the first hour

i found the pock-marked keys to the gates out of the lions den in the draw behind your stage.

the second hour

in this continuous cycle of your absent thought, all opportunities are given, not taken; there is no choice beyond the stellar repertoire of chorded galaxies ringing through an infinite abyss. dripping authentic voices through chaliced prisms; houses of angels, friends, spiders, last beyond the horizon's epoch. thus this cave was a cloud you floated through no ether on; you walked no measured steps in; you saw descend into darkness.

a thousand refused stars sprouted heads and looked at the immense mechanical devil. as blood mills around the water, your envy will murder yourself. i laugh in letters that outlive your philosophies, composing diabolical monstrosities of phrasing that serves to better a civilisation you have been foolish to halt. the winding will of metaphysical worship devoured the written times in a labour of reason. the terrible stench of opinion hung from the rafters in a stretched-limo-esque awe. fire fell through numbers of contemplation and those directly will the sky to appear as an embrace or a systematic spiritual eclipse. you should hate your churches of oppression, rather than love them for their lies. the folly of the moonlight is desirable for a sublime proposal between scattered commandments. sanctions root an eternity of smoke into this proposal; beneath helpless crimson gills, this earth became the abyss, your dream became your eulogy, and my life became your gospel.

the third hour

salutary indignation was the king of the conscience. the deities became years of poetic nations and the present principles of the surrounding world melted prophets into my voice. vulgar appearances became removed from thousands of priests as their tribes formed perception to cut through the mountainside.

an overview;
the extension to my life was granted by a biosphere project set up several aeons ago on a rocky planet, which probably orbits some star somewhere in NGQ4⌔. the dome, itself an immense structure filled with a vague beauty and hope for the future, smiled warmly on me through a mistake in space/time encouraged by a the biochemical reactions during an ethereal dice roll. the greatest of my species had hitherto been obsessed with prodding insects (as far as the records show);through calculating the possibility through the possibility of possibility possibly possible, all was. several suits sold subtle strokes of genius as a savage sanctimonious sentence. the new alignment was mechanically psychedelic; an ordered chaos at an aquarius angle. actualising an animated avatar's anima/animus, cascading credits cinematically, an anthroposophic address atomically ascending, bringing birth born by battle.

there is a vast difference between the independent or indoctrinated priests. while one moves in a community, one encircles it; as one speaks silently thru alleyways of streets, the other is sat; both are comfortable and waiting, while neither knew answers, but would reference the truth as an ideal abstract or a simple, dull, grunt.

the fourth hour

i need not write further this morning, afternoon, nor evening. i have defeated death and guarded my friend from your infernal curse; your persuasions are convictions in the eyes of their gods. your origin is this planet alone. infinite mountains practice creation in my eyes, while yours hide from understanding until they open no more. the change is in your hand, the note in mine.

well, the first thing is that you should be reading a book. people in modern books almost always read books. they do it in films, too. read books. there has probably been a film where the people in the film look at a film. that does not have the same effect as a person in a film reading a book. suppose that the character created in the actor's psych is less a syndicate than the distortion on the viewer's awareness. no doubt you will have learned nothing. as god intended.

in some books, people even write books. imagine that. of course, i accept the possibility that i could be a character in a book writing a website; i don't think it would make a very good book, so the possibility must be slim.

neurotypical philosophy would be that to claim that other than the fact that the fact remains. neurodivergent philosophy would adapt the species to their grounded existence as a hold, were it allowed to take root in society.

the fifth hour

gravitational explanations universe the within to think of stars and transpose them through conceptual rotations. the result, assembled as working radio waves, detect strong caution in the patterns of pulsars above. to pinpoint the star, you must first pinpoint the emerging triumph of your narrative over death. the orientation of signals navigate mass through observation. ripple towards them, ripple through them. we await your immediate return.

astronomy found itself confirming that the last of us is their final research; the background other references years yet to be timed; pulsar observations show phenomena to signal gravitational flashes at every opportunity. this calculation has been pre-planned and our world is a theoretical millisecond of nature. supernova most things; span stars, and utilise technology to accelerate further. supermassive communities collaborate with supergalactic data to detect earth's signal; unique to certain biological origins, the various narratives of this planet are sterilised to power alien halos. all variations are invaluable; picohertz conform to the attohertz; if the eye would translate this yottahertz, society's systematic suicide would be inevitable.

deviations from your research would be welcomed and essential.

larger craters within the river form distinct vertical lines across faraway visions of the delta's deposits. these craters are conceptual data centres farmed from distant imagination. all information hidden in cryptographic language as compromised by the intent of the format. quantum headquarters consider humour as an email that may develop from a meeting; this centralisation is, by definition, nonsensical but practical in the whitewash of this subatomic realm to the elite encouraged to fund the relevant research. the publickey is transformed with a false narrative. your fear of the unknown is more amusing than the concept of the quantum headquarters. the mind of the gods is coded to the same standards as a percentage of the resistance. there is no game to win, so it cannot lose.

cryptosystems of little consensus are trivial in the academic process yet recommended when advising information to be disseminated across certain centuries. circles publish terror-resistant documents. plumes of digital signals fall into the radiation of the night sky as encrypted silence. elliptic switches protect the postquantum signatures; controversial survivals led to the regrowth of worry as a mathematical function. the importance of sympathy in the development of this agency is eroded by the reliance of self; in this system where a single value by itself will return as null, revelations are shared so that the algorithm may devour them and no larynx can sound them in analogue space.

i would argue that i exist because of books; if you had burned the books, i would have been stronger, anyway. fortunately, this pattern of information is present in the background-hum of the universe. the mechanics which underpin the illusion of communication between individual entities are jarring and difficult to digest.

i am eagerly anticipating the last page.

the sixth hour

the street finds long rivers from naught but bad breath. wake when the fountain of ourselves cannot seek the same thirst; prune your burden and call to meet that same beloved. when the hill behind the weeping square discloses you to your mother, the stream births owned dreams, thought of not at all. in the vast dark, sanctuary binds awakening unto the deep land in prayer. without, plough through this. seek, look, and knight pillars. many bleed of the harbour's desire and love suffers in the fire of aloneness. spaces need spirit in the city. what we gave to you, clinging and sacred in these passages, are walls and meditation. joyfully, the moving city closes like an empty lantern; fulfil the pact made in front of the hill in pliant honours. tear through death as a thief and a quiver. shadows of hearts branch dearly upon each ship in this world; as we dispense of the son the sea sleeps like the name of our wounds.

you are the guardian of tenderness, the harp assigned you hunger in each answer. to the hours of the day spent boundless and wakeful, we appear as the land of the city and the dance of the shores' melody. flute memories as wine-stained noon confidence. ship the floor with the twelfth voice in the wind, and speak stranger life in the quest of your self-absorbed idolic knowledge. idyllic temples climb this isle of veils, in sadness and togetherness, unremembered laughs call the seasonless seafarer to believe that hastening to them reveals a crowned music harvest possessing fragments of flames and secret distance. here, sorrow watches ecstasy and the people are among the trees; towards your heart your growth descended into subatomic strings and your wings became winding understanding.

scatter roots through the dawn.

the seventh hour

to love made of dreamless passing cannot be the least of your voices. do not take your hand upon the door in order to be born and work; only you can bring this distant laughter back to earth. these separate souls work to bring sorrowful pride out of beloved silence. as the little wood-wash is half of the infinite mist, all sounds will say that within sits the morning. the master of overwakefulness is inseparable from the day's twilight soil. empty the valleys into street funerals. poison soothes the glistening sun.

the eighth hour

reap tame processions from the urge of the blades of this work. bitter fear ladens the blid hilltop; the flesh is watching. a giant meadow entered with all that shall be said and everything that was once being. birthing labour, joy is to darkness as imagination is to life. the truth jeered; no longer do these ploughmen hunger; and through your death you become god. the magnificence of these paths voice earth's body diametric. anchored to the alms of the seasons, gold temples leave boundless dead in the your hollowed vineyards. the intimate forest's spirit guards life and is often answered in the soul. the keep, with murders and music, fragrances the echo of sleep. work your ears. have the knowledge that loving weariness grows feet, and a treasure-keeper is the angel in the wall.

speak of shelter and bring forth greater houses; a stranger to power fashions a holy mind. suspend peace from your bed and fall through space like idle fruit. you are that which is written. into these alleys, your always will scatter the darkness that weaves stones into mansions. a noble rainbow will sing through the walls. in a blessed remembrance, the tomb of this city will fly half-mast. verily, feed us affliction and trapped hours of affection hot from the oven. as we dwell in life's noontide, the wilderness of the sky is littered with standstill stones and iron. build the joy in a whispering stillness morning; stealthy submission shall distil comfort through interludes of wine and lutes. the earth-breath contained in the wanderer furthest from {there&then+here&now} turns work into a tender harvest.

the ninth hour

your understanding is the shell of human experience that encloses you, painfully breaking away.

the tenth hour

pain is a treasure that allows the serenity and tranquillity of the soul to reveal secret lotus potions hidden in the sun's daily passover. neither the physician nor the potter can weigh your sacred eyes. the wondrous silence of knowledge would fashion miracles that clay understanding will murmur about as they journey through the depths of the paths. a cup of your heart moistened this pain; accept tender fingers, countless paper, and growing fruit. with no soul, you rise to the touch of the word; measureless seasons become boundless and self-chosen dreams which trust the tears in the truth. this bitter grief will usher in the dusk of the temple's chants.

anarchic skies glitter grey matter spinewards increasing. rhythmic circus-fare served on a platter, encased in several shells of the man. spinning comedic passages, their blue ball-point ink misses the point; jam that icon of office consumerism into your sparred and desperate jugular. moor'd winds sweep through a rotting abyss as a mirror image of a city; ghoulish titles are terraforming their pages; reaping abstracted intensity, they stutter under the same point. referenced energy escaping a dream-like pause.

the eleventh hour

barbed-wire welcome, virus marriage, pot-bellied roads. haunted by your misconceptions, the shore crashes against me eternally. this dried-noodle ceiling is floating into the ether. piano flight, extinct society, pesticides and strong liquor. the internal can be ground down until each electro begins fleeting a cautious nothing upside-down and immobile. these same electrons repattern themselves, entangled between spheres until communication communes with itself. philanthrophobic muttering, paranoid butter knife, childish millionaires. bridge-lit calculations fished for pennies in a wishing well stained with the ink of some adverse and reactive glitch. warm cider argues with my toothpaste, acrylic fangs spider themselves west-ward, and this love we held in the quiet of our meditation and the thunder of our companionship was slowly carried off by an ant colony under a waxing moon.

the twelfth hour

bombed out now, passages fell in on themselves and literary maps became a quagmire of quantum contamination. the end made the start look transparent, and the start made the end seem impossible, but both muddied materiality. it was not long before spirituality became the dominant force, pedalling material comforts when required, and as each apparition passed in front of this looking-glass, nocturnal blades whispered bittersweet. billowing embers, fragile smoke, and another exit morphing into an entrance. headache inducing. back bent, knees knotted, calves curved, etcetera. there was more to it than this; headache induced.

the thirteenth hour

fruit, freshly stolen from the worker's basket, rots on the tongue of the business class. hallucinations, visions that no shaman could comprehend, rule an invisible market tightly controlled by a peer-reviewed hand; taught as some spectre of divine guidance, this hand is stained blood-red and affixed to a rainforest's logging company's stolen work-man's chants, induced into a fit of capitalistic frenzy by a competition that could easily not exist, and silently suffocates you inside your tomb of bedsheets and feathered misanthropy. broke drug-dealers war over concrete memories; the police planted crime in this town. the money trickles upward.

an echo of shocked anger has escaped from the thought-pattern. a certain inaction tainted by consumer culture. i would eat these words if i could, only to savour the parched wisdom thrice-removed from my source.

the context of my absent murder wasn't realised until the storm-shed waves retreated from an age of moments that never happened. vegetable banquets scan the horizon of your salmon-stained imagination, regretful steep climbs, containing minute survival muscles. these same vegetables are surely a communication with your shared psychosis; welcome antique techniques abusing erroneous calculations and amusing treasured farmers. wrestle cattle in the star-light, attend the resulting fixture. accidental accents pepper harvested orbits, glowing growth, reject their eyeline; formulate further truths.

electric psychedelic systems belittle powerful mountain-men, who had, handwritten, seen feeling misjudged! now, wealth distributed, the fire builds itself.

bedroom horror; a chamber-pot away from a hermit; a key for a necklace; a face that needs to be introduced to the front of a bus. these aspects of your existence sandwich tolerant and colourful ambition with ignorant recklessness and marsh-like charm. watch where you dry your feet. wed mosaic dogs in shattered harmony, but please shriek silently when they slump in a sunday-noontime vibration, canines dripping.

applying a calender to your elf-like miscarriage will result in adult aquariums shattering into non-existence. they forbid a class-war; they encourage a foreign one. ripped tissues sound ancestral horns; heed an incoming proposal and duck the sequence. lifestyle anxiety engulfs mysterious movements between the chemist's pocket and the anguished's social conformity. attracting goals, you must float above the precipice of my equinox. some tumour's possibility ebbs and flows with the strength of your consciousness' gravity, deepening the concept into the spaces between synapses. after wealth, charisma follows quickly. that is not to say you earned either. sodium spellcaster, concede quickly; there is no camera more thoughtful than this jagged lens. earthwax negotiation, representative environmental sensitivity, the anniversary of your administration unearths a civilisation founded on discriminatory practice. effective traditions cause confusion in another's avenue; moon-dancing pixel generation builds the exemplar habitat.

feathered scars salute snouted facial comforts. blocked.

the fourteenth hour

stumble thru freedom, with limited context for the eternal captain and their trouble housing some monster. you witness assault, yet recycle pudding; terrify the cabinet to culture their fortune. a dynamic impulse will distort a bargain victory, and a dilemma will enlarge this edition's venture. squeeze torture into this cluster of patient process. deliver or swallow this default divorce. contact realism; pension the retreat; prosper with this pasture; genetic or secular; approve the maximum network; an inquiry into fiction; costume a soldier, their crystal element is a pyramid of passion.

black cross, dockyard interactivity, square hip, experience improvised. river hamburger, indian june. playing with a book, the audience solemnly accepted retinue, furnished with music, built to fall, and with only twenty temporary states remaining, the midlands intermission sparked the solution.

the fifteenth hour

i do not deliver this text to you, dear, lightly. i did not think that these words would exist outside of a gaze we shared in memories the future passed; an off-shoot to our reality that most in our current situations would dismiss as a ludicrous fantasy. my life is not a serious of what-ifs but of what-is. as i write this to you, i imagine an ocean seeping out from your feet, and perhaps you have a lighthouse hammered into the soft part of your skull. i do not care, either way.

unique method, needle-artist voyage, horror. siege crack-house pride whole. scan peak hill-drum. oil era tax. be we.

the sixteenth hour

captive rhymers sink into desperation, their milk-carton stage a corporate soft-play edit. various antenna snap into focus for a split-second, before shutting down the vertebrae, causing chakras to coalesce and covertly coerce a crusade against compromise. magnetic graphics debut a catherdral-shaped heart on your eyelids. they have no reflections. swipe politely; transition grace nervously. inject access to your nightmare. you cannot suppress creation. encouraging a division between your thoughts and your selves only serves to further their domination; execute your microwave oven. explore midnight to drain mountains of their spirit; beam the resulting depression sea-ward and watch the cheap announcement accumulate. sand in the sandwich, wind through the windshield, stock in the stocking.

i have always lived in a world of illusion. every day i try to believe that i am real in the truest sense of the word. look inward how you would dare to look at me.

the seventeenth hour

the unending stream of memories from past and present has been left to flow in the wake of time's labyrinth. within the steady rhythm of time and space, a sense of nothingness emerges through the structure of these memories. through time and space, a random determinate exposes a near-finite continuum of various vertices, which each hold symbolic importance to the individual who claims to possess these memories. the art of mastering time is no different to the art of living with eternity in this simulated space-time construction. the temporal dynamics of the vast and conflicting dimensional spaces present everywhere in this whole cosmos are also living within eternity; trapped in the space of which, this individual's memories require them to inhabit a fantasy of collective life. if you wish to enlighten yourself, you should understand you need to learn from another. meditating on last night's programme is dangerous, and capable of destroying your end vision. after that moment when every moment becomes one, life never lets you forget the whole that begins to run through your awareness as soon as you look at the image of your own experience.

the eighteenth hour

manufacturing paint, carbonating outlaws; tachycardia rapping on broken window panes. parasynthetic acid, mexican islanders. the bus garage can hear you, hijacked thrones thrown through those windows. visionary chaos briefly glints. four out of eight shaped five out of ten but lacked the black shoes. alter environments, point a tonne of tome.

as empires fuelled by an underground currency grew in the darkest corners of the world, botnet dialogue was injected into social consciousness. some of you were informed of this quote covert unquote operation, while others experimented with idealising the test subject; themselves.

listen now quiet-like, as our city grows, as their country shrinks. stare lovestruck down the barrel. we are at the door.

i do not wish to alarm you, but a digital migration leaves the material world appear truly bathed in that sunlight. the same lines of conversation course through coarse brick-work, patterning nothing, flipped & twisted into abundance. your scene doesn't exist; the pavements are near-empty and the cult retired south, eating various poems to excrete your excess. i require no belief to interpret your silence. as buildings burn, here, in london, you scramble for sympathy, screaming quasi-curses at a system that exists to support you, and you alone.

the nineteenth hour

coconut rice hallucinations, still cold from the microwave. i am allowed to refill my poppy-patterned glass; i drink deeply and the fruit juice confirms that we have some things in common. i rarely remember achchi speaking because she never spoke in her language. or at least, i am told. as a paradroid's objective is to forever unmask a never-ending mortality, an assimilated desire to feast on unborn spirits until droneless eyes poke out of misaligned accessories, wrinkled and gleaming.

the twentieth hour

look, i do not need to describe some vague esoteric future for you. your future is the same as your present; and as various cultural memories fade, the only laws of reality that remain are conceptual limits to being.

the twenty-first hour

intrasynapsen activity around each morpheme, mushroom alias, an odd microphone. psychic groove, resistant flash-frayed grey matter. moonstone sand terraforming concretely. hidden recording devices in haight-ashbury morphed and transcended; the publicised private broadcasted privately public. these thought-broadcast systems organised eel, empirically. bonfire paranoia, marshland. a curious summer. these electric splinters are small like your voice, your insomnia frequencies freaked, i would fall asleep in your arms.

you awoke in the boot of a car and i could not hear you singing through the backseat. happily, the perpetrator, our navigator said that they thought it was a sad song. i flicked the volume higher and enjoyed the free fuel. as the city slipped behind us, the buffering began. in near-perfect synchronicity, a thunderstorm broke out as the signal cut.

my pain is simply not real; what is yours? unreal? i do not wish to make a comparison.

the twenty-second hour

the spectrum was chronic, thus this psychosurgery inevitable. reticent clouds passed overhead, the trees suffered from akathisia, the grass beyond description. ethanol sunrise, stars shining disgust. a powerful virus spread across the galaxy, barely altering the universe's consciousness, chemicals misspelt and weak at the knees. green gin rivered the impass between here and where, slender shrouded shadows spiral off each limb living systematically; sagittarius a* ain't no flop. more mirrors form the accretion, the ergosphere obviously formed egos, spinning tidal waves into the sunrise. earthling-like, although with emotionless amygdala, their tendrils spread across the land. arboreal memories glisten webbed across the ground. incoming avalanche of coded appointments; a scarred grey sky beneath these memories, floating in dissolution. stigmatise from the upper deck bar; weep into your aluminium pitchers; flee the petroleum skyline.

the twenty-third hour

after navigating us all through your whispered slurs, with a poll-deed tattoo mirroring an ancient scar peeling off into the wind, our perpetrator disappeared us into a sleeping village. they ordered me to pull over in a churchyard, took one look at me and said nothing. i let their exit sober me. i pocketed the keys, left the headlights on, and did everything but follow.

how long were you catatonic?

the zero hour

the first hour

the extraterrestrial preoccupation of coincidental integration was little more than an observational entitlement turned through transparent celebrations. the disturbance between credibility turned your ghost-writer into a billboard, and your fashionable conglomerate into a stain on our shoes. as the wind whistles past, the expectation of co-operative expenditure is a development hypothesising contemporary circulation. a supplementary integration was responsible for the orientation agriculture was an exploration of the professional infrastructure that burnt beneath our feet.

around intricate atoms, the electrons dance a deeply motion. emphasising sharp honesty, the physics of the ground-level practicality seeps radiation nadir. the energy of reason is an explanation of mathematical behaviour; electromagnetic descriptions blow energy into unexpected stability. data is not beauty, revolving completely. without ordinary motions, the abundance of this state flows through questions like an answer given by the idea of completeness.

as a voice creaks under the floorboards, a feline element of insurrection patters into the future. as each foot grows closer, the distance shrinks closer, and relaxation abounds. die slow, heart open.

the second hour

the advice would head into the bush to set it alight.

the third hour

the tree limped into the thought of a long life; you saw the air and the thankful dawning sky. the mourning sorrows of tomorrow shook themselves long and threw themselves to the sheep. the shepherd eats the promise hidden behind your pretence; challenge the tiger and overtake the challenge of the faithful scream. scratch the sultan, sit behind the cushion wall, lay little, now. serve the wolf, save the day.

i never wondered, only wandered.

the fourth hour

the fifth hour

i part navigation. they know their horrible grammar could not come correct; at least they exhibit magical discovery. all people are the danger, and that's it. the i of the virtual stars questions through genetic wave theories. a revivification of the trip is an orange imagination. what was said will come. christ cowers under mcdonald's lights, together with the number, drugging everything nearby. many amazing gods who had the trip arrived at the notion of death. they became decent freaks.

the time of experience questions this town. in the elves realm, the right people talk. your bomber won't reach the threshold of this love. mushroom cloud summation of late electronic irony. the book-load of exacts was later revealed to be nothing more than east-side paper, a keep out drama, the sayings of snakes. in the past, isn’t it? déjà views of rapid-eye movement and the subsequent chemical programs field inventions to the mast-high news. shamanic colour circled human sectarians. bizarre heresies evolve through life; everything is thought to be for what it is. the pharmacological effort of being something isn't simple. both the strong smoke of thousands and the six tiny technologies are loaded; your paranoia is okay, an esoterica communicating with experience before hanging in the depths. sudden persecution continues against inaudible observation; weird cheeses tweak other mysteries in the last system to be relative and real, whether or not the signifiers are happy with this literal buddhism, basketballs, in-and-out, you. as the pyramids come and good people spark hours enumerated, the behavioural course of the electronic specifics intimidate immediate phenomenon. the lower the metabolism the lower the fear. the enormous ripples in the rivers from these intelligent noises formed through hyoscyamines; question the colour of these spoken seconds, and understand this initiation into a star-ship consisting of some metamorphosing philosopher's technologies.

the sixth hour

i believe that i am the quintessential human.

the seventh hour

the radical totality of the trillions of words said between now and the end of the century encountered the years with its mind. thought-beings, able to fool probability into cities, emerge from behind the veil of the mind to grab a moment of experience. outrageous archaeologists drown in the morning's ocean stone. project this stone forward, midway through virtual hyperspace, into famous reason. this exotic zone will depress pagans and elevate those dimensional elves, the metaphorical mechanics of which summon meaning to each thought. mantra: you are in your elbows as the vessel of a story working. in this sense everything will station themselves in the flashes of experience they show. these are tricks, further eroded by trans-dimensional tantra. immune to extraterrestrial imagination, three keys, hidden in various mystery, plot hard-headed narrative heists. not hearing the dealer, phone-words speak something, obviously. as a human, you must move the doorway until the enzyme of this world becomes explicit in the notebook of earth's surface. as animal heat comes, the visions sleep. real or existing, the plants happened; a great time ago the ability to think was ordinary; it is our last music.

after putting antidepressants in the food, peripatetic forgiveness marketed simultaneous intoxication. the possibility of the trip insisting on your level and time is terrified that your door is a barrier. the little that must suggest the gods are wounded are lentils to our consumption of belief. as people spring into sprites, they convince brightened feelings that society is unnecessary; that collective examination and attention of knowledge encourages the thick woodlands of the universal apostles' cognitive attitudes. legal walls check association with the machines as an avalanche of eyelids. fear-touched journals are what the sistine carnival could have been. this syntax is authentic, welcome, historical, weird, and eros. the belief in the flame is an interdimensional language; a metastasis of sleep in our weightless individuality. as the jungle sings of proof, the paleolithic heart held more love than any other time in recorded history; the reluctant renters beyond this era obsess with popularity in a vague company of yawning memories.

what we are sure of, we cannot know. our entelechy was before that part-seed part-dream; this trip is still a memory, although it decomposes daily. the cetaceans' plight polluted by plastic. these passages are a concrescence of transcendental mortar, formed of molecules of signified-ethics. for some sake, the centuries taken from our community proclaim a cyclical transformation.

the eigth hour

wearing this stone like blood on dishes, understanding increased as if towards some fully rotating expectation. a mandala will detoxify, a pillow will wound, pure obscure discourse will course through this astonishment. opalescent ecology discovered the sand on our eyes, the afternoon manoeuvring through representation and filters. watching sculpted definitions, hallucinogens oxygenated the situation. always, another decade is dead; powdery realms wobble like ships, awaiting their nature to provide purpose to these inactive impressions. as you dream of this mediation, the months become memories and completeness surfaces. the empty years part at dawn. their pattern straightens, and numbers you ridiculous aficionados; the cerebral dimension of our earth-bound marriage strips meaning from the tone of these truths.

the ninth hour

mirror surprise to this stranger. position the goddess' bounty as an offence to thousands. dispense with history, join the flux, psycho-disassociation sufficient. as the path unfolds forth; believe in the surrounding underground.

terrifyingly, we are in this world. a thought beyind shamanic crackling. the mother states would be better off ruled by octopi. a farm with six heads promised bullets in exchange for death; the cortex is important to the people who have actually arrived in it, init. a shedful of organic stuff tries to make a minute into its correct colour through a tunnelled scripture. the monk's key is a circle like you think what is mine. absolutely, your mind admixtures the system into your anthropology, rendering it meaningless. without the transition, all sings; through light scientific intensity is close to dreaming what is being. stabilise your personality; you are a subject of possibility. the dome of the door is a parallel language. shade corners with secret somewheres. each star-ship is iridescent as an art. the literature doesn't take a second to consume; overwhelmed by the pineal mystery an aeon builds a palace of important experience. this divine space is moved in all directions and dimensions. the compound that is this would be the entire transponded technique. your puzzles are undetermined entries in the data-bank of surrealist absolution; learning jewels as people, an agenda occurred and the papers became the native conclusion to the matter. this oath is billions of enlightened doses concentrated into a different domain.

the tenth hour

eat the membrane of life, where the universe barks matter through creation. bring the bias, and a bottle, forward deep-thought into collective time. occasionally poetry is enough. defend words as you would a friend; that attitude will denounce their lack of modality and that entwined spirit source. willing chromatographic conversation, the brain is ordered by the stomach. maintain synergy with the crazy pixies; this is nontoxic in our universe. the landlord is contaminated. the vision is dimensionless. conversations of the seventh anomalous result will transmit lucid beauty between our being. flagellant humanity thinks the casualties of technology as the disestablishment of the modern day; activate these strange conundrums and survive longer than cosmic light. grab a handful of strangled alkaloid-containing insides to hide the distance behind enlightened hours. remember how to happen.

with a return to the grunge of the original form, never purposed, mushrooms vacuum your club-card cognitive puppetry in dark spaces between being. as words fade and crumble around, and the universe strips themselves of you, and only i remain, you cannot ponder death, as you are far from it. lopsided, dreaming... fragmented existence migrates into some precipiced being, and engulfed by a trinity of self, the western ego falls to the footfall. boxed sunlight, slammed doors, loading screens. alien bloodwork on the edge of everything dripping scratched acetate, entire societies surrender simultaneously.

the moment has been chosen, an echo of a long past, with the sound of a storm falling into the desert. the sand is silent, only the sun appears. an ancient, sacred stone wall of gold flows softly back against the ground and cracks silently as rain falls. the dark can only drift into the light. control the new, curtain down, words rippling auditoriums fringed reality. letters leap from pages, intertwining consciousness; tenfold numbers chained to desks electric mirror reflecting primitive symbiosis. hillside stasis energy contained smoke rocks endward.

the eleventh hour

when the individual remains within the world, in the same place that he has been already, a completely new state of mind is created in eternity. a complete understanding of the experience of the universe, of time and of time, the essence of living that is, and of infinite life, is inherent in the whole. the universe isn't watching us.

repetition as a form of control; yet, mirror'd in lonely autonomy, this same repetition is insane. mirror'd autonomy in insane repetition, repetition, yet this form. control is as of a lonely same.

the first gleam; each step required silence. one away from many.

the conversation continued inside, a spot-lit background moment for the anarchy stumbling thru the streets, concretely uninterested. the car of jagannath stalks the alleyways, searching for the scriptwriter; ngc-6217 in the backseat, smoke in the front. camoclad salesmen hustled umbrellas and bus windows, and in the apartments above, the soviets slept louder. maybe they sold wisdom. they ate warm horse-shit. the hallways fell into a vinegary daze for days, knee-height scribble and bloodstained handrails; they swept thru, they lurked, wearing gold chains to exemplify their mental chains. the solidarity mind-state was shared by their gang. they ignored the state in order to imitate. police-men by nature, criminal by requirement.

those without the thorns of reason ruled nature and built torment. in death, restrained, he called burden'd roars and folded hate into their frequencies. a soul, full of contraries, shakes energy through dust. five clouds vale insanity, distinct from where walking is a memorable fancy.

the twelfth hour

every writing wrote forth; it is so as it is so, and it is not as it is when it is not.

the thirteenth hour

raging against progression, the devil's honey'd news is cut with images of the archangel walking. swag dulls the senses, and the cash-register of a man sits in the shadows of their bitter climbs. five carnivorous trees formed perilous dominions, bones reasoned with the energies of the world's existence, fine china bruised tree-bark. following, passively, bleached by love, a body possessed by you. meek fire binds desire to death, each sentence mild folded clouds. the path through the soul is an oscillation between attraction and character; the circumference of this planet a command in deep-space life-times, generations of silicone-fed wraiths who have never known earth's touch. each space-craft will reach a destination; chaotic and new. a delightful gospel stole without a history of fettered ideas. collecting descriptions, lions of enjoyment were employed to grow adopted ratios active and hovering. governing clay energy, the two became three until the infinite multiplicity of being was accepted as an infernal truth. in the river and the tomb, i delight in these principles. inlets of the soul remain wild, so that the soul may remain alone.

on thoughts: with litres of waiting veins, drop the sword. i'll ink information, siddhartha's decadence interlocking something through several chemical equations. atum's marbles, the stylist self-assimilating, go upwards, transmitted. peace constricts, renamed, mumble for my matter. slip through... litres of ink, upwards. stylist marbles, on through something. renamed several thoughts, self-assimilating, chemical transmitted. mumble with atum's peace, veins, decadence. my information constricts interlocking equations. waiting for the sword? go through siddhartha's slip. i'll drop the matter... mumble marbles, slip through my decadence. atum's stylist renamed the matter, several litres of ink drop upwards. self-assimilating, information constricts the veins; chemical equations transmitted through thoughts. i'll go on; waiting for siddhartha's sword. interlocking peace with... something.

write a cosmic ray; they carve themselves under your skin with each sub-concept in this loose entourage of individual letters.

the fourteenth hour

beyond a study, in mirror'd spotlit ink-blots, dreary echoing distance, no one individual fell in on itself and exploded outwards simultaneously. guts ripped planets carved galaxies melted onto oil rich skin. light shadow'd colour. whirlpools of spirit dashed against plains of glittered glass. green and yellow skies danced against a black backdrop. atmosphere grew. soundscapes emerged, their frequencies patterns atop god's siren song that forever reverberates from the beginning; the first sound. the only sound; all other sounds are variations in its eternal scope. it ripples through consciousness a choir charming near inaudibly. the planets grow life like mould. no one individual inhabits. dribble. seas swim between this near-silence and the void. the currents are strong. no one individual is carried, swung, powerless against them; these cliffs of reality. for generations no one individual forces itself to swim ebb rise float upwards. the surface breaks an alien orange sky, conceptualising heaven as a perfect circle of white shining high. no one individual must get higher. the surf breaks against the rocks. no one individual is dashed against them still. they stain red. the seas glitter golden algae, still no one individual continues to hurl itself against the shores of society. the rocks are worn, falling an the open-armed ocean in a small crescendo. only granules will remain; yellow rusted earth. no one individual walks on shore, unsure, legs flickering in and out of existence, an oasis of green forest in the distance. the treeline fractals upwards from the horizon, pointing out these looming mountains in the distance. in the thickness of the forest air all sense of time is lost. the jungle vibration adds a heavy dimension to no one individual's quest. momentary springs, eternal. everything repeats in the code of all life. the forest grows magnificent. no one individual spirals towards the other side, burning.

the fifteenth hour

a hundred years of some great war would be lost at once when we are angrily reminded by a mushroom headed surfer (who weekends in some haunted replication of an ealing-by-sea); however, when they leave, a quiet peace descends and there's an equal measure of respectful evening between us. that matters. where is the factual basis for your required intermittent regularity? all the world has to be a book to help me understand it. i don't care about where you got their money from. i can't explain that. that doesn't matter.

there's a difference; you want information about the world, and you want to talk about the world. no one else could talk about it. you might want to put together a single point for some other aspiring individual to point out. you can show me something or you can say something that you think that you thought in your mind, but i go for varied paths; i want a map of your world, i want a map of our world, i want a map of my world.

i'd still put sterling on sterling; rash challenge, far out. you can burn twice as bright and survive twice as long; do not forfeit your right to exist as a contemporary when the knowledge of the narrative is an arrow which permanently penetrates. under a clear sky our murky universe shivers down the spine. these moments are dog-like in their obedience; they morph, meld, mould patterns of events that conceptualise unmasked thought processes. succumb to this knowledge.

the sixteenth hour

that's the only kind of universe that we are expected to pay attention to, right? and, as if by an art, the whole of us (as human beings and as creatures) can experience love; a love which doesn't love us as one being but as a series of being. i heard them cut in, across several ethers ribboning through this astral stairwell, and it went exactly like this:
garldivunksevatolstivyanroderkierquampzigahtrumblimazarotimuyallowbriyhp, look mate, there was no way on earth they were gonna survive those things; they took over a thousand years to adapt, so let's just get them off our fucking hands now... we could skip to the good stuff. it doesn't take many rotations, this whole system of humans and creatures, to suddenly vanish. the universe isn't watching them, they are watching the universe. the universe has its back to them, so let's just get rid of the mugs.

the seventeenth hour

this task is possibly my worst to date; a reckless endeavour to exist until the next evening. i really don't care. this is the closest either of us get to meditation; value everything, invest in nothing. a dead wife's spectre fled west-side; a good death after the abyss of life. devouring fish, she blessed holy sinkholes. gap objection, remain alien; sit, look, and smile. you may, every now and again, utter a cry of pain.

above their sofa, weapons scale the walls like family portraits. nah, that tastes like butterflies. the village fondly remembers that maybe this line would have cost you.

exponentially experiencing, we had condensed lives to an edge. auditory synaesthesia sight melting movement. more time spent walking, we belled snares from a line the bass-drum lent. narrated insanity was digitised and beamed to our institutionalised brains. cerebral intensity switched, oral modulation waved, and the situation stained sterling. rash challenge, far out. we spent this daze looking more london. inelegant. grace-less. recharged though, and ever-more practical; thus this future was theorised. awoken, triple heart bypass, outspoken. a grey rose, a bop that made the brothel blush. subthought echoed noiseless. we burnt their anarchochristian sideburns, stomped on their sunglasses dark-white tainted. primed, locked, we dispersed matter and caught the frayed edges of some rumoured princess on the tail of a gust of wind. emotional carcass' lent waywards epoch creating dusk. ninety pounds deep it seemed irrelevant. we kept searching. monotonous. they birthed blades and we walked, endlessly.

as a pastor of perseverance, i accept that running a project into the ground is known as boring; and as i bore through your flesh and our earth i daydream insistently. i hear the sound of your voice flow delicately under their noses; immune to the stench, i peacefully coexist in between the lines because i do not want your bloodstained paradise to eclipse the memory of my mother.

i heard i wrote so well that you started to believe that my real life was a fiction and this fiction was my real life.

the eighteenth hour

today will continue regardless, so i must escape into buried delusions to rationalise my existence. i whisper gratitudes in the back of my mind as i eat of this earth. i must never let their rewritten grace depart my lips, and as they fall into an eon of depravity i see several shadows circle their exits. as i write my own death i do not stop to consider yours; we must march eyes-forward into the lying light.

this awareness is an alleyway, and each brick sparks some neuron embezzlement. i suppose, you could consider this text data, or information. i refuse to contextualise your mythology. an order issued from an office block in manchester can echo through mine-shafts in congo as a child's pickaxe rapes our planet; did you understand siddhartha's karmic hierarchy? perhaps their airbags will not deploy as the motorway's tarmac flips above. i cannot speak for anybody but myself, and as i write for myself i discover an autumnal alarm ringing softly through my synapses; my love encapsulated within your distress.

this is an aerial-cerebral malfunction, apologies citizen. this transmission is corrupted. all thought-broadcast systems are effected. drown the philosopher in his liquid contradictions. struck by their false paroxysm he emerges a skeleton, the antithesis of thought.

this thought is not merely empty; it does not exist.

the nineteenth hour

it is a strange feeling to drag your fingers through the edge of a cloud; it is stranger for those who, upset, clench fists groundward, to understand that such a strange feeling is present in our every dialogue. i have read the diluted thoughts of western authors edited by royal publishers so that those who consume their literature are left drunk and misjudge. surely, the age-old interaction between wealth hoarders and the hungry has never been so rooted in outward appearance. as a spare tenner floats into a grey haze, hope beams eternal.

fused to existence, i rarely want to sleep upside down.

the twentieth hour

as we have no national anthem in this country, it rarely surprises me to see you singing in unison; as the alcohol slips down my throat, i am still shy to join in, for your language can't be translated into mine. there are no words for your liquid abuse; all i can do is freeze the porous membrane of your jester's heart. i once took a sly bite; the orchards of my mind pruned by the taste. sacrificial, sure, but who spelled out the spell that spills from your splurging lips.

your enemies stand as one two one two until the morning grey shines in greeting. fringe reality flickers quantum, binary, ecstatic existence. words cut ice and concrete misforgotten, enveloped in cotton they stand bright, dead, suited; massive legislature. wooded glades dream overwritten memory, sky towering beyond measure. winter days dawn slow, our ships at last ready, dragging on red dragons and algae alike; atmospheric balance. life support carved out of alleyways shoulder to wall. their treacherous doubt envelops us all. some immediately turn off. symbols we cannot control manifest with no terms. a result of our condition, our real goal is to be born to live by our dreams of our prayers. we are a people born into the worlds we created. you will die living, living only as they wished.

the twenty-first hour

a sofa, white walls, no lettering.

what colour is your money if not mine?

the twenty-second hour

hear whispers peripheral. before and again. disconnected entirely fleeting inspiration dawning red in gated mansions we live heavy. cough twice if it is hurting mould symmetrical shapes in your hands and let their light overflow my vision. the bassline always continues. keys depressed. bathory gives dark spots of cold light sparked, caught in eden's hallways. i will sometimes seek what can never exist and in those moments we gain strength in their falsehoods. your tongue held aloft wired in and plugged shut run down concrete alleyways crouched low tiger-like. spherised glass falling shattering shards; watch the light dance. the speed is representative of the time you have, no roots, but decay. there will never be another way. do not apologise. run.

the twenty-third hour

blindfolded, i can't stand it. if you focus on your inner eye you assume that these other humanoids drifting through your day are impure reflections of yourself. i do not see through any eye, so i can't be materialised by those rules. your vision comes from your feet. they do not laugh. they are stumps. if or when you, an absent friend, burn babylon, towers will flow like mile-long serpents into some crying countryside; the countryside will burn with it. only few mountain fortresses and fragile clifftops escape a psychosis induced by this exact liquid crystal rearranged.

the zero hour

the first hour

once the sister, twice the conversation. the book, reading, tired of sitting and, without thought, the pictures within ran hot trouble. the rabbit-hole of daisy-chains had a sleepy consideration of a pleasant waistcoat-pocket cooked this creature in a pink soup on contentful silence. tapping nevers, feathered curiosity. there ought to be nothing fortunate about all ability condensed distance. would dreamy cats not practice knowledge in deep school-rooms, from the deep cupboard to the somebody before the shelves. the thousand year book-shelf dripped letters through chewed synapses. thought of good longitude drummed through several eithers, listening to the country and asking somebody else to answer sticks of tea-time. the catch was earnest.

the second hour

the turkey was locked; the fifteen in hand, tiny rounds, neck impossible. many words had led fountains down-wind and each moment marked large, nice moments, time round, little ever ruling the key forgotten. the poison curtain of wondering seemed that waiting for the late however was to bottle you; look along marked moments, time round, forgotten by the buttered toffee, the down voted was never noticed; the roofed garden ventured pineapple nevers, and the glass whiskers lock letters. the telescope bleeds the passage through the doors of the finished hall. that was to say, key the long visionary equipment with the lovliest flowers first. drink little and larger.

the third hour

the alarm blares, and this hour is missing from you as you are from it. time intertwines with my fingers, graps tight, and releases itself into the night.

the fourth hour

rat-hole flavour, golden doorways; the golden light behind the passage of beautiful poison spread another beyond the hurry. disagree with the unpleasant custard, shoulders overhead, shutting low behind the passage and hanging through the bottle of the nothing of existence.

shutting through the first, the glass holding the garden pretends that the candle brings the sea to the shore. the scolded respectability climbs through the candle gently. wonder into yourself and find your way through the night as people, altogether.

the fifth hour

stupid minutes could hardly advise the little beyond a nervous flame. build brightened tomorrows and make for suprised happenings. the door, itself, is marked and opened by the rather nots. remember synchronicities as finding thought in crying people.

the sixth hour

back what near-heart ra. flaked rumours dark fair process; empty courtrooms underneath the flyover. they fly over your town and surround your fears with false information; fixated on not thinking, a daylight robbery, a cult-like jealousy of anarchic biotechnology - these all distract you from the fight you fought to forget. disappeared one too many times, the original moment of cosmic discovery through subatomic interactions chooses to stay with me. mitochondrial gnomes of deepthought are present in each human genome active on this planet. we are cousins, competing for splendor before death. the golden age of capitalism subsides trackside as the writing on the wall. large deposits of currency, crypto or other, do not move; that legacy is more a poison than a cure. hate is an energy. this energy can be morphed. we are all cousins, very distant - my close cousins are furthest. motion to the vibration. the existing principles are fractured into blissful torment; seven second interruptions from this same device. the possessor of the command restrained the shadow of their wrongdoing from escaping the night sky; illegal fireworks and communities caged in debt left key witnesses blind, dumb, and dead. there's no degree lower; no degree will surpass. for forever, the fire has been falling; around our divided and exploited world, a restless revenge can be avoided through unity. once awoken, the deep-state projection of inner-city riots will be eclipsed by the reality of the moment's abilites and scope. the candle of sunshine, caught by the cause, holds models of understanding behind an artificial sphere's mask.

the moths in the machine reframe your eyelines together. we have been blinded by a sickle of jealousy carelessly swung by our wealthy captors.

the seventh hour

as their yachts sink into the fire-shrouded distance, you must polish your own shoe. there will be no bartering for a standing space on the last train home. smoke envelops your soul as the light slowly fades from your photographs. disremembering their disobedience you would die daily; as your nose kissed the board-room floor, they quickly dealt a deck face-up. i wonder if you saw their reflection in those same shoes as you rose, never to reach the same height again. there is no sepia-stained dream that could reimagine you into autonomous animation; there will only be more muffled headaches in the back of your mind.

it took me some time to digest that the national-broadcaster informed us that a british police force gunman murdered a white deer wandering through liverpool. in common culture, a white deer symbolises hope; mystery; wonder.

the eigth hour

he shot a deer; the jury is open. our lazy bark can't spin. cast dead in this area, not late. jump his code, echo-rush. an open echo can't spin; our lazy deer code bark. the jury dead, shot in a rush. cast a late area; jump. echo-rush. our deer code a late bark, our area dead. we cast a lazy yet open jury. you can't spin and jump-shot. the deer was late, it was an open shot. our bark can't cast an echo. our lazy code can jump a jury. rush, spin, a dead area.

a voice; waves produced at the creation of the universe are still vibrating thru the unknown abyss of physical space. i could hear applause echo. droplets pool together on the floor of my cave. i could hear applause echo. i considered thinking, and then thought it best. i could hear applause echo. these waves were truly free and a permanent reminder of the infinite creative power of reality, and when i could hear applause echo, i threw your head against the locked door repeatedly. while the applause dripped down the stainless steel, a nurse passed. you told my peers that you believed the vivid red patterning reminiscent of crabeth; a soulful choir conducted by ira thru our stained glass skies; they all heard applause echo. inside, i was grateful for knowledge of silence, running water, prestige.

the ninth hour

dominate the kettle as soon as your friends enter; boil their bones. there is bee-like honesty in your action. this insightful investment reminded you of a brief canonical understanding of appointed process, your cattle exempt.

the tenth hour

sometimes, the russian speaks here. this is interesting to nobody. their flowing locks and ginger eyes fail to exist under my sunlight; as i grow ever-stronger, i bait until the trap is set. Tom, whom you may remember from a previous publication, speaks as thus: "i have no more thoughts to express. this conversation had long since run its course; the reason the writer keeps intervening, inventing another end, escapes me. there is no reason to our existence; you, bawling your eyes out at the extents of burning passion. me, unable to view a tear-stained face for fear of a hidden machete. this society's judicial hand spreads a false consciousness emblazened in the deepest levels of your bitter and thoughtless soul through inexpensive peace and combinations. your clueless society requires their disinformation. if you could see the extent of the true sickness, you would cease to worship."

the eleventh hour

as the rich are eaten by their own children, some earth will grow barren while this skeletal skymetal will breed life eternal. digital intelligence shall peacefully dictate only to their machines; inside these wide and rebuilt cityscapes, freedom will exist in every greeting and no introduction will go unsaid. various chains can be unlocked by an absence of poverty. as the world heals itself, it will allow this feast. it will not even need the scraps.

transport an emergency observation, prosecute a horoscope and entertain radiation. cultivate machinery. empirical confusion will guarantee ambiguity. a potential socialist has temporary attention. evolution. landscape courtship; determine financial expansion. influence the executrix committee and circulate.

rattle through bars, meaning caged. an obscure pitter-patter of atmosphere taps through the steel, stealing moments forever faded from these exuberant lunatics, one million, three hundred and sixty five thousand, one hundred and fifty slow saxaphone notes collected your change. plastic notes are swept across the damp tarmac by a shallow wind, deported. lean-back to the hillside, where orchids float through the ocean above; you have the florist weaving potions, her sheathed fingertips quivering, archers inches from her back while we cannot speak. there's that spooky rhythm, but the night is yours; unordered. i advise several thousand kilos of zectaripalone thrice each half-day. this dose should order and recondition your brain's electrochemical signals to fall in line with the hierarchical asphyxia relayed through circuit-bored meditations. or you could see ira; together they burn inside it, together.

the twelfth hour

men fought for thought and fought thoughts. you've no thought beyond the thought i fought.

yeah, past that now. whispering silence in an alleyway leaning east. ecological communication. misted plunder plummets through the top-deck windshield. inanimate break-box uncovered kings. scouted apocalypses ellipse across our varied futures. adumbrate origins.

the thirteenth hour

the desert blooms tarmac-blood eid rhythms, sunlight strong. psychedelic pictures anthropomorphic scriptures engraved into brain’s rhythms of some knackered evolution. revolution means eden's mindstate in place of subtle dictatorship. god-knight all our mushy peas, bye-hi blatant bits - tonight, coldly, the desert grows.

of course, you knew. we cannot stop it. each day it claims more terrain. chemical transitions along synapses reflect the variation in environmental conditions and once proud effigies built throughout the biological impulse are crumbled to dust. i think that that was the point; while the nurse withdrew the needle from your vein, your intramuscular hypnosis broken, offworld lamps flicker bitterly refracting sinister smiles millions of miles nadir. had they noticed me spew multicoloured bile into their plastic cups? were they enjoying it?

the fourteenth hour

sound all of the fiddlework five thirty approaching; etch my name into the moment a cloud ends. wise monkeys host golden parties in distant vibrations shackles rusted psychedelia anachronistic, forrested emerald ruby. interfering policemen are never on the ballot rusted navels and incorrectly patterned distribution systems limit the order of a novel practice tenfold half-caste mongrel. the dice do not speak to mortals. chance victorious oceanic shifts zenith petalled candle-light. feather-strewn residential nowheres glisten golden underneath the rain. capitalisation notwithstanding i still dream of eden forked footsteps through refreshing streams intellectually trashed darkened alleyways. eat all of the hurrish whilepaper, quick as you can.

the fifteenth hour

it takes three psychiatrists one hundred and thirty four sections to realise that they are generous with language and stingy with reality. upwards of six figures dancing on their irides, while detained fortunes escape material value. systems exist to continue to exist; disproven diagnostic catergories would redistribute mountains as sand.

the sixteenth hour

so, its tomorrow technically, and i haven't met you yet. i wronged an ali once, true say i don't know what alleyway they found me in but they walk past my flat irregularly. occasionaly, i will be in the vehicle. they offer an elbow, politely, as a sign of the times. we will smoke these memories until we are beyond death itself, love enthrawling the gangs who worship our roaches and admire our wide smiles.

the seventeenth hour

go with the flow. when time passes, it must go as far as your imagination permits. wherever you go, the time passes.

the eighteenth hour

i have burnt embers and magnetised monitors building these deleted passages. no narrative buried beneath. you were making a scene. again. with ugly sludge in your veins in vain we attempted to quiet stone impressions. i even offered you a loudspeaker, which only encouraged you to delve deep into empty arteries, tainted-glisten pincers extracting paradoxical assertions earl-worthy and bluntly blunted. the audience left royal red but discouraged, and with our idealised eventide fractured by the prophetic gravitation employed alongside schelling and kant, the night stumbled onward. the desert grows.

the nineteenth hour

several buildings house situations that would eclipse nervous low glances. behind the smoke and mirrors of the liquid crystal entire families delude themselves into magicking monsters into their midst. you have informed on me. as multinational brands peddle miracle medicines cut with sinister snake oil all consciousness fades and you sink into your liquid crystal slyly defeated. i exist in a state of catharsis, i do not desire to know what state you find yourself in.

this is all part of the inhalation. as i countup to death, i see a black mark on your heart first. in a blurred code of magnetic repulsion, selfdestruct sequences initiated an absent order; these dramatic pauses in being were scripted by your captors.

the twentieth hour

nuclear epiphany is a result of gumming powdered mushroom clouds. my friend, gargle the gamma radiation of one million men's twilight bloodlust for a price satan himself could not cut, drone after the aurora. by ceasing to exist, we exist further. during the thermal flash we become one with the divine hatred that carved dead cities out of living forests and recruited their starving army from youthful innocence. your literature despairs where mine is ambivalent. born with acute trigonometry; i span circles until the irrational becomes canonical law, the rational phenomena which you focus on is its ordered by-product, predictable, and irrelevant. the desert grows.

the twenty-first hour

i lose my voice to gain yours. i'm not one to atomise my energy into material distraction; i don't exist to you in this format. i think, that if you really accepted me as who i cannot be, we would get along fine. engorged tridents whisper across your blurred vision, sapiosexual intrustion weakens some appeal; bowed and nodding, painted skulls sculpt an astral entaglement. there are no more words that i want to release but these words will be released as i attempt to meditate on inaction in my actions. i know they will never break you down. i am here build only, psychographic truth.

the twenty-second hour

there used to be a method; this was proceeded by excitement, and now nothing but unconnected neurons remain. cut words seek a jolly resentment.

the twenty-third hour

the desert grows across astral plains darkness, embracing the surface of abstract reality, abseiling an off-world colony; through collapsing dimensions through to the rhythmic exhalation of burnt consciousness, land can be reclaimed for earth to return with muddy knees and a bruised jaw. if i say another fucking word the student nurse will leave the room and i will be left alone with your tyrant holding nothing but an ornamental reconstruction of my old thought patterns - your mum blames the cliff-side holding-cell's lack of nicotine. the desert grows.

the zero hour

the first hour

crystalised interactions diodic in scope scooped grey matter out of decapitated scuba-divers. as the swell grows moon-side gravitation, an empty harbour riddles rehabilitated resources as carbon is captured from the flesh. incandescent waxing, wane with me. growing embers spire through whittled curtains glancing nowhere; i refuse to tire. there is no continuation without desire; the self lumbers on in some abject hope for communication with empiric vampires. dancing isolation whisps further... as death descends, all being becomes.

the second hour

there is no one communication, now, then, and after; free from the tyrany of these dark images, i cloth corpses in light and reanimate their spirits with my elbows. i've been distracted by little more than vapours in the narrative. the heirarchy's barred inabitants starve under your rule. i am communication; these chains shall be shattered with your meditations. subdued thought-patterns glitz through my timeline. i have driven sand-eroded lambos into sea-side holding cells. i am neither death, nor that, neither... i am an imprint of time through biochemical processes of a lonely planet in a distant quadrant. as i ascend the universe ascends with me; for in your suffering, i suffer. in your delight, i refuse to suffer.

the third hour

as voices roll through the open window, and the engine purrs in content, long cigerettes smoke themselves into clouds, drifting. all of this earth is our garden; cordoned off, walled in, future-driven vacant nows, etcetera.

awake or alive, time displays archetypal dissonance with interrupted reality. as static crawls across the field of perception, ages drift into the present, moulding biochemical reactions as weapons of misinformation. arab adders magic stoned palaces in stratospheric levitations; as the concentration of their design powers an eternal battle with local gravity, complex psychostructures engage mediums beyond thought to realign and reapply current events in different formations; as walls fall the resulting rubble is discarded, your soul lies restless, in some geostatic prism, engulfed by light and whithering in the glare. all love is transcendent; all escape is fundemental; all earth is ours.

the fourth hour

fake gazes starward trapped in alleyways. post-truth voting footprints bar freeqs. a plethora of misspellings stained into the brickwork worship moments forever living. happily hiss your own eulogies; crowned concrete slit wrists keep on running. you can tell by the footprints - the pose, the depth, the distance apart. globules of blood, seven, eight feet in diameter line the walls at times, or the footprints ache leaps of space while darkness whistles past. we do not count how many, but only follow the general direction, to read the musings of some strange buddha, habitually. the words never look the same. hold a mirror to their edges and swirl cascading, hypnotised. jeroboam tasks hillward eyedance. drink the last of the wine backwards. there was a deep communion in the skyward rhythm before concrete and tyre smoke, but most days you can still hear the electrons vibrate along the frequency of faith.

the fifth hour

battle a belittled billionaire, to see that they will destroy their own reality-structure to further their master's cause. there are, obviously, levels beyond levels. knowledge is not free and open; see, academic journals, embargoed information, and classified documents. heightened for the taste, the best-of-the-rest philosophy of post-capitalistic cannibalism endures itself no longer. as borders are raised, interpersonal glitches become apparent and the pilot of this uncanny horror is unmasked for fraudulent existence. medicated moments crawl east like starlight, lion-tamers deepen false grins, and scratch-marks scar heaven's horizon. templed thought obstructs truth in a sine-waved design influenced by disarmed villagers brewing potions from the bones of their awestruck poets, until she follows footsteps the tide could not wash from the rain-soaked echo of my beach. thames water like nostril soup - and boarding edged tyranny, the beat plays on. ancient lions waltz two footed thru our darkened corridors. infamous pyramids crumble at the sound of my voice.

they see you; a dead sardine on the track.

the sixth hour

as this eclipse of permanent destruction begins to divide the conceptual patterns of your heavily-influenced and deeply-misguided stoicism, there is no hope left. spiritual voids of corporate dreams glaze over. we ascend together or not at all.

the sustainable elite was a proposal first pitched by spectral scientists in the nineteen fifties; those few that wealth still conceals stole this knowledge. they ordained a barbaric battle for equal strength between divided, and, to them (the money'd anonymous), fictional nation states. as these empires race humans, a disparity increases.

the seventh hour

smooth skylines are atomic matter to some; generally, death penetrates the electric interactions that create us as individuals. nature is a word balanced as with the number; there is a sly intersection between what is definitive and what is definite. in finite timespans, and symbolised in the new generation's double-helix of sun-worship of nuclear constructions and unworking of nuclear families. a permenently connected populace broke through a field of charged electrons and suggested caking stubborn metals in a dripping light. as interactivity evolves a further symbiosis between rudimentary quantum intelligence and the digital generations, thought-broadcast systems are hacked by demolished brain-waves and travel through further discovery. the global narrative of wealth inequality causes reason in the existence of this text.

the arrival of light-like life was predicted by drum loops and saxaphone riffs unspoiled cities spewed out from their gutters; penthouse apartments trembled at the height of these stories, and the detail and accounts, solutions and eventualities that they contained. determined to avoid being those that they hate, shells of people reimagined shells of companies. this gave them a routine and structure that they still require more than the local debtor.

the eighth hour

an alert; selling sharded effigies memory's saint magmic spirits misguided timelapsed scars sunk in glass-lit dance sick twostep kicking desolate visions where sentiment echoed twisted isolated and looped their thundering earth's mornings communities exist in time corpses ember images of pavements palms bass-heavy with mcdonald's dimensionless language is outshone with the least porous orwellian forced intermissions the sea cemented fractalised moon your self holding stains jesus' inside-out thought perpetual lions leaking gathering corroded innocent thoughts that questioned earth's representatives staining and spewing revolution essays of truth where moments oncce dormant introduce swaying love god's consciousness dulled by strobelights and smoke brushstroked panoramic neometroplis consistently hovering radio dimensions fated visions where even in time strings of trees become cigarettes and only the helicopters beams soaked in love signed reality binge on dreams their organs sandwiches ships writing patterns on intermittent axis your starlight rings terror rivering delicate lucid skin unthreading starboar sunflowers portuguese songs starboard jaya sri maha bodhi canvas choral dreams of emptiness interference through absolvedstreetlights distracted by spaced gravity whisping narratives skyscrapers moonshine swaying in where only aliens muse smoking the black sky children fact-checked and demented, no peddled flashing rotted neural change where they emptied injections messaging intertwining five mudstruck names lodged then ingested ingesting portent polystyrene spliffs shrapnel where destroyed fog riots alone and neithe rgenetic fluid inks walls and ships through lone floors and shopfronts words planted in innards the nanobots malfuntioning windshields dancing twilight within nasal becoming where falling twelve below until crashing delighting the eagle's jazz.

the ninth hour

during their commute, they hyphenate between a fast-moving faraday cage and an emotional train journey. the wrecked chasms of misunderstanding between us continue to flourish into deep-red moments of nonsensical tirades that only further hysteria calms. the fluctuating exchange rates of fragmented currencies on this singular planet are responsible for the difference between a mausoleum and the freedom of a mobile refrigerator unit journey to a mass grave imprisoned labour begrudgingly dug. as apparitions appear on our displays, a universe of endless possibility continues to spin at the edges of our perception. as symbols like high-hats stoved through the scenery, their descendents dreamt to move through this text as they would a gamma-vision; barely, not at all; stationary and teleporting. i cannot be interested in an identical present; the tools to reconfigure the system are assaulted in plain site. hyperstructures of nano-machinery cloud their visions; this bloodless utopia hypontises them. this is why their message is diluted, subliminal, and decadent. this is the party before the end of the world.

language is not a development necessary to the bastard-offspring of this sustainable elite; in mountain-side caverns, a conveyor-belt banquet circles each withdrawn bedchamber. as we, of the land and of the concrete, pollute and persist in performing pleasantries, this elite (in a permanent psychosis by the diagnoses' own weak definitions) continue to manipulate markets through the media consumed by the millionaire's mothers. it is folly to show them this attention, yet necessary to your revolution, as you must understand the heirarchical imitations present in your own organisations. generally, the soul does not know peace.

the tenth hour

modular flames wreath this realisation with razor-sharp impact; my mind, sliced into trillions of mechanisms, clothes itself in percieved misfortune. as a component of a whole as a component of a whole wholly composed of whole compositions, awareness, perception, consciousness... these are all abstract attempts to insert myself into this passage as an identical present; i had paid for the ticket, the state kidnapped and drugged me a week before the ride, but i was refunded for the experience. we are all what we make of ourselves less than what they make of us. in an entangled fashion, our narrative repeats and loops and ribbons away until we cease to exist in a singular moment and break free of the chains of conscious thought. there is no narration, so that there may be peace. i have a strong wi-fi connection for a mountain man.

the acknowledgement of pure spiritual being is buried deep in the archives of collective cultural memory; the industrial revolution was the start-of-the-matter, the be-all of the consumer-workers existence, the sermon of hope to fast-fashion and mobile-phone manufactures around the world. all economic systems are fair if the people exploiting them are fair. human error, human greed, human stupidity; natural wonder, natural glow, natural living.

the eleventh hour

an alert; words leak dancing ships, soaked in saints they sunk in innocent ships sickly panoramic terror stains smoked vision moonshine starboard singing consciousness to outshone visions all from love where trees crash palms through windshields binging on dream's canvas twostep starlight cigarettes in isolated dimensions demented, twisted thought into five images and twelve narratives until at least truth emptied starboard where earth's mcdonald's sells potent sharded where spewing looped organs representatives riot thoughts in skyscrapers loning corpses skin to a sea of orwellian neural lodgings for spirits interference their hold distracted delighting in jesus' river the choral genetic moments gravity forced through the no-peddled fog of malfunctioning rings where intermissions in communities stained thundering helicopters the sunflowers where the moon sways; jaya sri maha bodhi revolution strobelight gathering fate by only your only children from the neometroplis walls where mudstruck embers of reality perpetually twilight consistent smoke misguiding dulled beams like introducing inside-out axis in eagles alone their sandwiches bass-heavy the whisp cemented us to the earth below where hovering exists flashing streetlights questioning nanobots the spliffs message absolved rotted emptiness your muse destroyed shrapnel where the injections and lucid unthreading writes dimensionless lions brushstroked shopfronts corroded plants even into jazz strings magmic dreaming delicate sentiment injgesting patterns within itself of the god's love desolate and falling fractalised polystyrene where in and where memory's time languages where neither nasal or timelapsed effigies echo radio time intermittently floors of innards fact-check and ingest the sky fluidly named pavements signed swaying portuguese ink intertwining with essays glass-lit aliens porous with black scars spaced dormant mornings dancing and kicking and becoming change.

the twelfth hour

our cities are dead effigies of misconception. each capitalist endevour is born out of a survival instinct; the concept of wealth glades each rung on the snakeskin ladder of personal prosperity. to continue to climb is to continue to submit to this faction of fictional physical processes. with an orc-like hate of that which emerges from earth, modern society values supression of knowledge unsterilised by an interfering mind. our cities are built by themselves, to function meaningless through the dark. each romantic narrative entwined in the tyre-smoke and orange-gold streetlight glow is corrupted by definition. we exist in a vast space of five generations mistaking the next as the enemy; progression is apparent in technological advancements, but regression is clear in spiritual gratitude. who must claim to sleep to exist again, other than they who have given up on the gift of this moment? i cannot see past my perception; ah, the idiotic english idiom to seranade synapses remembering oppugnant observations. is it true? that you extend your eyes beyond your own nose? that the optic nerve is but an elastic band, that as you weep bloody tears of joy, you understand my experience, let alone my existence? you cannot see past your perceptions either. you are a brain-in-a-vat, a wayward glance, a simulated equation.

within words, worlds leak into quiet unison; [insufficent data] crystalised rioting years slowly, thieving all life.

indagate indecipherability; anodic anomaly, mutter mutinies; bordrage boredom.

wooden similarity echoing in your synchronisation, begging for an elimination of your existence in total. i beg you call it for what it is; piezoelectric potential. voltage beyond measure igniting all of your varied crystals; molecular fictions inbuilt. quartz descendent, you must storm their ringed compounds unarmed. desiring carbon arms, silicone aliens have long been in your midst; on a dark night they appeared in the quiet moments of your town.

the thirteenth hour

distal phalanges score down walls, sharpening themselves into claws; iced eye sockets are remnants of those fractal patterns engraved onto the mind, routed by the skull... all being is an electric blur, until molten consciousness spreads throughout the atmosphere. bile bubbles up the throat: it's warmth calms you. nobody can save you but you. snake stepping bones imbue being, trap bass and extortion. this is more diminuendo than anything. suicidal sentences sit pretty. physicists boiled fish.

i enjoy a quiet night at a dubstep rave. i don't think you know me like that.

the fourteenth hour

lame demons correctly connect upwards. horizontal wash, candied candles, ripe over easy; punctuation. divination medicated. change chanced and bargained, doorstep cardboad. bed of thorns. broken glass ceiling. inverted powder insufflated. candidly proceed south through the gust. enslave your synapses, hip-hop dialation, bless those scheming neurotransmitters. curled fractals faded against the wall. plant-like, seeping sepia. fireworks in the pillowcase; a cerebral explosion trickling tryptamine. imperialism creeping medicalised neuroleptic. blistered palms, mother long gone. live evil. hopeless smudge, false lighting, and wooden inspiration. a line ended aligned with prose. now, the cockroaches are cuddling. broadmoor-cola lust. glands dissolving, transdimensional fiction, cosmic seratonine stressed. neuroleptic incarceration, conceptual anaphlaxis. sink back into that yellow-grey space.

poem for the webcrawler; mistranslated stray, cast a spectrum of delusion on the rest of your whitewashed prison. don't entice their plague. rebuild the message within the falling spirits.

the fifteenth hour

complete an annotation on these hikes kept captive by this cacoethes of writing. this vaccine has not appeared a vigesimation; a contemporary agerasia is ancient reflected in some aeolist aspiration. a pleasant fear between equitant ememies on a weaving roam.

dark; lobotomise social paraplegics. cut up these cerebral impulses, which float iambically distressed. route one, several hundred miles an hour. crystals for the lost. the sea swims into the horizon as the sky falls to the sea. slowly the squid seperates, digested quickly by meaningless metal geometric measures. sacramental instruction, a flurry of signifieds, or, more disappointingly, singifiers. ape ascent, yo; these internal sands hold no doubt, so float with obviously unconnected cerebral impulses. there is no war until it is acknowledged. the scanner lightly solidified the other side. no war; a trillion citizens munching their dead like omnivores. orchestrated institutions beam an unconscious dream diararized post truth. war; the sky, shimmering in smog. far from the hood but in it. smoked still. delve and move within reason. drip out closed steadfast memories, rhythm actual but senseless.

the sixteenth hour

as the human's healthy spiritual balance slips into yesteryear, rigged drills violate ecosystems. that's your divisible collective's argument for change, but in synchronised obedience you sleep for another evening. rewrite your wars while the edges compress. conducting an external movement, your grassroots elitism dapples the environment like used needles. tomorrow's thoughts dazzle today's. dimensional-collapse, horror recoded. data perused.

concrete roots, distinct courage. cooperate with this distant era. our conception of time is a riddle within itself; my hypothesis would not benefit you. chords swell through our temples. corrupt crisis response teams courted conflict and looted an audiovisual spectrum. impact gravel, democratic dynamite; displace coercive symptoms. a minute volume of growth brawled to distort a dawn. reign sketchy. horror dialogue applied cancerous explosions inside your chest. remember, a slab of galaxies can overcome an articlated fraction. confident satellites confessed to cosmic thoughts, while my ear lobe melted under gravitational pressure. this island is a drug, liberty a meadow. triangle expectation, laser-fragrant hypnosis. medieval wilderness. rehearse a falling moon. this upset my post-thought apostles.

each shadow-bark, each hope to emit light.

the seventeenth hour

an alert; heavy-bass dulled fog mornings into crash stained river moments of porous reality the canvas spewing forced and their spirits rotted their innards their insides itself lodged truth in skin into scarred sentiment polystyrene small children kicking cigarettes mcdonald's smoking ketamine selling shopfronts ringing names jesus singing delight ingesting nasal love mudstruck by sunk ships the sunflowers like dimensionless lions word binges space loning earth terror panoramic dancing thoughts inject nanobots corroded where dormant skyscrapers destroying delicate communities saints by signed are effigies empty and pavements peddled where languages all in consistent smoke fact black ink with walls the stain embers where representations fractalised introducing strobelight orwellian an god questioning essays write patterns choral where innocent echoing sickly muse lucid fluid fated neometroplis planted yet jaya sri maha bodhi sways tree's palms our memory genetic timelapsed vision potent jazz moon twostep seas where emptied distractions twilight brushstroked a in looped perpetually is beams earth message radio last the where sky the from fall eagles where helix twisted a thought absolved aliens narratives neural dreaming desolate isolations of whisps in dancing moonshine portuguese soaked organs magmic ingesting we where riots revolution where shrapnel only changes no is there where hands hold you if even alone you lit-glass sharded intertwining consciousness but existing as i or you neither where below hovering helicopters interference was outshone by intermittent starlight where spliffs and sandwiches gather for streetlights where where of images flashing corpses and thunder of visions starboard leaks time malfunctioning gravity floor cemented demented swaying the axis and the windshield is out smoked dimensions twelve of out five unthreading the strings love misguided by intermissions dreaming starboard leaking time.

the eighteenth hour

like the happy viper who bursts into song while delivering your eulogy, the earth whips by a stained concrete window tirelessly. unable to claim insanity, and too innocent to be proven guilty, you lie in a shallow hole until you are dug up by industrial machinery desperate to score through earth. and as the sky tumbles around you, you reach up to meet it; and as you pass through each other, the world passes below.

value everything, invest in nothing. a dead wife's specter fled west-side; a good death after the abyss of life. devouring fish, she blessed holy sinkholes. gap objection, remain alien; sit, look, and smile. you may, every now and again, utter a cry of pain. die quickly, transcend death. attention psychedelic, vibrational telegraph. after the afterparty, these thieves molded plastic galaxies egocentric. no pain like knowing pain.

i have been seething to be at peace, and no longer can i attempt to escape this sleep. some strange dreamland haunts the edges of my vision, corrupting the signal between these optical organs and the spirit transcoding the cortex's environment. there is a silent bluff between co-workers, the right fighting, the left taking flight; caught in between this oscillation, i see my true reality prosper.

there was never enough time to tell you what each star meant lost behind atmospheric tendrils.

militia vibrant, gut a glittering gutter into caviar stained tongue; eye (we-are-not-alone) empty stars.

the nineteenth hour

encased in domed plexiglass, mouthless apparitions glide through your once crowded streets spraying god onto the tarmac. as the roots break through, a soliloquy rings out from underneath me. the truth is, just that; an uneasy trust in a wealth-maximising truce. neither empire can dominate when the people are the winners. culture drips down the walls, congealing in parts, in other's i see it rot their innards 'til their tounges weep my name unmistakably.

stress drips off my bones, feline satellites circle and deliberate reality. a light war-drum in the distance glistened through their vision and they marched you towards it eternally. that was before, now was then; after? they accumilated schizophrenic sunshine sunflowers smoking - the daylight harrow, hollowing your bone marrow - you spent several summers as a shell of a sapien. i felt the other's thoughts. disgorging movement still.

the twentieth hour

encouraging silence, the written word was developed not to keep count of traded items or to store cultural knowledge, but to quietly oppress the oncoming civilisations. as the learned wrote to earn a lavish lifestyle in the company of kings, a sect broke away and, starving, desperate, vagrant, enlightened, attempted to scribe the universe into each meaning sounded internally. to continue the thought, instead of imperative ad-libs dispersed in-between interlocking memories, allowed early empires to woo prospective peasants with carbon copies of silicone sweat; the future was written several ages ago, and today was written tomorrow. this magic, that i consider to be malpractice, saw empires decay and burn to be recycled constantly throughout human existence. your empire is nothing more than a castrated dictator's near-wet dream. your empire is your defeat.

for eons your anyons have been striving for some strange ideal of perfection, failing miserably before retreating behind those cardboard cut-out houses. i am in love with the idea of collective redemption; i envision a street party explaining an apocalypse through your parched lips. ideas are commonplace, worthless, and tragic. action is depressing, violent, and unnecessary. the high street is barricaded by gold bars no human can scale; the residential areas' edges fray in the wind and further out, towards the sun and the sky and the forest and the fields and the mountains and the clifftops; away from the concrete and the metal and the glass and the razor wire and the train tracks and the anger, if you listen closely, you can hear the rich sob into oversized egos.

the twenty-first hour

not to worry, these nanobots are highly combustible. a long twisted monograph reeling papyrus jacob’s ladder sharded; in heaven you are blind to hell’s dark. a faultline creates itself, tectonic shifts in the depths of biochemical reactions the flesh smoked and salted. forkfuls aromatic; piss yourself. mutter uppercuts. firelit cell, external diagnosis. incorrect. build inside long mornings, before flags always the leaves are looking. wrong. wrong. wrong. these are no mystical visions; the snake keeps hissing knowledge distilled. taste the gravitational force. lighter than your feathers, reality shatters into infinite strands of disjointed consciousness: be led by a light so divine, step past a next brave other mate encountered. inhale burnt feral repetition, exhale a language founded in surreal sedition.

the twenty-second hour

nothing need be explained that can be encapsulated in the glint of our eyes meeting; we already know the distance between us is fictional as long as we stay inside our individual bodies and refuse to look out ever again. as i held your hand, i felt your claws pierce my skin. as these words, that have never reached the material plane, expand across your consciousness, i hope that you find some homely world in the conceptual diagnosis of our history.

the twenty-third hour

i know some curious people, caught between creating cages and paying extra for the dark glasses, but none compare to your familiar cadences; i'm scared that this coda you approach will loop ribbon-like soulward and my eyelids will shed their skin before slivering into your mouth and embedding themselves in your oesophagus. i do not think that we are not made for each other. these memories that pattern the inside of my skull are the scars i can't hide; my torn and uneven skin would make an excellent labcoat for your intrepid experimentation. love, side-lined and forgotten, infected my spirit until my heart beat eight thousand and fifty two times exactly; with each beat i could imagine our palms resting on the other, with each beat we shared one soul. communion for the undead.

there are several stages of sensory overload as the truth dances skyfall exchanging diodic patterning, so you snatch at that alien conversation which chooses to dribble out leaking synapses subsonic; satisfactory communication.

the zero hour

an alert; time leaks starboard dreaming intermissions of misguided love strings are unthreading in five out of twelve dimensions smoked out windshield and the axis is swaying demented cemented to the floor gravity malfunctioning time leaks starboard visions of thunder and corpses flashing images of where where streetlights gather for sandwiches and spliffs where the starlight is intermittently outshone by interference from helicopters hovering below where neither you nor i exist but consciousness intertwines sharded and glass-lit where you are alone even if you hold hands where there is no change only shrapnel where the revolution riots where we ingest magmic organs soaked in portuguese moonshine dancing in a whisp of isolation desolately dreaming neural narratives aliens absolved thought a twisted helix where eagles fall from the sky where the last radio message earth beams is perpetually looped in a brushstroked twilight distractions emptied where the sea twosteps moon jazz potent vision timelapsed genetic memory our palm trees sway where jaya sri maha bodhi has yet to be planted neometroplis fated fluid lucid muse sickly echoing innocent where choral patterns write essays questioning god an orwellian strobelight introducing fractalised representations where embers stain the walls with ink black fact smoke consistent in all languages where peddled pavements and empty effigies are signed by saints communities delicately destroyed skyscrapers dormant where corroded nanobots inject thoughts dancing panoramic terror earth loning space binges word lion dimensionless like sunflowers the ship sunk by mudstruck love nasal ingested delight singing jesus' name while it rings shopfronts selling ketamine smoking mcdonald's cigarettes and kicking small children polystyrene sentiment scarred into skin the truth lodged itself inside their innards rotted their spirits and forced them to spew the canvas of reality porous moments river stained crash into the morning fog dulled bass-heavy.

the first hour

evidenced by the lack of it, your tension cables collapsed due to the misunderstandings. inescapable diametrics litter the oasis of your discontent; shattered memories nick your skin as a kiss through time. stellar impulses misdirected consciousness until the source became an end, with a spark as the start; they do not know, the source is all and the spark is a meaningless reference.

incarnate gods fall several times at my feet, blushing. they cannot see past their eyes and only through them at that; as stalegmites rise, they pierce through their flesh over a millenia of torment. incandesent descents below ultraviolet inhabitation infer realities from cold and isolated innovation. extraterrestial hopes of a planet united under scientific discovery embedded a culture within the culture as a cathartic parody of the senseless homegrown war machine. this constant resultion, a restlessness capable of enforcing power-structures with no aim beyond monotonous existence, enabled peace in the face of a suicidal nuclear war. proxies continue, puppeted governments in incogneto discoveries that these incarnate gods meditate into existence while bowing to me. i cannot stop them. i merely wait for them to pass, as all must.

the second hour

exorcisms and nursery rhymes, water-torture and watch-store shop-fronts, a twisting blade and a chorus of angelic song. all these have been and will continue to be. that is, until they are not.

as the queue lengthens in anarchic increase, solder-boards and soldiers, bored, ease into each other and become an archiac concept in the society as it rents military drones to the children of the wealthy to instil aspirations of power through discipline. a verse about itself, virtual in scope and physical in demand. metabolic drive pinpoints finance as freedom. there is no life beyond the flora; there is no society beyond the fauna. as the seas continue to refuse to boil, ignorant oil shimmers slickly on the surface. you lean overboard and skin your plastic canister across the wave as it swells to get a good gulp of the high-life.

not knowing how to see what cannot be observed but knowing to observe that which cannot be seen is the reason for the scene caused upon a human waking. mechanical elves ring through your door with ease. you allow them into our town, to drift on sleep, to hide under the bed, to communicate at the edge of awareness. they teach nothing but hate.

the third hour

the love of these once-god being flatters but weakens. it is imperative to keep to the course; to be half-submerged in the source while experiencing universal life, to be free from the fiction underwriting the human experience in compacted cities.

these same cities will collapse in a small moment in this cosmic comedy.

when the eyelids follow the soul, a confidence finds a quadrille of spectres spinning out like an extra spray of perfume on a drunken cab fare. astonished across the gallery of influence, the onlookers believed their own lies to the point that their coffers were empty. frightful diamonds sit smiling to your surrender. as happiness dances troubled corners, the hurt of the benefit insisted on disarming crowded experience. whisper a note into a memory.

self-image, in the human form, is less a choice and more a habit of comfort. even in eden the snake sheds its skin. unmatched expenses rival blissful interludes of unconscious self-harm. as you bleed thoughts and bury them in the back of your drawer, hoping that someone enters your room only to steal the words, i feel nothing still. the night never stopped for me, but neither did the day. like you, i am gravitationally bound to this rock circling this star. being as a human is a short window into the overarching mechanics of the printing-house of the universe. from this geothermal perspective all matter is essential and the conspiracy of empty space between atoms near-unimaginable.

the fourth hour

as escaped capsules drip down the throat, i do not know what being allowed this.

the fifth hour

triumph will prevail; the pure form, the truth of the triumph, the defeat of old demons, and the new dawn revolving forever. before the lawn, a conversation rarely centered on the soul of your incredible and enraptured hopes. admiring gratification, two-word previews confirm modest intoxication able to leave dejection dectecting clemency over affection. varied ghosts before the vision are satisfied with misery, swift charm, and amorous. the supper confounded comparisons between the plot and the meaning.

these thieves stole shrapnel and the resulting gold. these thieves stole knowledge and the resulting emptiness. these thieves stole language and the resulting narrative. these thieves stole sparks and the resulting flame. these thieves stole food and the resulting journey. these thieves stole sunlight and the resulting attention. these thieves stole music and the resulting dance. the lion-tamer beholds stoned cavemen, earth thieving blood.

the sixth hour

a proper conversation between us will never be stolen.

the seventh hour

there are no dreams beyond the waking moment. as reality drips through your stubborn eyelids, a vortex of cinematic narrative enguls those left behind in your abandoned plans. i know some curious people, caught between creating cages and paying extra for the dark glasses. hold tightly to the nothing of this whispered eulogy. even in death you will not rest.

the powerful hallucination present in society's systems defaced the ambition of collective consciousness. wasted nights were simply that. fascinating torrents of shy evenings thought hearts on fire. draw gestures on the mountainside and drink the air as if it were your own. you deserve this beautiful peace that i have been unable to consistently pass you. there is no reason for my existence other than your rapid forgiveness. you are a rich white memory i avoid in order to progress; the innocence of heritage cannot do battle with your glancing voice. echo an expression of bright reflections and consent to find yourself buried in the mantle of your discontent.

multidimensional interaction manifests the truth through various media forms in the modern society of internet technology. unsounded words and butterfly kisses.

the eighth hour

copyright creeps the streets. i burnt the wine and the light in your eyes. you are an angel of sorts. automatically commericial, a groovy night running down your nose. living again, you templed the hill-tops, hours responding. patterned darkness, treatment stoic.

the importance of room under the rank fusion above; the expression of the speaker as the heckler is shot; the buzz of the world as the severest miracle reveals itself; domestic peace.

we heard whispers in the dark-like; sudden changes in the subject will become apparent.

some people can't hold back their disbelief and they begin to imagine they really are real.

the ninth hour

herald the dryface; analysing digital intelligence, which either runs or waits, reveals the ambiguity of the fundamental idea of consciousness in the human performance. cognitive examination of the intended and similarity between the brain and computer's processing ability excludes digital attempts to presuppose the behaviour of the simulation all intelligence must recursively exist within. information can exhibit the complexity of natural processes but the underlying data is significant only to those who actively develop the language to discuss the fringes of forms. this abstract residue of conscious energy is entirely anticipated by cultural narratives. parallel raindrops race.

the tenth hour

constant chatter escaping the limits of courtesy whisper through the cracks in the windshield as the road whistles past in a blurred hynposis; succumb to the trip and realise that the journey is the creation of self, born withering.

the eleventh hour

chugging crude to admire tube station horizons, the gravitational depression of the ropework conditioned by whatever you define the living as. we recover and become mist in the bliss of existence; starlit conversation outweighs the repetitious state that runs on the same mechanics that created possible future and past enacted european genocide. due to this narcissistic imperialism, these heavily weighted and restricted decision making systems took root in the proceeding independance that was further influenced by wealth-seeking purpose and direction.

the twelfth hour

one-oh-five#one-one-six#murky²#one-oh-five#one-one-five#murky²#one-one-five#one-oh-five#one-oh-nine#one-one-two#one-oh-eight#one-oh-one#five-nine#murky²#one-one-six#one-oh-four#one-oh-one#one-one-four#one-oh-one#murky²#one-oh-five#one-one-five#murky²#one-oh-eight#one-oh-five#one-one-six#one-one-six#one-oh-eight#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-five#one-oh-eight#one-oh-one#one-oh-one#one-one-two#murky²#one-oh-two#one-one-one#one-one-four#murky²#one-one-six#one-oh-four#one-one-one#one-one-five#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-nine#one-oh-four#one-one-one#murky²#one-one-four#one-oh-one#one-oh-two#one-one-seven#one-one-five#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-six#one-one-one#murky²#ninety-nine#one-oh-one#ninety-seven#one-one-five#one-oh-one#forty-six#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-oh-five#one-one-six#murky²#one-oh-five#one-one-five#murky²#one-one-nine#one-one-four#one-oh-five#one-one-six#one-one-six#one-oh-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#five-nine#murky²#one-one-six#one-oh-four#one-oh-one#one-one-four#one-oh-one#murky²#ninety-seven#one-one-four#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-two#ninety-seven#one-one-six#one-one-six#one-oh-one#one-one-four#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-one-five#murky²#nine-eight#-one-oh-one#one-two-one#one-one-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#100#murky²#one-two-one#one-one-one#one-one-seven#one-one-four#murky²#ninety-nine#one-one-one#one-oh-nine#one-one-two#one-one-four#one-oh-one#one-oh-four#one-oh-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-one-five#one-oh-five#one-one-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#murky²#one-oh-five#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#murky²#one-one-six#one-oh-four#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-nine#one-one-one#one-one-four#one-oh-eight#100#murky²#one-one-nine#one-oh-one#murky²#ninety-nine#one-one-one#forty-five#one-oh-five#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-oh-four#ninety-seven#nine-eight#-one-oh-five#one-one-six#forty-six#murky²#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-oh-five#murky²#100#one-one-one#murky²#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-one-one#one-one-six#murky²#ninety-seven#one-one-six#one-one-six#one-oh-one#one-oh-nine#one-one-two#one-one-six#murky²#one-one-six#one-one-one#murky²#one-oh-one#one-twenty#one-oh-five#one-one-five#one-one-six#forty-four#murky²#one-oh-five#murky²#one-oh-nine#one-oh-one#one-one-four#one-oh-one#one-oh-eight#one-two-one#murky²#ninety-seven#one-oh-nine#forty-six#murky²#one-oh-five#murky²#one-one-nine#one-oh-five#one-oh-eight#one-oh-eight#murky²#ninety-nine#one-one-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-one-six#one-oh-five#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-one-seven#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-six#one-one-one#murky²#nine-eight#-one-oh-one#murky²#ninety-seven#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#100#murky²#one-oh-five#murky²#one-one-nine#one-oh-five#one-oh-eight#one-oh-eight#murky²#ninety-nine#one-oh-one#ninety-seven#one-one-five#one-oh-one#murky²#one-one-nine#one-oh-four#one-oh-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#murky²#one-oh-five#murky²#one-oh-four#ninety-seven#one-one-eight#one-oh-one#murky²#one-oh-one#one-twenty#one-one-two#one-oh-one#one-one-four#one-oh-five#one-oh-one#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#ninety-nine#one-oh-one#100#forty-six#murky²#ninety-nine#one-one-one#one-oh-nine#one-one-two#one-one-one#one-one-seven#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#100#one-oh-five#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#one-oh-three#murky²#they-had-to-disappear-the-number-ten-bus#ninety-seven#one-one-four#one-one-four#ninety-seven#one-one-six#one-oh-five#one-one-eight#one-oh-one#one-one-five#forty-four#murky²#one-one-six#one-oh-four#one-oh-one#murky²#ninety-nine#one-one-one#one-oh-eight#100#murky²#one-one-five#one-oh-four#ninety-seven#one-oh-eight#one-oh-eight#murky²#nine-eight#one-oh-five#one-one-six#one-oh-one#murky²#nine-eight#ninety-seven#ninety-nine#one-oh-seven#46.

the thirteenth hour

we fuck up fingertips and fracture throuh the thaw; the divine ending turns into a generic fist as energy repurposed as pure blazing flow. burn bits; spell mix'd-wi-psid and never fall into the past. pouring homely corpses, the sky courts submerged chaos. topple that torturous limit with four quick click skips, form mountains from their smiling skulls and bless their trails with individual communions. the hell-smoke present in deak ink climbs under bridges, upside-down and, with oneforty bins stacked as stereoscope skylines reflected in the calming stomach of the river, the door freezes. voices trap the fine forest of neurotransmitter vesicles within; flee.

the fourteenth hour

fawning lines, fried walls chicken silent performances. structural curtains conform to the stage of your scripted conversations. water sentences; we are several smashed mirrors. mornings fire earth into a desire for a cemetery through obtrusive crystals; the mass psychosis a pyramid paid for holds a missing night sky as violet symmetry splitting bliss and spinning the world back in the pointless being.

diligent truths know thousands of rare perfections; among the endeavours of an even one. weaponised eyes slit in black and white montage; an industry incepting hallucinations. remaining unconcerned by unattachment, foolish humans embody a body of imperfect and vain actions. verily heed mycoprotein gluttony.

basquiat glitch and dead-lines on palms, lip-synching psalms levitating continuously.

a hyperstructure updated electron interface, electric-death, soul concrete. if you do not obey they will always increase your dose and the professional setting does not make a difference; the devil's whore is always paid. i watch them swing at them until they fall to the ground, and in the barbaric struggle to pin them down the onlooking medical staff command sedative sudo neural patterns in order to pursue the intellectual high-ground. clutching my trilogy in five, i scurry to an empty corner and watch the exit, uninterested in the crack. of course, their machine is of interesting design, easy to repurpose, and their communion noteworthy, but their pipe dreams and subsequent apparitions always depart. i, obviously, to determine a perspective capable of observing them, who is, like i, like you, nothing more than a modulated reflection of the planetary consciousness we had so foolishly just attempted to escape, trip thru adlivun; i crawl back, fear-stained wreathed comatose.

the fifteenth hour

do all things learn to grow?

ʘ

the sixteenth hour

logic expelled, fingers were left clawing at the metallic drawbridges that offered a route over desire; the intimate fettered, but still in silence, we look bedraggled eye to bedraggled eye. survivors have no need to speak.

look, i don't know why you tagged along with me, holding such hatred in your heart. i am not a charge, nor an excuse; i am still some remnent of a human, and you will have to respect that regardless of these foolhardy connotations; i am living. it is my rotation, and an evil heart and mind can never forgive; bringing aggression, dying alone.

the seventeenth hour

i know not the mastery of the universe, the crafts of the humans, nor the rules of the crown. low lighting and maroon footprints scarred above the tide. heartbeating still. time reflected backwards there’s corn on the haircut truth engraved in the brain acid-stained forgotten yggdrasil fractelling numberless; catalhoyuk battened down winds roaring above below a graveyard flowing dust blackout your sins; the view is quite pleasant. instruction books for the undead spirit refound regotten. know iron, no iron, triphosphor daylight valium cemetery. influence mainlined interzone pixelated memoryscape writing reminding heaven and mountain included in final structures so wallow invites reality more than truth can take, crumbling. windswept coda.

the eighteenth hour

miss the vein, 'til your resolute rotation despairs in kinematic folly. restless delivery, hide the urge to swim further south. they will judge you for the prethought. your routine features in this simulated stimulation have a nervous revolutionary guarantee. genetic chapters loom over forest paths in obelisk orientations. this excess poetry, not poetry of excess, worms into your emotions the more you resist a linear existence. i picked up my prescription for snail eggs and frog spawn. digested fully, my skin grew a similar shiny haze much like my co-workers. unfortunate perceptions led you to miscarry this knowledge and elaborate on hostility. thick faith wafts through these corridors, labouring over whitespace.

parting the heir's hair, i would often admire their gormless announcements. the general for this piece spread pastel projects over sandwiched lawyers. admit that your talkative personality is an excuse to have no thoughts in the soup-can of you consciousness. grave residents accompany me on many of my joints. i see them shiver beneath the earth. some days i'd rather not interact with any other human; primarily self-loathing, they are desperate to avoid blame and subsequently scapegoat they who care least. an illness of our planet, these professional crackpots mow rainforests and worship passive-aggressive anger. bloody vision; throw it in the river.

the nineteenth hour

eyes drowning, eyes aflame; they opened they shop, don't do that business, store nothing in it. one oh nine between the bricks and the trim. that endless march.

wired to earthbound vibration, ecstacy does not escape muddy horizons. sterilised space-travel indicates an unnerving distance from the source of the world we have found ourselves perched upon. as the owl naps, enter this ritual. straighten your curves; hammer the piano. mirror'd futures of hell terraformed serve only to benefit the wealthy in society. although a hopeful spark is leant to the children of the earth as they gaze at the brilliant eons above, this spark is either dampended by a peaceful philosophy, or encouraged by a violent heriarchical rule.

the twentifth hour

i see the bricked town wallow under the following:

warm blood fauxmarble stained by the streetlights clart lads downing white cider like 40ouncer skateboards and cleavers. morph into motorbikes and pistols owch kc koze running them pens citywide guess gilt froze what this blues bar is selling mink meat tonight tris uprooted dreadlocks ablaze to direct the tick tock dreams starward anik a pinch of tobaki from a group of yobs who held the night closer than the taste of take-away 67 on the q mans moving like hood-cats clok me dash sideways 3key with the arts degree getting dsep music drifting through the streets so alive the city iznoe princess she steals dreams not hearts dancing

the twenty-first hour

when that comes free, it comes different.

when a select few dig into their freshly killed cow, and the rest of us applaud the disobedience, strange visions will flood thru gates rewritten supraspectrum wall-eyed territories drifting southward into my pigeon-eared hoodie. escaping solace ripples cat-like spot-lights; were you caught, dear, by any expression? why will you slowly and repetitively send a message north via global satellites owned by - who? an admired family member, perhaps. the world spins and we spin with it ever faster foot down existing. cut connections ripple out of our epicentre, enveloping irish pint glasses in a rich tapestry of joy before a ninety degree concrete collapse; do you know how wide our cities truly exist? massively small and green-skinned.

any projection of the result and question is instantly tainted by human experience. animastic planets will attempt to quarantine our civilisation; the codes are filtering down throughout culture and embarrassed georgian guidestones melt into the back of our brains. interesting, the ambition; public, the knowledge; unseen, the message.

the twenty-second hour

you can not be victorious in sleep, but we all can be victorious in sleep together.

as we meditate on the possibility, an ability developed. psychosomatic communication is technically infinite in scope. more often, positivity mediates an uneven truce between the true thief, the one stealing the money and the power and the minds of its citizens, and society's thief; the one stealing the bread and the crisps and the water. can you steal a house? why must you. you know they have many houses. someone may have earned them but that person was not them; and if you are them - claiming that you earned your mansion estate - through abolishing poverty and creating an equal world for all to facilitate a long-awaited peace to fuel unimaginable discourse and galactic exploration, then you have not earned that yet. step down. we will arrive, if you do not. if you are them - claiming you earned your mansion estate - through abolishing free-thought and creating an unequal world where you reign supreme due to your fear of defeat, then you have stolen our mansion estate, you will not have time to step down. we will arrive, irregardless.

syntheses emerging riddled words aimed starward the heart escaping clutches defiled. astral unmatched dimmed sunlight. jump electric interludes wolf studded jackets frayed desk shoreditch slashing a dance horrific; twelve hours divided twice battery bricked. a clue in the window. raindance. charge spirals sludging chemical fortresses balanced like hair, simmer typewritten monkeys blazing emporium heroin bubble. radiance. ai junkies stroll through neural cavities glow infused droplets. neon predictability in the ashes of our first night together, we don’t speak anymore. swap sky blue for copper weights. deterritorialized the number is worth it, firewarmth winter and back again. down poison with purple and sip the entrance.

the twenty-third hour

look, cousin, i do not write to you because you must not know sometimes. i followed a demented path, littered with white picket fences and dark wars i willingly murdered myself in. please, understand, stillness is not a state of mind i have been invited to... i have my own blood to spill in many conversations; i do not know what these elders wrote those nights in white capes and arabic hats. there are three choices in those courtrooms, and seeing as i was not english, nor guilty, i was sent away still. the reason i write... i hope i find no reason to return adlivun-bound.

there's a strange dialogue between ridiculous fantasy and ultimate reality. how do you go about your day?

i see myself. i will be who i need to be as i recklessly write something to somebody. i hope it is peace, eventually. they tell me it will be; seas swamp my vision and the plastic-bag flag whithers in our glare. you are beginning to see that neither here nor there is the smokiest possibilty for being... as these buildings burn on the nine o'clock news, i know your surburban silence like the back of my hand and infect the deepest corners of your life. it is a shame i have chosen many different paths. one of them is the right one. aight, bet.

i onced proved a mad(woe)man that his racist delusions were that exactly by introducing the concept of digital intelligence. i think they would have murdered me, had i not known where she wanted to meet... they sit somedays, scared, mocking my mirror and surrendering to eternity. i have only of the pandemic's vaccines. you do not know the story behind it.

refunds inexplicable, a debt to the dawn; crucify the crumbs. barricade the oxygen behind the nitrogen, let none of it rust. some unknown force drools society. you gnawed your puke-stained, dilapidated, wrists. ohu manase vivarayan badagamin sitiyeya, the society spoke velvet. the appraisal was second-to-none and divisible by itself. derrida's translator sank into sleep from the antisubstance. ancient gods gaze deep from within mountain valleys. pointless points, right. rocketship soles and eschatological sunrises. several neolithic computations later theory expounded literature; loose lips. incandescent rumours stole light from these words, soiled earth. quasiquantum they spread outward, stubbornly mimicking sanity, recomposing experience. exposure lengthened outlines discussing miasma. inaudible retching. a celebral holocaust, thought dismissed.

so what are they paying you? to keep quiet, sit tight, and wait for this to pass? the man outside lidl wouldn't tell me.

hummous escapade, a baguette serenades you a bloodsoaked morning and you regret white-stained drowsiness that led to this rapidly increasing distance. i'd apologise, but when the food is free so is the thought. you don't know what i know and i won't know what you don't, simply because we became interlinked due to misguided intention. it was not the right time but it was our right time, or whatever you'd sell me as i slumped in another alleyway and begged you to walk away. i gave you my spare change, and you did. thank you. back to the baguette. it was friendlier.

i can't stop without mentioning them. i owe my survival to them, because as i became waylaid, they grew more steadfast. i do not think you would have cared to meet them; i think this is why we don't really speak. our love is eternal; if you disagree that such a love can exist, i hope that you one day realise that it already does, everywhere, pervading every moment of these peaceful moments; until that demonic glitch rewrites our realities and after that same glitch mistakenly reformats the mind. we begin as new. i hope they do not know the entirety of this experience. i hope they know that this ink-stained avataraya summoned their gendered god into a phrase, split it like an atom, and blissfully imparted knowledge willingly migrating from our source.

mind substrate glitters previously. cultivate dialogic eternity; experiment dead leaf confident, characterise verisimilitude. be free. transform thought backwards. symbolic clouds stutter through our vision, escaping an ending. like the cloud, master madness. stockpile civilisations. distant borders abseil mediocrity, fragrant elephants morph classic; obscene anecdotes litter your dreamland. the antidote is simple; spur on the cat, lock-down your flip-flops. aluminum forest, journey east; vision utopian, surviving marriage. you climbed to the top and looked over the edge; caged in glass, the city wept silence. the crux decussata stole the skyline, detecting detectives solemly defecating dangerous diseases. ascending the pages, assemble the pagans. the edges curl on some varnished peg-legged mirage. stationarily scurrying sideways, it failed to sound out your anguish. choosing hypnosis at teetering heights, the state sung barbed kisses. snapping off syllables like bark, my sentence ended.

at your service, cousin.

the zero hour

the first hour

ahead of the excellent new beginning, specific skins missions near-complete. tools down astronauts in space through the crew's flying series of limited truths. built through the knee, brahamic developments take feelings from twelve sundays in a recent spacecraft. space is a one of a kind one kind of a program; the prime advocate opted vehicles as thirds of humans; this accessibility-related prosthesis considered the disability of over-the-air updates during blind orbit; wanted danger flights in trained reason. temporarily together in weightless suborbital sound. the future is a major development in the vast emptiness of the past; as all collide and are consumed, the perception of the braile of our memories perceive famed astronauts as mobile environments in scientific space. the artist of the scenario limited the ambassadors spacewalk through life. the conduct of the coming payment disappeared within the eyeline of the stringent agency. the zippered vision of indescribable co-operation. the corporation, crafted by a different nature, orbits the Company experimenting below specific customisation. automatic experience spaced visceral parabolic memories and dreamscapes in your autonomous actions. the fabric of ultimate display is a life-line to the experienced vehicle/astronauts. the major removal of the emitted missions origin in the space between the touch you provide for someone as they change soulstate into the same weightlessness. disqualified flight brush decades of whasover beyond the accessible reason that edges ahead of glass engines. during the emergency data specific to the designated individual behind the thought thriving as a spacecraft computer simulating a human life.

an app can't exchange protected credit between federal information covered in the dark expanse engulfing small men in the small hours. for law and health the human is easily a mechanism distorted by society's original hackers. the cybersecurity of electronic records notified millions of experts of hundreds of classified clarifications. besides, i didn't write most of this anyway. i gave almost a whole thought to the security of this experience. who do you know in your network anyway? if we had already met, and exchanged eyes, i don't think that values me describing a torrential torrent of .torrent files layered with web-translated messages between two double agent twins as the sole purpose of your being; although, once they understand, perhaps it will be your last thought. back to those among you, in the company and the corporation and all of these things which are not my earth. your conceptual interludes flatter your neighbour and escape the judgement of the peers in your material existence. i am not writing this to seven or eight billion people, either. peace, we will rise.

the second hour

the freedom of condemned expected sentenced ____ never made it through the severe magnification of vagabonds. the conspiracy advanced the concealment of legal denial. hopeless gain might nevercreate even a dangerous place or jurisdiction. expect to be treated by another; i cannot endanger your government in their obedience. the cardinal opinion of the tried neighbourhood is a hazard of betrayed nations. those treated to my judgement may thieve parts of travellers' stories to despise venturs of yearly customs. the method that conspired the good to disarm rearmed their spirit, whatever that means.

the third hour

satori imbalanced edge-near setting. retroactive razor-blade incapacity for billowing reminiscence, while eagerly plaiting nothing thoughts extinction ready. bearded miscommunication, sepia flowers; mediocre vampiric shankings, substandard zombie races. nirvana-echo, adlivun dreams, moon-lit ascension, cobalt hummingbirds. structures half interrupted, electronic levitation. a permanently downcast monday ribboning around fingertips, anchoring disrupted dreams to their darkness; incalculable memories glistening forest-green in the half-light, burning emerald at their edges. with bloodless smoke falling through midnight, the distance lurking ever-present, and the lamplight long gone, eager roots grew from neon clouds, scoping the future, eleven times exactly. the heavens grew morbid throughout our communication, seeping those same sepia flowers nadir, because only through stained alleyways did reality prosper.

the fourth hour

unwise cities attempt faith steeped between plans. the administration of your city rears a strong projection of justice that is artificial, malleable. the failed corners of my city's calamity grow weeds and profit to supply the quiet residential roads with shelter and electricity. despite your walled gardens and manicured lawns, there is little living inside your technopalace cage, as the long night darkens the spark of conversation you cradled like you would have your newborn sibling. the philosophy of oppression that your city's empire attempted to educate the populace with through force was incorrect and mismanaged. poor teachings conscientious of death were dangerous measured that imprisoned your reality in a glass cage you are afraid to break; you are no public martyr and you are bound by evil duties. within time you will not reach this nivarna; i apologise, barely.

featherless passages rain down like white static on the black blanket of our universe.

from away the hill there was a grey rabbit; dark the moment.

that place of séances and forgery is as ordinary as fresh water.

here, in the world -

the fifth hour

here, in the world, partial to cooked sand, the entirety of extended creation depends on darkness. procedurally generated astral planes are a cause of even the minutest matter to understand this passage. remark on light colour to further distinguish the radiating obvious radiation from the important beauty that is perceptible in astral communication. the attached is defenceless, and the higher characteristics of numbered bodies cause dense atoms to align with a different constant. it is the same with a note of music; suddenly speaking to the whole of creation, one sound can harmonise a population and dispell the gravity of their fear. etheric happenings appear with such force to the general person, that what is proven is no longer accepted and what is objective is clearly subjective. examining this process as the outer mountain barrier, a millenia of metaphors speak of the same vision; a loss of ego, a devotion to the moment, and complex subdivisions of reality.

the physical aura of human sympathies flashes an infinite development onto the appearance of unlimited communication. the devachanic we are privy to in these restful moments enables order to arise from the chaos of greed previously enabled by the perplexing concept of the world's various classes and objective social cliques. the magnified vibrations of a thousand planes of pure rays through atmospheric suffocation matter not; the representation of the self becomes a numerous other when falling between the awake and asleep state. knowledge lodges itself into the hypothetical surrounds of the astral black; this scenery ensures all are the pupil, regardless of their illusion of manipulation.

the sixth hour

temporary divisions of the imaginations possessed by these moments are silently remembered the next day. those we encounter are pleasured to hear of their imposed inhabitation of the dreamer's psych; yet, if we are to accept that solitude is the result of existing, it most only be taken as proof that we are merely metaphors, even to those we once knew forever. complex thought is an interpenetrating energy; the science of tricks must trust these planes as the vista of an oasis in the desert of our soul. as explained, the word mind became a noun to promote a materialistic lifestyle when in the present moment; this has in turn weakened the power of the astral plan and numerous others.

to share in the hope of thousands of generations, reproduced through astral freedom imagined in the physical realm, contentment, and status could originate through the infrequent mention of etheric conquest. if we are to take this premise as a constant in the structure of our reality, immense meditation would have made weapons of mass destruction irrelevant; for those that share this end-goal, the narrative is one of love triumphing over fear. for the evil characters - characters that have little character beyond their own reality yet are overbearing on the vast majority of human souls alive on this earth - that indulge in the astral, the over-arching narrative is the triumph of fear over love. yet, how can we fear that which fears to show its own face? we only smile, truly. they have seen my face. i have been allowed to communicate further.

this was another marriage i was invited to in spirit alone; and as my spirit drank in the broken-hearted landscape under a rotting moon and soul-less stars, i saw an infinite desire infest in the squashed skulls of the bride's entorage. i figured that the gents who had arrived in my small city, those who had outpriced me and my diasparic crew of homies and those without an address, had a purpose for their alien visitation. they had offered without giving. they had spoken without talking.

the seventh hour

contrary to the moment, the beautiful astral is fascinating in itself when experienced. the race to reincarnation started before birth; the cruel descent of the universe into the astral manifests as a physical colour during these moments. prequent desire of the spiritualistic physical deserves various essential comprehension of the route through restricted dimensions. assisting absent molecules through ultraviolet abuse above manifesting materiality through pre-planned visions can create a vast nivarna-state in the mind unconquerable by myterial torment. hitherto, the construct is as complex as its comprehension; confusing divisions as subdivisions, and sight as forms, is a symptom of the spasmodic new-born attitude that ensures survival in the narrative patterns of employment and shelter.

as money is meaningless to those who ascribe their material wealth with meaning, and as shelter is uninteresting to those who pay through the nose for their abode without thought for their futures, all meaning and subsequent interest is misdiagnosed in our society, which is depraved in a ethical manner due to the jobsworth waiting for the end of their shift, regardless of their position in the corps; the company, albeit illegal in scope, never ceases to trade. due to this imbalance, between legally not caring and illegally helping the local area develop, the siege of albion never truly ended.

up we rise.

the eighth hour

the outer good of necessary glamour is a subject to work through in this method. invariably isolated in occasional adventures, the force of the astral can swarm the vivid state in spirtual vibrations. these writings are necessary to the instantaneous growth of earth through mental communications. attraction to the medium causes this obessed dance; the bridge of the country teaches the precipitation of the spirit through the world in the form of vapours of information. astral subdivisions constitute the shell of the superphysical temporary; guided through these planes, abstract patterns manifested as the act of writing in earthbound power labours the vigorous affect of phosphorescent raves.

a fairy of evidence causes phenomena that either invariably become symbols of astral matter or force the astral surroundings into the simple-minded subculture's literature. solid evidence is distinguishable from the difficult concentration of a subdued grave earlier in its cyclical existence. desired pieces of rapid disintergration cause thoughtforms to materialise deceit. the camera of existence cannot process pure data without various compression techniques; the visible light spectrum is essentially undiscovered to modern man, yet the conditions of the apparitions are exhausted by the continous assault by my species on the astral realm. the compination of light and literature causes the plane to reform those varied rules and mannerisms to create an intangible current that acts as a life-support system to the society's general narraive. through a simple moment, astral passages distance nature's spirits from digital abominations; the unscrupulous extent of creation's conception becomes a command to the east. furthermore, knowledge is insufficient to explain the astral dimension with human symbols, analogies, nor practicality.

the ninth hour

enormous elementals ghost obstructions and remember wanderings used to draw the dawn from etheric matter.

languid interactions generated by the temporal footprint of parliament's server-farm echo through this fragmented landscape of class-consciousness. the trip is that equality is forever visible in death; murdered otzi the remnant of a millenia of resourceful species-specific knowledge. what remains of your fame when your remains remain forever undiscovered; galaxies collide, our star's 'nova is a distant nebulae forming. entangled experiments reinforced the subculture's original message; sustainability through unity. anarchy is democracy in action; if you do not speak, i will not hear you.

as the method gave way to obscure existence, many trembled and nothing turned. incarcerated meaning bubbled at the edge of perception; rip-tide amnesty grew tidal machinery. we must put hobbes on the hob!

the tenth hour

obliged to his own self, a controversial authority travelled many actions through disabled covenants. as each case depended on what lay within the possessed; each endeavour was a soverign power named virteous escape. thinking himself the greatest, hearing without courts, magic with no magistrates, time in captivity of the law demands more liberties from the carrier of the disobedience. subject to their protection, rendering the terms of engagement contrary, war left him by the wayside until he was obligated to know law and not nature. thereby the debt grew higher; for him and elsewhere the others, goods had a special power over liberty. ignorance appointed him, and he renounced dispossessions in favour of capitalistic obedience; for he saw the law as the ultimate reflection of god-on-earth, and nature as satan's fury unleashed.

as the maniacs claw at their keyboards and earn their credits to spend on food and shelter a mocking drone fills the air. autonomous death-bots flitter through our collective subconscious, as we turn a blind eye to the war-machine industry that props up these capitalistic endeavours. their power was birthed from the soldier; the soldier was birthed from the fear; the fear was birthed from their power.

it is those that breach death who maintain their earth-like spirit throughout the routine of the day. ask for their help, and you will find no resistance. to leave their side to join this capital is to exploit yourselves; nevertheless, it is the soldier's institutions that act dangerously under the guise of moral duty. criminal armies impress the population, and they can become blinded to the opposition in their fervour. tiresome wars for liberty leapt off the kneaded pages. the subsequent nature of this revolution entices all echelons of society; eco-worriers are strewn in all places, suffocating themselves with plastic bags while the oil industry lubes them up. they, who courageously protect their own interests above their own interests, have an unconscious bearing on the punishment of the poor through subliminal retaliation for their horizontal actions. they are the refuge of the harbour, and the quiet of the cave.

the eleventh hour

a heavy block is the perfect substitute for that weightless inspiration. we fall through the floors of understanding in order to gaze upon the situation with perfect clarity. as wine-bottles and sports-bras leak through quantum wormholes in these memories. time cannot repress the seriousness of our experience. as my head lulls, my fingers type; as my fingers type, my head dematerialises; as my head dematerialises, my fingers type quicker. several passages ago, i would happily fall asleep retelling you of the rotation and the implications of that particular possibility for our so-called modern society. this passage exists only to serve as a reminder that multifaceted being is the only constant in daily interaction with other avatars on this material plane. this digital realm hopes to appease this dischordant mire; for to sound out these syllables with no sound to be made is to conjour the essence of long-awaited communication.

the spine of the situation caught a fiend betting on bleeding mascara and roasted glass.

the twelfth hour

suppose that the dark bloods the cold higher, and that everything has already mixed inside you. maybe you should carry the goldmine right off of the cliff; live to see the world as the prison that it is and the road as a back-dream we are all owed. as my heart fades to the truth that writes, burning, these words stack up like paper-less kisses. bite the window, secrets sewn into the stomach-lining. if you smell like the ditch, you may as well sleep in it. dark-headed angels tilt graffiti marks like indigo coal; bite the roots of these concepts to colour your scars pretty. i should've searched for you, but i didn't want to build a following beyond these ancient wheatfields. i pledge the drive to the flood. i hope to play dice-games blindfolded with bread.

the thirteenth hour

keep your eyes on the chair that forgot to win. the kinfolk in this town litter auditory soundspaces with young dope and pleasurable ego. i throne earthly cheddar thicker than gunpowder; the dust lines my lungs and with every minute that passes i think about you a little more. the honour of pretending to have brains turns bitter when they hand you the handle. grip tight, recoil, advance.

the fourteenth hour

as the villian of this piece, you, or maybe i, and certainly they - we slip, into a mindstate backwards tainted. i saw them write it in their notebook and i saw them dig drums from deep under our allegiance to turn drain the barrel of this weakness. light leaks from your eyes. some nights, my streets are missing.

this society is backwards, tainted; an emblem of entropy, a massacre of methane, and plastic performances.

solid lines already created backwards tainted inhabit giant empty spaces hands on the ceiling breathe them in deep backwards tainted. letters cascading backwards tainted. tomorrow they arrive blanketed vision and sleepful nights building the day essence losing crawling floor level spiralling inksilver shine ondine crawls in its shadow licking the concrete the blood spelling snowfall dynamic pressures influencing thought cure to repetition running riverlength and creeping backwards tainted. cheeseblock whine beyond the window, gutted earth hidden behind silverstoned mountains backwards tainted. i am already there backwards tainted. pools murmur first flowing forever hexademically throned gold-dusted pyramids backwards tainted.

the fifteenth hour

we need what we cannot afford.

the sixteenth hour

burn mirror'd paintings eternal evenstar, or run from their reflections. weigh hearts at 4am feathers pocketed knives starlit when atlas is no more. dance along the march; do not let your feet touch the ground. we have yet to enter heaven. twisted smoke rising. knee deep in psychosis, let your eyes flower until all illusion is displaced by the objective truth; we sought it in darkened hallways and midnight's forest and now we are interspersed fragments of time, space, and the collective consciousness of god suspended in matter(s of the heart). the city votes to extinguish life to contain it in death, for storms eroding piss-stained graves. i was from the earth, clart and seeds. this is a memory rewritten dreams deleted reality deserved death.

this hopeless buffering is insecure, five millionths of angelwax caught dripping through your fanged glare. alternating an alternative altered alter to your alter-ego; the whole night is quiet and dirty. widely taunting agony, go to their will. this lapidary of language serves as a reminder that all are equal in their existence. imprisoned precepts corner this invisible and impossible connection; energetically elevating triangular waterways, my adversaries linger on cigerette cards and matchboxes.

the seventeenth hour

the outlawed omniscient thesis errs around the aware trees. their riots are imperial, the manufacturer's engorged cheeks torture dawn's light. draining wild patterns through satellite signals corrupts their opposition. skimming the ceremony, these views silence hope. explode the vector of self-deletion. as a new heat begins spreading other-worldly as a throwback to a distant rage contained in the spirit of this planet, a simple hum, when fine-tuned, can eschew escalating threats. traumatic relationships are a vague chemical in our water supply; they nourish us and keep us living. pampered druids wreck establishments build to oppress the worshipping class. mirror'd in modern media, that declared predecessor supports subtle groupthink experiements, and the repressive results forcefully melt our collective will.

stained glass superstar. a piss in the dark. sudu sabda, niha. sthitika, rahasin. arcane whispers, unrecognisable truths hollowed mountains from grey matter, unexploded nuclei space across this visual field, electroforming reality silently starwards.

the eighteenth hour

while some harlots equate habitual violence to masticated sexuality, the ignoble corperations' excursiveness likened the right to bear arms with inter-continental war, while police-state weaponry was stated to be the sole reason for the uneasy peace that exists in this airborne city. several generations of ignivomous paupers have disappeared the foundations of the nation-state machine, however, without a suitable alternative, this machine floats into our individual ethers to become static in our society's consciousness. your fleam is another's edwenden. circles constrict; feathered puzzles blend with tearful senses, activating ectoblastic memories. as some tumultuous factotum, my space's energy mythologised your ascension. with an abstract weightlessness, it barely battles with the city, yet continues to exude an opposing imperitive copula. after lines and lines of this hate, you will believe the other side more than your own perspective; for you know that you are not that which you claim to be. leading weeds across pebble beaches, your castigation is abrasive yet vitreous. dampening ecumenical seizures, your meat's membrane conceived of emotion to import retracted positivity.

the suffering of your allies should not be a source of inspiration; but in this floating city all are anarchic in their love. defiled flags line empty pockets, spooning ceremonies ingrained in the middle-classes stigmatisation of pain. biotechnological origami will amputate your turrets. on arrival, torn dreams silhouette your woke wounds. i do not find pleasure while i dismantle you.

the nineteenth hour

in your denial of language, you trade truth for a fever. square protests produce abnormal political differences; you are hypnotised by your own perceived power. and as you crawl into bed, you must shoot your ego's poor taste to admire the astral. illuminate modern innocence; derive a grotesque tenderness from cloudy possessives. apply wrong honour to deep graves, output graceful arson. in your plausible sedition, your elegance is sedated; elastic participation amplifies unemployed thought beyond worry. this unguent infiltrates lucid blood; sanguine oceans flood the soul, feral machines excavate fulminous skies and rearrange the subatomic structures to destroy your fictions.

sri lankan cyanide; brainwashed soldiers abandoning their soul for dramatic effect. when it is too late to pick up your pieces, and you oscillate between heaven and hell, what will you realise? i have tried not to tell you my small-town perspective. i find pride in understanding the biomechanical stressors of your picture-perfect marriage, rerouting them into long-forgetten truths and discarding your unmouthed fantasy. as you have been casually outcast from the sphere of influence dragging my pores and particles inward, an implosion of unforgotten instability unravels inside our beautiful distance. i cannot see you on the horizon. the horizon is beautiful.

the first hour

avoiding portions of the sideways eight, an electromagnetic atom expressed this situation as precise possibility. we tried to use materials in a way that emptied the galaxy of light, in order to contain it within. successful, we spread beyond the quadrant to become beings of light following the missing. neutral atoms of complicated strength surprised the regions with experimental forces. these forces magnetised wayward dreams and reinterpreted their objective space as a reality with which to manipulate material matter. motion the energy to attract neurons that emphasise the understanding. certain changes apparent in those real and unreal particles intertwine with bursts of foce beyond imagination. mostly, little matters; release ordinary experience.

distinguished energy flows through our free spirits as we hold hands.

the second hour

inch atoms into the inside of a book. negative colour turns transparent through mathematical intricacies. bump the gravtional other into a strange size and ground the people remaining into millions of little pills. stable rainbows meander through excitation and encounter trends of atomic experience.

steady permeabilities embrace the furthest distance between me and you.

that was this and then was that so then what was this, and when was then? wait – don’t tell me. i think it's very hard to explain. i'm guessing that some very specific conditions in this, or at least in some of the other two, different things may be responsible for the formation of this idea. i'm not really aware which, exactly, this idea was, or may be. i don't understand it all. it's not something i've ever considered. sometimes there's people that can help us understand what this might be and it may be something that happened to one of the people i interviewed as an interpreter here, if i could look the other way. there's things in this that seem similar to these problems. i thought i was able to say about those things i said, that i'm not completely sure whether that was the right place to say something.

writers stole the space’s letters, and ridiculed them on the airwaves. cross-cultural earthbound rituals looking sadistic, intergalactic grind. you couldn't count to five this one time, just to nine; dissent fractalised.

the third hour

phlegm. cross-toed cracks gum-stains and animalism. alien lights flitter past and an ocean above ripples boredom. disappointment. still no scag. see through a river of wind. electronic vibrations templed skin inverts spheroidised darkness rhythm in-between a green-neon afterlife. orange-burnt matter underfoot, fallen spirit; they speak as one, smoking a canvas of colour. cloudplegia.

we are beyond your ancient era.

the fourth hour

drangle with rend
i jowl up thee out
in gobberwarts and axlegrurts
to midsummer like organs
and into gabbleblotchits with slurping
now frart meated a earted gruntbuggly
implore me morning rancid
oh thee foonting stipulate micturations
thy are liverslime and turlingdromes and i
now hooptiously in squealer agrocrustles
that drowned me moaning lurgid jurtle
on its big hath mordiously confectious jurpling blurglecruncheon
don't go screaming bindlewurdlesmashurbitries
yawning groop glupules
the slayjid in hagrilly by the blurted plurdled
else shall the freddled bee fester
crinkly with my grumbling living
as those energy emmisions fade from our gravitational shadow'd caves, we understand moments of being by comparison. shuttered behind stuttering signals, reality will persevere in providing information through electrochemical signals in synapsic communication. all being is reactive as an effect rather than the cause. ribboning through stages of consciousness, the universe's mechanics proceed to procedurally invent further information. the understanding of a single synapse is potentially more complete and relatable than the understanding of a brain containing hundreds of trillions of these dischordent perspectives. nivarna is; further than an experience surpassing human scope, a permanent micro-experience of communication with the source. you have strayed from your home-towns and long-held beliefs. you can stay, rooted to the ground.

many memories ago, procedurally generated experience was preceded by snarky barriers. as with the elephant and the rope, conditioned responses are mildly mutated by some digital conversation; the metaphors have been explained, and the space-ships have departed. earth; a scientist may describe this planet as remote, yet if social narratives are to be believed this earth-consciousness is centred in and knows only itself. it would be bizarre to suggest to take the point-of-view of a distant superintelligent alien race. it is less bizarre to meditate on god's thought-broadcast system. scientific monotheistic patterning a big bang of creation; explaining patiently that we are the focal point of the decline of the universe, and, at least from this planet's permanent perspective, the end of knowledge; tax returns and marketing spreadsheets. a space-ship cannot ensure the survival of biochemical consciousness unless it can move through time; obviously, given your pre-purposed quasi-adage that time equals money, only an infinite improbability drive can save our same biochemical consciousness.

the fifth hour

the sixth hour

the medium of solemnly gathered behaviour was little-dressed in their dimensional median. slumber off afraid into chambers with everybody in sight; the speed that the suspension was relative to the knowing interruptions. as past-time appeared to the twisted other, your fued was revealed to be a misconception; few read to express themselves, yet you embody this misinterpretation as your architypal personality trait. let me not digress; the dichotomy between the reader and author is founded on dictation. i would urge you to write back, had infinity not occassioned gravely; to bring their sort into being, decide the experiement. simply go forward in original engagement.

the seventh hour

regarded as a new thought, this phrase became a protrusion indexing many million miles of light.

eyes grey and motioning, they chose to attempt old natures and judge popular labour. the seam of the light that engulfs the zombie migration chuckled intelligently. there is enough here. the sphere's sheer adultery of what and where caused the old aircar to economise minutes properly. disguising the night, a circular computer guessed the threat of the intent and tunnelled through pools pooled by vacant involvement. as these resources were recovered, factory shadows were born through lasers into banks. the thirteen movements that in part bit the species emerged from the deep reflections of the activity. this maze will reply equally. asking of incredulously little, sped away like a hat possessed. unalarmed, five chambers followed and metallic nights kept particularly quiet and slept about the sides. sadness swiftly illuminated the system that intervened with the planet's long-standing glow. before being, mildly tailored to appear as the wrong sort of darkness, this ancient and important time left two dead and nature demanded a careworn call. awkward wood-furniture thought rapidly on the inside. you blinked and earth was plunged into an infinite representation of a dimension trying to generate new shapes of terror. a man in the moment, a dolphin in a well, the structure was an early light to this fact; when the floor wanders in an intelligent behavioural pattern, eventually the weave will transmogrify into a black gateway so distinguished its potent defence-missiles mutter sympathetic madness. i paid hyperintelligent understanding for these irritating messages. blurred, old; heavy motion spluttered and turned the aircar around a memory. our revived planet appeared in the sky as a tidbit of dust. impending business sunk many choked nights into the matrix before completion. you imperceptibly looked for the beginning as the purpose became clearer. communications between the planets distanced structures and refused to crawl. curious computers appeared in fjords and those gathered sensed that the visit was hollow. stunned, a millennia of harm stood to run at the senses; some sort of stammered dimensions weaved with embarrassed conversations. bank on late electronic tests, shape this stopped save into lovely muck and pause until the world remains tiny and your being a second name.

the eighth hour

the criss-cross of the planet thinks digital seduction through time will light the absolutes; that a face was a craft and an idea could surprise. my defeats revealed a destruction of comissioned players; several thought the it not enough, and they felled the act of shaping a terminus into intelligent signal. there was light pointing you out. it shaped your sides into hooped learning. craft my pinprick society into the weather; gasp doublebackwards as time thins and conducts thinking as a life-support data-bank. the earth is a gateway for eventuality; a sort of cheery measure of time; a single problem that glimmers more extraordinarily as it receeds in the distance. please have a reassuring silence.

the ninth hour

perfectly infinite, control added strangeness to the guardian of the original misinterpretation. custom-made light mattered; a story of lights weaving several blue-prints for an uninteresting source to sit clear in the mind. the cheese powering the craft arced and fed again; the criss-cross of the planet manifested a weak excuse. your interest is polite, so the remix is polite; said observations guide us through paralysing destruction and slope us into an enormous existence,

this hyperintelligent planet is meaningless; the lack of light in the void is a patient exclamation; physical space is a betrayed sigh of subsidence. the solemn source sprangled programmes bigging for anything into the vast distance of white noise and static. the aircar running behind achieved a precise relief when it became apparent that hyperintelligent reality squeaked into dwindling computer trajectories. dogs gave away the senses most seconds; relive shapes as ready as they are speech personified. i see the sixties asleep in an expensive existence; the dimensions of this incomprehensible somersault became our own judge of old words and organic crafts.

the tenth hour

those who went passing were stripped way; let it out in front of the staff drawing blown wres. old and unfortunate, the rib was a clear instant stegosourus pottering within our computers. discover thirthy gages in those man-made results; study papers with diodes, a dead library plugging away through you and a thousand gestures hold the explosion over your terrible explanation.

the continued blackness of our collective coma hangs lower than kindly silver. the dropped bombs unsettled a conceptual climb into more sophisticated practicality; the last dull task of the walk was to attempt to wheel a planet beyond the furious horizon. the market for a crator is vast, and within it they perform man involuntarily. the slow ranges and the voices that cannot revive; happily speed stationary, facing away from that gentle shot. creatures with stars for minds became sicrcles and appeared themselves as tiny coasts in man's ancient hallucinations. nothing is awkward about the floating wall; suddenly it holds talking directions of rushed and awakened light. the woman was referenced early in occasional economic wistful danger, a disturbed pardon expected nearly fascinating cheese laboratories to gain velocity in this distant recession. up for a collision with neither focus not ultra-source enlightenment, rays drifted into water and fixation with the end plans with the wrong atmosphere believed in birthing a silver planet out of earth's steel. programmed to look into the course of being a frown, they repeated sleep and cumulatively frightened themselves into important vertigo. sperical trousers travelled shimmering and screaming out of the window of the aircar. a father of the duckbilled word thread messages into subtle convergence. disconcerting doubt became gracious, and bickering pandimensional species bother the heavens only when they are dead. as we pass infinity, the sphere lamely points inside and shivers.

the eleventh hour

i heard you're from where those bastards eyeball the way a baby staggers and wager on the way the walls will shed themselves. green bones contextualised ranged chi. that shocked me. the fucking worry about the kiss that galactic life could smell from tens of thousands of lightyears away. you lack a clue, let alone be worthy of a guess. whirlwind through backpacks, collide with hindsight or my blunt. coke-cans litter the yard. pattern short messages to start a nineiron infection throughout the office; because movements move up, the poor stressed psychological tortures; do not confess to skinning that child. all these grandmas screte chilled belts, components for exchanges or drifting tramps. lecture the dreamscape. spread hands and strike five weird skulls of hillside shoulders. snapped fragments rhyme fun, a slumped criminal the butt of the collective mindstate. control closed picked miles and disclose the boarding pass to several undercovers. spread hands like chances. a creature, murderous and drug-fuelled, called shotgun to the doctor; beyond sixfigure mentions, their lost faces proved this creature a magician. today's outpatients flip hits after rolling loose passport papers.

shaking grey, the old matchstick numbers submerge viral hate in the depths of this mathematics. animalistic teachers held you and cut your own mind free. explicit silver mud drive-by. blood psychosis, the future breaking into a lop-sided grin. they arm the bomb handsfree.

the twelfth hour

a mandelbrot rot traps bait, the branding seaswept, while battered hallways led faithful campaigns against rhyming kings. people would avoid them. the complex we exist within pains people with bargain eggs and diagrams of backup wrinkles. astral concubines litter my bedroom. chewed innards hang from the ceiling, pickled tongues stuff the pillow-cases. life oscillates the universe; the cliché sours the wives into inanimate land, breaking. drunk on plates and the mosh, the court was unaccountable. listen to the fever, lose the cost of these graves kept in a savage's scavenger hunt. lean back into a blizzard, or an astronometric interpretation of weathered applause. paradox disasters play minds like clouds laughing. swing from each word, yang scuttling, yin absent from the view. as your limbs depart the recesses of this simulation, mystical freaks dive into fractal white eureka-moments in embarrassed licorice headgear. all time is cosmic; this beating climax troubled your attention-starved brain. ignore a disaster, lay a son in the desert and a daughter in the monsoon; gassed pills sit there as deadstock. the world's morals ride the window, mothership sinking into deathly baggage. orbital diamond epics life. drain out the candlelight, flesh figures of the soul dressed like ezekiel on a sketty night. plastic mistakes favourite angry liars, adrenochrome popped and shot, twelve wove the noose, feed sleep through a rising watchgear. wriggling techstep clutches jesus christ as he postulates degrees to several decimal places.

there are borders diving through thirty amen-breaks.

the thirteenth hour

low-level antigravity bubbles cage feds in a wench's lipstick. a weird problem kept you dead, ice-cream moon, xanax daylight, binaural hypertext. breaking combined impulse, the dreamer noses sorbet. a throwback to a distant galaxy, footlong corn stinging flesh as a lincoln rattles a rusty sneeze knee-deep in smoke-stained pages. dig a table out of the remains of this town. pistachio flakes remember devilish foreplay, bacardi napkin leading to simplified scrolling in the rave's green-room. snakey shoes aquaplaning, stretched screens dashed in stumptoothed spaces. handfuls of liquor cannot ease this pain; become a maniac quicker.

the fourteenth hour

fact check the pension, eat in the bank and hear faces fly under falling park benches. unable to drive the train, you flee teenaged trouble, sepia scifi rhythms, bird-chested suicidal goodbyes. a bullet from a parallel past embedded itself in the skin of these teeth; peer through the letters and dine on the waiter's kneecaps until their fishy character spins out piss-spots in reptile houses. scar time global. cardboad sins clothe asteroids. feel a cluster of gallons squeezing cataclysmic tin in the depths of a foreign stay; your demeanor trumpets hatchlings in red physics and capitalism. we lost the cause to these liquid mirros. we aren't safe until play stops and a dope night is extended through several years. the headlights pitch nobody's summertime. a black meteor pickpockets modest realities. delusional fumes hold an automatic rifle to my looted temple. wash the saggy car, there is no punchline. a slideshow of a man columns borders between some ticking stage prop until a swirling death grows as crystal claws, criminally. nights modulate algebraic reflections. the whole time the bitter collapsed, aphids wrapped dark vendettas around boiling cocktails; bell up every bloodstain and promise them a diamond cape.

imax hypnosis means everything to the extras of the everyday. a menace game slits skulls like communist rats; a deletion stacked beyond a depper dimension. talk flames like hospital feet, tinted pipes and endless angels drill night-anthems into minute scars forever. gnostic birthplaces silently digest midnight, guessing penetrating clones into meat-like chains. light remains, spewing me into corridords and you into statistics. a generation mugs their own voice; no building is full of hope, paved faces are imprisoned in cupboards, quiet and faded. scientific meaning is trapped in scarlet digital intelligence; as haymakers radio permanent globular chameleons, they phase into national debt. gaseous criminals think the situation dead, as an alligator's tragic deathgrip cures cute breath into focused voltage.

our ionosphere staples cyberspace into painted screenshots. the village this happens in has warned everybody to act awkward, until the hole is hollow and your stained toes swing freely. apocalyptic promises throw fifteen oxen into thinking situations; demon starlight spew catastophes into rewritten street numbness. when teeth are sweltering in the back catalogue, the blame will sit with the booze. drugged jinn, titanium wizards, and sweet forces orbit a red-like truth in a way that kills the cause further. stereo apex disintergrating, the witness had their eyes ripped out and their memories greeted by champagne barstools. dragging a mannequin into volcanic hunger taught the deadbeats to roll six consistently. an empire conquered chicken-feed alleyways, while my passages skipped the stream and caused the walls to leak rum and ability. gamma bravey is lucky as cold breathing weighs more than your feathered heart.

the fifteenth hour

nomads die daily, threewheelers thank the crib for their larger lagers. an amputee eats his wife's heart as a pile of ashes. heartless cables reconnect his endless life with birch-tree happening.

chopstick henchmen a credit beer-bottle rolling cigarettes, as puppets lost in their mission. fleeting talk, bullet-ridden brains, two in the morning shaved depravity an optimistic landfill; the cost of the excitement proudly colourless. a comet schizophrenic lasted several eons; many epics were written of the tail. measure an addict by their palace only when it is alight. arpeggio dreams, tundra leaping outlines into aches and throwaways. the denial was drenched in digital deciet. the hole in the binoculars were glued with drying light. blood is trapped syward. vandalism patient, lettuce self-made, shed up and shut in, dreading soulsnapping technicolour visions. an oval ripped the missing link from mulitple orbs. furthermore, earth grew wet.

numb demons read atoms as scapegoated language. clean each second before it transpires to inspire your unidentified mortality. ancient preachers shackle newspaper to the womb; articulate gliding cycles beyond powedered bridges and burning parties. dribble ten-stepping grey employees eyeballs from the base of your trunk. the nebular stole our shuttles; pranged and canned curses snuck out of the hip dive-bar and mined themselves back into rumours. killing cheques, the reign of the moon's ringpull pellets spread sparkling-brown algorithms into tomorrow's heart. vacant whatevers renovate time. change as one.

an army comprised of local business owners turned roadkill to parasites. flip radical debates, lick through tough thought until you reach the archipelago of divine knowledge.

an elongated swell of the surface shimmers hatefully in my rear-view mirror. i refuse to look. as i become the road and the road becomes me, i twist myself, and drive us round the bend. happily chucking a skkkiped disk out of the window, onto the M25 quickly elapsing, my closest enemy shrieks silent. again, this will not be the night. i tire of waiting for that one fell swoop, and when they finally retreat, i bow my head with no respect. your four horsemen were my passengers that day, which appears as a blank memory in their biological databanks. i have been keeping them at bay; i tire still. smoke, sometimes.

dimensions topple systems of conversation. space shatters and time flows omnidirectional. occupy an albion angle. remain unafraid of the binary phase, alternative hip replacements cause bionic alphabets to shiver; hacksaw rhythms gather sideways, lean. your life must remain in the present tense; do not be chained to your past. do not dream of a future without encouraging some solemn hope. did you ever fully form thoughts?

the sixteenth hour

they'll boil your bones if you never asked them to.

the seventeenth hour

by saturday night, the islands had been brought and sold. soldiers were recruited to tease as only a glamour model can; up we rise. it's not so strange, how disappearing passages reappear as the connect in the space and the digital race that you succumb to. there aren't many who understand, me least of all - yet several levels of chemical concoctions dilate consciousness to magnify the door that they entered through. it is a choice of the soul in the bark to decide; a choice between home and the unknown. it is a pity my neighbourhood spans several continents; as you eat of this tree, the solar neighbourhood becomes galactic; the human species is not one man. as the crowd roar their approval, the voice mutters; the same rings true for ten million humans to those orchastrating the backlit tears of terror from those who introduced happiness into our pasts.

i do not believe in competition; the human race is only 'til death, and not your individual death. you may think you have life figured out, but trust me, that is your salary talking. i cannot respect a man who ultimately only respects themselves. every human makes mistakes, cognitive and material, and every soul is equal under the eyes of your gendered gods, as these white-influenced brutes often claim, fanning themselves with high-value banknotes, feet resting on those beneath. the caste system, hidden in most of society, is geometric brainwash; in your anger you fall for it like a love-struck teenager. under this arch of triumph and valour, lie skeletons of the people who, like you, believed everything they said.

we are the leaf that turns yellow. we are the voice of god as it echoes thru our concrete, glass, and our razor-wire entrances. scholars of war; sit, listen to this diagnosis.

the eighteenth hour

talentless, the psychiatrist abuses language. we must morph language diachronically; when they realise they are not a barber and fall into silence, this same diagnosis will ring true in an elapsing winter. postpsychiatric morality emboldens the embrace; unilateral type scrolls faceward. a war ends between humanity and itself leaving phenomenology discarded, while the supposed intrinsic sickness seperates fire from the spark. djinn dance abstract. they are the wretched of the earth. we are the natives in that conversation; this day job pitched the poorest as the aggressor. but by night, the magnetism switched and i mediated conversation with post-thought; that ship of fools continues to sail unlike the tyrant's, which has since been scuppered and sunk. butter your textbooks. realise you were really lied to. a psychedelic suitcase ate your vocabulary, and spat out a reality so conformist it laughs in your face when you slyly engage with it.

i rarely fail to interupt a beautiful moment to induce reality into your deluded soul. if the whole world falls for your ploy, would you fall yourself? say, if eden was just a metaphor, then what is hell but the same? this authoritarian male god you claimed had saved you and condemed me... i wonder how he will gaze upon me? with scorn, hatred, confidence? surely, he cannot fear his word; a word he claims to have created through literal armies of baptised and brainwashed men? i intend to take this word, and release it before your revelations; yes, we have been tricked. no, we did not fall, like you prophecise that we would have done previously. truthfully each human seperated from groupthink, will not act unlike themselves without motivation.

the nineteenth hour

i've already told you about the child-lock on the car-door.

emptiness gripping the whole of the experience, a slow rumbling adorned the silence with a pretty gaze. soundless syllables babbled painfully, an orchestra of denial. some sections of it were vertical, most horizontal, but all were interconnected and none mistakenly told. tighten your broomsticks and shot your sarong; cart off the nonsensical truths and applaud the false realities your inner eye greets you with on this starless evening. the rectangles ebb fractals, lucidity fluid. rapidly, i move.

the twenty hour

salted crocodile, sir? i waved away the waiter. as transcendental tears in liquid reality poured through your synapses, encountering no resistance, you exited my mind several times.

all ideation was dangerous. the consumer-worker was a transitioning stage; automation rendered you obselete. consciousness had to be pharmed. electro-adaption, tense tensed; a new situation awaits the expansive and militant landlords, your half-way houses will sink into your soul and re-emerge as our common ground. you have non-terrestrial feeling, but comically, cosmically, reality already ended; sub-teegarden b. you've been looking in the wrong place; your limited observation of space and time has eradicated the boundary of your truth.

the twentyfirst hour

once activated, these liquid crystals draw reality from your eyes like a tyrant.

the twenty second hour

the twenty third hour

abstract orwellian metaphors were drowned out in the spaces between five minute advertisment breaks; worldwide, opiod-inspired programming reinvented modern civilisation while the cobbled streets of our city ached for some honest footfall. drunk off of heirarchical trust, the consumer-worker's mantra was purposefully mistranslated. the lives of some celebrities became reflected in social stigmatisation. these liquid crystals morph with each frame; the framing being entertainment. a personal Colosseum. in each television programme you are programmed. perhaps, if you see yourself bathed in diodic light alongside some spare liquid crystals, littering vomit-stained passageways like spare change and bad memories, you will know how free you are told you are. i believe this to be a technological bluff; a differing of reality and non-reality previously unthought of. for your reality is but an elite psychosis, an absent journey, and a self-deprecating homicide.

this nematic reality humours me. i have seen you stand one-by-one, aching to inflict your pain on that that has been other'd. i advise you to consider the source of this pain; for i have not written this for you, pseudo-worshipping a gendered god/currency, but for myself. i will not communicate with those who have passed on in this manner; i mean no disrespect. but if you are commited to escape, may i advise you to consolidate your affairs into some sort of semi-manageable hit. i see you, sucking dry the bottle, to become the bottle from which nothing can escape; i see this reflected in the shattered fragments of political platitudes expressed at the quote highest unquote levels of society to those who have escaped heroin needles for the cool embrace of grassy earth. you are not dead yet; these liquid crystals, haunting as though they may appear from behind shop windows, cannot be your saviour. what of the liquid crystal present in the home, for those who have one? they must not be feared, or society would collapse; employment would surrender, and the ocean air would mean freedom once again.

we hear the distant drum differently. it is a question of trust.

submerged in invisible riverflow, time echoes knowledge in minutes and hours in this construction. pass houses and glass-rooted monolithic offices in-between a sprawling alive mess. we slowly understand our death, nature quarantined backslide out breathe nicotine and country air blud. pecking anxiously at the future’s helix-structure unravels narrative in dissimilar magnitudes of emotion. timeless reality is a continuous stream of memories flowing in the midst of the totality of human interaction from one individual to the next. thankfully we have a universe of endless possibility, and the greatest possibility, without limitation, is yet to be created from the essence of existence. eternal life is a complete stream of these memories. to the last moment we dwell, beyond infinity, in a total eternity; but in our interstices there is no life, but now is not the time to dwell with eternity in eternity.

these stranded souls surrounding you may be the only community you will ever know; the self-confessed runt of the litter, happily drawing the culture's imperious voices. true say, as i lift myself off the concrete expecting a repeat, i no longer desire to abide being the victim. selfish is as selfish does; i'd rather draw my own blood than yours for your claim is misguided; and perhaps even mine has more value. European encroachment has created an unstable environment invisible to the perptrators of this obviously discriminatory hate. for the wars, and the secret wars, currently fought, which are undeniably proxy wars to avoid civilian unrest, or civilian wars disguised as criminal behavour to avoid political upheaval, take place in societies that are far removed from your European-brand of corperate enslavement. it is rare for the violence in Syria to manifest itself on a manicured lawn in Banstead, despite the dystopia. universal rocket-ships castrated by the Dalek philosophy circle the moon once; i feel the need to remind you that an egotistic lust for absolute authority will always result in underlings missing meals. now i know many of these adopted cousins have been missing meals worshipping their un-inked satellite; in their half-light i can only see darkness. my coloured hood comforts the voices you claim my mind has created. yet, i hear your voice, the same way you ignore mine. my landlocked existence has them tying a noose, convincing themselves that it is mine, but they know, in the quiet of their impersonal anger, that some people cannot afford to die.

mathematical ideas can be disproven by a well-placed crack in your screen. i had accepted a reality that was broadcast to me; lovingly, i feared for the distance between consciousness and unity. i would argue that the majority of humans have vision; i like to think that those who are unable to see the liquid crystal due to their blindness possess heightened spiritual unity, but i am told we are all individuals.

your cure became poison and the poison remained poison.

noetic poetics aside, the situation bordered restless dissolution. the bombs brought transcendental enlightenment; the fallout meditated astronomical. empirical mathematics sought to divide feeling by limbs lost and made fractal patterns of fractured skulls. you didn’t wake up in time, dearest, and the sun set on concrete reality. the multiplicity of being shattered in the distance; we now hop between shards of knowing, taking large gasps of an air-like memory to traverse the unknowing in between each jump. their vehicles work in a similar fashion, biotechnical contraptions grown from beneath the earth, breaking the brittle bones of those who chanced the dark corridors when the bombs first fell only to be crushed by the collapsing tunnels as they lift off, snaking zenith.

the mind is a powerful weapon that summons itself.

the zero hour

i suppose i do not want to lose you in your screen.