No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Turn away. Turn back. Go away. No ifs and/or buts. There is no point forward. There is no point back. Turn forward. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts. Note nothing, notice nothing. Note everything, notice everything. Turn away. Turn back. Move ahead. Move back. Move forward. Move across. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts.
The game is wired, mesh-like, social is as sociopathy does. Sociopathy does as the social game is. No ifs and/or buts. Turn in. Turn inwards. Tune out. Tune in. Drop out. Drop in, introspection. Externalize the internal immersion. And escape. No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Within. Then without. Without within, without is nothing.
And turn around, turn aside, turn forward. Tune in, tune out, turn on, turn off. Simulate senses, stimulated, hardwired, firing on all the things neurotically. Bang. Bang. Turn on. Turn off. No ifs and/or buts.
Migrate. Mediate. Meditate.
Migraine, mediocre, medicine.
Back and forth look the same within this shambled shame-blame-game. No ifs and/or buts. Progress is regression. Regressive speech-therapy, deep progressive psychosis, hypnosis, hypochondriac. High-strung, modern malicious modernity… Then death from cirrhosis of the liver and the brain-pan, pang-blasted into migraine—pain.
Into and out of, away from. Mental breakdown, freak-out, freak down – another victim of class-action class-warfare lawsuit where neither is nor and or, or there or then. Trenches dug and society spun, dig-dugged into chlamydia from swarmed arcade intellectuals… auditoriums of play-pen pigsties pillaging intellectual rheumatism… gospels of the depraved and decadent sung high-and-mighty as claws reach growth then slip.
No ifs and/or buts. Withdraw. And wobble ever forwards, ever onwards, ever backwards, ever inwards.
Bang-hammer blast migraine-pain in back and neck. Mind stroked dead from lack of cock, cunt and clock.
Sky is overcast, drowned in ink. Moon wearing silk-stockings, net-fish fishnets… streams of consciousness gibbering morosely, mockingly, adoringly.
No ifs and/or buts. Get out. While you still can. Get in. While you still can. Get it. No ifs and/or buts. Sociopathy is socially accepted, ya dig… This social game digs sociopathic sociological telepathy… aerial brainwaves radiating from the eyes of lifeless life… ya dig? Ya dig-dug?
No ifs and/or buts.
Tarred and feathered. Songs through the epiphany, sounds of desolate deserts, tundras, siren-songs spoken in silver-spun buckets full of painted milk, claws of the cat and of the hound and of the hounded.
No ifs and/or buts. And sing, stink, sting… brave blues in blue suede shoes march forward and turn backwards, ever out, ever in.
No ifs and/or buts. Ain’t nothing but a hound dog. Hounded dog. And so loved. Eternal internal release, reprise, reprimanded, recollected, resurrected through escape.
No ifs and/or buts. Release. Escape. Meditation, reflection, soul-sphere, eye-blind I-candy for me myself and I.
No ifs and/or buts.
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- Moiret Allegiere, 30.10.2019
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