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It’s been a long road of speculation coming, I’ve finally arrived at my clearest interpretation of what Manson has been trying to say. His love albums aren’t about love of another, they’re about love of oneself! Surely, inspired by love, there’s little denial in that, no matter how much or how little was cut cut cut into video-shaped stars.
Manson was correct in titling Evan Rachel Wood his muse; she’s the center of his all, the proof lies in the 150+ times he cut his face and hands trying to get a hold of her, and never being able to reach the sun. Thus, he went under!
His face has always been his highest form of identity, he was destroying himself in every fabrication of his image. I dare say the mutilation of his reluctantly available realities was not only sincerely explicit and alarming, but somewhat flattering to his altars. We must always consider one’s bent knees to our prideful ego. Thus he went under.
His hands hold his creation, distrusting, they amused themselves by features unbeknown to him as a reliable option of creativity, and they weren’t. He couldn’t grip his own fingers, because he waited too long. If you’re writing in blood, you have to be able to hold the cup below the drain. Thus he fell under.
He couldn’t reach her, thus he couldn’t reach within himself to untangle his unraveling tightrope of and by cut up hands. Thus he fell under.
What is a man to do, a mensch without his über propelling him mightily forward? Bravery can demolish the naturally weak with the ease of Castle Rock’s flying boulders, and it’s no aid that we are all naturally, relatively, weak. We are all days of the week and few of us are Saturdays— but who’s to name the strongest?
Depending on where you are in the world, the week’s end meets an insignificant weak end. We’re spiraling Yahtzee dice; the heart, our hideously rigged red cup. This is where the heart guides the hand, don’t skip the drain.
This is my romanticism of self; he didn’t have her utmost and outright. He can hardly love himself because he’s over any normal conception. “The death of me” shall be the birth of a new five or six star, lest I gaze gaze gaze unto the fountain of abysmal black blood. For me, there sparkles my going under.
Like Nietzsche, I ramble rave and rabble, like Nietzsche I probably allow myself too much credit, like Nietzsche I will likely go insane. From birth or from today, there exists no dichotomy of self. My destruction will be all the same!
Manson was correct in titling Evan Rachel Wood his muse; she’s the center of his all, the proof lies in the 150+ times he cut his face and hands trying to get a hold of her, and never being able to reach the sun. Thus, he went under!
His face has always been his highest form of identity, he was destroying himself in every fabrication of his image. I dare say the mutilation of his reluctantly available realities was not only sincerely explicit and alarming, but somewhat flattering to his altars. We must always consider one’s bent knees to our prideful ego. Thus he went under.
His hands hold his creation, distrusting, they amused themselves by features unbeknown to him as a reliable option of creativity, and they weren’t. He couldn’t grip his own fingers, because he waited too long. If you’re writing in blood, you have to be able to hold the cup below the drain. Thus he fell under.
He couldn’t reach her, thus he couldn’t reach within himself to untangle his unraveling tightrope of and by cut up hands. Thus he fell under.
What is a man to do, a mensch without his über propelling him mightily forward? Bravery can demolish the naturally weak with the ease of Castle Rock’s flying boulders, and it’s no aid that we are all naturally, relatively, weak. We are all days of the week and few of us are Saturdays— but who’s to name the strongest?
Depending on where you are in the world, the week’s end meets an insignificant weak end. We’re spiraling Yahtzee dice; the heart, our hideously rigged red cup. This is where the heart guides the hand, don’t skip the drain.
This is my romanticism of self; he didn’t have her utmost and outright. He can hardly love himself because he’s over any normal conception. “The death of me” shall be the birth of a new five or six star, lest I gaze gaze gaze unto the fountain of abysmal black blood. For me, there sparkles my going under.
Like Nietzsche, I ramble rave and rabble, like Nietzsche I probably allow myself too much credit, like Nietzsche I will likely go insane. From birth or from today, there exists no dichotomy of self. My destruction will be all the same!
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