youBik- "eLusive Dreaming"

hamsters in a maze subordinate to the clause subjugating them to the play-by-play, parts & labor, all ends and no means, reduce the rubble and wrestle for crumbs, shaving evidence down to speculation. artless godless and fucked, mirror images of the feed we've been made out to be, horsefeed RSS, stream of unconcious control, paracrimes in the toxic ether of astral  colonies, troll the familial conflict and castrate the big other, dreams are wastelands unto which we carve a heroic seizure and remember it for you wholesale. seduction of the inner sense, calamity in queue and priced to move with minimal serious short term side effects, morbidity rate captured in these statistics does not include results of prolonged study, Phase III trial bypassed in the editing room, escalated by abbreviated attention spans. failure is a forcefield, shielding you from the tumor of knowledge. history is penned by the courageous and confident status post dialysis, makers and takers do not yield, their victory is tantamount and an MBA in the hand is worth two dead birds in the bush. surrender obsolete, transcend the historical dialectic and bring rot to bear on the clotted communication arteries, an acid consumed without lysergic lies, without the banal barriers of the solipsistic mouthpiece. what is and what isn't are shells, casings for the gunpowder fealty and plot, the death drive praxis, the unresolvable I is a revolving eye, formatted to a timeline and broadcast across a scrolling transcript, the you-learned self  made practical and custom live by logic and proportion, a well-satisfied head begs no shelter; it is safe in the wilderness with its devices, a tablet and an antibiotic, a forcefeel its comforting tit- at the other end a cavity distended because the mandible is stuck, eating the innards will not result in ego death, self-consumption is reproduction. harassed and lifeless is the waking day.  the arcane is tracable. all mysteries solved. the profane verses revered, the venereal arts venerated.  ghosts used to exist beyond, but now they follow our order, obey our end tags. it's clear now we've run our course and will be faded from the market to make way for new toys.  god's own invisible hands choking himself, sputtering for breath and producing only the ooze of novelty, narcissistic spores of spunk that can't even swim in the same pod, that compete just to be born, that collude just to bear fruit. with the X chromosome there is no why, just coordination to return to the tomb of the womb, to exacerbate the initial conquest of the egg. on dead channels, the network traffic is at its peak and so the towers still rise, the flagpole erection, the crucifix on permanent high desubjectified. the parasite knows our blind spot, curveballs around the missle shield, tapdances through the minefield. empty yourself so there's no blood to leech. you're only free when there's nothing left to take. you're only free when there's nothing you could possibly offer. ego death surrenders the self in sacrifice to the eternal reign of the already-almighty, to the pre-ordained and the just-blessed.  hamsters in a maze subordinate to the contract, surrendering to the fine print, lifeless in the play-by-play, bloodless in the paint. all material things must be burned. all that is solid melts into air. all that boils dances on the axis flirting with the planes.there is only darkness in the brightest dreams. there is only defeat in all but assimilation. in order to resist, you must risk survival, but why risk survival when we can guarantee destruction together on a leather coach with the curvature of cup holders. suffering is our greatest natural resource and its energy flows upstream. to give is to forgive, to go is to forgoe, to fit is to forfeit. the resolution is a clockwise counter-fit, tighten the hands and resume the ticking countdown. entropy is the natural order, which is why every demand and every proposal is met with speculation.  the history books are filled with great men risking the seeds sown by others, sacrificing the plateau for the peacock. homeostasis is unacceptable to vermin.  you've scored the lead in every role, the scenery eerily similar in each narrative. what a performance, though. you gave it your soul. what a way to be, so calm and collected like a figurine in the factory-sealed box, gasping for air beyond the adhesive strips that bind you, trying to pluck holes in the barcode.  malleable in every conceivable way, bendable in innumerable action poses. shitty little tykes with mucus-stained shirts and orange fingernails controlling your fate. their oedipal dissent sneering as the mother pleads for them to put back the toys. every item is for sale, mom, contempt ensnarled in the bitter little shit at mom's audacity to reclaim the womb as hers, theirs is to deny the body for the bottle, the colony for the cradle.  a natal burn, the sperm thinks the egg a spore because causality is conditioned to reward the last one dumb enough to survive