atrocity of the sacrificial lamb.
Keep your clothes on and the pornographers out, for ain’t it romantic to reveal the discontent of penned up civilisations simulated by the pornographers where everyone can get their vampiric stake of beauty?
Is that what’s all at stake? : or, burned and shunned.
How come then you come begging to me to reverse transvaluate that and make it again sacred away from the profanity of love. Away from the profanity of the vulgar gods?
No it won’t work. The wise ones retreat to Walhalla, away from pleasure into the pain of overcoming the sudden urge of spurting the energy in spasms of finality, with diminishing capacity to again and again simulate that decades of kindness to the preception of the void,
the only means of subterfuge to satisfy the empty one, the hungry ghosts of eternity.
The brain matter seminal to it’s own content, Burroughs copped out on that one, for sure, in 1982. For sure he copped out can tell you, for sure.
That is why the ghosts are hungry for beauty , can’t get their thrill , that is why their lunch is naked, and they can never fill.
Spurting out the romance, the romance of the sacrifice on battlegrounds of brotherhood, the compatriot sister did fInd, becoming no help us vain gods as an echo harbored Narcissus, when by now animal become the flower, to descend itself into a pre conscious scent,
The sisters of the Paris judgement can only wonder, three apples golden, land in forbidden garden and laugh, at the stupidity of beauty, the serpent’ gill.
Why, the herders wonder of brain overcoming them , of brawn hearing eternal beauties through fountains come of, them, whom you once tried to love,
to cherish in angelic glow.
We do love you , course , but in retrospect so easy and forgiving the
self. Comes a time of emptied wells ,
asunder.