The Climate Bullshit TV Channel On Cable

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Good morning law abiding crusher of democracy, we are here in our seats as we are every single morning to keep you occupied by raising questions with a whole Channel On Live telling you all about what we know about something none of us can either control, predict or do anything else than accept the fact that the weather is like the weather is. Some years ago before you were born we had inventors, such great inventors  that invented, thats right, not discovered the term for which we are used to call temperatures. In a range from 5 to 35 percent out of a total 100 we are certified to take you on a journey diving into speculations on how high or how low they’re gonna be, just maybe, somewhere near where you may walk around at around some time as long as that son of a bitch, the sun crosses over our sky causing us constantly that we’re alive, and in the end is just another lame duck excuse to keep the sleepers in their beds 24/7 which is defined in our network’s constitution as a primary goal, the other to act as the information shown and spoke of is of vital relevance to anyone under the layers of ozon (which we refrain from talking about shrinks and dims) – vital as everything that our competitors do over at The Sport Channel, The Shop Channel, the Bible Scandal Channel, the Bible Channel, The NEWS channels are kind enough with their status to get us VIP tickets to Springsteen in August and next week an important meeting will be held, if all feel fresh and well, about raising the number of female co-workers to another minimum level despite the Supreme Court, the Electoral College, The Pentagon, White House, UN Building and JFK airport and all cafeterias around rely upon. After taking you down memory lane showing you how the weather was today, moving on to commercial, boobs and hotlines for victims of mass shootings executed before the NRA got their natural hold of them. As a fetus in their grandmother’s womb. If you still haven’t got that sleep out of your eyes what I will do is hit repeat.

Good morning law abiding crusher of democracy, we are here in our seats as we are every single morning to keep you occupied by raising questions with a whole Channel On Live telling you all about what we know about something none of us can either control, predict or do anything else than accept the fact that the weather is like the weather is. Some years ago before you were born we had inventors, such great inventors  that invented, thats right, not discovered the term for which we are used to call temperatures. In a range from 5 to 35 percent out of a total 100 we are certified to take you on a journey diving into speculations on how high or how low they’re gonna be, just maybe, somewhere near where you may walk around at around some time as long as that son of a bitch, the sun crosses over our sky causing us constantly that we’re alive, and in the end is just another lame duck excuse to keep the sleepers in their beds 24/7 which is defined in our network’s constitution as a primary goal, the other to act as the information shown and spoke of is of vital relevance to anyone under the layers of ozon (which we refrain from talking about shrinks and dims) – vital as everything that our competitors do over at The Sport Channel, The Shop Channel, the Bible Scandal Channel, the Bible Channel, The NEWS channels are kind enough with their status to get us VIP tickets to Springsteen in August and next week an important meeting will be held, if all feel fresh and well, about raising the number of female co-workers to another minimum level despite the Supreme Court, the Electoral College, The Pentagon, White House, UN Building and JFK airport and all cafeterias around rely upon. After taking you down memory lane showing you how the weather was today, moving on to commercial, boobs and hotlines for victims of mass shootings executed before the NRA got their natural hold of them. As a fetus in their grandmother’s womb. If you still haven’t got that sleep out of your eyes what I will do is hit repeat.

Airportstar

Pretty faces on the headlines and they leave me nothing but my name
I saw the grid keeps multiplying and I pretend to feel no guilt

Pretty faces

The virgin weeps lying through her teeth

Pretty faces

The virgin has buried something underneath

Pretty faces

Pretty faces

Roadland

I met a man the other day
He said his name was Hemingway
Just another soul to stray
To try to read and stack away

I once worked as a servant
Nervous weren’t working merchants
So I quit and fell earnest hungry
Introverted in, in, into the current

I drove up high I drove there steep
Hung low under or above your feet
Lung love clove lingering street
A road sign, leading me to roadland

No more crying, said the crier
No more frying, said the friar
Use these lines to read again
Use once and useless then

I find myself at loss for words
I find myself at the end towards
A road unchanged, destined to gain
My empty shell, my house of cards

Yellow said to purple ‘slow it down’
He was spinning spiral-bound
Last night I heard the Hellish sound
The barking of the reaper’s hound
Green said to yellow ‘stop’
Blue has no more pills to pop
Indigo and Emerald and the last living General
in between the carnival and slaughter houses
I refuse to say its name
I refuse to play this game

I make my way making up
Im joining in another club
I lie and glide and fly as cherubs
To the rim of my last supper cup

Silvery somewhere around near here
Something golden lies buried where
I dug it down as William Shakespeare
Dug up his script King Lear

Names a character to play
On the radio, In the roadland
On the road, In a radioland
Beneath all this far behind

Zero hours to make in miles
A million ways two million lies
One to the nurses killing flies
Another for the searcher’s spying wives

Run, run, run along
Sun, sun, sun among
The sea sea sea
What do you seek?
After another brutal
mischievous
meltdown
week
in this roadland
i can’t stand
anymore colors
or writers
of flappers
flip
splash
flush down

The Astronaut

(Who the Astronaut might be – allegedly)

I3 years ago tonight, and the coral reef reflected the moments before the light.
You and me ages old, but always in love, like a couple doomed to fail to love
Like we love the sea and sky beyond above, spheres in colors never seen before.
And like a fool I saw the sun as bright. Before the Astronaut ascended me the sacred wisdom, of swollen light, ultra violet, violent green, sharp as a bayonet strummed as might. Shining boy.

Shining boy with his harp and wings and wigs and things. To trick tourists and florists and fluorescent jihadists at a safe distance. From the sunrise.

13 years ago it came as a bloop. A sound from the deep of a loop being played on repeat like some evidence of alien roots. It was the Astronaut walking on the water barefoot. The Astronaut or Angel or Clairvoyant blabbermouth showing signs to whom that is open.
Imagine a door with no key, or frame, or keychain, always open and no one to yell beause it afterwards never will be the same.

You and me ages old.  The Astronaut cannot be bought nor sold. A vision is for everyone, I was told. Imagine us diving. The water outside of Nippon, svimme is the new swim with me.

Just like a soft belly gaining on vision, knowledge and doors without always unlocked.
The astronaut may be the last chance someone ever got, to trespass the threshold through the door and lo and behold, no hate the Astronaut is love, the astronaut has a strong hold
gaining foothold preparing an electric jolt. Like the bloop just bigger and louder

Like a volcano evolve and forms into shape after its born, its no better exlanation I have no navigational chords, only hearts minds, and the word as my sword. While I swim with you.
The sun is up, hearts can jonjoin science, but never come close to be such a joke. Tesla might or might as well have not – created The Astronaut. But wherever he now resides and rests his bones, he laugs at us like cartoon paroles parodies so near but lightyears lost.

She sings the song og summer. He wants to be the sky above the river. You and me and our praise for being lovers. Without anything physical besides mutal shiver under the impression we are heroes.
That is what the Astronauts always wants. If you arent happy with this vague description.

Try it yourself, we were all born as cripples. And the dream dripping, and not it’s ending like the earthquake, the bloop and the big dipper.
You and me. Becoming Astronauts. Watch out for the jolt.

 

The Angelus

https://soundcloud.com/mars-roadkill/the-angelus

(Sanity’s requiem for promises true to its word version)

O’Holy Night the dawn
Rises
Rises again for the first time
First day after the first
Week

As the Creator exhales his
Drunk, barren, woolen, softer treadmill of reason
With his residue disciplines its Arch
Angels properly
Weak
Wrong side
Of the ladder
To the

Claims The Angelus, is that a claim?
It was the first of the fallen
the fallen nine
As rocket science rocket man rocket breach
Acting rockets shoots down like healthy
Broken Arrows.
Rotten Robot. Another claim.
Another rock is why just not
Why just because

With his sinister troubled mortified
Civil war scars of it
The angel, Claimer Killer, Question mark, there lies,
A, the
Deepest truth,
Hollow howl,
Of the
Real Creator

And so for advancing
developing,
staggering,
lingering, a nun
Trafficking, les premier homme
the question
Mark
The middle
Thing

O’ holy as the parent of this immortal creature
Let the heaven’s rage.

And the Creator spins the
Of lucid, elusive, yearning, yawing and yielding
To Surf
On
To Hold
On the
Wheel
Down to live amongst
Men

Not as watchers
Not as men
Not as prophets
Not as thieves
Not as beggars
Not as kettle farmer
As a fallen

Where it dwells today on
Sweet wrinkled raisin pillows
Black as ravens against
Its arch
Angel wings, demon breath
Angel dance, demon dance dance dance
Angels spins on the
Wheel

A big city
In the West
A big sign
A big tent
A big freak show lair
It saw a passing there
And hides its luminous
skin deep within
Promises promises promising
Eternal darkness, a
Requiem
For Sanity
For Government Disciple Hieroglyphs
Laughing On the
Fireplace
Fire scent, sense of smell,
Angel dust,
It is
Waiting.

Always a drumming rhythm attracts
Attention at amongst apostles
Afterglow
Warning of Creator
And its sense of revenge
Claim. Creator. Game
Change

About its own intentions and own inventions and information as indictment fashioned drug declining
Super mega jupiter
Ultra dosage
Sinister sane, citizen marx, oscar wild thing reasoning for eviction at heaven’s
Gate
the Garden immortal never claims
Clings to beg a differ, calculating
Every sin,
Every fallen wing
Saying to the
Angels of the sinister angel
City in simplicity: nothing

As for most of moist colored dips of paper fled
Tumbleweeds fucks hummingbirds, tropical
Killer bees, the serpent, the beast, aztec d n a
Amphibian ancestors tell their peers, to throw
A scenery of society will cause a difference involuntarily
Invulnerability imperfections
On its own reflects
As close to nothing, nothing, nada as impossibly hopelessly superb

The figurine that is known as the angelus
Casts a terror horror image of a
Superpower, Opera lover, lightning strikes.
However
Lots of grace
Ham and the 23 psalm
Grace

In fallen angel speed down to earth,
Its figure is both elegant embryo formed
It makes the spine
Go downhill
Lightning strikes again
Nearer than that toy sided tipsy television think tank theory
Before It sucks out all of the words, on which it feeds
I have to reveal just one small speculation
Sinister sin suddenly shaking suits spacesuit
Its energy on me
Question
Mark
Question

I have to claim
The angelus
Doesn’t seem to be evil
As its sitting still
Reading of denmark, of mesopotamian kiss of portugal:
Reading of requiems for sanity, destiny, Athena, Pandora,
Ready film it
As takes on wings
Then puts on motorcycle
Glasses

And so it flies away lightning speed
Over the valley to feed
As said on word, on thought, on questions
Randomly
Suffering
As
You and me
Everyone is a promise
Broken
Sounds
Its last recorded revolution
Claim moment

The angelus
The first birth, les premier homme
Of sacred knowledge, informative, did never devil!
In reality out of realms ,did never ever in history
Never did , (holy holy)

Reveal to us
A thing

My Wall

Have I gone missing like the good doctor Holmes in Sir Doyle’s futuristic tale of universities, mystical chants or disappeared into the flag without value flying in the wind like dense teeth, like some black jungle smoke from the papal conclave after the first Armenian presidential general election sings me into another vision before midnight on this midwinter tuberculosis night, a vision is shown me as I ascend my horse, my staff, my wife, my children, as I descend from all of my nightmares to unlimited freedom. Freedom shapes itself brilliantly chameleon like bits of spider web before me, ancient musical instruments play in the distance

On the back of my horse at the speed of nakedness as only freedom unlimited can provide I hear the melody of the song of the first earthly dreamt dream of man, the strings speak as if they had their tongues cut off, distant, blurry, slow and with hesitation before and after and during every syllable,

become the church, the fireplace, the ashtray gasoline cities and all the time the music follows me as if to whisper in my ear; trespass, my friend, poor over yourself once but not now, choose something from the highest point of the land, raw meat, gold and silver, diamonds and pearls, or merely a dead cadaver half eaten mole but not yet, after this first of my nearly never ending wall of tasks.

Deliver. Deliver. Deliver. Galloping over desolate deserts and thick thundra’s full of ice the color of rice, the color of surrender, more white than the actual color of surrender, but this permafrost over these steppes fakes not only their caves, their bearded women, their wooden lake, their plastic sanctuary and ice-cold fires, yes; they also fake their whiteness.

After listening to a sudden shattering of a shatter of a glass like the whole of the moon had come crashing down before my very eyes, somebody, some woman comes towards me, and she carries with her bells, bells that chime of independence, bells that chime of phony and ersatz ways of tricking jokers and jesters and magicians and talk show hosts into their endless dwelling and coal mining caves one hundred thousand miles below the frost, she comes towards me. Is that a song her mouth is forming? It’s getting colder, so cold that even this Lady of Nine of gasoline and serpentine, of oil, of wood, and incense sticks forms? Is that for me or simply to not make her stone cold lips freeze making it impossible to eat through mouth or nose? It’s getting colder darker, more black, in the middle of white. I slow down.

She slows down. I grab my staff, she grabs her wool overcoat and we pause our motion just for as long as to enjoy the moment, then after hours of visions and faking and numbness of cold we lay eyes on each other and at that moment our horse vanishes, like the great vanishing point, into the night which could be day because it all and everything looks the same here, we both know, and we both forget, when we meet, I kneel, she prays, I eat, she stays. We light a fire. Not sharing one single word.

How far do I have to tread? She begs for my mercy asks me in nearly her own voice if she can come along on my wall of tasks and help me do them quicker and more efficient as a result of a double cheeseburger inside a globe in some shipwreck, radiance, betrayal, black as ravens uniform eyes she has got without any trace of glitter that provides her mouth never to properly smile before immense pain is released from God know where. She sucks my dick, she cuts off her head in my hands, she shouts, she grunts, she loves, and cooks me a meal of wild goose but I know even one bite is enough to make me into a flat stuntman husband slaving away with rotten teeth with no glory left in any glory hole in the Galaxy, effectively delaying my wall of tasks even more, I cannot accept. I cannot speak. Like some great family secrets sworn to hide I keep my mouth away from fish, from cow, from pork, from, fish, from chicken, from horse, from fish, from deer, from dog, from fish, from the meat of a dying bird with gravy and pommel noisettes. I don’t even have a beer.

Later when she is burning at the stake, I will have to keep my distance to the same fire that made me for a brief ray of time makes me remember warmth, because this fire is as green as the ice is permanent and I could easily drown in the flames together with the beauty, I have no horse, I don’t even have a sip of beer, I just move. Move, be in motion, always, always do not forget to move, said the Ace of Spades and the Alligator in perfect harmony, forming for themselves a howling choir as the clock ticks away around midnight. My internal human clock never fails to surprise, even impress the best of men, but to me I could not have been blessed with a bigger curse, always in motion. Don’t forget to move. So I don’t.

The sun is shining down on the prairie of the land I have reached within the hour of 3, here starts and continues my tasks as they so nicely line up making the great wall of China look like a children’s act, mixed together with my heartbeat the rhythm of the explosives I carry in my belly starts to tick louder, maybe my ears just plays a trick, but as the sun is shining down upon nothing I realize. My first task is done, now I have to set free the demons of the troubled journey posing and yearning to rest in the sand together wind ants, and singing prophet’s, and sexy jesuits and beheaded marqui’es barking from inside my head, desperate to be unleashed out the way they would have been forced in. No, stay in motion. Don’t forget to move. So I don’t, I rise and heads straight for the next tasks hanging on the wall like empty bottles and shells from another Santa Claus drunken and praised my his children towards the edge of how much torture one deadly man indeed can handle.

Next task. So far, so good. So what.