paranoia

I Need an Invasion

I need and invasion. To strike down the division. To unify and collect the sides into a tangible reasonable sensible selection. This cynic’s soul is suffered enough. It’s time to rebel against the moronic incest. My brain is in two, a troubled machine. Let’s bring in the troops to level the field. It’s time to end the Civil War reenactment. I need my country to be invaded.

The incessant neeeeeed to be right is ok, but the rifle butts on the door will perhaps distract long enough to see what’s real. Personal belief is out the window on little tissue issues. We need wood stone and steel again. A purposeful means. People to inspire dreams beside an addicted symbol of insecurity and self centered greed.

I’m ready for the coming invasion. Bring in the hordes to pillage the stores. Turn the fight to an actual enemy, instead of the twisting baby ideals of a televised mind. Sound the alarm and watch the petty fears and differences disappear into a unified front of warriors. Our blood will pool together on American soil as one red wave.

Saturday is the Future

0 4 0 5 2 0 1 2 – the combination to the future. Digits have taken hold, swarmed and calculated our humanity. It’s not so bad, when I can get away into hills out of radiation’s way.

I’m like a paranoid alien-snatched renegade, waiting for the day the operation will be made. For all of us are to be disposed of, like so many articles of clothes of finicky consumer bodies fit with colorful bits.

My courage must be quick, undoubting, or the fans this shit will hit. Keep a low eye on the overhead situation. Always know the quick route to the underground compounds.

I hate to make such frightened blade running sounds, but the sun will start to don a dimmer light. The days will seem like disco Vegas nights, never knowing when to sleep. We’ll step out of body into dreams, regaling memory chips of better days before the neutron winter haze, when flowers lined the steel passageways.

Probe the data deeper still, before when grass coated feet roamed the hill and salvation seeped up from the ground and rained from the sky, pressing hard between this mortal goodbye. The future was so far away, the following afternoon or maybe the day after: Saturday.

Yes, Saturday was the bright and illustrious future. Please don’t make me go back—forward to the digitized black and video sun. I don’t want to lose the inclination of the hill I run. The composite formulation does not compare, nor does the filtered ventilators to this wild grass perfume air. Please, may I stay. Let me live in this state, even though I tremble knowing that this too is an algorithm, a bio-digital meta vision. There is no escape.

[unsolicited hopeful response follows]

If you can imagine what you’ll see, it’s not even close—beyond the construct of a low-voltage synaptic random access melancholy. But I indulge… What if this numero-visual race, and this endless hurtling through black space is suddenly understood to be a great journey, through the mythic dually proven hypothetic plasma-driven emotional magic dream heart, into the bright hot molten core of this Saturday?