hctaw I smlif eht sa eulb sa era seyes yM

       This might be my last update here. I may be moving on an official website to broadcast my texts, photographs, and symbolism. If anyone has any connection for good webservers, or if they would like to help, it would be appreciated.

WHY are there so many people that treat our dead like they were disease-stricken immortals, as if the war hadn't killed off two-thousand soldiers, they would still be alive to live with fewer honors and to eventually die of chemical poisoning that was distributed in Iraq? Who are we to determine the best death for our fallen? We can't tell who will die first, and we need to come to the conclusion that people die and that we will eventually die as well, in fact our lives will be saturated with a thick caked on layer of death, death of loved ones and death of bitter enemies, and there is no way to get away from it. This concept is scary to too many people, and in the end, the people that want to deny death are the ones that don't have anyone crying at their funerals.

The old of our new generation will perish with their secrets still clutched close to their torso, tight just as Charlton Heston holds his pistol to his ribs, tight as a faith-goer holds a bible to his chest, and they will perish with these protective objects, and in the end they will all rot the same and they will all look exactly alike…even in gods eyes…the mass murderer…and the priest will blend in and become one through metaphorical matrimony.

            “Who killed myself…?”

Mars takes a nap...just like every other dictator before he goes to war, and we can sense that war is brinking before us, the briny scent of spent bullets that all found a snug home outside of their shells and wedged between muscle tissues and broken dreams, the smell of pounding cannons and blown out apartment buildings that are attacked with their human personnel still trapped inside, the smells that we smell are that of hip-high blood that has curdled to thickly that your eyes will water just from the hint of it, our future smells so bad you can taste it. But we can't cry now...we can't cry because our tears are not for this war, our tears should be saved for mourning the dead.

I merrily dance from grave to grave with a handful of stolen tulips in my hand. Disrespect for our fallen dead, for our crumbling corpses that we hide so cleverly underneath six feet of pounding dirt are responding to our deathfulness. That is right, we will continue to kill off humans until our soil is pack and crawling with the dead, their nutrients seeping into our crops and acting as healthful fertilizers, in the end we will consume the dead and treat them like food.

Ladies and gentlemen...I have a little trowel and I have successfully removed my navel. MY SHAPES ARE SHIFTING...my translations are drifting. I want to be plagued by the same voices that you are, I want your convulsions and I want your sickness to cover me. I can't control my heartbeat, I can't control my blood flow...Can you hear me, can you hear me way back there in your skull? I have made a conscious effort to destroy my history, I've burnt up my birth certificate, I've smoked it like a simple sigaret. I guess if you are going to end up shooting yourself in the head, you might as well go down in applause. Because my skin is part of me and thussly it is part of my art, it is part of what I do and part of who I am, and that’s where my pain comes from. I can't begin to imagine an artist that isn't pained...while there are such things but I don't believe that they are creating art that is true to their persona...I think that all people that try to live a pain-free life should be taken out and shot twice in the back...disrespect is flooding the fields of flesh, the wafting grains of life are being pissed on by those that think that they should be perfected by painlessness. I would cut off my birthmarks, even if I would end up bleeding to death. I would sever my fingerprints off even if that would mean my death, because we all plan ahead, we all plan past our deaths. I live each day like it was my last, and one of them surely will be. Too many people have boring deaths, dumb deaths, identical deaths...can we not expand?

We burn victims are dangerous, see, we are fleshier than those that hate us and they hate us out of fear. Their happiness translates to my misery, our misery, from that. The line of fire that separates the living from the dead-on-the-inside is pungent, the phosphorus is burning though our skin, and we’ve poked holes in ourselves.

"We heard Hell comes with a hand basket...?"

I'll send you a letter, a love letter and with that I will send you an infection, a sickness. It will warm your heart and inflame your stomach, I'll make you sick with me inside of you, physically, mentally, emotionally, I am a weight to bear and I am an unbearable weight. You'll find me waiting with a wedding cake at your funeral, claiming confusion, but still spreading the cake out amongst the crowd. Deny it all you want, but everyone listens to a psychopath. Life is a test of the human mind, forcing it to bend a little more each day, but eventually it will snap in two. Honesty here hates equality, it hates life. I would give my life to do significant harm, because that would mean that I would die happy. I would give my life for someone, but in the end, that really isn't saying much, and it can be even interpreted as an insult.

Clean the blood from the butter knife

Taste test your favorite teen-friends

Find your best fit, lie and cheat

Steal your way out, dig your way back in

I'll help you dig your fucking grave

Smiles all over, ear to ear

like the scars on your neck

Real friends taking bets on how long you will last

I'll help you dig your fucking grave

In fact, I want you to watch me

Half-sleeping-half-weeping

Wake up, wake up, wake up

Wake up from the sound of my laughter

Not cute anymore

Not much, I know

Fuck it, get in

Fuck it, get in.

I'm sick sick sick of you

Anger to me for loving you

Call it mainstream, I'll agree

Shut the door on you casket

Weld it down, lock it shut

We never want to hear of this again

We being me

We being everyone else

We never want to hear of this again

I'll help you dig your fucking grave

Computers...decomputers...decomposition...

Screams of HELP pierce little sexual thoughts into the sickbrains that we factory-produce for our television-cages. Who am I to anyone anymore? Desperation has lost its traction, suicide is no longer much of a commitment, I have memorized my past and thussly I can't forget the parts of me that I have strived to blacken out, to swallow reality. Forever I am taken in through each breath; every pinprink into my flesh is part of a soul-cleansing orgasm of fake proportions. As a hole...the portable fate. In my heaven, there is a crimescene because everything that we have been doing together has gotten inside of my head and has actually killed God...Are the feelings of regret supposed to bring empty mindedness, can I tell truth from lies, can I have amnesty? REGRET IS A DAGGER and from this I finally see the reflection of me that I hate, the military fag-ship, my history is part of human beings...PEOPLE I HATE MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE...I would endure so much just to see that they had gone through the same that I had.

I fall down the sensational steps to the hell that you have made for me. I find it funny that those who label my questions as dumb are the ones who can't answer them.

Humans starting to look like burning crosses to me, redhead and skinheads are beginning to blur together, but I think that as long as idiots are fucking other idiots, I don't think that they will procreate survivable. Our oceans are wasted on sewage, vanity, broken dreams and visions of daddy in our heads, pounded in through childhoods of youthlessness. We have been tough to be grown-ups but without benefits, we have been raised like little ice-cold flames just so we could be snuffed out by our own altitude once we hit the age that we had been raised too...there are papers tied to our backs, papers that read: WE ARE HUMANS BUT MORE LIKE ANIMALS THAT ARE BEING SAVED FOR LAST. WE ALL WILL DIE AT THE SAME TIME AND THIS GENERATION WILL NOT SEE ITS COMPOSITION OF INDIVIDUALITY REACH ITS FULLEST.

Lying like an egg, we sleep on our timebombs. Nothing is meant to last, not me, not you, not god. Crawl within, take your hands out of her mouth and dig them into the soil. Soil...little worms talk to me when I dream, when I am not dreaming of being shot in the head, not dreaming of perpetual immolation, and not dreaming of metallic rape-scenes...little worms talk to me and they look at me and quote from the bible, with a little horn playing, they shout loud enough to kill me but they don't shout angrily enough to do so: AND GOD SAID...LET THERE BE BLIGHT...and there was a strong, black blight that was cast amongst all beings, a force that they were to continually wrestle with and battle with, because God did not make enough humans for all his personalities but he does not like to waste, so thussly, there are some of us that are bustling with personalities... then the worms crawl off and back into the dirt where they get all of their worm friends and tell them that they have a meal ready, a meal of me! They hunger for man, they scream, shout, convulse, and chew me up from the inside out, they are what they eat, they know it, they scream: WE'RE DYING THE DEATH OF THE DEAD...MORE MORE MORE!!

Stuttering... stumbling

Muttering... mumbling

"We heard Hell comes with a hand basket...?"

We draw the blood from our hands with eyeliner...we pencil a crystal tear in the corner of our eye...falsehood comes before womanhood. I’ll paint a picture of you, over a sculpture, I’ll put you as an art of mine in the fourth dimension, you will never fit in, obnubilation runs you rampant like a dreadful disease in a fast-moving car…My goal is to make a world that you will never fit in.  My art is a locked box…we are the alcohol. The game that we play is universal, there are rules and rulers and inches...and ego-tripping clock-blockers that have an insatiable appetite to look like the smart one...the experience that plagues us is turning this world to a black and white photograph…there is no one left to blame or to thank, no one left to attribute. When you find yourself falling off of the bridge, you can only think that you should not have held hands with the suicidal for so long…because just like myself, and anyone else of their nature, we will drag you down and enjoy it.

They say that I’m not serious

They say that I’m not serious

They say that I’m Nazirious

They say that I’m Nat Zirious

We put the puberty lock on all the boys and girls, we force them into rooms where we hide the porno and the toys and the books by homosexual authors, we hide all the diseases and all of their cures and we hide all of the signs that point to the holocaust, we hide the black and we hide the white...and then we turn back and realize that we have hidden everything but ourselves...and then we are negated… we have nothing else to steal from our children except the shapes that they contain, the forms that they have. Soon we will not be able to recognize white from black, or differentiate between genders or creeds. In efforts to protect our children from the harmful exothermic releases of earth, in order to protect them from society, we have intergrated them like little brainwashed puzzle pieces into the conglomerate of Christian Thinking.

            We must fight the urge to sleep, we must fight the urge to eat, with unwavering, devoted attention and focus we watch the numbers of the dead soar. Not just populations of their party, but their ratings as well. Our television is being infected; it is undergoing a hostile take over where the decomposing now run the show like it was a Broadway business. The news is now based on truthfulness instead of fact, it is a show where there is a consistent, recurring portion of the program that is devoted to the newlydead. Thirty gone in Palestine, sixteen children gassed inside of a school, two hundred perish in a factory bombing, eighty taken out in SARS outbreak…it’s getting boring to have to watch the same repetitive nonsense over and over again, we treat the ones that die like they are all heros that died for their cause, but if they are on the other side we don’t even acknowledge their deaths. I don’t condemn mourning the lost of a loved one; I do condemn the mourning over the loss of someone that you don’t even know. Our enemies are as human as we are, they are as repulsive and vicious and bloodthirsty as we are. Even past their death…maybe even more beyond their deaths, they hold control and grip over our media and over our way of thinking and processing. It sounds like a terrible concept for a film, but in all honesty, it is coming true, our dead are brainwashing us and controlling our thoughts.

I congratulate the tiny few of you that take the moment to read what I write.

I am out in the pelting sunshine in my tragicolor raincoat…walking back to the birthplace of Devourism, humming the alabaster tune to “Peaches En Regalia.” When I arrive at the “C//:” footsteps and rap on the door…no one answers so I let myself in. Walking into the Womb of Devourism, the coneptualizer, is like walking into an art galleria of humans that are so disease stricken that they are literally filing their last-taxes before death sweeps them away. I see everything that has dragged me down, on cruel display of human beings being hung like puppets on strings and meathooks, with toe-tapping, gut-wrenching music playing over the P.A. system…the system later activated, revealing to the attendees that the music they heard earlier was the sweet sounds of silence, and the sour noise that is made from a brain that is not thinking anything. The people that were there were watching over the arts, I know that I couldn’t really participate because it’s all things that I have seen before…so in the meantime, I watched my fingers grow, I watched my warts develop, I watched the flowers in the flowerpot look at my opposite-art and groan…but no matter how hard I thought or focused, my scars would not form from the fact that my scabs refused to grow over my open wounds. There is a rising deathcount over my head, over my life there is always going to be a monitor of what is and is not acceptable, and I know that I can never forget where I have come from, because I always have reminders resting, like dormant seeds, all over my body.

Roses are red
Violence is blue
You want death
And I want you

The knots in my neck wring me like rose petals, the nooses that I have made are now being sold in party stores. There is nothing more depressing than an attempted suicide, and there is nothing more aggravating than having attempted and failed. My thoughts are now deadweights, while the thoughts of my pungent enemies are potent counterweights. Why is there something instead of nothing? I have arrived once more with very few intentions that I am going to inform you of, so take me to your liter. I once viewed life as a sure jest, a joke for pranksters and a riotous, neck-breaking comedy, that turns backs to the newest  and most stagnant political parties that are headlining, the Henmocrats and Repugnicans. Since rules have failed to rule, and guidelines have failed to retain their shapes, the only thing that humans will listen to now is bullets, cops, and teargas, and after that we can disinfect the autorities with bricks, cocktails and angry masses. We can no longer predict the future when every day we may be on the brink of riot.

If I had to vote, and I have no intention of ever doing so, I would probably vote for Bush. If he could run for a third time. I kind of wish he could.  I would vote for him, and for a good reason as well. I know that when the liberals read this they will throw up a little in their lie-spreading mouths, but hear me out. Kerry promised things and then went back on his word, Bush promised some things and fucked over a lot of people when he didn’t carry through, and Nader didn’t promise a damn thing. Nader is a fucking sockpuppet for stoned out hippies to whine about, because he has no political experience, no background, and no though provoking ideas. He basically said: Vote for me! Peace! Green Hurrah! But more on topic is that Bush will probably incite something larger than he could possibly imagine. Who would riot if Kerry got into office? Who would riot of Dean got into office? Hillary? Anyone? No. Vote Bush. More blood for oil. Eventually we will have a revolution on our hands.

"We heard Hell comes with a hand basket...?"

            I can’t decide. I am in a candy shop of hatred. I don’t know who I hate more, between republicans…and democrats…I guess I hate the green party more, but that isn’t very logical, because they aren’t much of a party. They have never been elected into an American office, but they do have, like, what, seven guys with do-nothing jobs over in the U.N. Politics have driven a sharp nail into my head, gotten inside and stirred the little shit that I have left until it formulated into a functioning brain. Every day I wake up too see things that I can’t believe are happening, people doing things that I can’t even begin to comprehend how they are getting away with such atrocities.

            We will hang every capitalist, by the very longest ropes that are weaved, and they will sell us the cords. Our political leaders are the ones holding the flags just high enough so they tickle our noses, keeping them always just out of reach. The only reformation that we can ever hope for, is the alterations that are instigated when our bones are intentionally broken and then set improperly so that they would heal back into a new shape. But still, at the brink of a devastating change, we are facing the end of the media that we have created. Our blood, our aggressively boiling blood, is bleeding through the newspapers that politicians lay down in ‘vein’ hopes to cover up the stains that we have created. The best weapons that we have to battle the system are at the ends of our arms, and they are no longer our fists. The wrists, the blood, the veins, the deathcount, the more of our blood that is shed the more powerful our influence will become. WHAT KILLS US ALSO MAKES US STRONGER. We, using our own deaths, can transcend the values and morals that have been instigated, and we can rise above.

Desolating,

Winslow 404