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Another beginning again. Truly. That a source fund might emerge from the dry dust of skewed ambitions and fond intentions seeking to elevate the dim to a blazing glare, a volatile and infectious gleam in the opening eye of hope, then comes the dank cowl of darkness unfurling for a need to repress, yet how that strangulation might be evaded, how a death might be averted once again is the meat of the new growth, the flowing new blood in the new veins connecting organs long isolated, desiccated and mummified for the circus as the focus of a learned obsession.
If you knew how to say what you wanted to say in the last place you wouldnít be in this predicament, desiring matters of being alive in the whole sense of the word, having the grist of flesh cocked in spite of venting for hours, needing touch so badly you havenít the clear wherewithal to evaluate the extent to which you seek the fishing source to expose its gleaming and open for the hunting of the hook, to flush the cavity bulging, the blood roaring, to allow the primary kiss to prick the wholesome vat and spring the concomitant flood.
Yes, I say yes. This is the wellspring device that measures out the supply and demand most associated with the credible and delicious service of will most intensely given as the sole provider when seen in the dark after everyone has gone home to their yellow houses and perfect renderings of humility wrapped around the guise of hubris we know so well we donít even have to say its name to arouse its attentions. This, being at very center of desire, be it physical or psychological, is the whirlpool that eats its own as easily as the sky eats sun.
OK. Iím the one you canít decide to push away, ask to dinner, sell yourself to, or fuck as the easy going vestibule of semen meant to satisfy the core passion aroused at every turn of the day that waits on the biting darkness under faux brilliance. We are the means to the beginning, so it repeats like a dry litany by echoes of reason gone mad, as the end is all too easy to fling into the mix as the inevitable swing of easy justice conveying the rigorously sequential step ladder to wisdom thatís been agreed upon in blackouts.
Then comes the diametrically opposed mindset in a furious stampede of coherent thoughts modeled cleverly after court cases recorded for student contemplation and argument in classroom settings, safe as twinkie defenses and the Oprah afternoon ladies auxiliary set as a framework for relaxation and delights of mental masturbations that give meaning to the phrase Tis the season to be jolly, as its ever so delicate and sensitive to change, which lends credence to the need of being in the middle; end and beginning being in the service of nothing safe in the winner mentality that hasnít a clue of anything.
Then the wonderment of all the wan salutations and grievances of the crowds surrounding the company of heroes that ask for nothing and give everything in the hope of being the best of salient hearts who happily give themselves up to the least of them who havenít a chance of defending themselves behind the quiet sensationalism concomitant to the heroes of movies, where blood is a sugary solution of Karo syrup and merely stains the skins of the spurious dead posing as the army of the mission where clarity is sent to the front lines and never heard from again.
The crafted are rare, as ambition suits itself only to the instant oatmeal brand of preparations so hastily done, the actual delineation toward the resolution, vis a vie, the objective, is as muddled in the dim light of nothing held for ransom when the progeny of the mission are finally seen as necessarily crippled and ineffectual. Thus the modality of truth being skewed, and the quality of thinking so poor, to say the least, serving not the iconoclasts in their arrogance laced fear of mediocrity, the will paints its canvas of intent like roadkill paints pot-holed pavements in barren deserts.
Find me a semblance of wisdom as the lines on the grailís map, and I will grind it down to make my bread, or pave my road to make my way over the mouths and minds of spiritual cooks who deem their putative recipes as the optimum clarityÖwhen the clarity shall trip the seeker, fool the driver, tempt the walker toward the shimmering illusions of relief in the desert of dirty light, I nod as one with boiling blood in the heartÖfor the darkness one avoids as anathema shall be the inky cloaked counselor on my path toward unrighteousness forever.
This could be what itís supposed to be as a suturing fury on the scab of denials set center stage on a dias for all to see, for all to feel, as though they were there mounted on the bleeding point where light feeds curiosity like catnip feeds the fat catís disquiet; so, let the them dissemble as they will, let them fight for the right to fight for the right, for the right to meet in private pains, in the sense of polishing that dias for all to appreciate the agony set on high as the newest popular god.
Good day to the perpetual sleepers squirming on their beds in flop sweats slopping the fears they drool for the liquors they sip. Let them have the silences earned after the sold and scorned are relegated once again to the places no one wants, let alone perceives while scrambling after rituals redesigned as means to make societyís death throes attractive for tourists and the odd onlookers parading past the oblivious, disinterested and fiercely aware of the need for lots of pine and scented yellow drapes piled in storage, waiting for the final fevers to flint the faces to fashionable fire.
Such is the trademark that reveals the inner from the outer disguises wrapped in serpentine grace, since what we have is what we decide after rash emotionally charged vitality in lieu of watching choices unveil their privacies slowly and methodically, as the sacred seals are broken every time the matters come to breaking points ad infinitum without and within, as is expected when fervors are violently assuaged, as is typical, when the end draws the sadness from the well that remains dry on bones clacking for the fun of itÖ.the truest and coldest Christmas Card youíll never send, will you?
Crucial points of decision have materialized for a full digestion in the wake of new wisdom that fashions itself when the need fits the time to its design, as is necessary when a vitality is on the front lines waging battles thatíll never resolve, hoping like all bent warriors, past, present and future, the conflicts will come to a thorough and decisive conclusion; the easily duped or just plain crazy may draw lots and embrace pretense for the avatar of truth. That seems to be the going craze. The best? Weíre all waiting for them to get off the bus.
That this might assuage the doubt fingering the minds over coals burning to the crisping point after the flesh is eaten, when befouled and inert humans have stretched out over the wasteland that crept up to fuel the heart with the idea that it mightíve been the best place to start a new family; after all, itís been used time and time again and has the advantage of being what no one could assume otherwise for the reality thatís existed in deference to its own begetting, firing the addled heart as liar, assaying all that portends to violate its intent.
OK, we mightíve been wrong, and that alone is a step ahead of the dying pack. Scanning the fields we can see the decay crawling closer. Still, there might be enough flesh in the smoldering heaps to feed the few who might still digest such violations of the rule wherein the ancient recipes are quite clear as to proper ingredients and procedures used since forged steel was put in the hand of the first eager chef entering the kitchen, facing the stock waiting for the kill and proper butchery, which is a secret only the master himself knows and holds.
Enter death on a platter and the exotic dancers ready to give the hoards exactly what theyíve been hankering for the last several millennia laboring in the process of collecting sacred elements needed for the end to assure another beginning so the hearts might be vitalized, so the minds might be stimulated after reels of clever graphics have finished parading eyes with baubles meant only to distract while claiming profundity of singular nothingness. Then the men finally come and have their instrumental ways that rouse the enmity to a clever high, lending excuse no boundary for the carnage to come.
This is the worst possible condition of a postage life, claiming its importance so loud one might think itís a cavalcade of musicians and traveling minstrels dedicated to soothing addled bodies with something more vitalizing than non-hydrogenized fatty substances oozing from the bloated floaters, beckoning all who line the shores to brandish sharpened forks and feed with frenzied impunity so the observers on the hills might have something to video and send to curious relatives back home. Thus the entrails of a giddy, careworn society are revealed, and the lie of necessary intestinal integrity be finally truly known without doubt.
A library is a fine place to plan a death. One only needs the quiet of such a place to spread the aching heart out enough to see its conceiving area that possesses the mean curve so to render seeds of intent on a prepping frenzy ordered as the rule of the feast to come. So Iíve been told by manyÖthis is the correct and necessary plot so to create the means to the end. Yup. Itís the final show at the edge of the universe, and I know how eager you all are, so letís get going, shall we?
The day is baked onto its face the residues gleaming for the killing pits arranged in order of their claim over souls, and that is the sore spot sold as the swankiest thing around, better than a Big Mac, better than Marthaís smile suturing sacristies of holier-than-thou family magazine ads featuring the latest in nuclear winter wear, and heavens be blessed, the best in post-apocalyptic sitcom plots where no one gets out without laughing at least twice before the gas gets them, before the heat becomes so unbearable there isnít a weird one to say otherwise, itís over and done.
The polite sewage is the sought body package, erecting its single minded razor clarity in the vital sounds of the nuclear breath made pristine by shadows of clever packing, clever rationing of extremist wisdom, like a Harold Lloyd skit gone awry when the trigger is flipped and the innocent flesh Burns and the paintings of incriminating lies are incinerated, when we call the task makers to the bench, when we fire the mountains laid low by earthly designs so cleverly created one might option a swank script and sell murder, easily as Jeffrey Skilling made the glossy cover of Forbes.
Like the good radical mind he was, like the slippery precedent laid by the well aimed knives targeting the unsuitable and insufficiently briefed soldiers in his dark charge, by careful planning, flaying skilled flesh in darkened passages to feed the mind within the mind of America's last great passion... so it makes sense, can't anyone see, Dexter Morgan for president. Let the Buck show its true erection, While masters of otherwise unthinkable Patterns of disbelief hold sway over Unsuspecting hoards lining up at the Voter booths waiting uneasily for Their sandwiches to be properly toasted And slathered with non-hydrogenized gods.
A loud day has become even louder by its infuriating silence bellowing to all who cannot want to hear or vie for solace over atrocities committed in the name of speeches without words, but feelings, so profoundly musical, the vitality and spring of inspiration fired for all the sky to flash a welcome should stay above all claim over ruins laid below eons of lies and clever deceptions sculpted into fixtures of light, attempting the rule that would devise the end to all beginnings, and feed the continual need for freedom by all who vouch freedom as means to live.
We say this is the road toward all seeking, that special road laid by the blood and sweat of all those who would not stand down hiding mute beneath the marching rabble screeching their callow challenges to those stupid enough to pick up the gauntlet thrown down in full view of unscrupulous media pundits driven to make news from nothing less than all the news thatís fit to forget, yet hold the flame of the right to say whatever, whenever to whomever they can sell their sensations to at a profit on a slippery margin meant to fool no one.
The night is cooling. Day was strangely mild. Sun was bright. T-shirts were on the spread, summer colors begging for renewal of new growth with the strength to stand firm in the winds that will inevitably blow over orange deserts rich with fertile emptiness and space for dreaming minds to wander without guilt or reprisals after those minds have occupied their energies with the frenzies associated with the fierce and unforgiving desires to kill that which cannot die except in the movies. Wherewithals that might have been justified in these pogroms have long since been vanquished for lack of need.
Into the wild he was meant to sacrifice his sown soul. Though knowing none of the rudiments required of a forester, he bade the industry of the forestís providence to rule over reason and the usual expectation of training; this, above all was his credoÖto make some sort of statement bereft of words that might occupy a place in the realm of beingness, rather a statement of pure rebellion, a rash, even ridiculous enterprise initiated for no one but one, a sliding rapture, scarfing the remains of flesh from mind as a reminder to those, yet unfound, who will find.
A famous day of iconic salve, comes salvific in the sense of its sensibility on the grief that holds sway in the garden of blood, told as a tale to render shudders in the hearts of faith molded to its sore. This, a furious dawn over the desert made famous by the manager in the red cape and the red eyes who just canít seem to get enough, who, apparently is responsible for ills without number, although this number seems to have been stamped by the boss in the big chair, is the appointed dawn. Time to do some shredding.
Beyond the wet wood skulled into silence, after the fury passed, after all the guests have receded into assumed vitality in the pox of sold reality on platitudes of prodigious intelligence posing for its faux fame, in spite of all that passes for a sentiment regarding the cheerful nod when the cameras have gone dark, and the records have been rendered straight to the core of wanton indulgences paying what you can only afford in the depths of degradation and the polite raptures earned sunk to the toilet and passing gas in backroom deals gone sour, redeem your Faustian night.
Vital assumptions that assuage the doubts consume the global mind and render it vulnerable to serious compromises without recourse. In times of severe truncations to the routes ascribed, as means to the end of the journey, being the greatest of lies, and throwing what hope is lifted in the sun through clouds of fetid smoke and the unworded dialogues threading the web of consciousness as the safety net, taught by the minions expected when the emergency case is smashed on the run for the alarms, necessarily loud to wake the wonders slumming in the crack-house, there are still Motherís brownies.
Itís a difficult thing managing the ever descending stream down the face of our mythic Ventoux, drawing sustenance, as befitting the rising disease weíve manacled ourselves to with eloquent defenses plastered on the retaining walls erected for legitimate concern over pedestrian well-being and ease of ignorance in the waves of internal dissent becoming its own disease, fashioning ill with an ill gown bound with ill designs created in psychotic episodes cheered on as emblems of wealth, that the operating forces should be so in tune with the passionate disciples of something best left to the horror and slasher genre.
I wanted it. I wanted it more than I could hold its nature pure to keep it from decaying, as the moments fled to the dissembling ones that cross the lines to keep them free of compromise or censure, ensuring the central passions to keep them holy. So it stays, and the core expands, as the worldís skin stretches taught, as the heat claws, as the mind bends and fends no matter off but feeds the questions of when, how and who to the reality extant. I say, yes, let it come, and let me be ready. I will yield.
Tinker...the matter is the effusion of the matter, the destructive nature of constructive diffusion, Tailor....the sore conveyance on a theme to be rendered like a sexual liaison broken into clues without a wisp of satisfaction, Soldier...the substantiation of confusion for the delights of the horse parade gone beserk in the third ring, Spy...he who holds the holdings, the material fled off in bits like sparkling confetti under a child's eyes blinded by lies, And the seared flank sends shivers to the one who finally tastes, who finally sits, who finally knows how the oven was rigged.
The sudden glance, The moment of ignited eyes Dissolving eyes for the residues Wrapped in ruddy ice Within the shielded base Of heart before and after light, The fleeting gesture wanting Completions, the growling grip Of intent beyond the feverish And haunting smile finding its Flesh, beyond the lips, beyond Its mouth full of words Without breath, Without the Mounting surge Keeping the belly Crammed of its appetite Drawing the focus toward The snarling feast Out of shapeless mind To pose a shape by The human dance Of fire through eyes That have no bounds, No limits beyond The all.
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