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7.08.2004
The new war is taking place on the battlefields of our minds. This constant flow of enemy information and neural interperetation. Your reality is a visual minefield just waiting for you to see wrong. Intergalactic cranial warfare. Theatre of madness before your very eyes. You think I'm crazy. I always hear that faint TV hum from wherever I might be. That stream of endless monotony screaming and thrashing at anything free. You fake freedom on the prime time technicolor bathed in pseudo-reality. I’m setting up defenses. Filling my wrinkled memory wallet with anti-bullshit reactors. All the outside factors are slowly becoming nonexistent. I feel blacked out like government documents. Only seeing what I ‘need to see’. Whatever I see is translated into the hypothalymic, but what if it’s sick. What if it’s under attack. The frenzied firefight for stability. I saw the reds battle the whites. All incoming stimulus broken apart into the good and the bad. Before you even blink they thought to think.
So my cerebral civil action isn’t quite giving me the satisfaction that I’m looking for. The whites are sexy and live for the love. The reds are the confrontational type telling the whites to shut the fuck up. They shot electrical beams through the chemical seams creating conscienceness. The EEG glow of the chaos above and below show that homeostasis is based on false cases. Feeling good is just a white dance. A ballet of endorphan orphans looking for a home. The reds are the cops waiting outside and they never let you slide. Sometimes the reds win, but never in Cincinnati. It leaves a scar on the universe driving me to suddenly curse at nothing at all. The words escape with a vocal scrape, and the whites retreat. The difficult drives me to create, it cleans the slate, making room for the whites. Oh how they love the multicolored lights and fresh air nights. I try to avoid the Friday night fights on the dirty third. The reds feed off the grit and greed the drunken need to fuck with my friends.
So my cerebral civil action isn’t quite giving me the satisfaction that I’m looking for. The whites are sexy and live for the love. The reds are the confrontational type telling the whites to shut the fuck up. They shot electrical beams through the chemical seams creating conscienceness. The EEG glow of the chaos above and below show that homeostasis is based on false cases. Feeling good is just a white dance. A ballet of endorphan orphans looking for a home. The reds are the cops waiting outside and they never let you slide. Sometimes the reds win, but never in Cincinnati. It leaves a scar on the universe driving me to suddenly curse at nothing at all. The words escape with a vocal scrape, and the whites retreat. The difficult drives me to create, it cleans the slate, making room for the whites. Oh how they love the multicolored lights and fresh air nights. I try to avoid the Friday night fights on the dirty third. The reds feed off the grit and greed the drunken need to fuck with my friends.
