OEDIPUS EX

what light without mysticism. i read the iron sphinx and it answers with a riddle filled with loaded dice. SNAKE EYES. cheat. fraud. leading the anglo-saxons and honky tonk bitches fatuously infactually through the outerstate highway of autobiographical fiction. leading by word. leading by force. gunboat diplomacy. I TOLD YOU WOMAN. DON'T GET FRESH. fresh as maguro. jibun de kitta. uh-huh. whatever you say doc. BANZAI.

i am SICK TO DEATH of maudlin japes and behind the back stabs. even the panglossian paints a bleak picture of what is a parasitic friendship. he paints with tin brush and lead paint and a model who looks too much like a bouquet of flowers. a carnation deflowered. raped in the ass. cunt #2. it produces no bud but it bleeds all the same.

i tire of the blood but more precisely the mechanism that births it. tire of the obsequious, the sycophants and suck-ups that pass sugared anthrax to the ears of bitter minors. so i tell the sphinx to fuck itself, that morning, afternoon, and night are matters left to those who operate on solar power. and then i take my leave - seeing that's all i have.