The Ballad of an Electric Sheep

Oct. 29, 2002

Type: discussion

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charset="Windows-1252"
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BlankThe Ballad of an Electric Sheep
who was really a lost lamb…

Once

when I was a cyber artist
I used to hide
behind a mask
some call it an alias
some call it a womb
some call it just plain scared…
All those wasted hours
of fun causing mayhem
killing time while
killing one's real self
and my life's
possible other selves

You see
I didn't get it…

Honest
I just didn't get it…
life that is

my projects and actions
were autistic in function
exploring new ideas
but they were not real
or alive
because inside I was dead

I used technology
to advertise entropy
on the back
of extropian dreams
keeping that flame
burning like a flag but soon that flag
began to melt
like most illusions do
and time ate away at
my dystopian pangs

my mask began to feel
the gravity
and it had weight
declaring nothing but
the truths
the self lies
such vulnerable lies… those vulnerable eyes
the windows to my soul
were closed
shut
not seeing

I was so busy
trying to be out there
in the world
the perfect object(s) of
self desire
I was always right
and the world was wrong
that is why I was
created after all
wasn't it?
To put things right?

I used to believe that
empathy for others
was a failure
a weakness
a western designed
sentimental scheme
a Hollywood dream I believed that ideas
were the passport
out of death in life
as well death in art

So I became an activist
a cyber artist
with a difference
I was not only one
I was many First there was 1 of me
then there was 2
and then I multiplied
and then there 4
soon I became sixteen
of me and now
I am just
one…
that weight
that Ixion's wheel
that I ignorantly
rested on my shoulder
was the mask It really
was not me

I now that that now

As I punched
out at the world
with my hurting
I soon realised that
I was punching
at me Each act of anger
was a moment
of self loathing
hidden by masculinity
and social programming

the default of hatred
war and gusto
disguised as honour
fooled me
for a while I realise now
that I was asleep
in a coma
and it had become
my home
the womb

that electric womb
did once pulse
its cold juice in
and around my cranium
I had lost contact
with my heart

All my dreams
had become
the body electric
shimmering with a light
so bright
it was as though
I was alive
But I was not really home I saw the contempt
that I had created
in my domain
the cyber world
the place that I so
arrogantly claimed
as mine

As others questioned
my cyber antics
I shouted at them
with a hatred
of a lost lonely child
The truth is
that I am really human
and the tears that I
weep are a barometer
of the foolishness
that I feel

And as I watch
other electric sheep
dreaming and pissing
their souls away
in that ever blustery
ecstatic wind

creating their own
masks and mannerist
tasks
I know that what ever
I say is of no use
for they are dead
at present
but once they wake
and time has passed
a fresh light will
shine I was brave enough
to throw that jigsaw
puzzle called life
into the air
watching
at last
using my eyes
seeing where they
actually land
I have not found god
or the answer to life
and those useless questions
designed to distract
and annoy
I have found
home… a place without walls
a place without nationhood
a place that resides
inside of me
and the one I love

(a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-invention is not always t=
he way home. And there are many people who are homeless - physically, menta=
lly as well as emotionally. The most lost, are the one's who hide behind th=
e mask of logic, the god of objectivity. The doctor's knife. For behind tha=
t muffled disguise is a subjective entity, riddled by the very natural stat=
e we know as dysfunction. And dysfunction is dare I say it? A kind of truth=
. Like a self lie. Like doubt, like death, birth and of course that thing t=
hat we have labelled LOVE…)

——=_NextPart_001_0057_01C28089.7C074000
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<BODY id=ridBody bgColor=#ffffff
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<DIV>
<TABLE height=1066 width=692 align=center border=0>
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD height=42>
<DIV align=center>
The Ballad of an Electric Sheep who was re=
ally a
lost lamb…</DIV></TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left height=2554>
<TABLE height=2163 width="100%" border=0>
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">
Once

when
I was a cyber artist I used to hide behind a mask som=
e
call it an alias some call it a womb some call it just pl=
ain
scared…</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">Al=
l those
wasted hours of fun causing mayhem killing time while
 killing one's real self and my life's possible other=

selves</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">
 You see I didn't get it…
Honest I just didn't get it… life that
is</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%"><B=
R>my
projects and actions were autistic in function exploring =
new
ideas but they were not real or alive because inside =
I was
dead</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>I used
technology to advertise entropy on the back of extropi=
an
dreams keeping that flame burning like a flag</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">bu=
t soon that
flag began to melt like most illusions do and time ate=
away
at my dystopian pangs</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>my mask
began to feel the gravity and it had weight declaring=

nothing but the truths the self lies such vulnerable=

lies…</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">th=
ose
vulnerable eyes the windows to my soul were
closed shut not seeing</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>I was so
busy trying to be out there in the world the perfect=

object(s) of self desire</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%"><B=
R>I was
always right and the world was wrong that is why I
was created after all wasn't it? To put things
right?</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>I used to
believe that empathy for others was a failure a
weakness a western designed sentimental scheme a Holly=
wood
dream</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">I =
believed
that ideas were the passport out of death in life as w=
ell
death in art</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>So I
became an activist a cyber artist with a difference I =
was
not only one I was many</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">Fi=
rst there
was 1 of me then there was 2 and then I multiplied and=
then
there 4 soon I became sixteen of me and now I am
just one…</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">th=
at
weight that Ixion's wheel that I ignorantly rested on =
my
shoulder was the mask</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">
It
really was not me
I
now that that now</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>As I
punched out at the world with my hurting I soon realis=
ed
that I was punching at me</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">Ea=
ch act of
anger was a moment of self loathing hidden by
masculinity and social programming</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>the
default of hatred war and gusto disguised as honour fo=
oled
me for a while</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">I =
realise
now that I was asleep in a coma and it had become m=
y
home the womb</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>that
electric womb did once pulse its cold juice in and a=
round
my cranium I had lost contact with my heart </=
TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%"><B=
R>All my
dreams had become the body electric shimmering with a=

light so bright it was as though I was alive</T=
D></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">Bu=
t I was not
really home</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">I =
saw the
contempt that I had created in my domain the cyber
world the place that I so arrogantly claimed as
mine</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%"><B=
R>As others
questioned my cyber antics I shouted at them with a
hatred of a lost lonely child</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%"><B=
R>The truth
is that I am really human and the tears that I weep a=
re a
barometer of the foolishness that I feel</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%" height=179>
 And as I watch other electric sheep dreaming=
and
pissing their souls away in that ever blustery ecstat=
ic
wind</TD>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%" height=179><B=
R>creating
their own masks and mannerist tasks I know that what=

ever I say is of no use for they are dead at
present</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">bu=
t once they
wake and time has passed a fresh light will shine</FON=
T></TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">I =
was brave
enough to throw that jigsaw puzzle called life into th=
e
air watching at last using my eyes seeing where
they actually land</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">I =
have not
found god or the answer to life and those useless
questions designed to distract and annoy I have
found home…</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">a =
place
without walls a place without nationhood a place that
resides inside of me and the one I love
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
(a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-invention=
is not
always the way home. And there are many people who are homeless -
physically, mentally as well as emotionally. The most lost, are the o=
ne's
who hide behind the mask of logic, the god of objectivity. The doctor=
's
knife. For behind that muffled disguise is a subjective entity, riddl=
ed by
the very natural state we know as dysfunction. And dysfunction is dar=
e I
say it? A kind of truth. Like a self lie. Like doubt, like death, bir=
th
and of course that thing that we have labelled LOVE…)
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></DIV>
 </BODY></HTML>

——=_NextPart_001_0057_01C28089.7C074000–

Comments

2002-10-31 01:00, Lanny Quarles

——=_NextPart_001_0011_01C28061.1720BE00
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Blank
amen…or rather

homdullah..

or maybe kikichurakanos!

for more reading of a similiar nature check out
Michael Brownstein's _World on Fire_

—– Original Message —–
From: furtherfield
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, October 30, 2002 6:59 PM
Subject: RHIZOME_RAW: The Ballad of an Electric Sheep

The Ballad of an Electric Sheep
who was really a lost lamb…

Once

when I was a cyber artist
I used to hide
behind a mask
some call it an alias
some call it a womb
some call it just plain scared…
All those wasted hours
of fun causing mayhem
killing time while
killing one's real self
and my life's
possible other selves

You see
I didn't get it…

Honest
I just didn't get it…
life that is

my projects and actions
were autistic in function
exploring new ideas
but they were not real
or alive
because inside I was dead

I used technology
to advertise entropy
on the back
of extropian dreams
keeping that flame
burning like a flag but soon that flag
began to melt
like most illusions do
and time ate away at
my dystopian pangs

my mask began to feel
the gravity
and it had weight
declaring nothing but
the truths
the self lies
such vulnerable lies… those vulnerable eyes
the windows to my soul
were closed
shut
not seeing

I was so busy
trying to be out there
in the world
the perfect object(s) of
self desire
I was always right
and the world was wrong
that is why I was
created after all
wasn't it?
To put things right?

I used to believe that
empathy for others
was a failure
a weakness
a western designed
sentimental scheme
a Hollywood dream I believed that ideas
were the passport
out of death in life
as well death in art

So I became an activist
a cyber artist
with a difference
I was not only one
I was many First there was 1 of me
then there was 2
and then I multiplied
and then there 4
soon I became sixteen
of me and now
I am just
one…
that weight
that Ixion's wheel
that I ignorantly
rested on my shoulder
was the mask It really
was not me

I now that that now

As I punched
out at the world
with my hurting
I soon realised that
I was punching
at me Each act of anger
was a moment
of self loathing
hidden by masculinity
and social programming

the default of hatred
war and gusto
disguised as honour
fooled me
for a while I realise now
that I was asleep
in a coma
and it had become
my home
the womb

that electric womb
did once pulse
its cold juice in
and around my cranium
I had lost contact
with my heart

All my dreams
had become
the body electric
shimmering with a light
so bright
it was as though
I was alive
But I was not really home I saw the contempt
that I had created
in my domain
the cyber world
the place that I so
arrogantly claimed
as mine

As others questioned
my cyber antics
I shouted at them
with a hatred
of a lost lonely child
The truth is
that I am really human
and the tears that I
weep are a barometer
of the foolishness
that I feel

And as I watch
other electric sheep
dreaming and pissing
their souls away
in that ever blustery
ecstatic wind

creating their own
masks and mannerist
tasks
I know that what ever
I say is of no use
for they are dead
at present
but once they wake
and time has passed
a fresh light will
shine I was brave enough
to throw that jigsaw
puzzle called life
into the air
watching
at last
using my eyes
seeing where they
actually land
I have not found god
or the answer to life
and those useless questions
designed to distract
and annoy
I have found
home… a place without walls
a place without nationhood
a place that resides
inside of me
and the one I love

(a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-invention is not always=
the way home. And there are many people who are homeless - physically, men=
tally as well as emotionally. The most lost, are the one's who hide behind =
the mask of logic, the god of objectivity. The doctor's knife. For behind t=
hat muffled disguise is a subjective entity, riddled by the very natural st=
ate we know as dysfunction. And dysfunction is dare I say it? A kind of tru=
th. Like a self lie. Like doubt, like death, birth and of course that thing=
that we have labelled LOVE…)

——=_NextPart_001_0011_01C28061.1720BE00
Content-Type: text/html;
charset="Windows-1252"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable

<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN">
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<META http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; charset=windows-125=
2"><BASE
href="file://C:Program FilesCommon FilesMicrosoft SharedStationery">
<STYLE>BODY {
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<META content="MSHTML 5.50.4134.600" name=GENERATOR></HEAD>
<BODY id=ridBody bgColor=#ffffff
background=cid:[email protected]>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>amen…or rather</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>homdullah..</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>or maybe kikichurakanos!</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>for more reading of a similiar nature check out</DIV>
<DIV>Michael Brownstein's _World on Fire_</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<BLOCKQUOTE dir=ltr
style="PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 5px; MARGIN-LEFT: 5px; BORDER-LE=
FT: #000000 2px solid; MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px">
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">—– Original Message —– </DIV>
<DIV
style="BACKGROUND: #e4e4e4; FONT: 10pt arial; font-color: black">Fro=
m:
<A [email protected]
href="mailto:[email protected]">furtherfield</A> </DIV>
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">To: <A [email protected]
href="mailto:[email protected]">[email protected]</A> </DIV>
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">Sent: Wednesday, October 30, 2002 =
6:59
PM</DIV>
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">Subject: RHIZOME_RAW: The Ballad o=
f an
Electric Sheep </DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>
<TABLE height=1066 width=692 align=center border=0>
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD height=42>
<DIV align=center>
The Ballad of an Electric Sheep who was =
really
a lost lamb…</DIV></TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left height=2554>
<TABLE height=2163 width="100%" border=0>
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">
Once 
when I was a cyber artist I used to hide behi=
nd a
mask some call it an alias some call it a womb some =
call
it just plain scared…</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
All those
wasted hours of fun causing mayhem killing time while=

 killing one's real self and my life's possible othe=
r
selves</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">
 You see I didn't get it…
Honest I just didn't get it… life that
is</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
 my
projects and actions were autistic in function explorin=
g new
ideas but they were not real or alive because insid=
e I
was dead</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 I used
technology to advertise entropy on the back of extro=
pian
dreams keeping that flame burning like a flag</T=
D>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
but soon
that flag began to melt like most illusions do and t=
ime
ate away at my dystopian pangs</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 my mask
began to feel the gravity and it had weight declarin=
g
nothing but the truths the self lies such vulnerabl=
e
lies…</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
those
vulnerable eyes the windows to my soul were
closed shut not seeing</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 I was
so busy trying to be out there in the world the perf=
ect
object(s) of self desire</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
 I was
always right and the world was wrong that is why I
was created after all wasn't it? To put things
right?</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 I used
to believe that empathy for others was a failure a=

weakness a western designed sentimental scheme a
Hollywood dream</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
I believed
that ideas were the passport out of death in life as=
well
death in art</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 So I
became an activist a cyber artist with a difference =
I was
not only one I was many</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
First there
was 1 of me then there was 2 and then I multiplied a=
nd
then there 4 soon I became sixteen of me and now I=
am
just one…</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
that
weight that Ixion's wheel that I ignorantly rested o=
n my
shoulder was the mask</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">
It
really was not me
I
now that that now</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 As I
punched out at the world with my hurting I soon real=
ised
that I was punching at me</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
Each act of
anger was a moment of self loathing hidden by
masculinity and social programming</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 the
default of hatred war and gusto disguised as
honour fooled me for a while</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
I realise
now that I was asleep in a coma and it had become<BR=
>my
home the womb</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 that
electric womb did once pulse its cold juice in and=

around my cranium I had lost contact with my heart
 </TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
 All my
dreams had become the body electric shimmering with =
a
light so bright it was as though I was alive<=
/TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
But I was
not really home</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
I saw the
contempt that I had created in my domain the cyber=

world the place that I so arrogantly claimed as
mine</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
 As
others questioned my cyber antics I shouted at them =
with
a hatred of a lost lonely child</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
 The
truth is that I am really human and the tears that I
 weep are a barometer of the foolishness that I
feel</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%" height=179>
 And as I watch other electric sheep dreami=
ng and
pissing their souls away in that ever blustery ecst=
atic
wind</TD>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%" height=179><FONT=

face="Courier New, Courier, mono" color=#000000
size=2> creating their own masks and mannerist tas=
ks I
know that what ever I say is of no use for they are
dead at present</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
but once
they wake and time has passed a fresh light
will shine</TD>
<TD vAlign=bottom align=left width="50%">=
I was brave
enough to throw that jigsaw puzzle called life into =
the
air watching at last using my eyes seeing where=

they actually land</TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=top align=left width="50%">=
I have not
found god or the answer to life and those useless
questions designed to distract and annoy I have
found home…</TD>
<TD vAlign=center align=left width="50%">=
a place
without walls a place without nationhood a place that=

resides inside of me and the one I love
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
(a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-inventi=
on is
not always the way home. And there are many people who are homeless=
-
physically, mentally as well as emotionally. The most lost, are the=

one's who hide behind the mask of logic, the god of objectivity. Th=
e
doctor's knife. For behind that muffled disguise is a subjective en=
tity,
riddled by the very natural state we know as dysfunction. And
dysfunction is dare I say it? A kind of truth. Like a self lie. Lik=
e
doubt, like death, birth and of course that thing that we have labe=
lled
LOVE…) </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></DIV>
 </BLOCKQUOTE></BODY></HTML>

——=_NextPart_001_0011_01C28061.1720BE00–

2002-10-31 01:00, D42 Kandinskij

On Wed, 30 Oct 2002, furtherfield wrote:

> when I was a cyber artist
> I used to hide
> behind a mask
> some call it an alias
> some call it a womb
> some call it just plain scared…

Drivel, which bellies total lack of understanding of masks.

> All those wasted hours
> of fun causing mayhem
> killing time while
> killing one's real self
> and my life's
> possible other selves

Absolutely meaningless. Poetry is not about your projectionist
indirect 'abstract' lashing out at non-existent 'problems'.

> You see
> I didn't get it…
>
> Honest
> I just didn't get it…
> life that is
>
> my projects and actions
> were autistic in function
> exploring new ideas
> but they were not real
> or alive
> because inside I was dead

Complete drivel, paired with emotional knee-jerk vampirism,
as well as misunderstanding of 'dead-ness'.

> my mask began to feel
> the gravity
> and it had weight
> declaring nothing but
> the truths
> the self lies

Truth dearest is not self-lies.

> such vulnerable lies… those vulnerable eyes
> the windows to my soul
> were closed
> shut
> not seeing

You're talking about yourself.

> I was so busy
> trying to be out there
> in the world
> the perfect object(s) of
> self desire
> I was always right
> and the world was wrong
> that is why I was
> created after all
> wasn't it?
> To put things right?

Drivel.

> I used to believe that
> empathy for others

You know nothing about empathy dearest.
Attmpts at cheap emotional identification is not empathy.

> was a failure
> a weakness
> a western designed
> sentimental scheme
> a Hollywood dream I believed that ideas
> were the passport
> out of death in life
> as well death in art

Drivel, and more drivel, of an emotionally inadequate
myopic murderous twit.

> So I became an activist
> a cyber artist
> with a difference
> I was not only one
> I was many First there was 1 of me
> then there was 2
> and then I multiplied
> and then there 4
> soon I became sixteen
> of me and now
> I am just
> one…
> that weight
> that Ixion's wheel
> that I ignorantly
> rested on my shoulder
> was the mask It really
> was not me
>
> I now that that now

Drivel, drivel, drivel.

>
> As I punched
> out at the world
> with my hurting

Look who's talking now?

> I soon realised that
> I was punching
> at me Each act of anger
> was a moment
> of self loathing
> hidden by masculinity
> and social programming

Drivel, drivel, drivel. And your 'problem'
with masculinity is social programming.

> the default of hatred

Which you subscribe to, and project outwardly
as 'love'.

> war and gusto
> disguised as honour
> fooled me
> for a while I realise now
> that I was asleep
> in a coma
> and it had become
> my home
> the womb

Drivel.

> that electric womb
> did once pulse
> its cold juice in
> and around my cranium
> I had lost contact
> with my heart
>
> All my dreams
> had become
> the body electric
> shimmering with a light
> so bright
> it was as though
> I was alive
> But I was not really home I saw the contempt
> that I had created
> in my domain
> the cyber world
> the place that I so
> arrogantly claimed
> as mine

More drivel. Do you think your ranting will be validated
by cutting it up
to appear as poetry
just like this?

> As others questioned
> my cyber antics
> I shouted at them
> with a hatred
> of a lost lonely child

You're talking about yourself and your emotional posturing,
as well as laughable childish passive-aggressive 'obliqueness'.

> The truth is
> that I am really human

No dearest. The truth is your_ self-lies and delusions.

> and the tears that I
> weep are a barometer
> of the foolishness
> that I feel

My goodness. The image of victimhood as proof of humanity.
Well, I suppose you've gotten over your sadistic male social programming.

> And as I watch
> other electric sheep
> dreaming and pissing
> their souls away
> in that ever blustery
> ecstatic wind
>
> creating their own
> masks and mannerist
> tasks
> I know that what ever
> I say is of no use
> for they are dead
> at present
> but once they wake
> and time has passed
> a fresh light will
> shine I was brave enough
> to throw that jigsaw
> puzzle called life
> into the air
> watching
> at last
> using my eyes
> seeing where they
> actually land
> I have not found god
> or the answer to life
> and those useless questions

Drivel.

> designed to distract
> and annoy
> I have found
> home… a place without walls
> a place without nationhood
> a place that resides
> inside of me
> and the one I love

Drivel.

> (a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-invention is not always the way home.

Oh that's right. Declaration of truth. How subtle of you to do it
in the form of poetry which declares such things coming from an actual
source as 'false'. But that'd be comfortable wouldn't it?

> And there are many people who are homeless - physically, mentally as
> well as emotionally.

Snif. Hesus Furtherfield.

> The most lost, are the one's who hide behind the mask of logic,

There is no such thing as 'mask of logic'.
And masks are not about logic. Nor is the use of masks in any way
a subject of the brain.

> the god of objectivity.

Logic and objectivity are not connected. But oh look,
the idiotic ape projects outwardly its own imbecility
and proceeds to condescend, pity + victimize +
disempower humans by attempting to reduce everyone
to its own, base-natures identified sniveling moronism.

> The doctor's knife. For behind that muffled disguise is a subjective
> entity,

There are no 'miffled disguises or subjective entities' dearest.
The very natural state of dysfunction? dearie me.
Look at the crippled monkey who cannot stand healthy, conscious
un-humanity and must, absolutely must attempt to claw at and destroy
that image.. dunno who's riddled with self-hatred here,
but I'd say it's you–as is with most 'fervent preachers of luv'–
which is little but a STOIC male-programmatic POSE (false)
of trying to convince oneself of being in such a state of awareness.

> And dysfunction is dare I say it? A kind of truth. Like a self lie.

Oh right. Myopic drivel. the Brain-doggie chasing its logical tail.

> Like doubt, like death, birth

Nothing 'self-lie' about those.

> and of course that thing that we have labelled LOVE…)

Yeah. Like all of those psychotic impulses like murder, hatred, jealousy
condescension, and pity–which you attempt to label LOVE in order to
pretend that you are not what you are: an empty nothing.

All of your idiocy about 'luv' is that of an ape fronting in front of
an empty mirror.

`, . ` `k a r e i' ? ' D42