[Note: this was composed in prison where proof-reading facilities are notoriously bad. Please don't hold that against the author. You can contact Kyle through the link listed at the end of this entry.]
POSTED Monday, Oct 2, 2016
(A Eulogy For Rio Vance)
{Fans and Supporters of Apopthelema are all greatly encouraged to link/share and repost this to the Rio Vance (portland oregon) facebook page & her website riovance.com &email it to her directly blameitonriovance@gmail.com ,she needs to read this, she needs to know how many people are aware of how diseased she is. Help drive the stakes into the heart of this psychic vampire}
"THE BRUTAL REALITY AND PAIN OF KNOWLEDGE..."-SOTOS
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"I SAW A MAN CRY ONCE , DOWN ON HIS KNEES IN THE CORNER OF A DARKENED CELL AND HIS PAIN MEANT NOTHING TO ME"-GIRA
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Rio Vance is a septicemic succubus inoculating us all with the toxin of her pestilence. Shes just like all the other failed fucking artists with so much potential shit out like an addict twitching in withdrawal.
She has me backed up against the walls of her post traumatic nihilism. Face smashed into unforgiving & incomprehensible perpetually mutating boundaries. Her love is a corrosive acid bath. She taints every life she touches with her poisoned ego. She used to be the remission to my diseased psyche. Now she is the disease . Infecting it with the mindless devotion of a cerebral parasite burrowing its way down into the depths of emotional repression. Ripping away the mask and revealing the skull beneath the skin. Peeling back the veil of secular reality like an addict puncturing an abscess. Bursting with stench. Like the Chicago casualty with her polaroids. She lives a meaningless life whose true value&purpose wont be actualized until shes dead to this heathen earth. Day by Day too broken inside to face the horrors of a waking existence in this world of shit. She tries to kill the memories but they all come cracking back to the surface. Smoke Ghosts freed from their glass chambered cage by the fire ignited by her despair. Smoke ghosts rise up from the stem possessing your body with demonic malignancy. In this apocalyptic new dark age my goal is to bring about the end of her world. From room 101 to the spirit of 1349. The counselor playing good cop tells her its just like being tickled. You cant help but laugh & secretly want to laugh again. Even if you don't want to admit how rough it was. If you follow the punchline of that cruel joke like the trackmarks on a junkies thigh,you realize were all cruelly bound in determinism to the entropy of our species. Trying to seek out a rational explanation for all this.... Becomes a struggle as desperate as the vehement claims she makes denying ever having an orgasm... Never mind the twitching serpents tongue crawling with reptilian cruelty past her smack deadened sex drive. Screams and whimpers summoning a knock at the door of the Joyce. Unfolding flowers. Rose petals crushed against unforgiving walls of muscle . Burning with fissures expanding further. Blooming into great heights of throbbing pain . My teeth sink into the soft folds.
Like the sutured petals of a perforated rosebud.
"THEY HAVE TO DENY THEMSELVES ANY LASTING PLEASURE,&WHEN THEY FALL IN LOVE, THEY DESTROY THERE LOVER OR ELSE TRANSFORM THEIR LOVE INTO DISTASTE & DESPAIR. SO ARTISTS TEND TO LOVE EITHER OBJECTS OR PEOPLE WHO RUN AWAY FROM THEM.SO THE FEMALE ARTIST REJECTS THE GOOD MALE ARTIST" -Acker
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