Black Dragon Security☣ Ag3nt47 ☣ The Way of the Samurai is found in death. Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one's body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one's master. And every day without fail one should consider himself as dead. This is the substance of the way of the samurai. Even if one's head were to be suddenly cut off, he should be able to do one more action with certainty. With martial valor, if one becomes like a revengeful ghost and shows great determination, though his head is cut off, he should not die. All warfare is based on deception. To know your Enemy, you must become your Enemy. Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance. Strategy without tactics is the slowest route to victory. Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat. Opportunities multiply as they are seized. Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win. Our bodies are given life from the midst of nothingness. Existing where there is nothing is the meaning of the phrase, "form is emptiness." That all things are provided for by nothingness is the meaning of the phrase, "Emptiness is form." One should not think that these are two separate things. When one has made a decision to kill a person, even if it will be very difficult to succeed by advancing straight ahead, it will not do to think about doing it in a long, roundabout way. The Way of the Samurai is one of immediacy, and it is best to dash in headlong. It is said that what is called "the spirit of an age" is something to which one cannot return. That this spirit gradually dissipates is due to the world's coming to an end. For this reason, although one would like to change today's world back to the spirit of one hundred years or more ago, it cannot be done. Thus it is important to make the best out of every generation.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Rips and Tears Poem Written By Larry Patterson














Rips and tears.
Something is always ripping.
Tearing at us,
the tragedy of the tears ripping at our souls.
Whether it's a women or friends tearing at you.
The rent past due.
The full wine bottle emptied on the dirty rug of your motel room after a long days work.
Soaking into the filth of this world.
Tugging tearing at us.
The shitty job.
The car note not paid.
Lack of sleep.
Lack of sex.
Bad rushed sex.
The bitching of the land lady.
The bitching of your woman of the moment.
The plants dying out into a dried out crisp of nothingness.
Window slamming on my hands.
Screaming in a drunken rage for reasons unknown. 
The silence of the bad joke told.
The failed pickup line told to the whore.
The eyes rolling.
The sarcasm plays aloud like terrible music, piercing tearing at my ears.
The smoke filled room with a broken light.
The buzzing of the fly.
Out of smokes.
Out of brews.
Out of my mind.
Accusations of cheating.
The love of your life turned whore cheating.
The silence of the cheating cunt.
Tearing inch by inch at you.
The static of the television without cable.
Flatten tires, broken promises.
The human race.
Humanity.
Ripping tearing at our souls.
Like the pink painted nails digging into my back during rough sex.
The rough cop, roughing up everyone.
Escaping anywhere away from here.
The thought of escape.
Thoughts of a suicidal escape for one.
Being trapped.
Everyone so fucking boring.
Plastic faced people spewing phony upbeat moods.
I'm not in the mood.
Move on, leave me alone with my writings.
Fuck you humanity.
Give me my small room.
My four walls and a roof.
Go rip and tear at someone else.
There is nothing left to tear.
What was torn is gone.
What has been ripped is burned.
So let me rest.
In my room with my writings.
A broad and some wine.
A bitch putting on lipstick on my bed.
Planning on my demise.
You are just a mirage.
I don't need you just my room.
My writings.

Jobs
friends
women
whores
wine
are all replaceable.

My writings are worth more than all.

So don't tear at me baby.
Humanity you never had anything right.
Go rip at the boring brain dead plastic people.
Leave me alone with my art.


The End

Larry Patterson






 

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