I'd cut off all my fingers just to touch you
You stupid bitch you mutilate my soul
I want to put my fingers deep inside you
I wonder if you're thinking of me...
Now
Oil remove shred and tear radiation vapor
It's the fear so unclear man in motion going nowhere
In our homes stuck in the face spread the word to the populace
Yellow journal yellow journal set the pace feel the rage
Manifestations of a sort so insidious off the point
Simple solution never confusion sport a gun kill a cop
Crazy world of weary thought so receive me had enough
Lock me up lock me up
Rot and assimilate so hot to annihilate
Deviation tonic mess prolonged existence innocence
Is he who speaks isn't weak wheelchair virtue so to speak
Bubonic plague the truth of aids immunity avoid decay
In the trench of pestilence the bible screams announce your faith
Mutterings of death to bring suffocate a newborn thing
Degradation of an age venereal it's all sensation
Protect design the moral plan infallible as propaganda
Completely black with no steps back
Hot to assimilate we'll rot or annihilate
Agony profusely stains the inner thinking of the brain
Accusations clanking chains experiments with the groans of pain
All prefer no one blames the terror in an animal's screams
In cages our future - the answers insane
I don't know what I am, I don't know where I've been
Human junk, just words and so much skin
Stick my hands through the cage of this endless routine
Just some flesh caught in this big broken machine
Worship is not on bended knee
Nature knows not of mercy
To pray is to accept defeat
Power pisses on the weak
Bow and beheaded by the beast
Beggar on a bitches leash
Scum is desperate for relief
Worship is the way I ride
Witching currents through the eye
Of storms that force the false to die
Worship the flames with which I rise
Into apocalyptic skies
Harsh winds flay mine flesh to bone
In splintered skeleton I roam
Wastelands with not to call my own
But the path I walk alone
The hunger burns, within my gut
As my bones turn into dust
And I know soon come my time
For in mine void a pale horse burns
But I fear not the time I'm taken
Past the point of no return
Wage war like no tomorrow, know well there wont we one
For all who deny the struggle
The triumphant overcome
I hope that when the world comes to an end, I can breathe a sigh of relief, because there will be so much to look forward to.
There are no more barriers to cross.
All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed.
My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone.
In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others.
I want no one to escape.
But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself.
No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling.
This confession has meant nothing.
Everything failed to subdue me. Soon everything seemed dull: another sunrise, the lives of heroes, falling in love, war, the discoveries people made about each other. The only thing that didn't bore me, obviously enough, was how much money Tim Price made, and yet in its obviousness it did.
There wasn't a clear, identifiable emotion within me, except for greed and, possibly, total disgust. I had all the characteristics of a human being - flesh, blood, skin, hair - but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that the normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning.
Something horrible was happening and yet I couldn't figure out why - I couldn't put my finger on it.
But if it is hard to fix the precise instant, the subtle step when the mind opted for death, it is easier to deduce from the act itself the consequences it implies. In a sense, and as in melodrama, killing yourself amounts to confessing. It is confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it.
Let's not go too far in such analogies, however, but rather return to everyday words. It is merely confessing that that "is not worth the trouble."
Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation, and the uselessness of suffering.
What, then, is that incalculable feeling that deprives the mind of the sleep necessary to life? A world that can be explained even with bad reasons is a familiar world. But, on the other hand, in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land.
How important can it be that I suffer and think?
My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others.
Although I feel that my tragedy is the greatest in history—greater than the fall of empires—I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance.
I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence.
I have a broken spring: I can move my eyes but not my head.
The head is all
pliable and elastic, as though it had been simply set on my neck; if I turn it, it will fall off.
All the
same, I hear a short breath and from time to time, out of the corner of my eye I see a reddish flash
covered with hair.
It is a hand.
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Hippocrates cured many illnesses—and then fell ill and
died.
The Chaldaeans predicted the deaths of many others; in
due course their own hour arrived.
Alexander, Pompey,
Caesar—who utterly destroyed so many cities, cut down so
many thousand foot and horse in battle—they too departed this life.
Heraclitus often told us the world would end in fire.
But it was moisture that carried him off; he died smeared
with cowshit.
Democritus was killed by ordinary vermin,
Socrates by the human kind.
And?
You boarded, you set sail, you’ve made the passage.
Time
to disembark.
If it’s for another life, well, there’s nowhere
without gods on that side either.
If to nothingness, then you no
longer have to put up with pain and pleasure, or go on
dancing attendance on this battered crate, your body—so
much inferior to that which serves it.
One is mind and spirit, the other earth and garbage.
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Don’t let yourself forget how many doctors have died, furrowing their brows over how many deathbeds. How many astrologers, after pompous forecasts about others’ ends. How many philosophers, after endless disquisitions on death and immortality. How many warriors, after inflicting thousands of casualties themselves. How many tyrants, after abusing the power of life and death atrociously, as if they were themselves immortal.
How many whole cities have met their end: Helike, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and countless others.
And all the ones you know yourself, one after another. One who laid out another for burial, and was buried himself, and then the man who buried him - all in the same short space of time.
In short, know this: Human lives are brief and trivial. Yesterday a blob of semen; tomorrow embalming fluid, ash.
To pass through this brief life as nature demands. To give it up without complaint.
Like an olive that ripens and falls.
Praising its mother, thanking the tree it grew on.
It is not just the suffocating fear of death that obsesses man; it is another terror, occurring rarely but intensely like flashes of lightning, like a sudden disturbance which forever eliminates the hope of future serenity.
It is impossible to pinpoint and define this strange premonition of madness.
The truly awful thing in madness is that we sense a total and irrevocable loss of life while we are still living. I continue to eat and drink, but I have lost whatever consciousness I bring to my biological functions. It is only an approximate death. In madness one loses the specific individual traits which single one out in the universe, the personal perspective and a certain orientation of consciousness.
In death one loses everything, by a fall into nothingness.
Is it not an illness to be constantly aware of your nerves, your feet, your stomach, your heart, every single part of your being?
With this awareness, haven't the organs abandoned normal functions?
The reality of the body is one of the most terrible realities.
What would the spirit be without the torments of the flesh, and consciousness without a great nervous sensibility?
The bath of fire invariable ends thus: when the inner conflagration has scorched the ground of your being, when all is ashes, what else is there left to experience?
There is both mad delight and infinite irony in the thought of my ashes scattered to the four winds, sown frenetically in space, an eternal reproach to the world.
Emily Dickinson
My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -
And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through -
And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master’s Head -
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared -
To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -
Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without - the power to die -
"Annabel Lee"
by Edgar Allen Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
William Shakespeare
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.