prophetic bullshit.

I do not speak of fools, I speak of the wisest men; and it is among them that the imagination has the great gift of persuasion.


Young secret, tell me in the ways
Of sense you know, fine emissions
Of the bleak, and stars as pocks
Upon an unbridled scene, where
Maze-like instances fell
The graceless hand. Scene of power,
Where things all fall
Into a state of living forgotten,
Soul of the eves, ugly stars
To feed the gaseous
Monster. What secret here?
What mess? What freedom!
What, what freedom in
The corners of dull, dark
Eves, a secret chasm for the
Meaning of night, an instance,
Driven like the pegs of obstinate
Reflection. Do me well
In the numbers of your—very hell
Up to monstrous heaven. Speak
In gases for the sewer-maw.
Speak for freedom from this mess,
This hammered star to suit the ugly sky.

(Source: thethicknessofvulgarity)



There is a more sensible way to portray absurdity as yet unaccounted. For the most part the pathos behind any skeleton of connective discourse, anyway between benignities, quip to quip, brief, confused articulations of a pang of a fear sans its reason, caught in time, passing forth and for the sake others catch up…well…fake characters in a fake play. This all loses value in the context of a narrative devoid of its usual comforts for the sake of focusing on the pathos itself, and outside the furiously intimately perceived heard and most importantly observed but not observable humanity of didi amd gogo. The point of a shape of any sort, if leavened to an aesthetic of being the lesser, denies the existence, the core, nameless issue for the sake of a clarity and a source, either/or, equal fabrications. If nothing else take with. You not that the universe is no joke, but that the audience we are of ourselves perceives too broadly what hopelessness means; that is


we gaze into ourselves and do not speak,
wishing to dash away performance
with you I shuffle into someone free.


we gaze into ourselves and do not speak,

wishing to dash away performance

with you I shuffle into someone free.


from the great unsung kubrick masterpiece, Paths of Glory. Every man in this movie is a ghost.

a few haphazard lines on macbeth.


Nathless, his instruction is to die, 
so that these bleeding guts that are your own 
might be recalled, upon opening his up: 

for if I’m dead, you think, I feel not the pains 
of suffering, am not on death’s sharp course, 
and cannot feel the draining life of me, 

and thus am in no wont of seeking more 
to that of me which is no more. What’s life about, 
if not a struggle to maintain a system 

of oneself; to check that one is rightly 
balanced; to cry as fulminant as that 
which ushered one’s own angst, by way of flesh 

gartered ‘cross the face of witnessed death—- 
a cry, so rapidly diminished? What is love but love 
of life, and fear of what’s blessed beyond 

the sound epiphany of a basic dust? 
And if I am the wounded one, you think, shall I 
cry out of my own power to so leave, 

forsake my brother-soul, and witness 
suffering whilst already deceased? 
What merit is there to accosted life 

by blessings, blessings of unseen beyond, 
and terrible to think of opening; that is, 
if what’s not wreathed as laurel round 

a mortal’s consciousness—-a state of man 
despised by those who use it much to no 
avail—-is more than what is, then, could 

then what is be less existing thus; could 
power only be beyond Shakespeare—-and 
the thane’s wound in his king be nothing more 

than a question of a dagger, before him? 
Was it really there; was it not dreaming 
compelled Macbeth to slay his king, yet stay 

his hand in smearing those his lady drugged 
with blood of his own doing, leaving her 
to finish up the framejob? What is this 

life but want of life to live itself, 
without a mind’s dreaming of beyond, beyond 
the suffering state of open wounds; 

beyond the light and dark and light of dark 
and all the ruin of a dead man living, 
yes, but without will, without 

a choice but in the manifested 
consequences, and adjunct to a wink at his 
own hand; and light into the wound 

of his, Macbeth’s, own mortal fray 
of guesses and deceits his dumbness shall 
relent to; at the witching hour 

of the job, however, what will come 
of this dead, dusty man? His hesitance, benumbed 
by his dear lady makes him more dread of 

the waxing of confusion’s troubled moil, 
and if he should his dagger contemplate 
a means of following the portent of those 

things of air, had told him of his power 
to come, on this frail earth, well, then, 
perhaps if there’s a kind of stuff betwixt 

the two dread poles, both alien yet 
imminent, well, then, Macbeth might see 
a way less violent to pursue the ends, 

perhaps; methinks that such a thing 
ain’t tragical. Methinks the murder’s there, 
and will decline as life in wounded men, 

while, painless, the man already dead, Macbeth, 
shall forsake his own suffering: follow through, 
without a will, the schemes of his dear wife, 

without an honest breath, without the power 
to bring will to an honesty, at this the witching hour; 
to light the dust of him already too much darkened, dead.