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    <channel>
        <title>Baneframe Blog</title>
        <description></description>
        <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/</link>
        <lastBuildDate>Fri, 24 May 2013 12:26:11 +0100</lastBuildDate>
        <generator>FeedCreator 1.7.2</generator>
        <item>
            <title>Comorbid</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[The fast life has left me
spurring the lifeblood out of moments.
I have been picking the bones out of your feeding hand
and making utensils to toy with,
to pick at my poisons with.

However, I've found it most disturbing
that you are more interested 
in the me that is dead.
So with surgical precision I look into myself.
I have been conducting premature autopsies
and killed everything that I process.
I have learned that every personal growth is a cancer
and wisdom has only taught me how to graft them.

And while I have been masturbating hopelessness 
for progressively waning moments,
you have been reading the DSM
and biblical allegories to children
in your best fairy tale voice,
until they sleep unsoundly under
the pretension of infinitely wide eyes,
dwelling under the waterbed of monstrosity,
wet with ether behind the ears.

But still, I heard you when you told me
you want me to leave my skin here
and watch it from above in adoration
before groveling into the landfilled clouds
where I can crawl into my costume.
You will have me
bodybagged within a seraph
to skitter as an insect 
upon the rot of reality,
moving like a missionary,
licking the exit wounds of deviants.


You are the extension cord of the human spine 
connected to nothing, control is not grounded.
You are the reflection that does not follow me.
I do not know who reflects whom 
and I fear us both equally.
We cooperative only in that
we are comorbidities of the truth. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Wed, 15 May 2013 04:52:53 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Sleeping Giants</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[And in his bastard's wet dream,
God will cry in his slumber
because nobody tucked him into it.
We are all biproducts of his desideration
for mother nature in a church dress,
unpropogated into his dimension
and fleetingly stained into the universal fabric
of an emperors new clothes.

The mothman is famished for more material.
On a full stomach he will find the energy
to discover that exact angle 
where the ugly light of truth and amnesia black meet.
That place where the devil in the details dwells,
so together they can eye fuck the glint 
of a broken crystal ball
only to be a better father to all of its images.
A menagerie of of little gods just waiting to happen.
Quiet as sleeping giants in an antfarm. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Tue, 30 Apr 2013 00:43:02 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Sui Generis</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[We have been before, rara avis, of 
homogenous beauties and other-worldliness.
The elements of a special bond sealed
within a realm of possibility, we were
intuitions lodestars, unraveling resplendent
ray paths that draw to each other; spun with
the twists and turns of perpetual generation;
A daisy chain of mind blowing junctures unbroken.


Our lively pulse is a captivated fever; 
raving in warm ardor, revealed a reality.
Upbeat willingly, because I long to garner
the joys of our every instant in unreal time. 
You are my faithful next moment of utopian bliss;
Perfection's magnum opus; The romantic's paragon;
A distich in Aphrodite's love song, and we
ride out her zephyrous breaths of life,
perforating oculi in the duskiest of atmospheres
with our sharply defined relationship.
And Venus beams down on us proudly, like her
glittering gem of many facets, all majestic.


Our prized memories are etched in my mind, 
like a scratch in time as the earth whirls,
and with each coaxial revolution, my love grows.
Ingrown; Assimilated in your hands
that I become lightheartedly lost in;
Like a mystic world of intimacy
projected outside of the tangible.
And I can see through it, but not past it,
for it has no ends, rather, transitions
back to our beginnings, eternally.


The way your mind lay allayed within mine,
and mine within yours, and so we shall be,
our shared reflections like vicarious portals
forever coalesced in the bright fountain of fidelity;
A love bottomless flowing as one young bounding main.
And I swim through the images of us, splashing
watercolor frescos onto our obstacle walls,
and salvaging from hindsight to build a sanctuary of us -
The only sure thing in which I can believe. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Sat, 05 Jan 2013 10:47:13 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>The Manifest Destiny Abstraction</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[Meat-headed poltergeists
stacking kantian phenomena
in attempt to meld and weld;

Broken sculpture of totality;
Masterpiece of singularity.

Eidolon or effigy -
something to toy with

as far flung space orphans
with a story pervading
past the outer limits
of their knowledge.

The unadopted adopt hope
that they aren't worthless.
Yearning to associate -
Desperate to settle
after manifesting their own destinies.

They are a race of engineers.
Conductors of their own locomotion.
Explorers, Pillagers, Settlers.
Structuring the world around them -
Organizing, Consolidating, Micromanaging.
Always demanding to occupy
Unmanned annexes of discovery.
Searching for missing links
and evolving into the form of modernity.

They are the
neocolonialists of mindscapes,
collecting in cities of 'ism's;
Metropolises minus the traffic
of reflective speculation
and the blurs of color 
that paint abstracts in the dark
they feel only a God's eye view
can discern.

They want to know 
that which is grasped
if it is beheld at all.
They want more than to grapple
with the perfect models they created
as a creature comfort.

Splenetic stargazes raise
questions to the zenith of knowledge -
They can rout the mind and send 
them as clay pigeons rummaging
for sentimental trinkets
that gleam luminously in the glow of light -
So they can roost in nestled thought
atop a tree of self-righteousness;
A furlough from the vagrant ground walkers
where they can perch on high pegs
overlooking the wild blue yonder,
ghostwriting for the gods.

Some leave that to the birds.
They size up the
lacuna of night sky and entity 
which speaks volumes in itself
that can not be written.
The breadth of a mere breath
only winnows the dust 
from a benighted sense of magnitude.
But they know that sheer size in space
does not conclude insignificance.
They are made of and by the heavens,
manifested in one of many forms
they will embody for eternity.
Atomized ash that will fly freely
in the cosmic gusts, floating peacefully
where they will create and destroy
by the unconscious decree of the universe,
where atomic omniscience and omnipresence is splayed.
These lives are the paint AND the canvas -
Each life a brush stroke
manifesting the big picture;
The abstraction.

Truth IS the abstraction, not within it.
But for most of these people,
it's just an ambiguous piece of work;
And in human gallery...
A painting of poltergeists
hugging their sculpted idols in trepidation.  ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Mon, 17 Dec 2012 04:41:47 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Homely Nursery For Brainchildren</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[
Seedy flophouse
in the crawlspace of genii headrooms
burgeoning spores of failed ingenuity
into withered corpse flower foliage
swaddling thought in patronization
like a boxed-in verve mummy.

They are the opium children
of deranged blossoms outbloomed,
at rock bottom, crashed
out of afflatus trances;
Dwelling a stones throw away
from bludgeoning their 
patron saints for pabulum.
They're that desperate to pitch in.

In a place where their 
heads are smitten 
by tomb plaque headboards 
as they sway themselves to sleep
and attempt to conk into sense.
But they sound like death's
doorknocker pleading his time.
They're off their rockers;
And in their cribs - 
An abbotoir where they smother 
flocks of sheepish ideas
once counted upon 
so they could sleep at night.
And the vestige of twice bleated cud 
dribbles into a nightstand's water glass
they oft drink from to oil the dream machine.

A place where a selfish spiritual vistitant
jumps on their deathbed recently made
like a downbeat metranome calibrating
the time forward til a kevorkian cannon cocks;
The heraldic toc.sin which sounds
off the unnoteworthy and dispirited.

And it's provoking,
like a psychomancer's apocryphal kitsch 
of grey matters mocking over head
as a moiled baby mobile 
to the coo of the reaper's aria.
Like the dangling dervishes of gallow ornaments,
once an underground resistance
defying the likes of platitudes.

They are highbrows amongst closing eyes.
And bulbs bear no more brilliance with open eyes. 
Their names will forevermore dwell in cracked lights. 
And if their life brightens up, 
their complexion is lost within.
It's their faulty nightlight when all is dark.
And in this room, it's always gloaming. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Thu, 23 Aug 2012 05:16:47 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>When God-Fearing Eyes Sink In</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[When you are beside yourself in multiples,
domesticated by demons,
and every bit of you is crucified upon your mood board -
that is the moment that you begin to listen
to the curtain with legs -
The voices within the walls.
You become convinced 
that compound breaking
upon premotored winds is ergonomic,
and death is rewarding.

I am scarred by the pressure relief system -
Torn from the sproat hook acupuncture
of anthropomorphic cloud creepers at odds.
Others lay contorted and broken on a staged world,
uncut from their neuronal cords and tangled in irony.
And above, the angels bloodlet brains
in the nosebleed sections of science.

What comes down to earth
are spur toothed nimbus bearers 
broadcasting spiritual static
that fills children to the brim,
inflating heads that burst into hellscream
from the emptiness.
And crude Jesus clones in hazmat suits
perform quarantines 
into the trapdoors of consciousness.

Hierophants hold out through their galactic glory holes
and congregations crawl anonymously under a holy mess
like an orgy of lepers.
Religious leaders bow down headless,
spewing cognition converted to ransoming texts
under a dazzling canopy of facedown deities.
They have overextended themselves above humanity
like dead weight hanging overhead -
Empty existential pinatas
hanging from the cosmos,
the likes of which never spill.
I dry heave at their lack of substance.

Heaven is a place where specters of
the serially killed give peepshows 
behind the vacuous black holes of logic.
Just products of some divine wetwork expressionism -
Perpetual omnicide diluted in a sea of stardust.
Galactic gold diggers deny despair and depletion as
flashes of life become lost in deadpan hands.
Saviors put the handicapped overboard to rescue 
because they, themselves, can be drowned in outer space.

But I cannot stay here
where we practically starve
through our muzzles in the peanut gallery,
and they feed us bits of humanity
to be drowned out with watery wine.
Yet I do not want to exist
where humans sit pretty upon pedestals
as a precious specimen to be spitshined.
I do not wish to live
upon the skin of a gods teeth
like some kind of gagging order
that chokes out correspondence.
It is more likely that we are something
to be cleansed of,
and we are forcing a hand.

I cannot rid myself of Schroedinger's cat 
entangling this and that,
superpositioning my fears,
and terrorizing ubiquity.
He strays the pigeonholes of my mind,
hunting for that which is for the birds,
and killing the spiritual carrier lost within.

God is just a universal handle 
that leads us into ourselves...








And that is why I fear his existence.
 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Fri, 04 May 2012 17:29:35 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Trapped in the Complex</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[We are trapped...
In a complex made up with infinite stories.
There is vacancy to expand, 
but not enough room to find comfort.
I am disoriented between the chiaroscuro of simplicity.
All light beats down with something left to be desired.
And so the creeps skitter inside
cooking up telltale delusions in blue ruins
that smell of soap scums and animal piss.
 
Here I have been dissecting human spirits 
only to memorize the bare bones of everything.
I have found within humans, 
that inhuman hands dangle, 
broken off in the genome abacus
so I may not keep good measure of sanity,
or reasonably figure the dimensions of tall orders.
 
Look up...
The men upstairs are crawling on their ceilings too.
And I'm afraid all conceivable entities are in here together,
where one dies only to wake up on another level.
I have never once found myself in here,
as identity changes before my eyes
before a moment can process itself.
I have only found that the stairway to heaven is never ending,
and I am always below it
trying to hold a candle to the light,
ironically holding my breath
until I turn blue.
 
There are so many doors that will never open,
and so many self-sabotaging eyes plugging keyholes
until a key comes along to validate
that there is nothing for us to see here.
I can only see another day to fear my own consciousness
and grapple with the hopeless need to hold on to it.
  ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Mon, 09 Apr 2012 10:43:25 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Holism Arrays Spiritual Panoplies</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[Foiled inner workings dun for pith
when one exists behind enemy lines.
Reserved in the black of our adytum
is potential yet grown; unaccepted.
Concealed in the rucks of humankind,
self esteem is quelled by a covet
that feels prime to a human fiber.

The open truths are of ousted spaces 
on a brocade spating limns of a genesis,
amongst sublime details and patterns.
This is the tryst of the human spirit.
All sewn up by the possessive eyes
of uncertain needles, spellbinding
inner glee to loopholes of possibility.
 
It's a textile suitable for a demigod,
given he hold it closest to himself,
but share this quantum cut paradigm
as a model, rapt in a patchy ambiance;
Warm under the blanket comity that 
hails from the incognito - ironically.
Collective conscience fashions after it.

And a palimpsest is universally accepted.
One must become masterful in the art of 
wearing novelties without becoming worn, 
and changing religiously; Reformed as 
shorn and stripped naked, we ought to
snag the nuances of all colorists, sopping
them up with our flaws to osmose the espied.

Design ideals opted to be in time's unfold;
Array them on a waxen manikin of ourselves
found framed, neutrally fair in plied hearts, 
vested in virtue, heartily abreast, exposed
behind passion's seat as a shrined pulpit
in the bare, unfurled court of all idols.
Hearken the echo of your voice and behold
freedom's laud hemming all our spaces together. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Wed, 12 Oct 2011 20:38:00 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Trip Down the Pipes</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[I have attempted enlightenment
in this chemical darkroom,
where drug lust tore me open
and shattered the senses,
smitten under smoke tar northers
that break face and carry unfulfilled screams.
It wavers me in a preternatural wilderness
where the grass hues flicker fickly
and liver lilies shoot up like bad opiates
bound under a terra firma tourniquet.
Wavelengths writhe with the way of worms,
tremoring entangled in a dendrite seance.
Consciousness becomes a
masochistic environmentalist tending,
working amidst graveyard shifts,
unhumbled behind psychoactive digging tools, 
surfacing psychosomatic upheavals
with their groundbreakings
and inducing action potentials
to teeter on the lunatic fringe.
I am strung out and tripping,
downcasted into a free fall
just waiting for the wraps of reality 
to expire in overextension,
slipknotting my flailing nerves,
and leaving me a hangdog,
never to be severed from insanity
and the gibbet of these pipe dreams.
 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Tue, 04 Oct 2011 01:59:57 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Wet Nurses of Bedlam</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[
The meaning of life is a beauty
that I can only fornicate with
and leave enceinte with deformities.
Its womb is fortified with  
socially constructed filth, and
every thought therefrom
is begotten into reality
like a stillborn in a twisted cradle
defying structural logic.
They are the premature playthings
of marooned demons
blueing at their birthmarks.
I try to restrain them with my skin.
Every breakthrough is excruciating,
but the worst of my fears
is that the most intensive wet nurses
are natives to bedlam. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Fri, 23 Sep 2011 00:19:41 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Fateful Phaseout</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[At one time, everything was alive.
The meridians of the old world
spanned the length of a neighborhood street.
Chalk could dissect a concrete domain
to reveal the realms that could flourish 
underneath the surface of all things.
Colorful kingdoms reigned supreme
in the most uninspired of rooms
and oneiric visions were fixated by felicity.
I discovered a glorious sanctuary 
in my name as I wrote it proudly
upon precious constructions.
Fantastic claims were staked 
under the magnetic medleys of an alphabet
that held story and aesthetic above the cold.
But somewhere along the way,
the archaic argot of springtide lost it's power,
and oversight was concurrently lost.

My place in the world was bereaved 
under the bubble bursting akin
to a bokeh light mutiny
as thoughts exploded into blurs
that beat the mirroring atmosphere 
back to the point where I wane into unbeing
and get branded in a wildfire of sky.
Like a genetic vector, anarchy rose
from the remains of bambino chums
that were tickled to death.

Cloud cuckoo land decays to this day,
raining ichor from the clouds above,
where I used to play house broken.
Part of me still exists there late,
as the little angel starving under the table,
and the language above me is still alien.

I entertained that which was withheld,
and let dwell in sterile sleeper cells, 
recessed, undead beneath the playgrounds;
Dormant until dug up when I found something
unborn in each day, and called it my creation.
Like the imaginary "friend" that creeped after me,
occupying before breaking faith with me.

Somewhere, embalmed in my closet,
there is a skeleton molesting high spirits.
My primeval form is huddled in its flesh quilt,
as something sounds … unknown ...
from the corner of such a skeptic's space.
It is that which sleeps under my eyes,
and it has taught me to cry differently.
It mocks me with a foreign distortion
that forks out of my voice.

I recall when pitches fall,
to the kids to come back home
before the last of the lights turn off -
Always forgetting that through my traumas,
I waterboarded them in the fountain of youth.
If you don't let go, they spoil 
at your adulterated chest,
and eventually, leave you with nothing...
never to come back again.





 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Fri, 26 Aug 2011 08:30:25 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Pop Cult Underground</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[Clique the icon, live like a parasite
attached to a synthetic block head;
A media mind set hosts a bloody pathetic
entourage, shocking into stupefaction,
sucking humanity out of ersatz archetypes.

Warp amidst the dark waves transmitted
through electronics and tabloid inklings;
As if possessed by muckraker worms,
mud slinging and smirching the auras 
of crooked people covetous of your cognizance.

Like Charlie Manson, who's laughing and emulous
of the evolving monsters that cut him loose;
Outcasting from their socio-scene death grips,
pushing him out like a manufactory of sin,
launching a protege to kill the competition.

Miscreations that clout heads of common folk
with dazzling impact; lights flashing names
like beguiling evil in a concussed revelation.
Paparazzi mix it up in a flash, causing seizures 
that are dashing the ennui of normal lives.

Frothy brains cave in, picked over by cabals
in a dim witted frenzy of wanton cynosures;
A symbiotic feeding of cutthroats on delicacies, 
feasting on the gourmet spoils of an ego war.
They eat each other alive, grinning and bearing.

Rolling red, through the helter skelter 
of Hollywood arteries, crimson carpets turn out
celebrity bloodsport addicts, hunting big deals
through the main streams and not-so-high roads,
cat walking the trail to social cataclysm.

They pursue dream paths like obsessed stalkers
with dilated eyes and magnifying glasses.
They're as bright as a red light district,
sidetracking at the windows of opportunity,
to get inside of others who are open to the idea.

Partake in a film noir orgy of opinionated faineants
and eavesdrop on the hearsay of red hot recall,
bouncing off the narrow pathways of membrane walls;
Like pheromones hazing into tunnel vision orgasms.
Recipients die inside slowly, snuff filming a life.

Outlining heavenly bodies on the silver screen,
onlookers try it on in a size zero, fitting masses
perfectly within a box office mausoleum to sink
into the darkness of a socially acceptable hell;
seeping out the doors to make its dead bait debut.

Many are lost inside, sticking to the floors,
scrabbling their will into the concrete material.
Eyes elsewhere, they're locked onto the house devoid
of human identity, praying to be devilish blue bloods 
transparent; The spawn of morbid curiosity.

This is the scummy ol' chum oozing over faces,
like a grotto of vomit contouring to the beauty masks 
of pigs dismembered under human associations.
And talking heads become more appetizing 
when marinated in the prime time limelight.

Unless you subscribe to doll-faced plastic anorexics
and the mascara masquerade of active cadavers.
Kohl chambers conceal a mogul train wreck
polluting the cities ever so colorfully,
consuming industry selling selfhood nostrums.

It rolls out like skeletons on corporeal treadmills
or junkie tongues wrapped around the public's pill.
Here there are backstabbers, bootlickers, and posers
eating crow and running amok like night life terrors,
exhausting nocturnal bonds until hung by the money tree.

Sky high lives hanging by a thread in overgrown penthouses.
Shady C-listers sapped into full tilt boogie.
Slanted personas staggering through a rich air,
roped in with tight circles; knot holes of civilization.
They jerk people along with them.

The painted minx is fiery as a wicker material girl
cremating her circle of friends as a sacrifice
to outshine superstar gods; burning bridges
along the most shameless walks of shame.
She blends into the burnouts like wildfire.

Succubi embrace all the rage, holding it close,
distorting within bedazzled straight jackets.
Fashionista factories produce faddy clones
in enriched rags, bone corset barred,
holding a charged breath for attention.

They wear cancer stick tiaras that exhaust
the smoke screens of rotgut princesses.
Oh how they ride the empty suits!
They break magic mirrors and eat them back up
in the funhouse sepulcher.

This is the pop underground movement
rolling fast forward into graves like maggots.
Human bodies are underpinning club cellars
that take life, reaching out of broken ground
to abduct the scum of the earth, and grow filthy urbs.
 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Tue, 23 Aug 2011 02:09:06 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Embodied Nihilism</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[Noctivagant waif, in your straying moments, 
you may begin to pry in the dark
at the heart of something, at the heart of anything
that has also been lost, even if it has never been moved.
But if you are to wrongfully practice care, 
it may just let you in with a bad company of species,
and it may just be a monstrosity of a host.

A bottomed out hull of probed man is split and open,
wide enough for anyone to explore around inside.
And a nihilist's thorax idles and snaps shut loosely
with the fell swoops of a captious air;
He captivates you with the cheap thrill of futility.

His breaths can vacuum magic out of any room
and hover over an idea like a cleansing tissue
or a curdled ghost hugged to a shivery gusto.
Rattletrap haunt - slaughterer of vehicular man.
He roils the volatile pulps, and liquidates motives
to lubricate the abrasive cracking of his brain reactor.
And if you look into the mouth of this container, 
we are the flaky crust of his divinations,
overflowing with endemic disease.

You hold him together, he holds you apart.
In fragility, you may lose yourself yonder,
falling further through him into a detached starkness,
where he has raped nirvana for pleasure
and it lay barren and apparent, sprawled out
in the tearings of a featherbedded existence.
Where do you have to ever doze soundly
but to crawl cozily into the void of a blank stare,
trying to sustain it like an unnatural sleep?

Otherwise you face terror, seeing yourself
as a blenched pupil in the eyes of the iconoclast.
They glint with white lights that reveal vacancy.
And he recites all of god's little sick notes
that stick out and flutter in his mind
like a perplexed, dyslexic synthesist 
reading us into the indescribable.
When you have an earful of sentience left in you,
he will pare you with his voice and study you.

You are drawn upon for sustenance,
connected with the dots of humanity's blemishes,
and revealed scrambled and dismorphic.
He channels you into his virtual reality
with antennae bent to the weight of an objective world
and he taught you how to use the remote.
And now, you live within the swell 
of his cranial transmissions,
festering in lucidity over time.

If you ever escape the living walls of your suitor,
you will remain unsuited with hungrier wounds.
Floored by all the humilities of the world,
you will be a thick skin, nothing more.



 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Thu, 18 Aug 2011 06:59:04 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Metastasis of a Memetic Madworld</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[Neurons fire at each other balefully,
like weapons emulating the semiotic warfare
of a haywire matrix filled with electric folk art
and volte faced hype beasts 
fused to their apparatuses,
ruminating on pieces of mind,
empowered by pseudo-latent bits.

In this world, we may be innerved
as we share blood supply with our furnishings.
Surrounding stimuli scrambles into actualization,
like the plague of pastiche surging through streets,
and human spirits haunt the concrete.
They are stylized souls outbound, 
superficially saturated in self absorbent avenues,
where thoroughfares stretch out,
consuming natural born cyborgs
like vortexes of hyperreality.
Human movements infrastruct therein like
a dynamic overgrowth of bones 
reinforcing the thin-skinned sham of fantasy culture.
Beneath it, synthetic veins pump human life through them.

Every man-made object is
just a proxy for the pain of incompletion -
physically detached prosthetics laying around.
And we are hoarders collecting to the brink,
contracting neuroplastic archetypes to sickness.
Our objects speak with cutting edge tongues
that try to teach you how to lap pabulum
at a potluck of subliminal poisons -
A place where the human hive mind 
data dribbles and crams into you,
feeding the information addiction
by drilling, plugging and connecting,
until we are cyberjam-packed 
with a multiplex of media miscellany
superfluxing through a ravel of infinite associations.

Turn on your cybergeist channeler of choice,
and watch fiber optic wet dreams of ultramodernity
amalgamate into the fabric of collective consciousness,
interwebbing human reverie and social deformities,
and smothering existentialists underneath a pall of polysemy.
They are roadkill on the information superhighway
slipping through the cracks of silicon super slabs
and buried out of context 
upon the shoulders of circuit city socio-paths.

And so we can all take further looks into theoretical infospace,
expanding into all mans land, pushing back heaven
so we may alienate ourselves within digital dystopia
and flesh transgressive memetic madworlds.
Here we only relate to that which entertains insanity,
distorts reality, and consumes the good,
tearing disparity between common human experience.

We are progressively losing our minds to the environment,
a symbolic wasteland where all things mental coalesce,
and it is hard to say where the world stops and the person begins.
 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Mon, 09 Apr 2012 10:50:32 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Perdition Behind Rosy Temples</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[It happened in the moment I saw
a rat's nest behind an elders smile.
I learned perdition exists somewhere
behind all rosy temples, and grasped it
like a cryogenic chamber of church mice.
A coldpacked pantheon at critical mass.
The pews creak under the weight of the unseen.
I, too, am hellbent towards leveling
with that which is lain under,
backsliding into dopamine holes, 
seratonin spiraling 
into abstraction and decomposition.
I pull myself together disorderly.

I am a starving escape artist
absent from the beyond,
claustrophobic in my own dishevelled body,
and the constriction amplifies 
commensurate with the expansion of universes.
Panic echoes with each thump
of a heart, bone jarred
and flailing in its cage.

I envision the future through calloused eyes,
clouding every surface and watching
how the values of my simulacra smear,
ticking like a nightmare projector
of images too large for any given moment,
overwhelming a rickety frame of reference.

In actuality, I am painting a desert
with the hands of an expiring child.
And I breathe like a sandblaster,
hyperventilating as if the cure was up in the air -
imminently in a blackmailed next breath.
It is in the lacking of it...

Intuition has betrayed me again.
It floats from room to room in a skintone hotel
like a knuckle white, antisocial butterfly
that ensnares itself in dreamcatcher eyelids
as nights sweat into the crack of entheogenic dawns. 
Only my pains are gregarious at daybreak.

They resonate sonically
with a platonic cave-in;
Biofeedback lost in space;
The playback of prayers in answering machines;
Sounds that could rape Nostra Dhamus
and leave him stranded in another dimension
where prophecy is riddled in fear
and condemned to fester silently
as a thought within a meat processor.
Gods would not feast
any sense upon such inferior products.
They, too, starve for high preservation.
Everything sentient is dying for this,
infinitely…. ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2011 11:49:31 +0100</pubDate>
        </item>
        <item>
            <title>Capitalist Punishment</title>
            <link>http://ink-circus.net/members/44</link>
            <description><![CDATA[From beyond the remote, our families are force fed
the human roadkill of our dislocated children, 
the loose-wadded feasts of optical sights, stomached daily.
Uncle Sam dishes out before the slaughter,
digs graves with a silver spoon under the table,
and caters babies to wean from the cutthroat's formula.
He tailors good faith for a suit of flies -
a static pattern underlying 
the art of patchwork propaganda shrouds,
sewn up atop the socioeconomic bodies.

Patriots fade indiscernibly into their armors
like self fulfilling prophets perishing without answers.
Mercenary prizefighters are grail ordered
into new age midas smash tasks.
Junto bask in the metallic downpour
holding up the meat shields of companies
that fundraise and escalate despised icons
for a world to revolve upon,
like a sun looming at spitting distance,
and one that never sets.
Behold, it is the master evaporator,
and with it, situational gravities adjust
to beget the trickle up effect.
Such is the cycle of villainomics.

Enemies exponentially regenerate more faces
for clean cut defacers to mask themselves with.
They condition them with snake oils and heavy iron fists,
commonly hidden within the political ventriloquy -
Where figureheads execute well with their claptraps
that close on the prying of the people 
putting their necks out for national headway.

Likewise, the charge card guillotine declines on society,
but values the bouncing heads it counts upon.
It takes with it the minds of socially dysmorphic peasants,
blowing out of proportion, trembling over empty wallets.
They do not resonate with the frequency of 
stock broker wind talkers fluently riddling barcode,
whispering like infrasound through the cold drafts,
the creation of businessmen stoking the hell fires
by blowing smoke through their teeth,
like the silent whistles that rally war dogs.
Cognoscenti lounge by and drink their molotov cocktails
because a lobbyist paid for them.

We steam no more than our factories
in the dead heat of profit war.
Outsourced blood runnels sluice 
through sludgy veins of industrial mechanisms.
The clearinghouses inadvertently sweep
humanoid shapes under their rugs.
And all we ask is you do not lay them at our doors.
We leave them prone to where the grassroots are crowded,
and places for souls to be bartered in wasteland transactions.

Non-prodigal sons lockstep into graves for monopoly money, 
falsely coined concepts, and fools gold legacies.
They put their hearts on layaway,
stored in the deep pockets of human suffering
where misery loves gun company
and the core of all sense hardens into vestige.
And so the snooty call of duty echoes.

At funerals, casualty viewings are not unlike
looking down on purposely abandoned change.
Greenbacks camouflage into mental decay,
and the cells of survivors soften until they are nothing.
Everywhere the ATM's discharge the forsaken cruor of purple hearts
and checkstand terrorists are arming the cause.
They will no sooner demagnetize a soldier than merchandise.
Families are battlecrying with the consumer's eye,
seeing to body bags full of luxuries and liquidated descendants.

The american eagle incubates corpses
to scorify riches with its dark underbelly;
Stealth to heads up displays,
it flies by nightmare to lay waste below
as the incubus of an american coma,
hovered above like a socialite network,
or a chandelier in a broken home.

Commoners barely hang on by the threads of the highborn
like shoestringed puppets dragged through armageddon
as the optimacy skywalk amongst their superstructural edifices,
and launder money on the razor line between ethical polarities.
The worlds empires will be unified by napalm glue mergers.
The peace pipe will burn with petroleum and olive branch.
And the red will be spread amongst the shaking of hands
until the whole world can afford to be innocent.
 ]]></description>
            <author>Baneframe</author>
            <pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2011 11:49:56 +0100</pubDate>
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    </channel>
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