Kuroyagi
01-31-2008, 06:19 PM
Here I’d like to write in the manner and form that is natural to me: A new posting concept for me. I will both address other topics/threads on the board, but also write some general thoughts and musings. Instead of replying to topics in the threads I will do so here for the reason that it is not permitted to freely write in following way except in the art section; yet in order to understand what I write it is not even necessary to know of those threads. To simply read the headline of the topic-paragraph and the relevant text beneath is sufficient:
Sparodius! (Moneył)
Those who hoard money are master of anal-retention. When at last they die they do so in a big flatulent outburst or simply dissolve in the cess-pits of their own greed. They strive-thrive on unfulfilled expectations and amass karmic boons that their incarnate successor may use to spoil their existence for others by rejoicing in ecstatic pulses of anti-speculative manifestations of "things-to-die", in frugal and aby-fungural growth-patterns or anti-lactic centrifugal involutions: a collapse upon themselves, a retro-grade unbecoming singularity of promising future "not-yets" in downwards sacrifices of elongated black particle rays from upturned saucer-shaped I’s- Those who have no fear: to become.
On the ego & dark arts:
Noiselessly you speak of clatter till the marching-band abruptly turns around and beats you up with their chattering tambourines and drums your head- you may chit-chat but not kill, then. You perhaps misbehave "as a dream" and then led astray,…still.
So why not?
Ask.cosmos (if you care to read this read it closely this is not offensive, though if you wish you could use it to turn it against you)
You have deleted my posts but that’s not why you’ll die. Believe me: I WILL FIND OTHER REASONS yet…not to worry cause nothing has not "transpired as I have foreseen it".
YOU on the other hand-side of the river there- you with the "scales" of a worm need to put your head unto the soil again.
Kitsune
Mint-flavoured but still unorthodox.
Donation
Hark ye! By end of the moon I will as once before place a sum of parking-lot tickets in your hat but no need to bow my friend- rather eat another tomato like the Steward of Gondor, but heed excess- not favourable to the kidneys are they!
A Joke (is this thread?)
And now let us turn to the REturn: Treason and the Sermon of the Mount (is what it’s about).
A mount-ain-horse in flailed, lightning-struck stride. It could not but stare in wide eyed craze- from wonder at the wrath of God.
The Devaast (A Cataclysm)
And now return again. I had a good job, a nice girl and a free day on my couch in my small, new but also- at that time- quite large-ish flat. And it was morning and my girlfriend cooked pancakes and coffee and I lay on the couch and stared with ugly black octopus-eyes out the pretty little window at the foliage in the sunlight: there a woodpecker fought a worm and then- suddenly both bird and worm turned their heads up to the sky. There on horizon-edged fronts the doomriders had come clutching black galaxy curtains in their paws, dragging them behind their horses- those by and largeishly billowy convolutions- the night-deeds of my suburban capitalist common-place niche that I longed not to remember again.
But much worse: at that instant even the birds fled holding the worms gently in their beaks and apparting them to farther-aways, my girlfriend remembered suddenly that she had a pressing appointment with her lover and left me, so that I was alone, completely, cause even the sun had disappeared. To face the oncoming hoard. Those of the golden hoards of money who master their retention. From there it was me against eternity…
Sparodius! (Moneył)
Those who hoard money are master of anal-retention. When at last they die they do so in a big flatulent outburst or simply dissolve in the cess-pits of their own greed. They strive-thrive on unfulfilled expectations and amass karmic boons that their incarnate successor may use to spoil their existence for others by rejoicing in ecstatic pulses of anti-speculative manifestations of "things-to-die", in frugal and aby-fungural growth-patterns or anti-lactic centrifugal involutions: a collapse upon themselves, a retro-grade unbecoming singularity of promising future "not-yets" in downwards sacrifices of elongated black particle rays from upturned saucer-shaped I’s- Those who have no fear: to become.
On the ego & dark arts:
Noiselessly you speak of clatter till the marching-band abruptly turns around and beats you up with their chattering tambourines and drums your head- you may chit-chat but not kill, then. You perhaps misbehave "as a dream" and then led astray,…still.
So why not?
Ask.cosmos (if you care to read this read it closely this is not offensive, though if you wish you could use it to turn it against you)
You have deleted my posts but that’s not why you’ll die. Believe me: I WILL FIND OTHER REASONS yet…not to worry cause nothing has not "transpired as I have foreseen it".
YOU on the other hand-side of the river there- you with the "scales" of a worm need to put your head unto the soil again.
Kitsune
Mint-flavoured but still unorthodox.
Donation
Hark ye! By end of the moon I will as once before place a sum of parking-lot tickets in your hat but no need to bow my friend- rather eat another tomato like the Steward of Gondor, but heed excess- not favourable to the kidneys are they!
A Joke (is this thread?)
And now let us turn to the REturn: Treason and the Sermon of the Mount (is what it’s about).
A mount-ain-horse in flailed, lightning-struck stride. It could not but stare in wide eyed craze- from wonder at the wrath of God.
The Devaast (A Cataclysm)
And now return again. I had a good job, a nice girl and a free day on my couch in my small, new but also- at that time- quite large-ish flat. And it was morning and my girlfriend cooked pancakes and coffee and I lay on the couch and stared with ugly black octopus-eyes out the pretty little window at the foliage in the sunlight: there a woodpecker fought a worm and then- suddenly both bird and worm turned their heads up to the sky. There on horizon-edged fronts the doomriders had come clutching black galaxy curtains in their paws, dragging them behind their horses- those by and largeishly billowy convolutions- the night-deeds of my suburban capitalist common-place niche that I longed not to remember again.
But much worse: at that instant even the birds fled holding the worms gently in their beaks and apparting them to farther-aways, my girlfriend remembered suddenly that she had a pressing appointment with her lover and left me, so that I was alone, completely, cause even the sun had disappeared. To face the oncoming hoard. Those of the golden hoards of money who master their retention. From there it was me against eternity…