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Marooned on a delicious dream, swamped on sweet gas matriculars, these virtual pals of mine make heaven of a cramped space. Lost on the key turning against better judgment, I've become satisfied well past denials or compunctions threatening doubts I was indispensable to the powers that have no choice but to fulfill their obligations contrary to a rigorous pulse of anti-logic otherwise. This is the best I can do. So sue me. If the situation were reversed I could tell the host to go screw himself, but things being as they are, I have no choice but to prevaricate.
This immediate concern, overwhelming the quiet within, accosting the quiet without, stems not from looking askance on vital organs of the body politic, but from fervent observance of a subtle growth, purposefully inconspicuous, sans involvement, waiting on itself to breed its own for its own surrounding, and consuming in time without a shot, flooding minds and souls with soothing words, promises of a better, fuller pocketbook and fleshy distractions, replete with concrete assurances no harm will come unto the world bank embedded deep within well-built bunkers, where leaders of the new creation steep themselves in profound lies for truth.
The spring of a new week frees the hand off troubled rest for the rush to keep heads away from the mind killing itself with too much clear awareness of encroaching cancers stippling the senses ever so slightly, tilting the whirl we ride ever so subtly, ever so insistently, but we, who are the minions of the grail given roughly for its loud and fevered, putative worth, cannot, must not question, lest our brood be troubled beyond necessity, beyond the breakfast breeding worthiness 12 ways to the grave, and this, our cry to the hoards, be quick or never more.
So, here I am, proudly aware, proudly awake, wearing my knowledge, not for arrogant soap-box blathering to unlistening, uncaring crowds, but for the lubrication of my own flowing through crusted pipes and littered embankments bordering the vital conduits for courses like Kells for considered courses held highly in regards as the means toward building a better day for night in the houses of the holy nested on cliffs perilously perched, tempting nature, as its nature demands, the right to assert and claim supremacy, daring anyone to pick up the gauntlet thrown for bets not lightly taken, as the key.
What's beneath the word? The word reviled, doubted, trusted without question, hated with no end...what lives beneath? Strip away the voluminous pretensions attached, shed the fears, burn the reasons to flee its questions. In the dome of thought, the word is lost, for no thought impacts, yet all aroused minds attempt assumptions. Dig deep, tunnel past the clammor, the rubble of yesterday's horrors begotten in the name of the word...there is that thing, that elusive something in the place of all, in the place of deafening silences. Lean into the feeling of it that lives beyond the ages...
I implore you, trust the need to embrace the quality that exists in that place where superstitions have conjured disgust for all things bonded to the word. Place yourself in the position of the outstretched souls touching that which cannot be touched, worded, circumambulated or contained. Know that ineffable, persistent pulsing energy, and give it no name, encrust no dogma, infect no rite, describe no face that needs be yours, arouse yourself to the height from which all must rise to a depth beyond all, within all, embracing all without a touch yet touching throughout by means of eternal wonders.
What is that infection bleeding love by the abberations assigned by dint of fears in the eyes of the controllers of the word, by those who hoard and devour all sense of the word, deforming it to conform to the dollar's almighty presence and divinity that is no divinity; even by its assumed claim over reason, it has no place in the hearts of them who know. Rip faith from its core, destroy belief of the faux prince on bleeding wood...see that which lives beneath it all. Can you do this? Will you allow the questions to finally emerge?
The aggregations abounding to corral the idea of the word without tipping the mind toward wonders that may penetrate the crust lifting the word aloft are fiercely rooted to the defense systems assigned to the word, to stay the eye and mind above the word, keeping it free of meaning, for in the answers accrued, it has no life. Flint the dry tinders of religion's books, let rise the hot fumes by immolating distracted and distracting certainties, grind the grist mill itself to dust and see, take the moment....who shall be able to stand in the winds that'll blow?
Fires on unstable ice of soul as a convenient displacement of the uttermost pursuance of life through death, the last place one ever looks, as it never looks away, this device of human habit, decay of flesh, mind and the will to serve the world its superiority over all that denies its sovereignty, then can that observance of spurious might be its own blindness, for the place it decides is the place it denies, and when the keepsake treasures found dissolve, when the golden walls fall to gray rust, when the spectral friends fade, then will the creation be known.
Save me not from the treasure of golden spirals of excellence woven to dress my passage into here fitted by the war spun grist of mind and soul forming not the hulled spectre of a biblical demon spitting the imagined bile on wonder's gaze, blinding the eye inward to a thudded place, but clapped on triumphant ascensions deriving the boat I own, not a boat offered or explained, not a craft of hubris fashioning the colorful tombs the hoards covet by daytime TV gospels, only the craft hulled to endure the delicious cacaphony of true peace of mind, body, soul.
Now, again, after the dissembling muses have successfully derailed the operations of the creative mind, may I offer the element in heart collecting its muscle as the final piece of the matrix to be laid on the attack plan and cheer for the imminent collapse. This, what many deny, what many see as pesky interference, may be the infection needed to eradicate their blindness, saturate the drone defenses and end the tyranny of ignorance as bliss. The climax offered will only occur as the device of the dissembling muse is crushed from the core where the wherewithal has been lost.
Ah, the sweep of sweetness by smiles of a hive buzzing mass of an infectious efficiency driving the main grist to heat a smearing buzz off the cutting blades...such a delight, so rare, so elegant; by the fervor cleaving blunt mounds of ineffectual laziness lounging about mimicking attractive postures of death with blue blood pooling in stagnant vessels wanting flows, spun keys are plunged quickly to avoid the eye of the master of indolence slumped in erect readiness to blast the enthusiastic mind and revving the engines after what seems millennia of nothing, what was ended has begun again.
How can you stand apart and watch what you cannot see become all that you see all the time, dividing everything into a fraction of itself that multiplies as relations of specific elements of nature combine to a whirligig summation of confusion that's no confusion by the standards defined by the inner life emanating the secrets that are no secrets but rivits driven on beams of light and dark; where should the hut be made for the workers who toil ceaselessly, them who climb from the inner mind daily on their holy mission of the necessary constructions framing my life?
I assume such a frame will picture me the ordinary guy sitting in a window watching the day drum by in occidental rhythms so deliciously appropriate any other sight by imagination would prove obscene and derivative of a sick mind. No such luck will occur as I endure the days to lie my way out of a really meaty reveal. That reveal is mine and mine alone to perform when time is more than propitious. I will act when time is no longer an issue, when the ideal picture arrives the quality I've sought as the question I alone live.
We take to the streets of our minds in the comfort of our bed, sleepily donning the walkaday masks on a slip from sheets to bath to coffee mugging at the mirror that such a being might actually ascend the need to rise and penetrate the obviating shadows implicit
to the thrumming core awaiting us in cubicles worldwide. Then to the actual tars we drip from doors swung wide within and without, keying the majesty greeting us from sun to moon, not by the roaring gasoline metal contrivances hefting our flesh but by the rousing eternal fires roaring from within.
The forest sings, begins to halt motion dancing to the hilt of sight blinded on the bright swing between connections off hands freed to touch the motion control. In the vested place of heart there's a quality you can find on the ancient bridges abandoned for the putative rule of mind. So, I give you the choice...let it be on the other side forever, or take the train to the station that satisfies not only derivations of exploded flesh high as the mastery you can invest but allows the righteous a dissolution decisive as the most beautiful death imaginable.
The appliance most suited to the absorption contrary to emission of psycho-constituents of non-sociopathic tendancies is currently running off broadway in a backalley usually frequented by Andy Worhol diehards who could never understand his need for utter privacy in the face of shameless self-indulgence...this is the manner in which I tried most diligently to retread the baseboards supporting the table where I write and fantasize about youth becoming something more exalted by tripping over hard flesh eviscerated on the bathroom floor after the usual Friday night drinking debauchery; so it goes, I developed the necessary needs.
That was the interim where light conjoined the cowardly darkness in ecstasy by entrapments most curious to the uninitiated and blind. There came the majesty I sought in defiance of a cold hearted street dipping beneath the wilding wheels associated with imaginations uncoiled on the whipping rails where the tethered offspring unsighted by sun or tooled by the rafted markets suckled dreams of electricity...I speak of the voices without faces mulling the oily spaces, fingering the dust of decayed rats still singing their diseased praises to no one for the fat God to unleash his judgments of the puppet Christ.
So it was, his conscience, speaking silently like a ghost, screaming through his young boy's heart shouting for a hand, anything to hold onto in the fevered downswing of his need to alleviate, soothe, medicate the pain rising like a perpetual thunderstorm over the clear stream of memories meandering through that one special wooded glen he favored over all the places he'd found in his life to be alone and able to reflect, even if that reflection made him shudder. He was alone, and the shame he felt most profoundly could be kept as a sacred reminder of his responsibility.
The words come falling out like sweet vomit in a spring rain of mud, slippery as a lover on a bed of nails, enthusiastic as a black thorn spider feeding on a bear beetle....the muscle is flexing, hard and wet, driving into the taught page, wrinkling the gestures aside of the intent to scribe as noted by the fury unseen; tremors quaking, waters rising, earth is moving accordingly, faces fully molded by dreams shape themselves to the moldy warm wind flattening their gazes on the gyrating stillness scrumming the tight feathered hustle into a wedding of old flesh anew.
Rough-hewn, anti-manchild, fever pussies contriving a means to derive the execution of emotion over the ocean of disbelief suspending quality for appearance and verisimilitude of truth passing through personal man-gates, ploy their arts for these ultimate gamekeepers, wet with confused tumescence in the shadowed darkness, grabbing at the available straws propped up for sale at their private sexuality sales conference held nightly on screens shilling scrabbling males huddling their trades’ tools in compliance with industrial bodies' needs and pocketbooks’ bulge, thick on the metallic plunge, this blind dive to nowhere, their wide open field, don’t you know, waiting for you.
Matters of extreme pressures of responsibility on a bald brain stretched beyond what most could only fear as a threat to place itself in a dialogue with the irrational to attempt crystal understanding eluding even the most hardened pedophile hunter ...there in the crusted fields of those dark woods befitting OZ, the hunter took a pause to reflect and surmise carefully the exact nature of intent versus desire, whereupon a conflict appeared solely to rend the examination null and ineffectual, but therein the nature of the hunter exposed itself, and by that nature, tasted in the extremes, determined the rest.
Vita-flex is the key, they say, and the common areas of disease controllers crying wolf are as haywire as blood brothers terminating their mutual disgust of reality show shannanigan meisters doubled over in hysterical laughter for several reasons that can't be discussed or assessed or even pronounced intelligently...this becomes more of a problem than originally feared. Those intrepid disciples of remorse are going to think twice after the votes come back and the jury take its stand. Vita-flex squabbles are petty compared to what's going to ensue. If it's going to end, then it's time to sell.
The day is now, set aside for celebration of a new birth beheading the death inciting the old to recap the new with tidings of a sort that have little resonance or completions besides the dances ensuing in homes whitewashed of blood, brimming with a inner light like faces exploded from within to satisfy the nagging compunctions' call to sweat the anxiety and loss felt so acutely, and the children of the rites, being given the tools for rituals designed for an unnamed future, exalt the day for its solemnity and true worth humming brightly beneath the masks of church.
Disturbed by the identity of self-doms creeping off disguises best suited for the arrest and conviction of the reality show sown into the cortex movie-house dressed and confused as a morgue, one assumes themselves better lost than found, when in the full picture there achieves a panorama quite astounding as the eye opens and the body relaxes, when the mind become soft after useless thoughts are burnt on the stake through the heart...a card was designed especially for you to be taped above the hospital bed announcing to all concerned and curious...all renewals have been canceled.
Yes, I say, yes, you were the best. I was a fool to let you go. Tears and despairing aside, I can see now how wonderful you were, how funny, intelligent, aggressive in the best way possible. No degree of hostility could throw you off. You could stand with the toughest and meanest of them. You absorbed my sleazy jokes, my obsession with death, my delight of regurgitating old dramas, old tapes of mayhem either actual, fabricated by dreams or just plain lying, then with a playful shrug of my shoulders you burrowed under fear and assumed your place anew.
OK, too many threads are unraveling. The old coat has lost its value. Protection being premium, I think it's best to revert the paradigm possessed as key to humility in the dressing room and burn the lining before you catch a cold or radioactive poisoning. It's happened way too many times, and without fearing a fitful reprisal, I think it's always been the fault of the book assumed true beyond all understanding. Yeah, I know, a lot of folk still put their faith in those tired old threads. Nothing one can do about that, so here's my thing, so what?
Incredible! You saw it. I saw it. The whole block saw it. Nothing could've pulled the skins of the corporate lizards off more quickly or shredded the CIA papers more effectively; it stood as a testament to the ingenuity and inexhaustible resources, left mostly untapped bubbling beneath the cerebral attic spaces where pack rats leave droppings so complex and astoundingly intact, Egyptians could educate themselves to improve mummification procedures, or as antidotes to infections yet to be synthesized or unrealized by reckless thinking and rash reactivity in the mosh pit where Jesus and Anton Levay are still going at it.
The river has come to the fork of indivisible rapture and the dead waters of compunctions' netherworld of guilt with indisputable disgust by personal reflections derived too easily by the unquestioned and sacrosanct terrains of faith in a voice presumed of God but sculpted by the creator's of control in charge of world belief systems designed not to embolden anything but the shrinkage of self-worth on the gas pumping streets, the whirl-i-gig hotels of profit, the thrumming homes of procreation and the designer death machines best viewed in wide-screen with sensaround and a pot of nuts.
So it comes to an end that's not so much an end but yet another beginning, and I'm relieved. The strain's been incredible. I haven't had time enough to feel the time being a wallowing pool for self-doubt and recriminations abounding with compunction's aplenty for the sludge deepening, widening, thickening to the point of blinding anyone trying to fathom its depth. Its reason being clear, I can only offer my passion to know more, not to avoid more but to implement the means to deconstruct with a joyful heart reconstructing itself with fierce abandon and the necessary strict discipline.
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