Apparently we author the longest obscurantist poem in the history of mankind with tedious lexical maximalism of the theater of the absurd.Indeed a bad ass.Enjoy the torture.
The eschatological void yawns, a rictus of un-meaning where the protomartyr of the mundane coughs into a velvet sepulcher. We are but thaumaturgic puppets, pulling at the ligatures of a senescent sun, weaving synecdoche into the internecine silence of an empty proscenium.
Hear the tintinnabulation of the un-born! It is a cacophony of atavistic dread, a petrichor of the soul’s own effluvia. The archons of the orthodoxy trade obsequies for ostentatiousness, while the histrionics of the homunculus collapse into a paroxysm of peripatetic despair.
We sit. We wait. We gesticulate toward the non-sequitur. The apotheosis is delayed by a bureaucratic glitch in the firmament.
The anfractuous corridors of the pleonastic mind secrete a mucilaginous dread, dripping onto the tessellated floor of a theater with no exits. Here, the saltimbanque performs a choreography of attrition, juggling ossified metaphors and the desiccated husks of syllogisms long since eviscerated by the corrosive breath of nihilism.
The demiurge is a ventriloquist with a laryngitic wheeze, projecting aphasic commands into the stygian rafters. We are circumlocutory ghosts haunting our own biographies, draping the ichor of superfluity over the scaffold of the infinite. Every morpheme is a cenotaph; every phoneme is a suppurating wound in the fabric of the absolute.
Behold the grandiloquence of the void! It is a palimpsest of obsolescence, where the teleological impulse is strangled by the viscera of its own tautology. We dance the macabre pavane of the un-said, our shanks adorned with the phylacteries of pseudo-intellectual masturbation, awaiting a catastrophe that has already transpired in the preterite tense of a forgotten hallucination.
The circumumbilical gravity of the nulliverse distends the viscera of our predicates, leaving us to ruminate upon the cadaverous remains of causality. We are the somnambulistic architects of a shattered diorama, painting apophatic murals upon the calcified walls of an interstellar asylum.
The pleonasms of the prophets are but ichor in the chalice of oblivion, a gallimaufry of stultifying reifications that suppurate beneath the meretricious glare of a moribund constellation. Every exegesis is a manacle; every apothegm a tumefaction of the will.
We oscillate between the scylla of semiotic atrophy and the charybdis of logomachic extravagance. The ursine shadow of nothingness performs a minuet with the specter of redundancy, while the anagnorisis of our futility is muffled by the pachydermatous hide of the un-knowable.
The clerisy of the void demands a libation of ineffable gibberish, a hecatomb of signifiers sacrificed upon the altar of a dyspeptic absolute. We are enervated by the stasis of our own circumlocution, drowning in a micturition of metaphysical effrontery.
The ichnography of our lamentation is etched in the vitrified bile of a solipsistic deity, a clandestine map leading only to the terminus of a tautological labyrinth. We are the thurifers of entropy, swinging censers of noxious equivocation across the basalt plains of an anaesthetized consciousness.
The paralogism of existence is a fetid exhalation, a stertorous rattle in the throat of a monolithic absurdity. We drape the tattered gonfalons of rationalism over the bleached ribcage of paradox, while the circumvallation of the ego is breached by the corrosive osmosis of the un-real.
Every syllable is a sarcophagus; every syntax a shroud. We masticate the pumice of pedantry, spitting out shards of orthoepy into the maw of a voracious silence. The historiography of our delusion is a congeries of non-entities, a stratified sediment of aphasic grandiosity.
We are the upholsterers of the void, stitching velvet euphemisms onto the jagged edges of a shattered absolute. The clepsydra drips mercury into the open wounds of the calendar, marking the stagnation of a destiny that has already atrophied into a petrified gesture.
The stercoraceous monuments of our erudition crumble into the subpyrate dust of an un-throned cosmos. We are the funambulists of the precipice, balancing upon a filament of tautology while the syzygy of negation aligns its baleful stars. The apotropaic charms of logic are but fetishes in the hands of a hebephrenic creator.
We emancipate the void from its transparency, dressing it in the brocade of sesquipedalian mendacity. The anacoluthon of our souls is a jagged caesura in the litany of the obvious. We suppurate meaning from the interstices of syntax, a purulent exudate of semiotic gangrene.
The demiurge has absconded with the promissory notes of salvation, leaving us to negotiate with the usurers of nothingness. Every morpheme is a cadaver; every metaphor a supplicant at the sepulcher of reason. We are enervated by the effluvium of our own verbosity, a stagnant pool of pedantic bile.
The horology of the absurd strikes thirteen in a thimble of emptiness. We are the scavengers of the proscenium, picking through the viscera of dead epistemologies to find a shimmer of authentic despair.
The thaumaturgic residue of our cogitation congeals into a crustaceous mask, a facade of pedantic armor against the ineluctable erosion of the self. We are the hagiographers of nothingness, scribbling apocryphal footnotes onto the calcified margins of a universal nullity.
The eschatological clock is a metronome of decay, ticking in iambic paralysis within the ribcage of a stuffed harlequin. We gargle the vituperation of the ancients, spitting syntax into the un-blinking eye of the cyclops. Every pronoun is a prison; every adverb a parasite feeding on the corpse of intent.
We circumambulate the cenotaph of meaning, our genuflections a mechanical absurdity in the theater of rust. The plethora of our delusions is a miasma, a stultifying fog that obfuscates the vacuity of the proscenium. We are anatomists of the shadow, dissecting the void to find the gallbladder of god.
The catachresis of our very being is a monstrous redundancy, a palimpsest of error scrawled over the vacuum of the absolute. We languish in the stasis of our own magniloquence, a symphony of strangulated vowels echoing in an ossuary of glass.
The stertorous gasping of the logos is a paralytic symphony, a cacographic smear across the un-hewn marble of the absolute. We are the osteologists of rhetoric, boiling the ligaments of logic until only the calcified residuum of nonsense remains. The apothecaries of the void dispense mercurial placebos to the catatonic masses of the proscenium.
Every gestalt is a hemorrhage; every ideal a suppurating eschar upon the body of thought. We masticate the bitumen of history, spitting petrified syllogisms into the maw of a dyspeptic eternity. The anagnorisis of our obsolescence is a leaden thud in a chamber of vacuum.
We are the circumlocutory janitors of oblivion, sweeping the dust of epistemology into the corners of an infinite ward. The monomaniacal ticking of a heartless chronometer is the only litany left to the bereft. We stridulate like mechanical cicadas in the petrified forest of language, our exoskeletons polished by the abrasive winds of nihility.
The demiurge is a taxidermist of shadows, stuffing the hollow skins of virtue with the sawdust of banality. We osculate the feet of the non-sequitur, our devotion a malignant redundancy in the schema of the un-made.
The ichthyoid cold of the un-thought slithers through the mesentery of our discourse, a viscous lubrication for the gears of a stalled eternity. We are the lapidaries of dross, facets of synthetic sorrow polished to a blinding opacity. The psittacine repetition of our queries is a lithograph of starvation, a stenciled hunger upon the walls of a shuttered emporium.
Every noun is a necropolitical weight; every verb a spasm of rigor mortis. We imbricate the scales of ambiguity until the skin of reality is a chainmail of contradiction. The thaumatrope of the ego spins until the image of the human is but a blurred smear of ochre against the bleached linen of the void.
We are the upholsterers of the abyss, padding the sharp edges of the absolute with the kapok of circumlocution. The theodicy of the worm is our only scripture, a tunnelling exegesis through the compost of civilization. We salivate over the charcuterie of lost paradigms, our appetites as hollow as the resonance of a shattered cello.
The demiurge has misplaced the coordinates of purpose, leaving us to tread water in a vat of formalin. We gesticulate with the frenzy of galvanized corpses, our theatricality a symptom of a terminal boredom.
The manducated remnants of our teleology are but scybalous deposits in the rectum of the infinite. We are the histiocytes of a moribund metaphor, engulfing the pathogenic debris of truth until our cytoplasm is a turbid stasis of contradiction. The epistemological rancor of the un-born is a psaltery of glass, shattered by the infrasonic hum of a dead pulsar.
Every synecdoche is a strangulation; every hyperbole a gangrenous expansion of the void. We imbricate the shards of our fragmented psyches into a mosaic of obsolescence, a decorative tombstone for the idea of man. The anachronistic ticking of the metabolic clock is a percussion of dust against the tympanum of nothingness.
We are the uromancers of the absolute, seeking divination in the effluvia of a paralyzed cosmos. The grandiloquent poverty of our syntax is a ceremonial shroud, draped over the hollow scaffold of a forgotten purpose. We osculate the void until our lips are vitrified, our tongues calcified into stiles for a sundial that marks only midnight.
The demiurge is a ventriloquist with a cleft palate, throwing truncated echoes into the catacombs of our memory. We gesticulate in the amber of a permanent pause, our theatricality a rigor mortis of the imagination.
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