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What feeds the minds under voluminous bodies bedecked, foul odors steaming the guts to an inward blow, consumes no wonder left disguised after selling the night for day combining the spaces in between. Then can we offer the sacrifice appropriate to the next initiation ceremony full of hallucinations and forced sleep. That's the key to the rest, though all the rest sits patiently apart on an isle in the cerebral sea watching the antics proceed unabated...beds racked by bowel and movements aplenty offer solace only to those looking for a reason to hide. For the rest of us, none.
Set secure on a light frame seen but a few seconds after nods beget unconscious focus the reality shifts to find a place of becoming not ravaged by the onslaughts of minds devoted to the unraveling of symmetry and the assumptions of contrasts disallowed violently in regions where a line must beget a line alone, edicts of consistencies bellowed below sound by implants secretly administered in missions unnumbered constantly subject to change by threat of change, threat of knowing the need for change....platitudes painted as necessary, beautiful and complete, bedecking the wide plains of humanity with linoleum logic.
The sharp edges I've found, by way of the personal ovens where old words are forged anew, honed to razor clarity in secret venues of performances, attack by swift unquestioned actions, the rough, blunt and dissembling verbs left to be sold as keys to completeness for unsuspecting bodies in rooms of alleged wisdom at a cost surrendered to the appropriate agencies with meticulous dotted lines, there alone can the illness proliferate its disease most eloquently...what say the avatars of this blight but casual nods of acquiescence, acceptance and fear disguised as confidence? I will not be so easily tricked.
As to this resounding melody played at deafening levels for all to bemoan the quality of ruling class technology, I can only offer good ear-plugs and advice to the virtues of dipping below, riding the impulse toward the dark labyrinth under wits soaked with mediocrity and complacent fingers on dials mobilizing the high wisdom of gossip girl debates wielding two and half male deposits at the sperm banks targeted for imminent elevation to the mountain...I could take you by the hand and lead to a set of questions way below yet high above, centered on the unseen universe.
A slight turn away from health has clouded my new day. Though bright outside, it's a tad dark inside. My body, aching from too much stress applied like vices over the past several months, has buckled. Lapsing into snuggles and coughs under warm covers, I'm letting my mind roam; seldom trod highways of thought are begging for my presence, and I'm complying happily. Glimmers of guilt flash intermittently. "You should be up and working," they bleat, "Up and digging for the edible roots of the biz just waiting for your pick and ax, then to kitchen of wit to cook."
Have I found a place with me yet? Has the evidence been sufficient to commit the offending ideas in my loss at the hands of ingratitude to death without resurrection for the remainder of creativity's life within the object of reasonable discontent and salvific remorse directed at the arbiters of non-scientific research and developments? I can safely say without blinking this has been the most grievously arduous byway along the highway of my journey to date, and that's without censure or pausing while writing up the forms given by the minions of the mainstay corporation lending its hard dimes.
This is the day of strength becoming the heart of its might within a swelter riot of reconsideration, derived by need in the face of unswerving intents to derail my sole purpose to educate myself according to the scripts unveiling virgin possibilities where the outcome needn't be predetermined like a stage play or film script, more like a friendly tustle in a sandbox or volley ball match on the beach in the shadow of our lady's crown as seen in the final scene of Planet of The Apes; that's a keen vision, my man, one that'll burn me to tomorrow.
It's a matter of understanding where you're heading before you head there, before you had the idea of going there. It was there. The there was always there. It was never otherwise, never otherwhere but here, and when your head finally clears, when the idea finally fashions its reality, clear as an azure sky of deepest summer, that's when the energy held at bey for frustration begins its final escalation toward revelations and consummations, which is what it's always been about...forming the bead of becoming from the murk, establishing its solidity, filling its place by acknowledgment of its birth.
The tired, red momentum has gathered to an ascending pitch belying the inevitable crash. Aside from the telling glances sideways after gorging on small deaths, revealing its innermost panic, its creativity, impressing only its own desire for survival, not the opposing avatars of construction, strides forth from the murk to arouse inspiration for the impending assault. The ageless ingenuity, not to be outdone, digs deep its welling gloom, searches lovingly for the instrument of death most likely to be effective; listening to the taught silence across enemy lines, no movement betrays nor cry of disdain nor feeling in its heart.
Numbers of days of numbers keep threading their obstructions into my head of a thousand complicities bereft of believing anything else but the nod of non-thought corrupting the sad few who try without a full deck in hopes of beating a system that doesn't care a whit about fairness secretly shredding select cards for confusion' sake and the delight of servers seeking an emptiness in full view of a colorful parade created by the imagination of a prisoner of love wars strapped to his fantasies under the garage floor, only accessible in certain times of the month of mind.
It's almost beyond belief the extent to which certain people will take to the streets to avoid dealing with the streets. You can get lost. Within byways within byways circuiting about the center of desire masked by the circuits; such a clever way to hide. You know the way they say hiding in plain sight. It's the best, and you know who knows how to do it the best, don't you. I can't say. Won't. It's best to leave the truth with the liars, because they know it the best. That's how they get around it. It's the best way.
You could've assaulted yourself in any old way, but the way you ended up assaulting yourself, I have to admit, was genius. No one suspected anything amiss. No one thought anything was even wrong with you. They looked right at you; I saw them look at you, and what did they see? Nothing. Or at least not the thing they should've seen. They saw perfection. The kind of perfection that hid everything. You were the best. I wanted to be like you. From the moment I knew what you were doing I wanted what you had...the stuff to kill.
Centrifugal forces betray unusual chemistry in the boxes of privacy kept in the backrooms where dandelions act like roses and get away with it. You know it's the circumstances that lead up to this amusing arrangement, don't you. It's impossible to point out while it's happening. You must've seen in happen in a billion other couples. But when it gets around to finally happening with you, no way, buster. Spinning around the lies constructed out of mind defies the toughest head of all, and then it's in the pattern laid out for grief in shadows of pain that actually laments.
Break off the static in your beater head and cram nonsense for the idea meat between better love-making and freer verse...it's the reality you grab, shake and fill with the most ridiculous hope gleaned from the stuff of lust that leads to another crash, don't you know that yet? Never mind the guy behind the curtain. He's the guy with the control stick up everyone's ass. So everyone takes the cue and looks elsewhere. It can't be him. No way. He's just the feeder, and the machine takes its fill...mystical children on the diadem of higher learning.
Such a fuss over a dead body with colorful skins wilting while underpaid pathologists argue the viability of death as a growing commodity. Well, the libido knows, and it's well documented the degree to which we lay it all on the most titillating violence slipping its crystal cock into compliant political cunts worldwide...makes for amusing conversation in the morgues on available streets everywhere in the gutted countries removed from the market for bad dividend behavior...it's the way. It's always been. No changing it. Else someone with a genuine means of total annihilation comes along and sells it cheap.
Days of fire on the bloom of ideas reaching through mold of the old, creating the hot stuff, fluming melodies of rot, combining purple leaves of decay falling on the soils craning for a taste, a lick, a swallow of the arousals bending off hoary loins to collect what sacred delights might bloom under suns behind wary glances of censuring fears...that it must come to this, they cannot, will not abide, lest the world become what they dread the most...expansive gardens no eye or exploring flesh of complacency might even dream but shudder by drafts of nightmare sweat.
I stay the day to allow its blooms, bright or dark as they may be; whatever may come of surrendering my heart in the fields of the virgin growth, I cannot begin to anticipate but combine with wonder of the daring possibilities elicited. These things I crave for the loss of wonder in this age is a tragedy that fills me with horror. We have lost something of the shaman...the basic storyteller has been locked in a dungeon. The warden, a dead man bred of the purest darkness, holds the keys out, as if to say, I dare you.
That's it. The voice inspiring me to the breath comes together with another, and yet another, still another, then silence completes the bond. Afterwards it's only the melody growing from the completion that decides the ultimate rapture or defeat. You never can tell how it'll go, how it'll end up. Nevertheless, it's the journey many of us have undertaken. We know the stakes. Regardless. Our souls' capacity in a feeling way crawls to the edge time and time again, challenging loss and utter grief. This is the way of us. We don't complain, nor do we search new job ads.
We deal everyday. Whether we know it or not. The gig was set up a long time ago. All bets are laid and accepted regardless. The dealer never sleeps. He's a pro. Players come and go. No one thinks twice about the flow. Perhaps it's better that way. Regret comes hard for those who care, for those who stoop to dare beyond the hand dealt. What's to say? Nothing really. Prizes vary. Outstretched hands are consistent. Makes for smooth establishments of the game wherever, whoever, however. Rising, decayed sediments convey a sense of history for those who need to mourn.
One can establish a place without substance or GPS triangulations appropriate in the journey around home outside of the comfort zone to maintain coverage behind enemy considerations contrary to a leader's assessment after battlefields have cooled and opposing senators have gone home to their desiccated mistresses to assuage doubts teeming out congressional messes laid at the feet of apprentices too naive to understand the magnitude of deceit governing their days and nights worrying over the least little bit of knowledge vented by their bosses too jaded to be aware of the uselessness of their own teachings or vacation laden syllabi.
Somewhere there's a lost clutch of time begotten of more than mere forgetfulness, somehow drafted to a bead of mind put out of mind out of reach but well within the muscle of action fitted against what most would believe to be a lie. That's the clincher, since coming of the age well past misunderstanding, I've taken upon myself the arduous task of reconfiguring my compulsive tendency to exert influence on the less fortunate. So, I need to rear back a bit, take stock of my true ambition lurking beneath ambition and set the proper gears back in correct motion.
The ramifications of the new project are myriad sprouting in my fertile imagination like hyper-fertilized dandelions or over-sexed Lemmings. Gotta be a Monty Python sketch in there somewhere. Hell, my entire life, so far, has been a Python sketch run amok. So, why aren't I laughing? Some humor gets lost in the translation, let's face the grim facts. Back to the place of creation was a meeting place designed to become invisible as soon as entered, forgotten, soon has exited. The black hole remaining fed the lions of disrepute too easily and too quickly. Therein lies the clue.
Wow, I could be learning how to fly in the next few months. Think about that. I wonder what certain people would think if they knew I was bound for the airways in a bit more substantive way than by dope or dreams. No use posing that question any further than the page. It's the entryway to the back pages of the best newspaper in my head, and that's the guarantee given soon as the subscription was verified. All the tiny moments prior were mere exercises in restraint. Now, those ties have been cut. There are no more moral barriers.
A French based company has erected new possibilities for me, like an erector set posed for mental ingenuity striped by the brightness of spun cleverness bereft of doubt or fear or moral suppression. It's waiting for my hand to place the best pieces on high. There is a danger. It could easily collapse. Lest I take the greatest care, being mindful of every move, no matter how seemingly trivial, it could spell disaster, self-immolation or the next train to the soul adjustment bureau. Why, then, I could mount it like a golden horse and geed it toward another end.
Inspired to fire away lassitude's melodious compunctions and viability of verbose criticisms is the tune of the day. Inside my enclosure, via body beyond four walls and insurances of a friend, I'm diagrammed to become the need itself after desire washes clean a soiled creativity. This is the point and task of the virtual quill. My words conjure nothing less than this. Even more so, the landscapes that cannot be touched by words, is the eruption of the attempt springing forth from contact with places of silence acknowledged by all regardless of faith or the emptiness brewed by its absence.
I possess an ID that cannot be stamped by denials or refusals to deny the reliability of suitable identification required by laws bereft of secular laws that refuse to recognize the self behind the mirror. Such a confusion ensuing lays groundwork for examinations that exist in rooms of interrogation so fearful, room 101 looks like a parole board anteroom with gum chewing guards so inured a cherry bomb wouldn't buy a flinch. Yet, do I care about the consequences? Do I buy into the third degree that I myself enlist, with hopes of clearing the deck of undue mainstream confusions?
Rear back the time clock ahead of schedule's too condensed to make sense of itineraries bereft of good taste, for in the veldt of becoming, the hairdos of being have final say over lumber-heads with minds springing weeds that tangle and tear, loop and violate. Of limited scope the rational mind embraces an illusion of genuine reality beneath the reality by which all things spring. The gardens we tend are the distractions stripping away our telescopic rationale so to pluck the veggies from the soil and store them properly for easy reference. Thus we are assured of living lies.
The patter of words against my skull like alien feet on the hull of a descending spaceship cajol and delight the fevers accompanying an apt discovery far away from home by the gist of joy on adequate alliances with imagination's meat snuggled comfortably beneath the rigor and stability one expects from analytical power, then by hubris washes the door-frame clean and the eye passes by....substances accorded the melody taught to balance value on a scale machined, oiled and maintained by well-trained minions of necessary order by rows, lines, marching steps cleanly devised and executed for the law.
This I could not have imagined but in a welter of nightmare collisions with a stark reality calling itself the way it is becoming what it actually became by turning itself around inside the idea of me locked behind a wall built, brick by brick, through years of carefully forged fears as mortar, emerging from the center of deceit where self-examination was not permitted unless the most extreme circumstances were revealed while banal rhythms prevailed as the dance of strict complacency our communities demanded...I find it amazing my heart is beating so normally now, this being my revelation.
It is true, how the night became a place where day unveiled the light backwards where I sought the creator, not by reason of gratitude but for resentment, convinced the shadows rifling my habitat of carefully orchestrated isolations were tricks to lure me into false hope after apostasy wracked the ship that addled and tortured me across the oceans of youth mistaken for puddles; so I was duped, I admit it, but that's not the worst. I sought partners to bag and drag through desktop programs riddled with malevolent viruses and funky spies, masked as cute games for sex.
So, it seems, the fears remain by silence laced cacophony laden on the broad stroked mind as the fledgling baby heart, innocent as could be but not as it is, only a real pain in the ass...the din masks nothing of its sound reality but only residuals of the chipped source used as a tool for beating the drunken lord of the house, a racket that drew imagination into creative frenzies resulting in a mutual understanding we had no mutual understanding. Funny how ideas of love trick one so easily into thinking it is the very nature of it.
The Tip Jar