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So we say, yes, we say and say and the ears melt with the saying. Let it be known clearly in the fog how we say, yet those who hear, hear a different saying, not that which flumes the musty air or the flagrantly glib air of head marching to the music not known since music hadn't yet thundered cross the ancient minds driving instincts blissfully cross achingly balanced tundras, deserts, forests, mountains, glens, pristine rivers, engulfed valleys....that, to the core of it, this saying penetrates, to the ritual source it drives its threading way, or we shall die.
It's funny how much we enjoy the frenzy when the fever leads to another, and yet another, sidling to the beats heard in deep, tempting needs to find satisfactions, then the smile widens, face expands to the oncoming heat....marching through the wide avenues made available by ingenuity settling all concerns about the difficulties endured from millennia past to millennia future...he leads her through the door, "They must all fall down," yes, she beams, "fuck the rules," says he, she smiles, knowing the bare truth of it, "Come, my dear, let us go in together and surprise them all."
Trans-matter interchanges vetting primal human needs in deep wanting re-assessments for annual, comprehensive asset accountings, bringing the house in check, despite all assurances to the contrary that its foundation seeks no stability beyond the idea of its holding forth before the clowns in the suits making damn sure its on the up-and-up with city codes and internal suspensions of disbelief, wherein the vetting process can continue unabated and well designated in reliable forms, having the implicit luxury of being nearly invisible to the ones that could really make a difference when the trading session finally ends.
That would be the source kicker, wouldn't it? Taking the ride to that certain, special point where no one suspects you'll take it further, and in the dark of their mind, you don't, but still, you do in the white, cleansing clarity of yours, for the sake of healing the health of the perpetual wounds made wider, richer in the hot yellow disease of its monkey spawning brain like petri of the super politicians, where a secret sauce was devised in a back lab, so nothing was recorded, so time might be wound to its certain end by the cleverness.
Holy unholy persuasiveness...bespeaking how and why or what in the slippery device manager, saving graces in the dispensations staying alive in the unspoken howl after the crystalline fascinations at a hand of sugar malevolence where a wonder can surely be digested in a savage walkabout on the cusp of change, baby to boy to man to unemployment, how a fuck a willie ways off in a swoon, them's the color of unchanging assurances, and I thought it was just a trick or treat, tick of a time on a click-a-bility, whoo hoo... Got a wafer for you!
The hand in the grass, muscling its flexion on a fond awareness of the dissembling grip strangling cause over effect by the advance of completeness arrested for the show, in silence after planting the assignment racing to the brain of the group through confusions myriad, though tired for the journey, the journeyman refuses to yield, refuses to cease devouring; no appetite sufficiently stifled, nor staved by the fevers incumbent on arrival to the place of the Grail, the hand lends the quiet its necessary chaos, and the fervors, so sweetly convened, can no longer satisfy, but drive the muscling on...
Consider the ever open door, that blaze of unseen light, by most who parade thoughts as the web of all; consider the peaking source after all the burns of ambition and mercurial dust, after nods have shaken off denials, after the ages slip back off the grid of cave walls brimming their insistent marks, visages of mystery in dens of instinct scraping primal desires toward knowing, piling ever forming eyes toward the matrix of oblivion with its peculiar magnetism, its unnamed beingness, and take from the venting of wants to sip the aching calm of needs, yet not to name.
The enemy bares its fangs. The assaults are delicious. Our starvation, its satiety. One knows the essentials of this hunger; those fangs, their insistent arousal and desire to blind for the sake of stagnation, flash their savage will, by will. Yes, this enemy is known, and words be forged as an offense; in deference for arguments' sake, the beast settles into a formulaic calm, a derivative created for amusement, and with sharpened words, we face it off bravely in the sanctum of the sterile court. A maze of rationale is erected. What seems attenuated is merely fed, and starvation thrives.
That's the rub. Interior meddling has left the shell a mere tourist attraction. What's become of the plunging, per usual, of a serious fabrication of reality based on pure fantasy, is beginning to take its toll, as the heavy and arcane methodologies roll out of the magicians' bag of tricks making it harder for the kids to get to the counter, where their favorite Uncle is whipping up his latest and bravest assortments of artificially flavored sweets, made not so much to trick but placate the loud and obnoxious health nuts who won't desist from camping out on leader's sidewalks.
A heavy heart wags to and fro in the wind of crucial necessity. A voice, ringing its vitality in a life besieged by a driven soul suckling the furious calms on rivers of mind, has made its clear impact. No matter how deep the rivers flow, no matter how close to the primal vitality its waters' penetrate through the sunless torrents called secrets based on invisible platitudes, quite apart from the mundane, practical and derivative algorithms ranging on plains that receive no eyes capable of seeing what's seen by the initiated, our issues most vital remain in the inky dark.
Amusing scurry off the edge of the dog's pussy in the heat of rejection, while vying for the attention of the dog's master, relegating all that is to all that will be to a fraternity of disbelief and doubt. The viability of the mind that rules has become what many consider the root of all evil that isn't evil but a storybook rendition of its calling. The mere fervor one applies to denying it may be all that's needed to accepting it and releasing, struggling after the source for everything's reason and understanding nothing but the need to keep dying.
Gone for the gambling honor, twisted off regimens of the duty bound minds given over to realistic considerations, we don mighty semblances of the god the others bend their knees to and derive sordid conveyances quickly delivered in the name of day-time-hour-pay-check-wonderland-glad-handy-dandy-serial- killer-chemistry. Therein can we see the machinery of conscious evolutions and the mechanisms best designed for wide screen TV viewing of the latest murder of the week. So, to the archives we digress and discover, much to our amusement, the best expression of the best we can imagine.
Viable to none, the reactionary systems conveying the best of the worst, convincing us of its workability in a system devoted to its own destruction by the very minions it employs to feed its insatiable appetite for diversion, distractions and faux delights that make wonder bread look like a health food and Martha Stewart a Patron Saint of innovative thinking redolent of Hume, engage...and there is the dilemma, being the essential creation of a chess match where Bobby Fisher would be intimidated and John Von Neumann confused by the game theory underlying what could only be considered a con.
Is it exactly this or that, or the other way to becoming that which it isn't but something like it, something like the thing that threads it all together in a way that makes the ones in power smile that kind of smile that reaches to the lowest point possible in terms of the sensibilities required to recognize true humanity having a ball on a field of no returns for extreme efforts, money, mind and creativity, but the qualities found in the place of immobility, stagnant laws, convenient sugar snacks, old TV and Sarah Palin's embroidered baby disposal/recycling centers.
OK, so I need the time. It's been way too long, and I have an itch that can't be scratched any other way but this way, and that's the way I won't profess any other way but through the means of the way; how I digest the articles of impulse for a truly remarkable comeback is a kindness I dole out to myself. I could renege, vacillate or simply walk away, but no matter how I try, though, the road's been paved by the critical sense of its intent to mold me toward a very unique and tasty end game.
Perhaps the end is not going to be the end you predicted, anticipated or considered, even in the worst case scenario, but as the strokes, broad and short, sharp and soft completing the canvas begun so many life-times ago. The ritual describes the fashion before the fashion washes out for the furious devotion we all exhibit upon true initiation into the sacred circle, whereupon fashion fades for tradition, which is the truest light in the darkness. Where or when this occurs is dependent only on the desire conjured up the deepest place of questioning after acceptance of the beginning.
Backlogging the sideswipers by the infection we declare the opposite of what's true in the swilled vat of truth management awareness is the current challenge. Driven to bespeak this corruption being diabolical, deriving veritably sound arguments when occupied by the minions of accepted truth or the ministers of civil propaganda, thus we'll know when the substances are ready for the conjurations at hand when the chaos reaches the critical point. The practitioners will lend their hands to the game, but only when the watchers are distracted. It's a delicate sleight of hand operation, a magic trick without equal or opposition.
To speak the truth that's the hardest truth, the truth that will change everything is no mean feat given how easy it would be to veer off the honest path once again and commit the common transgressions of the swayed mind stewing in the vats of reality with the ingredients honored as becoming to responsibility and make the issues vanish like good nutrition on a Twinkie binge, therein being the good player who doesn't bat an eye at executions aplenty drawing crowds on the town's green next to the gazebo playing the ever popular Sousa marches honoring dead dishonest presidents.
I'm bound to the duty of finding a job that pays more than the mere grist of getting it with the enthusiasms aplenty on waves created in the mind machine breeding feelings off tornadoes of being slightly duped into thinking the big kahuna was on the wing. How could it be that the necessity of this or something like it is skewed so completely that belief systems, once held sacrosanct, are now easily relegated to used book shops or the back rooms of the The Salvation Army, whose workers are terrified to clean it, let alone even look at it.
Certainly an appropriate gesture might involve the examination of vacuous infestations due to increased attentions laid upon the invaluable concerns for personal worth being compromised at every conceivable turn in the financial veldt. That the consciousness would extend beyond its own fears might heighten awareness yet attenuate sensibilities appropriate for effective hunting. It's this that corrodes the mind; the volatile and infectious agents responsible have long since been forgotten by their creators conveniently enough, and for the drafty remainder who resisted urges well beyond all understanding, they've relegated apt living quarters in the blissful and radiant areas of mere mind.
That's what I needed when the heat got too cool for the cooking inside to be done right, as the sordid became a kind of relief, a slight turn of the worm saved the day and sent a modicum of night on a slice of day as the pleasure principle declared all the current frenzy as befitting the desire modality, the bodily pressure squeezing face, a kiss of a kiss to last the emptied wish machine for its revival offset a creepy revisitation to a swelling idea of the source, so a kind of hot release could be adequately accomplished.
Is it truly beyond what most would consider in their moments of true privacy where the heads of true desire rear and beckon satiety by the effusive companions to the body of the hyper-indulged majesty commanding eroded wills in the ever green compartmentalizations that decide buy or sell or just blankly ignore on the roads of settling dust off the gathering cups nodding past their grunting desperation, hunger for light in the perpetual darkness and grasping after a sense of humor...what more could deflect the gathering gloom but yet another cover of Billie Holiday's God Bless the Child?
The scan takes the limit in hand for a fist of releasing on an ocean you couldn't fathom in a dream, though the majesty barring all the fevers we've kept hidden on the key twisting through the night's delights by savage oral declamations keeps telling the tale as told for a tale that needs telling in a time that demands its loss for the gravity of its message. What better landscape might accept it? What better ear could hear the melody playing such a vile mess of dissonant chords to catch the least of the greatest but its own death?
It was a time, that time was then. It was here, then gone. That time was precisely written in the book. The time that is now, a fleeting whisper, if anything, a flash of a flash, is the signature of being without precedent, reprisal or exacting replication, a moment, that's the key, a key of the moment, unlocked or no, a flowing clutch on the infinitesimal grasping after the eternal presence, whether accepted or not, a pulsing, flexing, swelling, absorbing thing defying the thing it means to find, that thing of substance on the landscape we've found as our embrace.
If it could be said I'm happy, that might be seen as an over-statement of a questionable reality in conflict with the sense of beingness exhaled by every gasp of a throbbing universe flexing its calm for the strength it keeps for the sake of my seeing the truth denuded by decades of combustible lies finally igniting, finally giving over to the need to reveal the being within, like a butterfly, aching for emancipation from the mother source grievously overtaxed, hyped beyond its ability to reckon the flower from the infernal weeds pretending profundity, slavishly grasping after the joke.
Truly what could only be the thing we're all hankering to find under the four-leaf clover, bested by nothing in mind, the heart being coincident with the raptures anticipated gleefully in the waiting area where simple sorts confuse the writings on the wall for lyrics from Pink Floyd, not the scribblings of the graffiti artists everyone seems to be afraid of these days, it's clearly not what we thought it could be taking all the energy gleaned from hope and converting it immediately and effectively into fuel for the next election, where candidates can hope to agree on nothing.
Too bad the army of examination beetles have gone astray for the wrong reasons yet again, hammering the indisputably grieving heart of the collectable union with ridiculous shams parading as the new rulers of mind, scribbling profane epithets cleverly gleaned from wasteful enterprises not recognized so easily by the surveillance team assigned by servile sorts who won't look beyond the box, rifling gleefully through the excrement said to contain all the vitamins ones needs, if all one needs is to sate themselves on processed thought materials with easily digestible neophytes passing themselves off as the young and the bold veterans.
Ringing the established bell on a theme of revival redolent of crucial considerations that reflect the vital concerns we rarely utter in aware company, preferring the blind, deaf and dumb counsel most intimately associated with the raptures kept secret from most of the milling hoards, what better way to insure the complete realizations allowed when there are no more choices; these matters have a most delicate character, and without equal, can provide the greatest pleasure principle eruptions; that, in light of the collective desire for consummation with the truth, is the best way to ensure its progress in our souls.
The work is being conveyed to the masses as a diversion on a theme most associated with wanton abuse of our basic good natures when the getting gets good per assumptions made on a desperate key slipped under the mats in the confessionals after hours. This can only be summed in the realm we hold most dear in prayerful meditations in silent domiciles accorded as the proper garages of casual deities who labor unceasingly on caddies with VW engines, being the best suited vehicles for unsuspecting minions of the cloth who've got the whole thing wrong as wrong could be.
Once again, the final flush of night and day, a crush of quaint rhythms made to reflect how and why the maybe can be striken from the tableau erected solemnly in defiance of the dark passengers fighting over seats on the convenient pews constructed for grace established when the horrors have subsided and the magic has faded to the benedictions uttered, some passionately, some perfunctorily, some without any understanding at all, lest the viable reality humming from within erupts, not as warnings, for that time is past, but for the wonders and marvels prophesied in the beginnings of the end.
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