Vincent Myron Cailteux's Page

This is an excerpt of a piece of what I have written.

Feeling the sealing of the roof of the dealing. Piled high the lie of the common foresight. A seethe of the 1950’s what we find inside my blab of words to commit myself to a promise of destitution in prostituting the oscillation ohm. Who can comedy away a laughter of my cigarette in the lungs of the oral and phallic fixating habit of self-suicide? I should quit smoking. I should just quit. Who can know what it means to be me. Or how hard is really is to just let go of my board annoyance. Or of the empower less fixations of my normal viewing.
Their comes a moment when I start to say fuck everything. It doesn’t really mean a pile of dirty kitty litter, as the corona is placed next and the Barbie Ken doll wannabes relax in their pile of high lies down next to the martini umbrella plastic sun.
Masking fun with the husk of our dawn to the reality of dust and crown of thorns. We are done. Poison tip passed off as your cure. Falling in line waiting for salvation and receiving death paid and bought. Secured and assured by the salesmen of death. We hold on bleeding fingers to piano cords of hope resonating until we choke ourselves with its tension.
Slumping over our common foresight the bodies fall in vanity and vain of translucent spells woven together by reptiles. Slipping our toungs seethe ring and slither it’s abomination of mire’s father. Convincing us that their sickness is the cure. Abandon what you love! All for the greater good, just sacrifice your life to the god of Barbie ken plastic sun. Slip away to ignorance. It’s so easy.
So easy to let go. Sheeple steeple people pass away the day of comfort on the way to oblivion’s love. Mire’s father of hero worship blind by the plastic coating and corona moaning of blind stupor of two many miller high lives reminiscing upon the previous day and no future to speak of.
Loving it for what it is. Eclipse of the woe worlding in twirling spirals spun our minds into our brains until there is just the crushing weight too late. Judgment made so harsh and cold the dawn of our ending. Sitting high in their black dresses and white undergarments as if they are angels and we, simple slime. Crud of the world off tilt spinning sideways as the destabilizing vertigo has made us undone. Reduced to numbers and diagrams our future lay out and printed blue of tall bombs hugging nuclear arms fuck holocaust dreams of evil men blind by Barbie plastic magazines subscribed to as hopeless.