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Immediate, clear, unmuddied by the raptures left behind as corn husks stripped of meat, color and shape, the right to own the mind slips deviously away when the elements of hope shatter....having been in the wrong hands...awakened, the time crawls out of its slumbering fears and asserts its presence as the meticulously constructed lie it's always been...we deserve to be on the other side, but no one has the keys or the passion to find those keys; they belong to the imagination, and what's left of that is consumed by our love of technology...executioner of light.
I see the arch of daylight meeting the stronghold where moon begets a special wonder in my heart and translates the movement of soul into something unbegotten; wrapped and packed, the messenger surreptitiously comes; with a gust of rude intent, he delivers it up to the backward flowing of imagination settling in like a rabid cottenhead peering out a coffee can left by reckless hikers; he's the best shape-shifter I know. Till the heel of unknowing trips the can, he will hold the parcel. A price has to be paid, a sacrifice is necessary. It has come to that.
The design of the house was sure, made by need of shelter, need of becoming free, as free could be in the diagrams knitted on the web of soul by physical hands and eyes wedded to the need...there, they drew the plan, and the plan, by dint of its necessary life, fashioned the incipient consummations under assurances of safety...unknown to them, the pyre began its loft to the stake; it took its shape, and so it would wait, being ever mindful in its austere death to update appropriately. How we gloated...that we could ever undo the fear.
A delightfully disturbing influx
of finger-painting notes aswirls
the base artifice aside a gifted mind
hardly wise enough to see itself
dying to live outside the mansion house
of pain describing sanctimonious
cycles of soothe; no sooner applied
than created for love of sweeping gestures
of sound, this, his diadem of imagination,
a foundation of the national sensation
so easily mistook on a fever of ego,
swells the piano it presumed to assume
as home of a birth continually conceived;
now, then again, and again, the fervor can
no longer contain itself...
through flesh mastered, it
devises its quality of light by
nods and quirks,
his ironic laugh.
Slipping through the murk of morning, shedding weights of the flowing sog, dream material pounding heart, mind and soul, the compliance of wish fading like a drug delerium, I take to the tiny for assurance of place; I finger the nuance of minutia, the plenty of the few, the one of many. I assume the joy of terror being the fury resented too quickly for inconvenience and its telling face revealing its truth, though quickly seen as misleading; what is now passes like a dream, though that dread infuses substance onto the void...a painter of light, derived of dark.
A substantial residual of a partial fitting to a cause exerts its peculiar effects after reflections resigning me to anticipations begetting suggestions taken to heart with the possibility of action composing the new canvas presented like a virgin to a newly crowned king. What may come only satisfies my need for a plan....the black hole is widening, as I desired, that the consummation it demands may rise in passions yet to flint...a body is forming to fill the emptiness otherwise terrifying and daunting to those who resent it by frenzy and the furtiveness by not seeing its necessity.
There's no telling...minds behind decisions aside the efforts to influence, grab and pull, yank and shove, take pulses of the immediate concerns otherwise to fashion you a reality for commodities not attuned to self-validations. If seen as the mirror of worth, what reflects on the books implants itself to the metallic eyes in concert with the industry conveying the robotic antithesis to soul....take heed and feel the cool. Feel the lacking, court no espousal of worth gleaned from ricocheting light of heart on plates of grinning steel....a void by soul gowned like the bringer of light.
I thought you were pretty, a tall, light-skinned, long-haired, bright smiling woman. We exchanged glances, few words in holding with Law and Order in our wallets...the adjudication of attraction holds no distinction for the TV eye but the eye behind the TV tuning it accordingly, bound to limits ascribed by us; yet the fullness of its sensitivity, the tone of its worth, the depth of its height is not bound to the size of its screen...no, size doesn't matter, though all the breadth of its dimension cannot be folded by a measuring tool in someone's heart.
Furious flowing chunks of living, presumed in a river of time, that damnable illusion eating all the presumptions and quantifications of being aware of moving through life, stripping the banks of debris and taking me along for the ride to the end and beginning, are an assumption of arriving and leaving simultaneously that delights me. No matter what the scheme or how it parades itself as important, the flow slips away from its own shape, defining its shape on the go, becoming the nature of the undefined, unqualified and unbegotten till the welling forces subside in their rage and smile.
Yes, I can see how you move. I can feel your substance, the grit of your energy, light of your eye...you are the source I crave, although I may be talking to my own wish to be talking to something or even about something existing beneath all eruptions of furtive life, I seek you now as always, the alpha and omega...in a curl of flesh folded back till the point of nothingness is found, there you are and there I am, whatever I am...I am not that thing in a big white book of alphabetized phone numbers.
No, I am not that thing found for its own solidity on a city block, nor that thing established as mortal moving toward a slab in the morgue, nor that collection of emulsified wonders gaping through the years confirming the morphing face by age...I am that thing, however, sliding down through the slippery fabrications and machinations, swooping beyond the ducts of space and serpentine passages seeing all that can be seen beyond the light plays for eyes off stalks of electric suns, I am that thing undefined, untouched and ever touching, being all that ambition lacks for golden treasures.
This, the establishment of a correct aesthetic, heightens the realization of a faux necessity demanding the release of oneself to the entreaties shaping a nation of lies...the means to form a mind correlative to personal integrity cannot assuage attacks on honor, which mount exponentially each day against the very arbiters of said honor, pleading for the assumption of truth, attracting the attention of the minions of security devoted to keeping them silent, invisible, ineffectual and dead. How we have come to this baffles even the experts of the constitution, laboring, hunched over ancient documents, looking for a reasonable out.
You express levity as so much despair in your reaching for a hand to keep from holding you closer than a hand may in dreams decked on the natural flesh, but in dreams off the spine that design metronome disguises of humanity on a loving spree...in the back alley, you were seen to be a wonderful escape, then in the hall where echos danced for the pleasure of gossamer walls in the blacked out night when feet exhaled their limits to the racks of lonely beds, I could see you there, stretched out for sheerest levity of pain.
Soon there might be a diabolical return to the base credibility of demon archetypes in a mixture not likely to construe a willingness for surrender...it can only derive notions best left to lovers of hate on a good day when the venomous streams have dried receiving a splash of tears cracking the terrifying masks accepted as naturally true and shunned for the enemies assumed, then what times could be construed for the plenty promised before the elections, it's no one's guess...but a wish, once the executions have dried their blood and faces find repose, peace might actually speak.
Forcing a hole to open, forcing the end to another beginning, the same song played over and over, trying to match the approaching division, I see what's coming, and I can't stop it, no point in trying to stop it, although the bridge being built, even in a clear mind growing clearer, is reaching toward a calamity not accorded its place sufficiently for those in power to see the fruitlessness of the occupation I'm devoted to; that's the dilemma I'm waging, the dilemma I'm building, being unrecognized as a really good joke and nothing more...so sad, this my fate.
Entering upon the invitation was the sad character envisioned quite suddenly by the astute writer who penned his mind in a frenzy well beyond any expectation laid in black and white on a contract poison...this position we've assumed, makes it very hard to believe in the plans as accepted for the imminent construction of calm. Out back in the dusty plain, outstretched from the swing-set I made for imagined children, exists the plenty disguised as hunger, illness, confusion and faithlessness. From the barren place, I know, will come the much needed resurrection so oft sought in sexy dreams.
What's boring to some, ravishes the hearts of others; what's the height of passionate fantasy scores a zero here...the simple guise of being alive for the ritual fantasies ripped away reveals the true heart still as a stone, but the face of its bearer defeats what's seen, felt, heard as nothing to carry off and straps the carcass tight to its back, hefting the dead cargo for empty praises in the rooms before a tribunal of eyes waiting for the grief to die...it never will, can't, we've designed it that way, and that's the way you must go.
In a search for life found the hunter's worst fear
realized at the moment of a living death
brought suddenly like a gift hidden deep
within the baubled branches on the vacant
holiday to the empty skies he kneaded
like dough for manna; minions sworn
to serve took the need to heart despite
its onerous gravitas in contrast to the
song sung backwards for an entertaining
divergence from healing...comes to that,
doesn't it? The ritual, although drawn into
action by a need to know the current secret's
bead, demands the swerving path laid like the
bludgeoning hammer on the slaughter line in time.
A movement toward the seeking has begun, no less than a fullness of disabilities entwining the abilities mounting a mythic steed in heart for the charge leaving off the charms of sitting back on fear redressed as comfort of the gardens made for living burials...so I've been drawn into that vortex to see, to know, to become aware of their muted cries under apathy's tear-sogged gowns, and fevered by the heat of human pressures creaking from the flesh, I respond with the knowledge of my survival depending on answering these calls from a thousand hidden voices being mine.
Yes, yes, yes, I come to hold the faces, dress the wounds of the shorn masks once worn as humans' own for recognition and dispersal of checks by a punch-clock's mind, leaving off the heart under chests heaving for breath that know no reason after collapsing in the cool of the caves under steel rails humming with desperate prospects via lies and captioned phrases promising rewards not a ground hog might redeem for benefit, yes, oh yes, I know this play well, it was the one I bought in years gone by when cold thinking made it seem rational.
Can you do the dance..did you learn it by heart, by the movements behind the scrims...it's your turn now, we're waiting, and we can't wait all day...no, no, the vitals have come and gone, no point in trying for revivals, the substances culled of minds in bygone necessities of reason and soul have cooled...of course, we know how you like riding nostalgia's horse through the old, abandoned streets beside the abandoned studios...well, that's OK. We like that. We like to see how well you relate to memory, just as long as it serves the King.
What platitudes can I resurrect for reassurances after disguises fall off the avenues of reality once thought significantly falsifiable? Am I to turn away from the truth rising in tune with a face I don't recognize but adore as the reflection once thought possible only in a tab of acid? Is this the place I've found to be lost if not careful? How can the pattern of my belief system assuage the doubt I won't dismiss but only pocket after burns in a delightful battle of wit with nothing to be caught off guard but a praise of living dreams?
One more year again to become more aware of leaving the lies embraced for dreams and to better don the light of an old soul more assuredly and simply; even more, to strip away the onerous beatifications or imagined heights assumed for the hard plateau I now walk for my sins seen as simply tools of forging mettle from mud. I cannot describe or convince the skeptic, nor can I reassure the believer. I will not judge, but for my shame and self-doubt, I will take my place among the crowded pavilions of men and bravely cheer as one.
Feelings are spread along the edge of sense until they dissolve for the benefits of numb relief by scattering the awareness complicit in the vast design regarding this thing called love; how it conspires to confound in lieu of the pleasure principle, whose rules commonly go unheeded for their spurious promises sliding through effects made overly complex, is the reason for a philosophy of the psyche... cryptic, opaque, resonating for its dark passageways beckoning nonetheless all who happen on blunted questions made bright in the luminescent eye behind the blinded one we keep for special driving privileges in the wild.
The time is what the time is not, that which comes along to remind is but a lie to favor the fear mongers of age, by infernal rotation of the inner hands of the innermost clock and the chiming by turns. Who we are by dint of the bells is not a dressing of the truest face but the masks donned in haste at the call of the break of day to the crack of dusk and fitful sleep of dreams decking battle fields scored by violent deaths of ambition...what can these aching vessels called brains shape to know?
Assuming of course I'm in line for the choice to made in the dark by auditors masked like executioners, I can't rally enough grist to rise and sing...this is the day. Can it be the day? Will it ever be the day? Situations come and go with anticipations locked on high, then the drop by silence haggles for burial plots despite a dreaming of flight. Calloused hands work the flinty soils till blisters even fail to rise and reckon time's infernal passage. So, who can I be that will be enough? This is the question that cannot be answered.
You fight and you fight; the momentum gathers itself beyond you. There's a singularity infecting the core of you, the fever builds, there's no stopping it, and you know it, nor do you care if you know it; it knows you, and what it seeks in the eye of its eye beckons no sense of the world for comparison's benefit or reflection but dons the light of its intent for satisfactions utterly devoid of ethical umbrellas. Pity, since rain will thunder a deluge no dam may broach or block but cinder almost by the fire of its rage your humanity.
Cruelty comes at a price not valued by the arbiter...what seers the flesh of the adversary denies the meat of satisfaction, leaves the perpetrator starving for more and more till the hunger absorbs all that is reasonable in the aching belly of intent. How to fend the terror masked as joy away that lives to kill the hunger supposedly indomitable no man can know till the oily, velvet hood crowns the naive and unsuspecting desire as the race to unravel reason begins...a game commences that hides itself quite elegantly where extremities of action hold forth as love's soft fingers.
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