SF stream flow

Flow

 Stream of consciousness, as god’s thoughts melt into my brain, and drip through my fingertips into the keyboard, into my computer, and from there to only God knows where.  I can compose to the simple sound of silence or the madness of music.   Only a faint echo of the music will percolate through, if I do.  I hallucinate my sentences, dream my lines, and write (my) words.  When I pause, I just tell myself to keep writing.  I am in communion with myself, my higher and lower selves, me myself and I, my self and my elf,  ever deeper, sometimes submerged, sometimes surfacing, from deep mode to shallow, and superficial.  A super fish navigates both.   I’m a fisher of men, thought the fag, thought the cannibal, thought the gold-digger, thought the Interpol officer, dredging the lake for bodies.  The assassin listens to FM, and thinks, eff ‘em.  Well, whatever.  Whatever, nevermind.  World war and worldwide web and nirvana, the Kurt Cobain version.   Maybe a Buddha doesn’t care if the world erupts in war, if he’s so damned serene.  Fuck you, Buddha.  No souls, no soldiers, no sol, no sun, no beer, no god named Ra.  It’s all true.  Well, the sun is still around, it hasn’t expired (yet).  The lifetime of your tires, of your batteries, of the sun.   Things that live, like your living room.  Maybe sentient androids, in the near future, would be fun.  Bodies are objects.  I can make a baby easier than I can make a kitchen table, pretty weird.  Jesus, the carpenter, and God, the creator.  Music, am you, sick.  Hypnosis, and hip hop and no sister.  Sound, and unsound minds.   Rhythm and writhing.  Riddim, get rid of the dim.  Damned dumbs.  All thumbs and bums and humming with sums.  Mew zick.   A cat and Zlebnick, a childhood classmate.  I remember her getting sick.  Now I guess I get it.  Life is just code.  There’s a subtext, between the lines.  Like Swiss miss on christmas.  I’m having a (second) hot chocolate, listening to Paul Oakenfold (base camp mix 2) on youtube.  Pretty fucking ideal.  A circle of heaven.  Groovin’, thinkin’, and drinkin’, on this winter’s (valentine’s) day.  In love with myself.  Or content, anyway.   That’s enough.

Broken, plays.  I moved to base camp, 27 tracks, on track 3.  Do I want to be a trance addict?  Do I have any control?  I’ve been listening all day, mostly.  All right.  Well, whatever.  So it goes.  The Buddha doesn’t mind me cursing him.  Maybe some of his monks do.  But it’s all good.  Even the bit about kill the Buddha.  What will be, will be.  Endless silence.  Reflection.  Flection, fiction, factions, flex luthor.   Jay Cutler.   Cut Larry.  Ah, he’s just powder.  Devil power.  Angel dust.  pcp.  Or something.   Ash on Ashby avenue.  ASH, hospital.  Atascadero State.  Angels and Saints, heavenly host.  Garbage.  White-trash bags.