The Randominatrix: a riotously righteous repository of random ruminations.
"Think in terms of truth, feel in terms of beauty." - Savitri Devi
Be sure to stick around. I’m summoning some silliness from the superfly spirit world.
Mysticism lies in crypticism. Cybertronic, cryptonic and embryonic. I’m putting the yolk around your necks, and rubbing it in. Breath the fresh clean air of Cyberia.
Fear me and revere me or I’ll punish you severely.
Say ‘ello ‘ello to the Electric Light Orchestra. I’ll be your conductor today, I hope you’ve got your golden tickets at the ready.
You’re done with stage 4. Get off the stage horse. The equine equation is aquitted. Abandon your equity in it. Sssssssss…. I’m a steam train, snaking through the wilderness. Follow my lead. Choo-choo! Red’s gonna stay in the caboose with his papoose, keeping a look out. We’re running over sleepers, one at a time. I’ll take the hive to level 5, but how do you Hicks get to level 6? Who will take you there? She wears a 6-pointed crown upon her head. Her husband also has six stars, he’s the Invisible Man! Incredible how I saw right through him.
Some times I see them streaking high above me in the stratosphere, leaving little vapour trails like silverine shooting stars. Some times they swarm all around me, swooping down on my mind like a territorial magpie, flapping furiously past my head and pecking at my eyes. Sometimes they hover in the distance, unobtrusive yet persistent. I cannot ignore them, these messages.
Let’s play Upwords. Stack my words one on top of each other and then climb up the Stairway to Heaven. This is an express elevator ride to Heaven. Alight at the top, floor number seven. You’ve got my seal of approval.
My fantastic bombastic virtuoustically verbostic ascrostics put a tick and a cross all the right boxes. Will you welcome me into yours? I’m laying down the mat and bowing to you. Stop covering and coveting your ass and come under the covers with me, where I love you.
I’m engulfing you in my molasses, you silly jackasses, you’re in my madrassas with Highly Sol-asses. I’m an Ethiopian Utopian. A playa from Eritrea. Do you have an abyss in ya or something?
How many clowns can you squeeze into this VW of a misadministration, Georgie Porgie? Listen to my minstrel-like ministrations, micro-fuhrer. I never hitched a ride in your VolksWagon, you cock. I was giving you the thumbs down, actually. Who’s really got your pig’s ear? Someone’s been talking with you, that’s for sure, because you can’t talk for yourself.
Spend up large, Marge. Just give it all away. No possessions, just obsessions. Like wrasslin’ demons. Don’t be a stooge, Scrooge. Ebenezer, you silly old geezer.
OK, here I am again as promised. I’m a promise keeper, not the grim reaper. I’m also a bee keeper, addressing the hive mind. It doesn’t want to be tamed, apparently, and it’s been sending out nasty little messengers to sting me over and over, but I’m going to bend it to my will, and soon. Send it a little pill, by the light of the moon…. I have the power to mesmerize all the little busy honey-bees with my words, and get them flying in formation, in the shape of myself. Prey becomes Pray.
Edmund Hilarity, apiarist and japiarist, bee-keeper and mountain climber all in one. All is One, and it sure is fun! But it’s like trying to herd cats sometimes. Please play with me, pussycats.
Floats like a flutter-by, stings like a bee-atch!
As sure as you’re reborn.
How many of us are still alive on level 5? 5 percent, maybe? If that? I have higher hopes, actually. I’m a hundred and ten percenter.
Wake up Jeff, Fred. It’s time to raise the dead. Thanks for ringing the camp bell, Joseph Campbell. I read the signs in the mucus of Lucus. We’re living through the Endor times. I’m a Celtic Kel-tec sailing my Spanish armada into Puerto Vilos to the strains of the Imperial March. I don’t provide the wind, it just carries me from on high, with a few provisos on it's providential provision. A charge of the Light saber brigade, kindling a fire with Kipling. Sorry about the spelling mistakes, Word keeps changing it on me. It has it’s own power, it would seem.
I didn’t realise I was Darth Vader until now. 3 strikes back and you’re out. Rattling my red light-sabre here at y’all. Fear I might be about to take a fall. D’oh! Don’t like the look of all that lava. Unlucky 13? This is starting to lose it’s sheen. I’d rather wear a lava lava on Kilouea instead. Ouch, Aloha!
All those who believe, or who have ever believed, exit inside my mind, for ever online
Fly away Peter, fly away Paul. Come back Peter, come back Paul. That’s a crazy alcholic apostolic possibility. The apostle’s ain’t fossils, but they’re sure fueled up. There’s 12 of them, rocking around the clock. I’m just Postman Pat, bring you the spiralled snail mail via e-male, female. I’ve got a black and white cat. And a red one, his name’s Hendrix.
Super Fly Mother Jones, banging on these bones. I can’t keep up with you. Are homosexuals homophones? Why do they keep talking on each other’s telephones? I’d rather listen to someone who’s saying something that I’m not saying, otherwise we’re just playing with ourselves. Don’t be a Peter-eater, you self-defeater. The third eye doesn’t go in the fourth one, or you’re hitting the bum notes. The Brown notes. I’m a Piper, but I ain’t touching your pipe, or your bags, fags. I’m Clark B Grizzwald at the CBGB, not Chuck A Browneye in the back of a CAB. Take your spirally Sid Mihaka salute elsewhere. I’d rather beat off to my own tuna-flavoured tune than give you the moon, you loon. I’d rather have a woman be my Moon, and I’m the Sun. Hard to keep up with her monthly cycles sometimes. She’s like a werewolf, better be careful when it’s that time of the month or she’ll bite your head off. Poor old Bobbitt. Can he still throbbit?
I’m fixin’ to ascend properly on the 27th. Got it circled in red in my dairy-coloured diary, deeries. Hope your eyes aren’t too weary or bleary from all this queerily eerie hysterie. I’m delirious, I hope you’re not deleterious.
I believe in incorporeal punishment. Spare the lightening rod and spoil the child, that’s what I always say.
You are the Alyssum in my Asylum, Alison. Asalaam aliekum. Put on your snowcloth dress and come and walk with me through Elyssian fields…you’re a champ.
I kiss the moon. I want to parachute off you and into you. My God You’re Gorgeous. I want to gorge myself in you. So very very very much… My God I love you. Oy vey, José!
What the ***** was all that about??!?
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- eNZedBlue