tiphareth: сидит спиной к сцене и жестоко привязанная к стулу

tiphareth
2021-08-11 08:27 (ссылка)

No fear, except thee fear of leaving. Death is like each other. Life has only dreams to recommend it, and thee security of being inside. To be part of a group, to be INSIDE, is to enter thee body and partake of sex. We therefore thrive on this violation. We attempt to recreate thee excitement of a first moment's intensity by deceptive means. Happiness can give you fear. Of course thee fear of it ending. Thee only real fear is fear of ending, and thee only joy is violation. Unhappiness gives insight cruelly, happiness makes a death threat. As time passes thee addiction dwindles. Always a jolt of steel. Always. Thee orchid, thee metal. Muscles, no longer as loose as childhood, ache in memorium, stiffening with age before beauty. Age before lust. Age before love. Demand outstrips supply, we congeal, fixed in parables and fantasies. Thee past controls through people. Little girls become young ladies. Proper. They attract by their lack of experience, unaware of thee spell, more concerned with being inside than observation. They accept thee host. They create a ghost that haunts forever. Thee ache for reclamation. Perhaps, thee story goes, if you recreate that first moment, passed; you can travel back in time. Or by creating a stranger, replenish lust. This violation then is a form of breaking thee rules: a necessary act to exist. Conscious self-deception and threat of oneself and one's security affirms existence, makes real. Sexuality, getting inside, makes real, makes really real, and once inside we can make anything happen. Eyes shut in a coffin, a world of darkness, we travel that darkness to reconvene our emotions and listening hard we see every detail of every sexual act. Little girls masturbating about tomorrow. Little boys masturbating. Every second losing intensity, creating thee need forever to go back inside and feel safe, to travel back and feel alive. It really is so difficult. What we have creates our need. Restrictions are removed like school uniforms, we discover eroticism in both manners. And manners maketh man, woman and star. We enter our bodies. Inside is quiet, scarcely a solution in sight. Sharing a body is nothing. Sharing insight is everything. A fine balance maintained by neurosis. When we break rules, we become fools, driven by a desperate grasping of hope for ignorance. Thee rules are created by a wound. We never escape them. We descend into them. Brats in a trap. All paranoia comes from thee past. It takes us like a rape and damages. Like a rape and damages. Like a rape. Damages. But in thee mourning, after thee night, we fall in love with thee light. The solution is, to touch skin, and stay safe, deep inside. Thee first step towards control is ownership. Thee foundation of ownership is meme-control. Ownership of information is thee real system of control. To know a thing is to possess it. To possess a thing is to be able to manipulate it. Search continues. Control needs time like a junkie needs junk. If only it were all a matter of time. Takes all kinds. Time is. Time is passed on. Turning over thee ancient symbols used to weigh gold in Egypt we terminate dreams. Regular trips to thee undercurrent display confusion in precise detail. Thee effect is one of accuracy of purpose and description. Images sequenced to define thee exact nature of time and place. New York. Skeletal myth jaded and scarred. Know, self-respect breeds cynical self-abuse. Never never return to thee previous character. Always create a new one. What do you see from thee faded telephone box? Two sides of one street un-re-joining each other like worms? Visions convicted and betrayed. We become what we once wrote, thought better of, and since despised. We eat what starves us. We defecate what we once took to be our Selves, to be what we once were. A litany common to all, but Deities. Designed by spirits dead and erect. Projections making light of surface. The alternative is Endless, endless sadness. Thee consumption of guilt threatens guilt. Inside a shelter. Old men pissing on trees. Dogs turning 'circles of animals'. Thee black sickly powder of fear. Speaking thee incantations aloud trapped in a lump of skin. Instinct breeding the final moves, thee infinite lovers. We accept them on our shoulders and leave you for free. Then time ends. Eyes burn and close. Wounded. I wandered that land. Making plans. Building strange concoctions of hope. Thee charm. Thee TV. Thee whiskey. Thee fur cellar as indecent as a beard. From cool to indifference. Visions convicted and betrayed. Looking from zero point there's all kinds of illusions. Zero point. It takes all kinds of illusions, this, this, death. Thee pains don't ease as you get older. Thee hatred doesn't melt. E thought the hatred would melt. Thee brains get blocked. Thee drains stray across to bare flesh, groaning at Nature's tricks, and not even caring for thee moment. Some daze are like friendship. Routines pulling you away from thee burden of vision. Good friends that step in and destroy thee direction of youth. Thee apotheosis of desire is to outclass death. We are sentimental and quite capable of finding laughter. No iceberg this tension. Thee averted eyes of youth. And now it's finished. Process complete. Only thee corpse to sacrifice like a gangster. Thee special forces where agape meets thelema. Nietsche never had a cushier b-earth. Here we see a principle, here we see a subject. Endless twigs on thee fire. Axle cracked by frost. Resting. Snow has crushed my camouflage. Snow has killed my garden. Thee shelter is still there. Time is. Time is passed on. Thee dogs are now dogs. Just dogs. Still turning circles. Thee eyes still burn. Choice as hard as tooth, as cold as knowing. And yet, against my will, another dream coming into focus. Ice on soil. Dog resting at my back. Daylight of friendship cracked with shadow. In this dream it begins and ends at the dogs fucking in circles park I remember from my childhood and now call zero point. Pointless passover. In heat, breathing as a bloody door shuts. (The deities must think I'm affirming my existence this way.) In they come. 23 visions of light. Thee small room. Memories of blood and urine by thee medical box. Links of old senses in rope.... (Do the dieties think I can't navigate the meanings here?) There were shadows pulling scales from young flesh. Quiet and hooded. Thee small hands played patterns on thee window. Fog in living rooms. Several old, old pages curling as dog barks spewed across night time light. Rope tightened making furrows. (I know what 's going on here.) No sound. In the essential nature of legends. Thee Dissident Watchers nefeling liquid secret distopias from long sought distant utopias. Like alchemists siphoning mind from chemical, for there once were stones in a sexual cathedral now drained of steel by the endless shadows of a Pyhrric cloister of bureaucracy. Down thee foockin' alley is where he went. Body shifting on wood, dog outside thee door. Is there only the smell of blood? There is both truth and history, projection and dream. Flickering memories as trains manoeuvre in old men's eyes. (Did they not think we'd know?) Rope lashing marks back hard. It's all a matter of counting, tic, tic. Betrayal of simple fertility. Tic. Thee lack of wild explosions a code to rebuild every life. Tic. This time tic thee victim is desired and wet. Tic. These lives are stones tic, assembled in ancient dreams of slick young flesh. Tic. Quiet and hooded. Tic. Rituals of male. Tic. Many shapes tattooed in old buildings. Tic. Tattoos. Tic. Old keys. Tic. Flesh. Resting. Slight shifting. Feet deepening red. No sound. Across thee way a boy was grinning. Hard-on obvious in old torn gray trousers. Inherited from an earlier victim of plague. Uniform remnants. Light of night filtering through where roof tiles slipped their tail and buggered old senile books across dreams. Nothing salvaging code. Tic.

(Ответить)

	(Анонимно) 2021-08-11 17:14 (ссылка)
	>Мне (после изрядных мучений) удалось найти ее фотки с фестиваля индустриальной музыки в Вроцлаве, в которых она сидит спиной к сцене и жестоко привязанная к стулу. схоронил в веб-архивы, раз такая редкость (Ответить)

(Анонимно)
2021-08-13 19:56 (ссылка)

> оба очень хорошие неиллюзорно. Какбе "трипхоп",
но фреймворк индустриального праксиса довлеет,
то есть оно звучит не как Массив Аттак

ну пиздец.
Короче, Михаил, хватит крутить хвостом. Начинай уже прямо слушать K-POP. Уже чуть-чуть осталось...

(Ответить) (Ветвь дискуссии)

	tiphareth 2021-08-14 00:38 (ссылка)
	>прямо слушать K-POP http://lj.rossia.org/users/tiphareth/2016/06/06/ всегда так делаю (Ответить) (Уровень выше) (Ветвь дискуссии)

(Анонимно)
2021-08-14 12:15 (ссылка)

я обнаружил что мне boys группы больше заходят даже чем девчачьи, хоть и они хороши. Но вот как-то BTS приятнее BP почему-то. Хз, такие сладкие все там, хотя я ни разу не гей. Просто и мимика, и движения, выглядят приятнее и BP и Momoland, мило, без стервозности и агрессии. То, чего так не хватает в жизни - нормальных приятных людей. Ну и конечно Kids K-POP, это ваще пушка:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZbhxDbOd50
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=030ibgnaK54

(Ответить) (Уровень выше)

(Анонимно)
2021-08-20 02:07 (ссылка)

Гм, какие-то фотки находились давно (я интересовался как раз на момент выхода сольника) - брюнетка с сигаретой, чем-то похожая на Кози. А ща как-то не гуглятся с кондачка, поневоле начнешь верить в заговоры иллюминатов о сокрытии подлинной истории человечество и прочее гавно.

(Ответить)