Smoking the Bones of a Wise Man

By: C. L. Carr
September 9, 2008

I smoked the bones of the elder wise man, after feasting on his entrails, before the arriving of anew dawn. Guilt is only a emotional abyssal damnation, one in which I can no longer feel, for remorse is only a lower level of those that choose to blindly bend both of their knees. The old man was wise in a nature that made me feel alive, even though thus spiritual ecstasy is now long decomposed. I still brace/embrace all that he has planted inward within my own mind like the seeds of a divinity. Throughout the awakening of this morbidity that I’ve come to comprehend as an astral energy of some sort of humanlike aura, and nevertheless this aura I have devoured by the very essence of a vile vampirism. He’d taught me more then any other individual person has ever even tried to teach me about the way the universe is embedded within all humankind’s worlds, which is bound to their own reality. Robert Blake, reminded me of my old man, a son-of-a-bitch that raised me up alone on a hill top.