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blast from the past

Posted Mar 11 2012 12:23am
I found this post on one of my other journals from March of 2009
"
They’re not eating at your flesh, only sweeping it to the side so you have a direct path to your gut. The intellectuals can shift from work to repose, forming hammocks of family floating gently down your blood. You piss out pathogens caught in the rapids- the burnouts. Intestinal graffiti sung as art and lauded in certain communities of the mind is swept away hours from a hemorrhaged start, giving adolescents a constant struggle for rebellion despite Patrol Officers of Probiotic. They resort to piercing their tongues and ears with cilia.Most congregate in the brain, using the Amygdala as a pub, drinking neurons like the fucking Irish. After, they return to their overworked spouses and an empty nucleus. The mind is a suburb.
Travel South to the heart, the Capitol Hill of flesh and blood, riddled with jazz clubs and street performers whose music blends soundly to one satisfied thump. The audience members, adorned with bloodball caps scribbled with the words Red Pox or flimsy blouses pieced together by phlegm, continue to weave as if choreographed along the vacuoles and sidewalks. The heart is the night district.
Veins are packed with stagnant blood shaped to sitting arrangements and ridden toward the stomach through a fluted hole. The chefs and the hungry assemble here in search of the sugars and starches their children feed on, praying for the acid of aftermath to burn them blue in the event of famine. Stop two inches short of the viscous Absinthe to inhale the fumes and melt to the whim of your spiritual subconscious within the psychedelia of churning muscle. The stomach is the underbelly.
Strip joints wet with secretion line the internal walls of your crotch. Some simply gawk, some stroke spirochete with neuron behind the curtain of slick membrane set to the impulsive throttle of G Spot eruption and a pair of fake gametes. The groin is the meatpacking district.  
The potholes and stretch marks of your skin are little beyond a road map for truckers, tourists, those who commute, or refuse to flash their turn signal.  Your chest is a solemn place as their dying comrades attempt to escape through pours, welling to pink tombstones of anonymity. Your skin is the punch line.
Achieving health amidst disease is an act reliant upon medical interpretation. Seeking pleasure despite it however, depends on your very own."
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