Limits
What place has the utopian idealist in the dim hallway of reclusive fears and suspicions when societies pinnacle is a fresh teenage pussy, stuffed to the brim with images of Washington and Lincoln? The endless moans of deranged enlightenment echo throughout the hours as the night sky begins to lose its integrity. The green morning light, and its loyal henchmen of divine sanity serve as the only reminder of delightful solitude in the hollow prism of individual existence. To rise early in a misguided attempt to rediscover the treasures of conceptualised self interest only bring the reality of twisted playfulness of dusk to the forefront. The brutality of the A.M who listens but never speaks, carefully planning the course of history so has to segregate God’s lonely man from harmful social interference. The glorious Untermensch segregated not in material or flesh but ethnically cleansed from the essence of the human species. Words of Babylon, crumble under the theocratic boot of sharply dressed prophets, each in servitude to the merciful and most compassionate means of exchange.
Sentences fail to materialise, truth is on the genocide list, hunted down and gassed into extinction. Crowds of believers scramble to find their own Gods, each graced with lush locks of insincerity and hidden insecurity. Eyes with the will to plunge devout zealots into the past, carelessly pulling the rest of humanity under with them. The everyday Jesus is the prophet of an eternal sigh of prescribed boredom, doomed to wander in false nostalgia while feeding on societies own sense of lost fantasy. Words and ideas, while previously scarce resources and centres of brutality have now been confiscated and privatised from public thought. Letters relay history and fiction, a reminder of pre-post humanities ignorant delusions.
How does one sleep in silence when even the monotonous moans of enlightened self interest demand your continuous attention. Evolutionary instincts collapse into the barrel of medieval emotions while a replicated and pure form of fabricated affection rises to dominance. The thick walls of the skin altar serve as the only illusionary reminder to a reality rooted in material existence. Even the orgasm, just like our beloved green swastika, has become a fictitious value.
Failing to accomplish the aims and remain faithfully married to the Ubermensch ideal, condemns one to the only existing institution with the ability to provoke essences of natural reaction. The open air prison of post-modernism. Metal bars are stripped down and replaced with societies irrelevance and individual apathy. The elitist utopian, failing to plunge into pre-humanism is left sinking in unread poetry, drowning in insincere ink of hopeless political fetishisms.
For all this, a man is taught to have ambition, to strive endlessly to achieve a non-existent sense of self fulfilment. Yet his only option is to done the black uniform and ruthlessly strike into a selfless crusade against the remnants of old humanity, while mindlessly pursing the accumulation of dead presidents, all for the good of his family. One could still hope for the second coming, the everyday prophet with a red rose, bursting out a clenched fist and a heart shaped bomb strapped to his chest. A desperate explosion, complete and humanely devastating, not in vain but in determination. An action with an idea. The last act of the human being.
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