BACK TO SLUMBER
You could sell out stadiums reciting Palladian Rites. But it'd be wrong, like sticking your dick in a lady of the night. That'd be the laziest kind of writing, but sometimes the mind is frightening in what it likes. This merry-go-round, the whole recycling of words stifles the central nervous, system, yet we are precise surgeons at times. Unlike my local Burger King where the letters B and R have lost their electrical power and the place is now called URGE King. Maybe it's a sign? Yeah, a sign to get that sign fixed urgently. None of those problems with China Wok, and even if there were, it'd probably still be called China ok. Everything is fine, nothing to see here! But the duck was peeking regardless. Spying on the West. Looking for Trade Secrets, and finding nothing but Trays of Secretions, all stored in John's Locker Room. He was stocked up on dat Grade A sperm, that traders wanted to raid and make off with. Halfwitz in Auschwitz, but at least they had housez. Sort of. Many people here in the UK are homeless, unable to eat boneless chicken coz spineless wankers keep fucking them over. Wicked or what? Humanity is a cancer. There is an Angel and a Demon in us all, wanting to pump semen in an angel's hole. No one is exempt from The Game of Life. And that's all life is... just a game. A race war. Chess. No purpose in having kids just for the world to get more ruined in time. What is the end goal? Simply, goals ending? We're all foals for the slaughter. Fools for reading Karin Slaughter novels. Actually, some of them are quite decent, unlike this descent into madness. This plunge into dystopia, where everything is expunged from the records. Gross Injustices are normalised, affecting those that formerly lived ordinary lives. Fuck the Armed Forces marching in camouflage garb, engineering war on our doorsteps. It's unjustified and I'd rather die from mors justi. Can't think of anything better than more busting. Eat, sleep, drink and wank... fuck what the think tanks think to fix things. Bring back the swinging 60s. Today we ain't got a wing or a prayer, as things border on the brink of despair. But hey... I'm NIETZLAWE, I'll write about what the fuck I want. A Book of Lawe, with a new school of thought that you will drool over. Instead of these fools thinking that they can rule over us and bend us across stools. Fuck stress. Stress Kills ... Murderer!! How dare you murder my herds. Merde! You anti-social justice warrior! Even Jim Courier couldn't deliver my tennis racquets on time! I'm gonna give the job to Tim Curry. Or Raquel Welch. Set up my headquarters in Helsinki...... on second thoughts what the hell was I thinking?! Man, I need help, coz something is seriously *bleep* with my mental health. But I think I can treat it myself with a pencil. It looks as though I need my alter ego to pull me through this weary dreary period drama. Testing times, and all I seem to do these days is rest, everything except my testicles. It's like I know what's coming next. If there was a way to end it all right now I would. Shoot myself I could. One quick shot. BAM! Eternal peace. Can't even write a playful piece no more without stopping for weeks, and even then only coming back to force feed or release some endorphins. It's like shopping for thoughts but they won't come to the fore, probably coz I'm busy cumming four or more times. Scrapping for crumbs, they've gone scarce. Even Doomroar won't converse no more. Got to find a way to conjure more words. It's a bleak abyss, and easy to bitch and whine... I've got to figure out why I'm pissed. And it's not from wine. A stitch in time is better than stitches after nine. Why has something gone awry? Amiss? Is it something that I've missed? Like the ulnar of my wrist as I spray out more emissions than Casolaro? Do I have to threaten to detonate fission just for somebody to listen? Do I have to die for a cause, or cut my nose off to spite my face, or wait for somebody to spike my drink? As I lie here wide awake, tryna create a violent spate of hyper hate that would make even a tyrant shake. Everything is regrettably a rhyme, I need to reset time, because the repetitive stretch of prose is upsetting me, and I don't want to be doing what's just getting me by. I want to raise the bar, not just generically play the part. It's like my soul has been ripped out and they're about to take my heart. Already made my mark, already played my card. I wish I could go way back to the start. To those night-time walks, never would have thought they were highs not lows. In hindsight, loads of things were better, they were highlight reels of when my life was actually real.
The world is u?op ?p?sdn,
And from it presides a perverse wisdom, that violence serves a purpose.
Trapped memories that are hard to dislodge, coz they're at the heart of this lodge. And we're not about to talk about them now. Not on this watch. Corruption breeds mistrust.
Being bitten by a poor man's lion. "Yeah, but if he's poor, how could he afford a lion?" He couldn't, I'm lying...
... In bed. Without Madonna. No Adonis.