We must decide tomorrow, even if game theory says otherwise.

Think of these little people, all death and gone in spite of all that magnificent gadgets,

Put a spell over these pods right here and summon some of the departed in their last moments of exhausted persistence!

Every time I regard quantum chromodynamics reconstitution (QCDR), some ghost walks over my grave.

See that little panel, once connected to the operation triad schism, they were so short and fluffy…so alive… 

-at that point Cerleen interrupted, half smiling, a mysterious backlight filling her eyes:

O Mistress of Usefulness, still cranky sore of envy for the triad operators? Or is it a fetish thing?

Uluguanda Melissandre de Melville Ernestine Arrivedere Gefährlichkeit, also known as the Red Back kick of Desolation, Threader of the Black Dawn, chairwoman of the departed technology restoration guild, DTRG, suddenly laugh a LOL, her head high, all body as cheerful as Times were allowing.

You little pervert!

You know how I admire Triad Entanglement Augmentation, even if we only can grasp at its full potential…

You know how Silicon Age Sapiens, how SAS used to talk about Guacamole, my dear orbiting another?

Well Professor, obscure pre-departed references are your forte, not mine.

“That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse”


O me, O life? - said Cerleen all in a whisper

O life, that’s the question, we must opt for our sake

As starlight and filters allowed all that blueish atmosphere to get some Metaphysical out of a standoff, true was that the point was of decision.

On the other side, debating over sore feet and an empty stomach is heavily counterintuitive. Against results-oriented logic. 

So, let’s face the game over a nice table of seafood and a château Orsdorf 53…

Agreed. Concerning that Guacamole reference…

O, Shut Up, O young beast, O me, O life, do You know why I am called back kick of Desolation?

I must say I really would love to hear it again, Mistress of…

Shoo!

It was a misty evening after the battle of the centipede stampede, and the yellow glow of Varholyn seemed to paint an obscure anxiety veil over…

Both women walked as if it was an ordinary after turn chat, leaving the scene where science and history would converge once more dealing with forces beyond zeitgeist. 

But that, that is another chapter, still to be unraveled.

Seems to be a fascination,
In a time of Brazilian Wax
And shinning Cunni exposé
Legs open far, allegoric dorsum
As an Inventiveness of Self
Body Art categorically Alluring
 
Cohabitation, Tenderness
 
Seems to endure a spread taste
For bargains involving the Anima
Especially when almost nobody
Really believes having one anymore.
 
Maybe our grandparents had one
People think to ease
The restlessness
Of the acceptance,
The weak not conforming
With the loss of the traditional
Afterlife, whatever the form
It may reveal
It is
After all
Some place of rest to the worthy.
 
One of the great dangers
Of the nascent century
Is
(And now when gaining adulthood)
And
Still remains
The Revival of Faith.
(Are people gone collectively insane?)
(Embrace your eccentricities)
 
Sailing a Sea of Tolerance,
Could I Dearly ask of you
More wax less faith?
Avoid the latter.
 
Faith is a dangerous motivator.
Faith has been killing since the Dawn
Of Sentient consciousness
Made Glorious Shrine by a son
Of somebody
Sometimes believing being
The Son of Something,
Light, Fire, Morning, Gaia
Or Not the Owner but its Son.
 
Usually with Capitals like Lord, Prophet,
Or even the Arian Race,
Or the Masters of Disgrace.
 
Yes, don’t fool yourself
This is all a Faustian Bargain.
 
Be proper, don’t disdain
But how not to
When organized
Religion
Mutates into the same Conglomerate
Logic that transverse society?
 
TED talks are more “religious”
In a sad way
That the politically correct sermon
Of Sunday
(Hail to Theology & Epiphany)
 
Why are people so fond of exorcisms, vampire or werewolves?
Are those sects more accessible than health care?
(In an Extensive meaning which includes aesthetic
And genetic treatments to say the least)
Well, I’d rather become a Vampire.
It seems a relatively open and functional group...
 
Don’t give up on Caustic words to an Acid world.
 
Is it related to the plutocratic society
That dictates how the workforce
Will be like in ten, twenty or thirty years?
 
Like as in predicting 117th Tenessine?
“”Island of stability”
 
Are there enough similarities
To invoke fundamental questions?
 
Shame upon myself if I would ever give up
To your manipulative delusional promises
Shaped to get the compliance of an idiot.
 
Being an idiot doesn’t make
A complete weird stupid wacko.
So much was apparently given, but...
NOT.
 
Neolution Fringe?
As in Netflix?
Don’t make me laugh.
Rather have a deserted epitaph
 
Humanity is improving skills with 10% of science
And 90% of resilience
The neo slaves, indoctrination in action.
We map ourselves and (who?)
Choose the buttons to pull.
 
A truce could be called to reflect
But only Acceleration is at the table
Solving the problems created
By
“Those who came before”
Sacrifice now, protect
“Generations to Come”
Blindfolded to reality, misty shore
On the edge of a world not only uncertain
 
But planned by an elite smaller than ever
Controlling a network powerful and new,
Fast pace always telling tales about education
 
Teaching us emotional control to stand after suffering.
 
Who really stands over the death bodies
Of wars and revolutions fought
Of unjustified disease, of countries turned to ashes?
How many times we had to rebuild over a century?
Just say who won the contracts
Tell whose benefit all that pain has become
 
Tell it
If your man made character
If your growth personality still allows it.
You tool, you fool,
Come and see.
 
A believer Golem was manufactured
Out of Human Clay,
Only to dissolve anyway.

We aspire, leave, walk, and run,
And yet, some feel like drowning.

Return an assumed impossibility .
Road runs asunder under our feet,
The devil's beneath in synchronicity,
Earth rotates and yet we stand,
While
Babies become masters of chess.

While incompleteness is all around.
Nude feet feeling the grasshopper at dew,
Two seemingly legs still standing…

Dancing with an allegro cadence,
Laughing suddenly among people
Running imperturbable to their jobs
In concentrated cadence, tidy appearance.

Nothing returns to face mr long face,
Time indefatigable progression,
Which is subjective for a mortal
Who feeds on moments long past,
And build, shape your individuality,
Admonished aesthetics empty of me.

So laughable your attempts, so fable,
As a polygon and 4 picks, not a table.

Since I came to this world of inevitable demise
I understand how to despise the ripper
Like I turn my back to any stripper.

And there is nothing of complex
Nor formulas, nor inspiration
Not the progress of the Nation
Or simple Awolination.

This is all and all is dream which
Is the witches plan to our sin,
That plain of greed I have refused,
That rattlesnake I've always been,
Serpent leaving marks in the sand
Until the sand storm's demand.

Signs of mutiny on the Bounty of fear,
Captain, o captain, my dearest dear.

The pariah’s chant should be regret and omission of words.
The outcast song should be lament full or else null
The persecuted should have the voice of the oppressed
And yet, hummingbirds have no voices, only movement is allowed
Those hearts beats drumming like Taylor’s band
Those hearts like those who run for their lives
Those legs in incessant fight or run mode, all sides
Engaged at the multi-thread
The ethereal entangled head
Fighting to find its starboard
Fleeing from the menacing horde
Departed from Desolation destination decay
As I can with ease confess is this world’s way
 
Causes and effects are abstractions
An there’s no rest for the ruined wicked
Those who, being no one,
Albeit appointed, not to be ignored,
Hanged from a last thin branch
Work as slave in a Dakota country ranch
Those pigs not so equal to others,
That choose their fate by deeds done
Exuding sour from their visceral sin
And living a false live made of thin tin
Cause iron’s much consideration to them
 
Gypsies read their fates with awe and terror
Prophecies are spoken in baixo tone, repercuting the underbelly with infra sounds
It’s all about that bass, it’s all bass
Under 20, causing sensation of deep panic.
 
Memories of drunk lots of broken bottles
Now used as a collar to the enslaved one,
The one even the reaper refuses to accept in his dark lap.
Those who want to compose but never get a rap.
 
The tribe of one man without dog, no rabbit foot
A man who’s feeling so aloof
A person with a bad boot, a murderer soul, a tongue a foul,
Rage in a broken vase,
Walk without any base.
 
So there’s the snake dressed in human shape,
So identified to suffer in vain, so certain of the surrounding disdain,
That a sense of dark angel enters him,
Surrounds him in such a way that only
The beast of earth and sea feel no fear
When he stares with eyes of apparent black dead, evil intent.
 
And the children before they drink the wine of otherness
And join the collective, which number is many,
Bringing fear to all warlocks and witches, vampires and werewolves
His shadow so strange and indomitable he himself cannot control it.
 
So when the tower clock rang the last twelve strikes one more was added
And for that day on his secret name was thirteen,
The one against his kin,
Dangerous for himself and indifferent to the indignation,
Of the fellow enemy or the rage of close friends,
Foe of all fiends, searching the pact of the crossroads.
 
And longing to sign it with his pure blood.
So ancient as the stone were Gabriel stood
When his brother was left to fall in a tail of derail.

So, mother fucker as barras são pesadas
As missões são erradas, de ré, luar escuro,
No fim nada distribuído fica preso ou puro,
O código está corrompido e tá tudo fodido. 

O rap é um jogo de matar e rondar,
Ninguém nunca sabe onde vai dar,
Que a loira rola louca e chegou a hora. 

Tu pensava? eu, qualquer, não era capaz,

Tu julgavas que era um so-mente rapaz,
Era um rapaz arruinado a chapar no papai
E ninguém pode dizer ou ousará dizer vai
É o nosso amor de chegar, festa, droga e brincadeira!

É, te falo da poeira que que está para vir!

Marés de poeira e zoeira de bebedeira,
Uma onda de areia nos Emiratos,
Ondas, pó, fugues sem dó nem sapatos,
Monhês de triste manhã antecedida
De noite, ainda menos, paus sem riste. 

Não me importa quem sejas,
Não sei nem curo onde estejas,
Entende o que queiras, faz asneiras. 

Os Titãs aguardam no subfloor
Vai lá e knock out that door,
Arranja uns grandes ombros para caminhar. 

Vai e deixa rolar, vê lá onde vai dar.
Vai e deixa rolar, vê lá onde vai dar.
Canta, ode à va-gina na linha da partida.
Despedida do surdo em prol a um absurdo. 

There’s a blackboard behind a dream
Full of equations as developments,
Full of math of how to renew a stream,
There’s a need to maintain our natural world
Which one can clearly see if you look right.

There’s a blackboard behind a dream,
Full of greedy politicians and superbia,
Full of interests in delaying evolution
There’s an urge to uphold a status quo,
Easy to realize if you hear it right.

Question of perseverance to balance environment,
Vision to accept unraveling of new menaces and deal,
Contract, organize, to calmly fight against the big steal.

Over the next decades change will be so fast, insane,
No one can assure or ascertain if organizations, ready,
Will deal with rapid change, achieving something humane,
For bad instincts, greed, lust for power,
Known for hard to tame,
May put fame and glory
Above survival or history.

What’s the drive keeping me on,
While continuing to ignore when I hear come on,
Deaf to my desires, blind to evidence, no defense
Stance after stance not knowing how to dance
Move void of choreography
Discourse house, cacophony
Indisposed, once high spirited, won’t you come?
 
In the sands of time I seek thee
You, oblivious of once being me
As indecision mates with suspicion in a dark marriage
Celebration of decadence, tainted flowers, stench of cans
An imaginary line of jalopy vans
Fugue in a crazy run, rabid horses, Gothic carriage.
Because you could have had all that and more
Still reserving all the rest you adore, family and lore
Erudition and folklore, the red moon,
An embrace, your own pace.
 
Life is only a shadow of doubt, forgetful of about,
Cards already played returning to the deck
Unrelenting, intransigent, not meant to be conducted,
Void of leniency,
Pieces always fitting, too late to make sense, steel grim.
And I, always turning stones, looking for fantasy, whim.
 
Opportunities come and pass, epochs stare as I never dare.
Praised be my progeny, may they be free
Independent, adverse to their father,
May they look upon things with humility
Distance themselves of conceptual artifices, stay natural
Cultivate the body through activity, fitness is neuronal.
 
Drown in fears, lost friend, there’s no you.
You asphyxiated in your imaginary and were torn to pieces
You inhabit the entrails of gavials and gators
And still there is some of your stench over some bayou...
 
Turning into the snake author to this incoherence
Materialization of an insane nation of your savage natures
All of you frustrations, layers of auto piety you cannot hide
As ugly as the worst inside of you, stopping your thrive...
 
Agnostic by social correctness,
Atheistic without distress
Pantheistic Xantoist, Buddhist Hindu
 
J’étais très jeune quand je lisais le singe nu
Je croyais que Mircea Eliade était une jolie femme
Tant d’erreurs dans ce chemin qu’au bout, je l’aime
Et les yeux d’un homme parle comme personne
S’il y avait une interprète pour les montrer.
C’est la raison, en écoutant radio Québec,
J’ai décidé d’écrire en français san rimer
Langue que j’adore car ma nature est plein d’émotions
Et je ne suis pas capable d’être petit et vain longtemps.
 
Comme la bonanza doit succéder à la rage des vents,
Ici isolé, plein d’amour, sans clé,
J’attends seule depuis des années.

Tanto é o ódio que nos cobre como manto
Quanto é a vontade de ajudar, para nosso espanto
Queremos sangue de quem nos magoa
e assim boa vontade por aquele ferido,
como nós ferímos, assim salvamos.

Ou diga-se: alguns.
Uns de mármore, outros de mel
uns de fel, de basalto, de olhos no alto
seus sensores medem adentro terra
Aqueles que viram o telescópio para a vizinha, 
os que preparam os filtros para o eclipse do Sol, total, que se avizinha.

Os crescidos e os grandes,
Especialmente as meninas.
Alguns já nascem grandes e destacam-se,
A sua presença com uma única qualidade
Que assusta, dá arrepios, aperto no peito,
Vontade de sorrir, ensejo de fugir,
Uns nem estão lá e estão, como um tufão.

Quem mais vale, se os vivos se os partidos?

Tenho pensado e pesado e matutado, 
Não sou um coitado que se debruça sobre alto passadio
Nem um arredio de franja de reflexão ociosa 
Não é questão caprichosa, é uma opção ponderosa,

Pois nenhum pode ter primazia sem se quebrar a possível utopia
De existirmos nós simultánea e não sucessivamente. 

Escravos da seta do tempo impávido,
Que nos torna presa de um ser-se ávido
Pelo hic et nunc, o carpe diem,
Pois que diferença fará um dia, um dia, 
Se a diferença fores tu meu amor que te espero,
Se a diferença for um dia de limpa energia,
Ou o olhar de esperança de todas as crianças dentro da mesma dança? 

Quebrar a seta desse impávido sujeito
Desse rei nunca coronado, 
Um dia há-de ser destronado,
Conceito ultrapassado dum existir partilhado!

(horizonte do evento, revela o teu momento, desvela a tua corona!)

Recordo: amanhã não, só depois de amanhã.
A luz que nos invade nem sempre está presente,
Assim como o pobre não sabe, e há muito está doente.

Ídolos, deuses e modelos, tê-los ou não tê-los,
O que não implica que estrela cadente
Atire a inação a um verso de antiga prelecção,
Ou episódios de destruição aos cravos da revolução.

O calor da tarde impele a sair,
A vontade continua a ser de partir,
E será a verde, aberta, janela, 
Os ruídos de fora mais hoje, agora.
Por sua, grande, culpa, dela, janela de esperança.
Sem sensação sem noção esqueço e permaneço
Na interminável demora.