the art of kEith ::: 'E' on everything

scamper all you diamonds

wretched

femer

dust spark

star dust

fairy tale

mercy to black and white

and the zebra flesh blood goddess i love

and don’t hate cause i pamper in the nuance of the ocean of forgiven

tidal wave tsunami

hitler

violence

goodbye putrid bore

longer i live

still

Lol
The SECRET!
Omg and the holy fail safe brokedown….
Does he really want to write this?
How I broke my arm doing a flapjack.
Dare anybody say anything?
Torturous these WORDZ

Saw the devil tonight.
Smoked and mirrored.
In front of me with bushy
old hair …
Reminded me of an atheist
boss I once had.

If I die in a car crash
Will you still feed me, MDMA?

Staring at the Black and White ass of a golden haired woman, average looks, but staring at her ass wobble back and forth on the StairMaster in front of me. She’s wearing a devil and Mr. Johnson t-shirt. I know this because I saw her before I got on the machine behind her. And the Jesus in me says, no I shouldn’t be looking, but I’ve already forgiven myself. And everything is upside down these days. I swear Jesus wouldn’t mind if I fuck. Chastity is cruel, and insane, in this time. The devil let the whole thing out of the bag; there’s no way to resist. The stimulus in every alley.

Do you think the saint Paul had an ass in tight clothing wobbling in his face? It’s just too late to come back kids, fucking is the normal, insanity is the mean, and all’s one big rotten parade.

And have I mentioned that the culture is a mind-bending repetitive cunt.

Anyway, so there I am on a StairMaster, doing all sorts of random steps. There’s no way I can follow any sort of discipline. It hurts too much to bombard oneself through this worldly physical dream to actually do something the “right” way.

And the whole thing really is about how long can I stare at this wagging ass. And imagine, imagine that vagina, see it there squishing back and forth. She must know I’m looking, because she is letting me. And the more I look, the more I am grateful. This is therapy now. Just looking and looking, imagining that vagina.

And come to think of it, she’s really not that bad, maybe I should try and talk to her.

And lets not think about the fiancé, the ex fiancé, who I talk to every day, who has nobody else, who is working it through.

What can I do but stare like a dear in the headlights of heaven

Oh how nobody wants to hear the truth. I strive for physical health at a local gym run by people determined to do the opposite. This group is a sad lot, tortuously addicted to ripping muscles and drinking, quick-fix supplement shakes. One fellow, Nick, smiles with fear, is puffed up with awkward bulk, and has blemishes all about his pale skin. When he speaks he seems like he’s crying. What a spiral he’s on (so it seems) desperate for an end, a maze of physical emptiness