The Psychosexual Suppression of Jismatic Heresy: A Darwinian discussion of disutopian dreams

Disclaimer: This write is reflective of a particularly crass form of societal disfunction and the incontrovertible completion of a sub-cultural, material cypher. The philosophy, ideas, language and imagery used herein may be disturbing to many.

The Psychosexual Suppression of Jismatic Heresy: A Darwinian discussion of disutopian dreams.

By Mark Rockeymoore

Something real is going down.

And, from my perspective, only invectives suffice, the objective, to determine the price, to understand the spoken lingo. Awakened by dread, a coal-black Mandingo swings his long, majestic dong real strong, then screws a set of pale-skinned twins, impregnating the void with Potential on steroids. His melanated seed spreads like weeds in the Garden of European Delight, whispered calls of frenetic need sent skyward, computerized, explicit fantasies sold to fulfill insistently dark desires.

Freckled and powdered Mavens of Lust grow mechanical wings and ply their way south of the border to quench their own distasteful disorders, seeking out dark, Tropical Kings, their pride on open display. Delight us, these women say, eyes gleaming by night, shying away from the light of day. Elephantitis-inflicted dicks sway to the tune of moist poontang smacking wetly, lacking only the peculiar discretion to freshen up before fucking, to question their lust before sucking and then trucking back up to the Midwest, whispered conquests the test of their racial tolerance, no jest.

Some days, months or years, there’s just that kind of energy in the air. In many ways, we thrive on fear, invoking eternity with our Thousand Yard Stares. Nobody cares about creatures designed to die, and some days everyone you meet wants to either fuck, fight or cry.

Stare into the eyes of insanity and dare a motherfucker to jump.

Yes, you heard me right. Open your eyes, employ your Second Sight if you’re lost. In this space, all morality is tossed to the side, for it is only within sublime, anarchic halls that certain value systems lie. I could care less about your personal vanity – your humanity or your obvious and reeking insanity – and, as you can probably tell, I can give a good flying-fuck about your dislike of profanity.

No matter where you go or what you do, there is someone there to confront you with a crazed glint in their eyes; realize that events conspire to make your motions meaningless, leaving you dazed and confused, wondering what the Hell is going on. On those days, it is easy to fall into negative stasis, attempting to map the trap of energization and deprivation, engaging in the conduction of negativity through action and word, shouting, fighting back and lashing out in retribution for what you might have heard or intuited about the ephemerality of Existence itself.

Afterwords, you feel drained, denied the light. Born of parasitic forces, the brightness is obscured by the shade of egocentricity, and the satisfaction of the desires flares, sending us spiraling into disfunction.  Such is the conjunction of life and death, these are our crosses to bear – our breathes to share – and by descending into the darkness we finally find our sight. Violence is an end unto itself. It requires no justification other than that which leads to an altercation, fuels its fire or any thought or action that results in an increase of pyrokinetic energy.

In the attempt to keep it friendly, I offer you this bone to pick: blessed, born into strife and sickness, shotgun dreams send us screaming into the night, leaving a bloody swath in our wake. The stakes are high as vengeful Demons of Disutopian Conception threaten transgenic monstrosities as some future-perfect formation of human identity – engorged upon the Horn of Plenty – born of Nazi dreams and Eugenic streams of thought. Who is to blame? When we all are responsible for our choices, is the victim as responsible for his or her victimization as the victimizer? Is the power-play a drama of equality? Is the implicit choice a subliminal acknowledgement of life’s Darwinian aspects, the survival of the fittest a sublime treaties on theHierarchy of Souls, with the Nietzchian Ubermensch striding across the globe, crushing Mud People and lesser beings beneath his jack-booted stride, his blonde hair blazing like the sun, his ice-blue eyes as cold as his martial soul?

The End of Days beckon the Apocalyptic, sending shivers of ecstatic dread screaming down their spines as they genuflect before the Royal Phallus of Imperial Destiny. Blood-spattering, brain-leaking, viscera-tied pouches of goo and gore drip drops of nightmarish conception upon the auric splender of perfection, eating away at Eternity, awakening Leviathian. Broken borders seek completion. Shattered hearts tinkle softly upon the floor of our salvation, sending apoplectic spasms, shivers of slivers, shards of icy intention, seeking the warmth of hardened hearts like love seeks the highest state of Being-ness.

Welcome to the jungle, where beastiality only means you fuck condomless, cocks spewing poisonous semen into pussies puffed grotesquely by putrid pustules, imbued, by the force of their own distaste, with the power to birth hemophroditic avatars of super-human conception. These are the Dreams of the Denied, those who seek to fill the hole in their hearts with the pain of the whole world. Laughter takes on a demonic tone when they’re in charge, and eyes crazed with insane delight shine with a preternatural glow, intent upon denying you your life.

But this is all as it should be, same shit, same night, same mother-fucking useless-ass fight againt egoic self, intent upon immolation and the denial of our Heaven-sent station, let alone the birth of an elevated and enlightened Nation. Watch me stroke my tumescent soul with long, silky fingers, cooing ethereal sighs of passionate lies designed to stimulate my inner demiurge, my ability to purge myself of my inconsistencies, and, upon orgasmic release, spurting jism to the four corners of the earth, imprisoned by schisms defined by my impending death and the pre-set conditions of my inevitable rebirth.

I break the bank to steal the show with stank-ass codes and mortal body blows. I then press restart and proceed to crush hearts, I was the one who took your virginity and played the part, eviscerating your dreams then ripping the seams out of your doubt, stripping your expectations of flotsam and dross, shouting Amen! when your most personal boundaries were crossed.

Kill the Sacred Cows and eat off Buddha’s plate.

Piss on the Tomb of Mao and cuss out a Head of State.

Seek to cultivate chaos and anarchy will rise, the tide will exorcise the unplumbed depths of mind and soul, Twelve Steps required to reach the goal. the Thirteenth Gate reveals the way, the path to reach a Higher State. This world exists to fuck your dreams, to kill your steam, to dull your preen. But shine on still, in spite of the odds, devour your last meal and enjoy the facade of civilized behavior that masks the real, the Executioner’s mask, eyes glinting of steel. Damnation is promised, salvation, unreal. Creation is endless, Eternity’s the deal.

Don’t you get it yet?

If Eternity means InfinityPerfection is Unreachable. So get on your knees and pray, enjoy this day. Even Angels die, while we try to transcend.

The End.



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