Thursday, September 4, 2003

Deus Ex Machina

I have recently become the parallelistic follower of two cultists which I find to be the upmost of intelligencing and fluent perdition.

They are my new Gods. They stand before me as transitioned mortal beings that are just as me, bleed as me, and have an idealistic approach to the workings of the rules.

These Gods, of course, have founded their steep steps upon me in the only way that is best to let out opinionated drivel these days: music.

If it would not be for them and their music, then I would strive further for a true and almighty God. I would pray in recollection further for an endless answer to the spiraling mockingbirds that are labeled as divine, sly, and everlasting. I would still be searching for the truth that endlessly plagues us and endlessly grapples us in its unformless aberrations.

But I have found the abnormal terrestrial which is said to be sublime and to live about and above us upon his royal ethers. Who sits upon his royal throne conversing and drowning himself for us below.

I have found that through the ghostly bondage upon my arms and head and mind has been created two for me that appeals to my masses. I have found from within the pretty hate machine a hate pretty machine. A mechanism which throbs into my ears in bleeding elation about the things which encumber me down and convulse like a bleeding heart to me.

And that is what I am to be said to be. I am a bleeding heart.

I openly strive for something to fill my ceaseless bleeding. I try to well up the holes from which I bleed and cover them. I even try to eat my own dead tissues, and other's, to recycle it into a nexus of life. But still my heart is too convulsed and shaken. Still it tastes too much poison day by day.

Then there is a symbolic symbiosis which holds me head and fills its holes and holds my heart and fills its craters.

It is the artist.

The bleeding heart and the artist. They are one in the same exempting one important factor: one cannot beat without the other. Without the artist there is no bleeding heart, there is nothing upon which to base the drippings other than pure drivel and meaningless holes. Without the artist there is no bleeding heart which has its throbs inducted through the artist.

And I have become one such follower. I feel almost catatonic when my God's voices speak to me. It is like Devil Gods speaking to me about that which is right and that which is wrong. It is like a masochistic sex doll for me to continually lust on top of.

It is like being conceived over and over again, continually a small child in a small womb feeding its self and gorging upon the blood that pumps his veins to dilation and rage. It is quite eloquent, like looking at a setting sun as it drains away past the horizons.

I worship my Gods daily. I stand alone and as I listen to their written songs and their instrumental shakings. I sing along with them. I learn every crack of every corner in their words. I find my meanings through the meaningless.

As I close my eyes now in soft whispers and recollect their faces and their bibles I see a bigger picture. I see a picture that has no meaning, that is painted with maggots that traverse across muddy pools of dried tar and eat that which has already died so that they one day can die too.

I see them. Right now. I even hear them. I can hear them wailing this nearly same message in the driveling beauty in which they do it.

Thom Yorke I am sure knows that he needs to give me nothing for my constant worship and prayer to him. I'm sure he's just as oblivious to the amazing intricacies which happen between the bleeding hearts and the artists. But I'm sure that he smiles in some numbing way that is too vague in his mind to really mean how profound it is.

And Trent Reznor I'm sure is smiling too. Because he knows as well as Thom how great the bleeding hearts and the artists are. Yet too it is in a blurred sensation that is too small in his mind to really mean how profound it is.

All they can do is hold their crosses of their sufferings and instead of rotting and dying from it like Christ let it rot and decay on a piece of blank paper and on their voices.

That is what will make it all worthwhile.
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