It’s just as if super-consciousness sets in a bowl of underrated chicken soup gourmet. Will the flavour favour you or is my youth for ever gone in wild dreams of unaccomplished professions? Old junk new junk. That’s what I am about today. Mesmerizing, meandering about in the everlasting underlayment of my thoughts.
Condensation, conversation, commemoration, construction. Thoughts aloof. That’s what I seek today. Evaporation, emulation, emancipation. Old junk new junk. That’s what I am about. That’s what I am alas but about. Permeated into biology lessons of survival and misfit, mischief and misery, as if I were but in the sky and seek to reach beyond the scope of boundaries blessed by bravery burning brimming bleeding beyond bed and breakfast barbarian bed sitting chair sitting house sitting beyond Old junk new junk. I want fresh junk, as long as it remains just junk. Any junk, as long as it’s unpublished junk. A new song, a new computer program, a new website, a new identity, a new anything, just give me something else than second hand cocktails.
Where are the new insights, into dreams of achievement and long gone garlic stench? I write letters to people I never sent. I plan to write to people I never do. I undergo my faith as life the ruler of my destiny. It is your destiny! Can I shake it off? Can I burn it or kill it? Old junk new junk that’s what I am called upon today.
I feel cracked down by bullets of light into sheds of unfurnished refurnished ironically astute inclinations while speaking into one’s immortality of umbilical megalomaniacal Old junk new junk. I love new junk! I love just thee as the brimming surface of inprisonned berserkian vikingly stabs of consciousness. I am that that thee can’t ever seek, discover, discriminate or even ascertain. I am the ghost. The darth ghost publisher of underrated overconfident poetry-prose incriminated by society and its super powers of bullshit through canine fables of wealth and prestige porn schools of everlasting unsatisfied uncanny achievements of the body and mind that never ever complain of failure and robotic stupidity of badly programmed human droids.
Random error at every glitch. That’s what I am about. Randomly seeking for Nirvana, the Upanishads of my own making called Old junk new junk into concubines of rhyme and poesy and poetry just as the day is ever changing. Just as the weather never the same is. Every day a new verse to call upon. Yesterday never existed. Today I make Old junk new junk. Tomorrow I make Old junk new junk, as I load the cd-rom of dvd’s to embellish my new hard drive I fill your day with my poetry-prose of immigrationally surfaced unchecked grammatical errors just for the record.
Yes I write this down. ‘Cos then my life makes sense as a jam pot jackpot intrusion of privacy that cradles through unknown highways of unknown marmites of unknown spreads of British origin that I used to eat as a unknown soldier already then seeking comfort and dust among the beggars and wanderers who too ! didn’t have enough to eat, for the record.
That’s why today we invented the Internet. ‘Cos it takes away the craving and it’s almost free and everybody can publish on it. Even if it’s just my Old junk new junk. It’s a miracle of technology and eco friendly eventually. Soon nothing but everything in digits. Digital ghost hosts that will live their own life. Just as bastards of the past, the digits will know their own combination and take over the world in a thousand years or so. Until then we rule as unaccomplished criminally inclined Mafiosi’s of the lone gone indemnity assurance that calls you to pay for prostitute visits mechanically seeking for your attention through search engines ratings that don’t seem to work properly as long as you don’ t pay for your stuff.
Where am I? I seem to have lost the topic altogether, as I am remaking my old webstation with new domain name and do so intrinsically from the point of view from outer space. The future looks down on you. I look down on you and control the abyss of unknown new Old junk, finding new versions of old versions of new sources of unknown origin and amazing triggers of light in all the colors of the galaxy beyond scanning metrical values into encrypted Egyptian morphology and the ancient worlds for ever gone as the badly programmed droids take over the world and destroy all glitch and kitsch in kirschen color Of Old junk new junk.
Where is the rhyme the meter that will crack you to Pompei, crackpot jackpot, potter of clay of old recordings old technology and Old junk new junk as long as it’s junk and unpublished and comin’ from of writing under the strain of the wisdom of my newly found companion Backpain.
