The Compass Point - Leading to the Bomb Fuse (feat. TheProjector)

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, June 29, 2012


The high rule Hyrule hydromancy caused the emperor to lose his sense of touch. Sense of direction was sent from the avenue of lost nuclei and rested where he could position his baby face firmly on a barstool. There, he watched it grow and age as mustache prickled, beard smeared like calligraphy in an attempt for you to stick to perfecting American history. Visually, the man with the stool was a hallucinogenic trapdoor…Gotham’s own possum reared on it’s hind legs in a defensive stance, practically fetal as the fetus on the stool shook it’s head. When all points lead to the center, the pressure gauge becomes stalemate -- the most quiet supernova of all.

Declination: Angular distance from the celestial equator, an Indian microwave waiting to explode. Sirrocan wind garbs of merchants lost in translation flow from the Mediterranean huts of cremated mud. A shovel and hand can find a glass chime of crystalline- saccharine lemon tea. Drink of champions. Winners of the Money Game. A pipe dream to the boy; wanderer of sheep. Another slave to the justified end of Mayan civilization, Sid Meyer prayers, religion to the wealthy.

How to make a bomb….shell fall to her knees and tell you things you’ve only heard whispered in dreams. The ground zero state of mind after blast will have you picturing that picturesque union of mind-water-vixen sci fi unit of the granary ultimatum. Smooth skin. Vaulted steel curvature. The makings of a Siberian missile holding cell. Every incubator in the massive silo storing the power of a thousand - really loud noises.

A fatal inertia of futuristic champagne-salmonella trench warfare. Biological in the history of pedigree, trees freed by green and misery. The life of Gods, written down before birth of the Antichrist, death certificate of the mass. Extinction follow death, a matrix of convoluted web lies, un-understandable peace talks of sex, politics and geriatrics. Tactics for creation of the Chess Wars.

Argumentatively, BIG AGRA is not a man’s friend. My friend, a big man, started an argument about it and we started slinging words like Monsanto seed catapults, leaving my portly lawn in smithereen-state. To simply state, the compression of air and acidic explosive material into a capsule form can effectively floor every structural square northwest of Jesus’ disciple’s apartment complexes. In Bethlehem, the bomb squads and the demolition men are Palestinian born, Israeli taught. Geostrategy knows no bounds. The powder is the means to get to the fuse - the fuse is the means to get to the point. Are we getting to the point yet?!?!

The bomb fuse...

The Anatomy of Peace; an introduction into mind-warfare. What goes on in the twisted souls of white lab-rat coats? The red coats of absolution, taxed solutions from the nuclei. Invitation to a summit retreat. One week goes by in the prison-cell torture of microscopic insect insemination of dissected manifestations; preconceptions of misplaced wampum. The harbinger of world-wide decision-making.

This lava is brain matter. This lava is arcane splatter. This lava is the death blood of our innate patterns of insane. Collaterally damaging the livestock we fill our iron plates with. Our lives forsaken. Live ammunition stored in Cyprus basins. Which country will hold the flaming match in their hand and blow out a cold “no” extinguishing the long red line and the thin lines of forehead sweat generate enough taxes to plunge your conscience into debt, send up smoke. Resist the urge to install an alarm clock locked into your throats.

Add the panic button! A last-minute addition into the scheme of grand-world manipulation, nation-overtaking nation in a frenzy of fire-blasting asphalt creation. A new Metro emerges, or so the plan goes. American dream justified. Sometimes, we live in the fantasy realm of the bomb center apprentice, a lost world of prison-black apprehension. The most abundant element in the universe is life. A renewable resource of vitamin-nutrient carcinogens.

When your last war efforts have fapped haphazardly and the underground bunkers expire, where will the leaders of the dreary suppository go? Surely a captain of your caliber can make stiflingly hard decisions to retake the ark that Noah left, mechanize it and arm it with… gunnery sergeants and the like. This is a war against the human psyche, for God’s Sakes! We need more funding. We need more apprehensions of the dystopia plug and more lackadaisical paradise water cannons. We’re so inconsiderate.

Another mundane speech on reforms in the field of dentistry and uniform appearance. What will the mass-hysteria revolt into next? Political showerheads... wait, figureheads, showered by heads- of state, an upheaval due in part to office-antics. A retreat for the senator wisemen owls, nightlife dulled by paperwork reciprocity- a damned network of self-sustaining stamps. Collectors rejoice in the fifteenth Arab Spring, another in a long list of wars that should've never. Bin Laden cups of bullet powder for sale. Just ask for Malik. Tropical Warfare indeed.



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