Saturday, 3 April 2010

Money sings to me

Money sings to me in dreams and nightmares like an untouchable cunt bent on destruction.

Whose voice is that?

I know only the voices. Your voice, my child. Their voices. This hell of money. This heaven of money. Money burns. It burns within. Sand in my mouth. It feels so good. Feels so bad. I dream. You dream. We all dream.

In the desert, O Master?

Yes, in the desert. That is where we dream. Bloodless. Full of blood. It is all there is. Feel it. The sand is burning. Our souls are cracking. It is a beast. The beast. Cosmic energy. This cunt.

What is our goal, O Master?

Shut your fucking mouth! Can't you see I'm in a trance? Are you blind? Are you deaf? Are you Death?

I am Death.

Money sings to me. Singing from the mountain. In the cave. The cave of my unsatisfied mind, where Satan is waiting. Satan waits for me. He waits for you. He waits for everyone.

Isn't that so beautiful?

No. No, it is ugly. A stain on my consciousness. And yours. Bleeding. Waiting. Laughing. Screaming.


Money sings to me. I cry. I do not want to hear. Keep the singing away from me. Fuck it. Chakras whirling out into space like Catherine wheels on a mystic journey. Fire all over my body. Senses on fire. Nerves on fire. Brain on fire. It burns. Money sings. It burns.

O Master, this is more painful than anything else we could experience, and yet it is beautiful.

Money sings to me. It sings of the pain. The pain in my wallet. Beyond the eyes. In the soul. And the heart. A wallet of love. Empty. And full. Champagne and caviar on a naked body, burning. Burning. It sings.