The Death of an Icon

“Shoulda been smarter when I was younger cause now I am a little to old to be a good runner.”

The root to every victory is the antithesis of it’s opposite. Grown from the loam of tragedy and error the branches of supremacy and ideology roost the aspiration of accomplishment. Strew across this boggling landscape of multidimensional infinitude are scars dark deep and seemingly endless but brimming with rich liquid lifeblood turning the desolate landscape into a supreme atmosphere. Breathing in deep the memory of a broken bond stronger now where broken, an eternal fire fully stoked, no longer dismembered from the memory misrepresented as a misrepresentation of aspiration. With my fucking nuts hanging like a primed bull purchased and presented to this world, smiling like an old cow, looking for one final good run through. Fucking livin.

This is the genesis of American literature. Equal parts eloquence, indifference, and idiocy. Equal parts sex, blood, and concrete. Just like the generation from which all this madness has sprung. Simply a mirror for the world staring back at itself. Unblinking and unconcerned with bloodied beauty staring back in a state of elated comatose. Born of a confluence of criminal activity regulated by state legislature. Artistic nature retarded. Castrated and embossed with gigantic rubber genitalia. Symmetrical and glistening but utterly useless and ineffective. Better for battery then reproduction. Leaving you with a dry concussion.

Genitalia, what a beautiful word. Borrowed almost directly from it’s root latin. No need to change a word that fits what it wishes to portray so perfectly. Genitalia. At once utterly general, intelligible, consumable, and then still sacred, still utterly useless without a dancing partner. What a stupid concept. The solo genetical, the last of its kind, unable to fulfill it’s purpose. Instead lets slip slide into a fortification of modern fornication. Blind fucking for the sake of fucking itself. Not the beastly need of maintaing a population. This copulation combination consummates at 7.1 billion population. Rocking the bedposts of the cosmos. A screaming orgasm.

“I guess size doesn’t really matter”

That’s what she told me. Hell, thats too good not to right down. Shame, no, I have none. I have no more use for shame. Conscience, ethics, gratitude, surely these things should be more bountiful than shame. Guiding this two eyed slightly below average dick sized rocket ship firing bright and born strong into the unknown spectrum of existence. The root from which I have sprung is one of ignorance, one of fear, malaise, unjustified pride, self absorption, self destruction, utter and complete fucking irrelevance. That is my cause, that is my soul, that is that which grounds me to this earth. It is my mission to extend my reach out into the open sky and defect from this sickness.

The root to every victory is the antithesis of it’s opposite. I have been fucked up for to long. Now I shall fuck shit up again.


The Dead Icon


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