Wednesday, 29 December 2010

blabbering

What if we are not real? Nothing we work for or achieve has any meaning. What if we are a figment of my imagination, my subconscious plays you all like my own little private barbie army? Or someone else's, in this case a higher being who really is imagining everything, and none of this is real.

But then I don't believe in higher beings, thus I must reject that thought. However, what if that higher being were a figment of the imagination of a regular being? That would make us twice figments of imagination.

Then how about if we are real, but we have no meaning. None of our actions are real, and in the long run don't have any effect on anything because in the end we are smaller than an electron in the sahara desert when compared to the universe; to the real reality. If that one electron disappears, perhaps there is a slight imbalance in the atom, but looking at the desert as a whole it makes no difference. Does it?

So if our actions have no meaning in the long run, why do we exist? We are not here by chance, but by a very long chain of events, as we all know... but why? Does there need to be a why? Can we not just exist for the sake of existing? Why do we exist? Can we simply answer: "because we want to"?

Hang on a second, so if there is no reason for us to exist, and our actions may not be real, then we can do whatever the fuck we want? If our actions aren't real then the consequences can't be real either, right? So let's go on a murder spree because life has no meaning! Okay maybe our actions are real and have real consequences...

But do they matter in the long run? Do they really? Does that mean we shouldn't care, just because in a million years no one will give a shit? Well I don't know. Are we just hard wired by society to give a shit? Because it helps us to survive as a species, and all that biological blabber.

Because I'm an atheist, and this all goes on in my mind, am I more likely to actually go on a killing spree, do drugs and whatnot? It probably makes no difference in the long run of things, in a million years no one will know of me or you, and perhaps not even of Earth at all- I can do whatever the fuck I want, really.

But I don't want to go on a killing spree.

Let's love.

Sunday, 26 December 2010

Friday, 24 December 2010

Nasty fuckin' christmas


(Fuck yeah undercuts)

I hate christmas. 
Enjoy.

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

A Man

He looked about with a suspicious eye. To the left, glaring at the old hag with her hunched back and her stained babushka. To the right where he saw nothing more than a wet long field of green grass, mown into a buzzcut like the buzzed head of buzzing military police. Bastards.

He took a staggering step to the right, correcting himself with an elegant swish of the hips, and bringing his flask to his lips. The grass was moist and cold and soft, and soon his thin legs could carry him no longer. He found himself on his arse on the ground, his knotty fingers knotting the grass around his knuckles. It was so cold his breath moved in a cloud of steam, and then stood hovering above him. Another gulp of vodka, of holy water, holy water to an atheist in the grass with the water seeping through his trousers.

A slimy thing made its way to his ring finger, and wrapped itself around it. This is the closest he had ever come to marriage. He picked up his hand, and with the other dipped his index finger in the holiest of waters. He tried to give some to the poor creature wrapped around his finger, but little did he know you can't tell which end is the crapper and which is the mouth. Kind of like him, you don't know which end spews the shit, really. So he tried both, there was a 50 percent chance he would get it right anyway.

He said whatever, and drank some more, lay on his back and stretched out his bony fingers. This thing lived underground, making tunnels with its head or its arse, no direction in life whatsoever. Sometimes it would come out when it rained, and let the cool rain splatter on and around it. Then it would go back underground into darkness and nothingness, waiting to be dug out by children wanting to fish. Maybe they could have children, his new wife and him.

The slimy thing fell off, sliming on his face and his preciously grown beard. A beard defines a man in Russia. If you have no beard you are a, how do you say? Homosexual. If he ever met one of those homosexuals he would curse them right out, tell them exactly who they are and how they are wrong. He'd put them underground. He stood up, staggering and cursing, wiping this slimy thing off his splendid beard. Splendidly, he staggered off somewhere where the worm never saw him again. This man, it thought, I wonder which end spews the shit, really.

Sunday, 19 December 2010

Friday, 17 December 2010

Pretty Little Thing

Pretty little thing,
Your pretty little mouth's been cut up
And your pretty little eyes are quiet.

Your little mouth
Is in pretty pieces, and they have tried
To turn you into a jew.

Your pretty bleeding
Mouth, and your throat are pretty dry
From all the pork pork pork they shoved down.

You're a pretty jew
Or converted, for only a jew can be cut up
And made to chew chew chew their little sin and their own skin.

Pretty little thing,
It's called a cat that cut you up
When your pretty parents are holding the knife.

Your little mouth,
Coughing and spitting the sins and the ham
And the jew inside you is screaming.

Your pretty bleeding
Heart, and your head hanging low
It's called a pretty cat with pretty a sharp claw.

You're a pretty little jew,
Or not a jew in fact at all, you all love a jew
But your pretty little mouth's been cut up, and you're made to chew chew chew.