Nivlekius's blog: "Justice Blanket"

Clankdestine mofo... Clankistination..... You know... we all know Stination.... I like stination for our nation, asshole!! You know do you? You know a hole ready... Too prepared to be rammed to be hit... like a tit on the belly. A pig sits down for your lips. Suck the tits and deny your life. Deny your thoughts... Ignore the truth and suck the teats and blow your mind out of your pants... Pretend it doesn't exist and know.. We persist... we persist... We will never die. What dies is that which does not do... To do is to live and to live is to do that which has never been done more than thirty-three times.. we see We saw .. we thought we saw. What you all wanted to be.. Now we know.. You wanted to lived like Bots in the global model Of that which we cannot be.. Cry child... Weep for what you'll never know. Soak your stamps in the tears of lesser men.. and die and wake like hose who are not

My grandfather knew how to live and ignore all those who thought to give his labor and sweat and blood and tears was what it meant to live in our.. ages. Can we now still live like that man was a forgotten entinty of the past that was most righteous... Picking a banjo with whiskey in hand did he not truly understand what was meant for him to be? No toilet that flushed no food nor water that ran can even you compare to this man who was? Our patri... our manly soul. Our glue that held our family so bold into oness.. You think that man who kicked your ass when he was drunk from ten glasses of whiskey was not manly. Yet you know as you lie with two feet in the grave that nothing will ever renew all that was from that good man. We all knew that house We all were afraid Yet nothing could ever persuade us from that good man. And now it's gone that house we adored... No barrels of rain to bathe in anymore.. and maybe he wasn't a man of his times but we loved that man who rejected your currency. He laughed and thought "This is not me" and a man of sympathy for your world... And now you live And maybe well And knowing that all is going to hell you live. And he lived just as he wanted to... with woods and fields and animals who fucked in his yard. And we liked that.. We all liked that. Rabbit fuck and rabbit run who all know that it's not too long you'll be feeding us. In gravy and maybe roasted too I think the squirrel will be joining you. And tastey you are you silly kids you Grandma made gravy or squirrel stew. We look at you and love like friends. And our glands they spit out the silvery strands that await you. We love you and see you and want you to live but our bellies and pockets don't seem to agree with that sweetness. If living were a dream and nothing to gather I don't think that you guys would matter to our table. But grandpa he said eat what you can and nothing is better than that rabbit that ran from my beagle. So now we dine on that hare so fine and juice falls from our lips. And nothing before could be as much a reward as the meat that comes from our work... (Dedicated to Nero Wadkins)

I thought I would write to you in the dark with no candles and see how clearly I can think. That vision I said would never go away has somehow faded with the lights. And dancing around in its stead is a picture of blowing grass. Don't think bad of me if I speak of grass for it's that sweet image that will somehow never leave me. I know that when I die I will be there. My hair restored to its youthful length. And the wind will blow my hair like that grass. And we will flow together with nothing to guide us save for the wind. It was nothing special it was nothing extreme yet the image never leaves me. Perhaps because there was not a care that makes me care most of all. Simple grass blowing in the wind. It brings tears to these darkened and hollow eyes. I want to sit and watch the grass and that stream gently flowing. I feel it flowing. Flowing through me like so many tears. I feel the tears pulling at my eyes and on the verge of collapse they hurt. I know they won't come. But it's nice to know they are there.

Drawn out life for returned fee A listless dream of tomorrow. Current goes in ebbs and flows and makes the simple more impossible. Again to wake to the cold left side ignoring the forgotten sun. Creation a myth for ignorant slobs and again it becomes truth. Born to destroy you were told that once by a sage and wise old man. Destroy you have and as death you feel no remorse nor pity nor shame. Countless times is was expressed and like a weed in your memory it was stomped. Contain your blood and force it through your veins so shrunken cold.

You think you can love her? You think you can do anything that a real man can do? With your cock full pus and darkness. With your mind full of pus and blankness. Create everything your mind comes up with on its own. And hold on to it. Open hands reveal nothing but white skin melding to darkness. Sit her on a rock and think you can control her. Chain her. She will become the rock. Her skin was soft and white as snow like the snow in the East. But it burns from the sun and she becomes the rock. She is the rock. Forever and always she is the rock.

Probable cause mingled over private parts. Stuffed inside a hollow shell. Like a pastry waiting to be devoured. His soul is cream. His body tender. Break him open and suck him clean. His soul is what you want.

Caressing thoughts of a new age seems futile as he awakes. Again he sees the time and he knows it's too late. It only serves to destroy. Turn off the alarm. Learn to leave it alone.. It's not its duty to wake you up. Nothing can awake what wants only to sleep. Your only answer my friend is found in knowing you are sleeping. Only under the bright stars that shined for Socrates, that shined for her, that shine for you, understand that even when those stars can't be seen you are alseep. Under and above the sleeping man his spirit lurks. Kindly in nature he lurks with a smile. Not from pity nor even happiness does the spirit smile. Only true love produces such a grin. What love the spirit feels. Ingesting the sounds of the buzzer, the bell, the spirit ponders. Looking on he wonders, is this man himself. Oblivious to the sounds he regards his sleeping body. Vanity, some might say, is why. Even though the spirit lingers the soul is dead. He sees himself sleeping and again he slaps the clock.

My lips touched yours and my heart exploded. Perhaps I knew it was the last. Perhaps I hoped that it would never end. My lips touching yours. In my heart I knew it had to. I can't breath from the kissing. If I stopped it would kill me. If didn't stop I would die. A simple kiss to kill me as never before. I dreamed of your lips and of them on mine. I knew the dream should stay just that. Living reality is harder than dreaming and dreaming cannot break my heart. A simple kiss to break my heart again is all it takes to crush this paper man. Thinking of rubbish I asked to be crushed. I threw myself away before that kiss. Blaming you for anything is to deny myself. A paper man I am. I am strong when pulled Yet one small tear and I rip apart with ease.

A selection of papers to rummage through has one sitting on the floor for hours. That bookmark says what may be true but was there a reason in doing so? What had been done, what had been said to make you feel you needed to write that? Were you weak before and found someone strong to pick you up and use as your personal cure? For self-doubt and insecurity.. What can the true reason be? Perfection does not meet with such a hurtful end and knowing this is true one must confess that they are not at all perfect nor will ever be. True happiness cannot be bought nor stolen from one who doesn't want it taken. Rest assured the day will come That a welcome victim wants to lose the the selfish part that is hidden away. Until that day the thief can dream of that thing he couldn't take. Smile over a heavy heart and wash your face clean of the pain that shows so clear.

A new day begins when the old has died buried beneath a mound of rotting tongues. Propeled forward by the winds of hope The sun shines brightly in awaiting the horizon. The west can't see it The death of the day that was we mourn for her in pathetic weakness. Not yesterday, not tomorrow but today we mourn for that which was and that which will never be. Hope springs forward on golden rays just edging ever so close To the point to where it is visible at last then it dies like just like the past. To see the day, a living day, to truly see that day is a hope that someday will turn to truth and may someday shine brightly in these darkened eyes.