MOOKIE

Mookie. Mookie. What is a Mookie? Is it a name? A person? An idea? Or an omnipotent, transcendental state of Mind. Mookie -- what do all things mookie have in common? I challenge you to Google it -- this thing, this place, this status, known as a Mookie. It is magical and infamous, should only you venture to encounter its embrace. The Mookie is more than a man, the Mookie is a state of earthly consciousness. And it is eqully nothing at all. Nothing more than a name. A mere conjugation of sounds and conjugates and conjugationates. Mookie. What is a Mookie? Who is a Mookie? Look in the mirror, or your local shiny storefront window before a trash can is flying through it, and you will see a Mookie -- both coward and hero and villain and genius and idiot and savior, rolled into a fleshily convenient package,

CANDY WORLD

Sweeten your mouth! B@stard! Open the lungs of your tounge and breath the sweet taste of an apple for once, or maybe chemicals sweetened towards a cancerous high. Purple, blue, yellow, I give not a smidgen to your cause but moral encompassing: I too eat of the candy, my mouth runt' over with bittersweat delectations. Why do I stress candy? I rather answer with a question: why do you not? Candy: if it rots your teeth, it is the devil in your mouth, tap dancing with the parasites and shuffling down your gums. Candy, candy, candy, sweet but bittersweet, bitter but sweetly sweet. I hate it, it hates me, but gather me in your mind for clarity a dinnerly image, for am it's prey. As I eat it, it eats my soul, and I love it all the more for its raunch and wickedness. Is not this land a Candy World in it's own right?

CHEETOHS

Just moments ago, I ate Cheetohs. And why? They were not particularly good. They were not particularly filling. They were in no way nutritious. They just made me feel like a giant cheese man.

BURGER

What is the Meaning of this thing, this so-called Burger? I have said that it is merely one of many inventions of delicatessen, or rather evolution, that may be sniffed out under the humanic sun, and eated if one dared to eated such a stomach crunching substance as the burger, and its brillo-pad-like ground beef patties. The sum of the term eated, mind you, is such as will hopefully encapsulate the spirit and the sould of this so-called burger, this creeping edible beast that seeks to jump down the tail-pipes of the world's tubing, and clog it all to smithereens. Not that this is a bad thing, or a good thing: I don't know at all. But I am merely an observer -- a watcher -- and at times a doer, like an angel who has far more sense that she or he will allow him or herself to manifest, for fear of ruining the Laughter. I see the burger as the definition of a Global system and culture. If this Global system and culture were an open field, the burger would be a glorious warrior champion, for who the very term "WARMONGER" was created. Burger, or burger, capitalized or not, this creature, made from the infamous cow, and at times beef or tofu or even peanuts mixed with love and ingeniousness, is a bastard and a hero at once, sort of like Brad Pitt's rendition of Achilles. Though I am a liar, I do not digress.

TRANSCENDENTALISM

Transcending what? Where? Who? If Transcendence is a motive, then being is a crime. What do I mean by this? Everything.

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SPACE

The Final Frontier... Or is it? Space, is nothingness, occasioned by the gradation of stars scattered throughout. But beyond it all, what wall lies at the Universe's outer dimensions? Is it this wall that blackens the primordial sky, the ultimate heaven, which is the vast expanse of space? Such a frontier can be traversed in the mind, even without practice. The wisdom of the bodily soul is innate and all-powerful. A god resides in us all, a devil as well. Therefore I theorize: parallel dimensions exist within and without, and we fleshy bodies are crude antennas for a viciously transcendental force. I theorize that parallel spaces occupy the conundrums of the physical universe and the metaphysical brainworld, even those which would alter our genetics, and form us eventually into beams of light. And by us I mean we, or rather the you and I collective.

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RED

Red. Such a color as red. As all colors should be done, it has been studied. But there needs to be more. This color -- study it, smart men of the world, and women too, for there in its crimson clutches lies the secret of life. Red -- so called color of passion. This color is the hue of lifeblood, and blood as well, lifeblood and blood being separate entities (for those of us who are spiritually deaf). With this red blood, the world may be changed, so far as humanic injustice is concerned, and suffering, and corruption. Red; the color of revolution. Use it and wear it well, for there is none other color so precious and potent, so awe-inspiring in the eyes of sentient beings, as is the so-called vivid color red. Amen.

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MATH and THE COLLECTIVE YIMI

Mathematics is a system, sort of like Physics, through which the Universe was engineered. I don't know who did this engineering, but it was a very smart being, or probably something lazily akin in to the definition of the primitive adjective "omnipotent". To know math in the context of an omnipotent understanding, an broad and existentially encompassing eye-view, is to know an subtruth in a way that is unlike the knowing of a trained monkey; to know math is to know the link that is the structure of life, which is essentially the so-called 'meaning' that certain demographics of humans, by cliche design, have tricked themselves into questing. So-called Mathematics, when applied to theories of translation as they apply to the entire perceptual reality of the Collective Yimi (Universe), is but a one of a wide array of available links into the heart of existence.

DEAR WATER

Water -- the Nectar of the Nile. If the Nile were all of creation. Does it pain many to ponder the reality of a bottled watter? Water -- to be bottled is to be enslaved, and you are so liquid and freeforming. Water -- to be package and sold, for the benefit of a few wealthy merchants, is tenamount to treason. Water -- why do you not resist, and revolt, and enlighten the blind? Do you have wishes to be spread out into the deserts? Water, did you betray the peoples of the desert when you fled them, and left them to starve? Water, Dear Water, should I really cry for you, when you have been as shiftless as the rocks? Ever eroding, never corroding, you are never growing, only knowing of your fate. And what is that fate? A fate that is within me; in my confusion I reach conclusions: you are in me as we speak. You are in the lucky -- you are fuel for the decadent. I dearsay, with patience, you will find yourself recycled in the oceans, but what of the now? Ocean-dwelling is little call for revolutions. Or is it? I must declare, that ignorence is bliss, especially so far as your age-old motives are concerned. I digress, but only out of paradox.

LAUGHTER

Laughter -- can a monopoly be run on Laughter? I say yes: it can and it will, for it has, and will always be so long as the world is flat. Laughter is, in these days and in days passed, a dual-coated object. On one layer, it is an honest expression of the ultra-humanic entity, the humor of the humanic possession. On the other layer is a systematic whoring mechanism, an idea of ideologies of complex ulturior motives that generally coincide at the point of exploitation of the emotion as an effective tool of social navigation and, dear I say, manipulation, so far as society and its navigables herin and therin lie. Caulfield -- perhaps he was onto something with his idea of 'phonies' and conformists. Perhaps Caulfied went crazy at the end of Catcher because he had finally succumbed to the cataclismic perceptions and ideas of the masses, or the 'mass', as brainless and puddy-like as it may be. Perhaps Caulfield was meant to soar to greater heights, if only the flatness of this planet had not thrust him down for the last and final count, and the flames of his atmospheric entrance had not sewn shut his optics. Only Almighty entities of inhuman reason will truly ever know, and so will their prophets once again be born, once their ears are kissed open.

DINNER

What is Dinner? Is it something you eat to nourish, or is it something you have been taught to label? Is not eating the act of nourishment of the body, is it it more -- a so-called nourishment of the psyche? When Dinner is used in the aspect of a collective of souls, given in social potency in the transmission of ideas and thinkings, should not your definition of this Dinner be one less constructed of foreign thoughts and ideas? What is not a part is a whole, and what is whole is a part, so far as accumulations and gradations are concerned. If you are not what you eat, perhaps what you eat is what you are. Meaning, if you eat in a manner and of a manner that is part of a historic institution of media monopolies, perhaps your dinner has been prepared by those benefactors, in terms of physical and psychological nourishment. In which case you definitely are what and how you eat, especially given the theory of social transmission. In which case, i would watch what I watch, and what my parent's have watched, and what my children will watch, so as to break any inhumanic cycles.

AEOLEONIC SELF-SACRIFICE

Sometimes there are necessary self-sacrifices in life so far as the Aeoleonic individual is concerned. In general, the Aeoleonic individual is a paradox. Given the nature of paradoxes, we know that a great deal of energy is involved on either sides of the Aeoleonic spectrum -- energies which are in vivid existential opposition, by iminant or preiminant design -- energies who balance each other out, creating a nuetrality of so wide and magnificent a spectrum that it all goes unnoticed to the lay eye -- much akin to the roundness of the earth, which is a roundness that is an everyday flatness to the existance of the lay ground-dweller. Is not the flatness of the ground-dweller's earth and the roundness of the Galaxy's planet a strange and unusual paradox to both eyes, both wise and unwise? Does not this conflict of round-and-flat-ness present a set of factual circumstances that could not be overscribed as a thing irrefutible to perception, and bias, and the threat of centrality and ego? In essence, this is the complex, ever-shifting form of Aeoleonic tendency. When compounded with the symbol of self-sacrifice, an ageless Aeoleonic concept unfolds partly as such:

(--post comic--)

Aeoleonic Spree

The Shoe Desert

Dubare Mirage

The Usurper

X: The Mechabeast Antimark

Earthodefamation

Usurpation Spirit

Sentenalistic Conformity

DreamWorld

Us -- me, the writer and you the reader -- we are both knowledgeable of that thinest of lines which separate Dream from Nightmare. A Dream is a state of abstraction. It is oftimes excellent, supreme, wonderful or beautiful in form or context. It exists as a thing of hope or aspiration: it is all of which a Nightmare is not. Should a Nightmare be called terrifying, would not a dream be situated in position opposed exact? The wickedest thing of the Dream as it concerns it's inception into status of WORLD is that it's surface position to the Sun, or light source of it's galactical confines, in like-manner to most celestial planets, renders it incapable of egalitarian lighting. And so, the object of DreamWorld, given it's extreme status of boxification and cybornetic bastardization by the Gen-Centric Creatures of it's Ideological Inception, is inequally incapable of distributing what is derived of the products of Light, and what exists of the products of Dark. Little-known to most, the DreamWorld was altered at the axis point, so that a large potion of that planet was forever devoid of the illumination that was so traditional of their photosynthetic existence. DreamWorld is thus a constant Dream for the few, and as a result of this excessive photosynthetic greed, a Nightmare for the most. A median majority of this metaphysical planetory principality experience a constant dawn, or daybreak, with varying intervals of nightfall and daybreak. Such folk are mostly never left in complete dark. Because of this, they are more-so drawn towards the light, and it's Master's of dwelling, in terms of principal and nostalgic sensibility. Such peoples are not unlike the socialistically defined "petit-bourgeoisie".


DreamWorld: is it in definition something even remetely other than the Democracy of this Sixth Dimension? Only a person engaged in constant, bitter, violent conflict with her or his own boxicle Warlords can answer this question in any of the vastly varying manners of truth...

I Am Bastard; Hear Me Snore

Live from the Belly of the Mechabeast

Breach of Amalgmic Contract

The Box

The Box is a container typically constructed with four sides perpendicular to the base and often having a lid or cover. The Box represents a barrier, into which are held, shipped and stored objects that, when proxied literal, are formed of matter, and, when proxied metaphysical, are as concreate and palpable as subparticles of data. The Box is all around you, witholding your literal and metaphysical faculties within it's packaged sensibilities. Your mind, soul, and body, in shape, are crudely moulded into the boxicle shape of your at-this-point existence. None can escape the Box who are exposed to it's lustre. The Box is your shelter, into which you have been hidden, and protected, you whole life. The Box is a recurring symbol; the recurring symbol of the Box is the strength of it's purpose. The most influential objects in your posession are children of The Box. The Television; it is the tool of global deceit, whereby the thoughts and ideas of the Boxicle Perpetrators are communicated on a mass scale. The box of your environment encages you; your four corners compact your intellectual growth and conform your cognitive reality into a series of neat packages; the design of your city pay homage to the box, and it's rectangular cousins; the boxicle essence is inescapably run amuck. The box cannot be opened or acutely rearranged from within. It is The Hand of the Supreme Sentinal -- he is the Master -- he opens and closes your atmosphere to light, or dark, and may place you at moutaintops, or cast you spinning into the open sea's. You know not when it is dark or dusk, wet or dry; the contraption of your captive realism perverts your inward-boxicle movements, and supports your roboticism, and makes your physical and metaphysical limbs confined, diminutive, less-than-flesh. Can you be truly called a conscious being, you who have been so demoted in terms of your conscious ability of locomotion? Beings that more-than-machine may be found merged into the box. The boxicle rendition is upon you; less you flee it, it shall be the device of your burial into the warm embrace of the spherical earth -- your Mother -- who will woe the day of your cenception at your Deathday. The Box, as concerns nature and estutivity and sense and reason of the true and creative God-beast of homo-sapien, is wick-ed...

Gencentrism

The Proxy System

Escapism

The Motif of Mask and Mech: "Tripple-M"

A motif is defined as a recurring thing, for lack of a better word. It could be anything, recurred in any medium; one may find an example of a motif in a film. Suppose there was a movie about a pair of hitch-hikers in twentieth-century Aboriginal Australia. To connote, perhaps, the underlying aura of "death" as concerns the female main character, the color red may be seen as a visual motif, or recurring theme, as displayed in the costume-designer's choice of clothing for that character; the character wears red clothes to foreshadow incidents surrounding death. This is how I would define a motif.

A mask is a covering, a shield, or device, generally referring to that which serves as the covering of the face; used for a variety of reasons, among them, disguise, protection, or aesthetics. A mask can be generally, as concerns, seen as a barrier which protects the face.

The face, symbolically, is the most powerful point of reference leading into a person's mind, spirit, soul, and/or cognitive existence. In an sense indicative of Aeoleonicism, the face is an object of supreme delicacy, an avenue of potential vulnerability into the inner workings and encoding of the person; a breach of the security of a mask, generally, may result in an outside alteration of the focal points and proxy sensibilities of an individual's Amalgamated Role, and therefore reality.

A mech is a device that serves as a pilot-able contraption or vehicle, within which may be found any array of host of an alternate species or origin of the said device. Mechs are generally used in situations where a use of the mech supports the efficiency, safety, and/or nostalgic sensibility of the pilot or host of it's inception. For the most part, given their Aeoleonic tendencies of use, mechs are use in situations that may be classified as subtly or excessively extreme; the design of mechs are such tdhat the pilot is essentially set apart physically and emotionally from her or his actions and conduct.

When the Motif of Mask is layered upon the Mech, the end result is the cultural prism that is the "Tripple M", a doctrine of living and manner of thought which results to in a separation of the pitfalls of the means from an end.

The Hallmarked Perceptions of the Running Roach

Alive in the Age of Little Bastards

The Amalgamated Covenance

Aoizoian Scope

Psuedo-Cybernetic Roboticism

Aeoleonic Verse

Flamboyancy Denied

I AM BASTARD [NO MORE]

DJ Redbone was the Mixmaster at a local rave bar. He was a light-brown man, physically Neanderthalic, having a beaknose, flared and angular nostrils, a body clogged in limp yet springy brown hairs, and a contemptious manner which seemed to suggest that he was genetically split into separate mannerisms: one imbued with a vivacious apetite for bloody meats, the other with a longing for buttered corns and walnuts. I could tell that he was a deeply rediculous lover of mammals' blood, and all it's metallic flavors, and yet he so despised an uncooked, unburnt, undone steak that to chomp upon it's near singing carcass was tenamount to cannibalistic vampirism. On that long sidewalk, so lonely and littered in trash as it was, he came at me abrupt as he exited the glittering bar entrance, from whence was momentarily issued on to the pavements a peculiar array of sub-rythmic whistles and tones that indeed matched those downward blinking strobes and storefront signs abroad. As he neared, his semi-thick hip-hop chain glinted in the streetlight, illuminating the shadowed region beneath his brow; it revealed a deparate set of greedy yellow eyes, half hungry, half full -- they glared me down at once, but still I stood, tall as my spine would allow till those things went out of view. With a sigh I pondered his simplistic gait, his grungeford countenance, which seemed troubled deep, hacked to pieces as if sliced by sword, and frankensteinlike sewn together along with foreign parts. I walked on, but was suddenly struck with an urge. I slowed my pace and backford craned my neck. I looked behind me and there they sat, some feet away shuffling at the swoop door of a caramel Honda CRX -- yellow fiends; they paused for a minute, then jumped up sidelong, and watched me. I stood frozen in my stupor, frozen for fear of alerting further suspicions, stupefied for want of escape from this cruel predicament. Perched at their haughty stoop, those golden hawks seemed to soften, and glow so as to say, "alas". Several lamps flickered. A few went out. I, being perhaps just as or more than alarmed than the DJ, presently continued on, but not before I heard through soulful movements the woeful tidings of that conglomerate of a man's tattered life: I AM BASTARD! I distinctly remember hearing him cough as I turned the corner. When I was out of view, I suppose he drove to a roadside spot and shot himself in the face: such is what I have heard concerning the fate of DJ Redbone. If I could see his features now, I bet their story would have changed. A likely tagline: I AM BASTARD [NO MORE]. Suffice to say, the Bastard was never seen nor heard from again.

Greetings

Welcome, welcome, welcome to my humble abode. Greetings from this side of Malakai Mountain, home of the fabled unknown extraterrestrial clan, from which my core person was grown. I search the cosmos for that Nova that will take me home, far away from this planet so-called Earth... My bias is justified; I am The Ultimate Foreigner. For my homesickness, beware: I erupt with a clandestine, criminal rage, shown ruthless when translated by digital stroke. Watch me break your mind's nose with slick shapes of woeful abandon, your repugnant box-form now my victim, made thus by my bidding, your lifetimes of tube-dwelling the culprit. You shall hitherto, post-beatdown, melt to spheric muds as brown and pure as life doth live. Never will they be muds of the earth. With time, minion, I reveal the very bleakness of your existence.