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I wanted it. I wanted it more than I could hold its nature pure to keep 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 world's 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 gladly yield.
Pigmentations of reality shows, most implemented by virtue of clear mendacity on the producerís part, for regrets laid in the backwaters outside the conscious web where intent is acutely felt as a means to wrench truth from fiction and discard it before anyoneís the wiser, have shown themselves so aberrant, even the jaded stars are blushing. Lest it be recklessly posited that no oneís the wiser, not in this lumber-headed crowd, whose modus is lodged in erect circumspection after the clear fact of seductions gone awry, I might get a room with a view after all.
I like it when the numbers become enjoined by threes. Thereís a weird comfort that arises as an encouragement to kiss and tell from the tertiary forms, being more available in fine stores everywhere with the number of people willing to go the distance, better suited to the tasks, plus the pills are much cheaper now. It stands to reason we, as a culture, have grown much too accustomed to laying back and letting the other guy fix the problems. Beware, those other guys are getting smarter everyday, savvy to a fault, and who do you think is responsible?
Distortions of the classic variety fashion themselves a gown of nostalgia for lounging in the vat of molten soul, hot as cold as the inner collides the outer on the rim of existence, shards of mind blown inward to the crucible, where the magick vies for a link threading silent voices scattered throughout the time-space-continuumís best buy store to the one magistrate above all, who can and will delegate in your favor; not to exaggerate the possibility of failure, mind you, but to accentuate the possibility of success, and a brand new suit wired appropriately for quality spying on dad.
Streams off the basic driving course to assemble the particulars in the going design after secrets are no longer, with consequences, barred from extenuation and the odd pleasures, forming serendipitous confusions inherent of the currents, rush unseen forward into god knows what or where or who might be affected, if anyone, and then, does anyone care? Of course not, but thatís the point of the infinite field of points Iíve taken to mold my becoming from moment to moment, and itís no oneís business but the stock broker I torture in the boot of the hut called I.
Ignored by the giving hands on deck in defiance of the modus construed dependable, even trustworthy, I'm finding wading in the available pools more arduous as the days drip on; yet, by the current flowing, a river bent against a forward momentum, I'm staying afloat the best way I know how, yet this is the worst way I can see of doing so by substituting who I am by who they think I am and acting accordingly. In this modified fashion, I have much to offer in return, gleefully offering an ignorance of my own, ushering in a startlingly creative death.
The vitality is contained by a need absolute, and the conduits through which enemies convey their marginality in secretive bursts, are likened to the tunnels of love weaving their slippery ways under a parentís gaze directed consciously away from the place of conjunction. The conspirators leave an odor, only detectable if considered so; unrest consequently betrays a furtiveness, nerves, barely concealed, as servants of the central eye, convene out of desperation to finalize actions and seal an end to questions. There, in a secret corner, muted by intentional shadows laid by desire, the death most desired is deliciously found.
Sleepless convulsions off the most exciting rides stayed the grieving when it was decided the night had to disguise itself as day and remove all debris from its easily accessible coffers....the rational fears, so meticulously drawn from the eternal vats in the mind's closet, were the reasons we needed salve; then came matriculation to a higher sort of ridiculous comedy that had no equal in dissuading tiny hearts from dreaming on bigger ones...so, the rats have dominion over the grocery aisles, and no church picnic will ever suffice to change that...so stay asleep, why the fuck not?
Is the substance of my undoing the matter that rides along the straining sutures securing the laws of my soul so to render them complaint with the tenets of will Iíve absorbed, preventing the discouragement inherent in discovering the spuriousness of long held belief systems, caving in wholehearted devotions to an ineffectual roster of rules, best left to burn in the conflagrations we all demand, as the culturally iconic comic controls fall apart for next weekís sit-com plots, best eaten with an overdose of hot sauces and left-over communion wafer company franchises, draining out their profit-margins.
That was it, a complete dissemination of materials construed useful after the barn burned to the ground with sheep of disreputable colors and shapes marching in line toward an assumption bargained for and signed into confusion at a time when the animals were way too young to make constructive choices in response to fear..."Be seen and not fucked," was the melody therein, meted out correlative to the ideas and designs of the prototype blueprints, or was it merely a figment of someone's masturbatory fantasy in the back loo, where Uncle George had his curious way with the family dog?
At the appointed time, one lays the words out, fills them out by the grist of precipitates after deep considerations through fueling time in the head and heart, jetting the shards of soul from its engulfed cavern with the intended gold excavated for the dream whorl of action, well established as the means of materialization in the shared world from the naked, frigid text handed off via cyber-space; so it's the truth one minds by a fury, less of expectations over hopes of emancipation from the cages of mediocrity, more of simple beingness fashioned by its gold and tin.
We seek the completions wanting us for the nod of humanity as the spitting off we are of the bead called creation, that this creation might ever afford us the ascendancy as a star might die in our mind's core that has no flesh but the regard of light and dark entwined as hot and cold, the bending back of beingness toward un-being and the acceptance of this beautiful death and birth simultaneous....in the veldt that possesses infinite rivers, wild capillary divestment and the tiniest of winks, wide eyed bewilderment, the movement toward the mirror continues lovingly unabated.
Sent to the edge again, swiping the largess I've assumed in the begetting of the cracked mind off its rhythms, quaintly rubbed like a chip of coal on the steel-like fervor kept in the attic of our tiny eternity for a spark to ignite the rapture on the deck of the ship we've boarded for the promised land this guy in a white suit said would give all the begotten one could eat and coupons to boot, what a deal it's so hard to beat, almost worth a murder or two, and that's the best perk I've ever heard.
The infectious retort upon the importation of the new software was at best a humorous aside, as the momentum of the installation accorded all to revive a kind of salutation to something one could only call a supernatural tendency toward undue exclamations of glee upon the rapture gleaned from said revival; so it goes, the extremes wrestle as usual, befitting a mild if not unnoticable kink or infection, a virus in the body of the mainframe, requiring a serious reconsideration of the importance ascribed to the allegedly vital software. Nevertheless, what's been done, per usual, takes itself way too seriously.
As it is, one only sees the obvious crawling through the rotted pickets of dismay, while pleasure vents flumes like crazed rose-blossoms from the maximum vats of beingness wherein dieties of careful choice rise like unstable molecules in a nuclear furnace splitting from imaginary rigidities for universes necessary for the creations to be seen as more than mere catches of light, singular sprays of photons jetting from the core where time and recollections are moot expenditures of energy to be exhaled for their spurious claim over reality needing rusted hands of a clock for reassurance of time's putative authority.
Nice vibrations are a quaint way of creating the comm line that allows heavy juices most associated with atomic vegetables to flow unimpeded without judgment or a need to create a sales' cartel in a land that accept only ambitious clones of Target. This, the universal right to own that which cannot be owned, is assumed sacrosanct and without parallel, but how thoroughly removed from any semblance of usability and sensibility it becomes. Thus we have the best way to earn a bad buck with the choice to mount its head in the loo, den, dining room or morticians' slab.
Regarding the need to go over and above the accepted norms, often assuming a satisfaction awaiting the adventurous one who deems the undertow gratuity more than obligatory, more than a mere gesture of thanks but the kernel of new growth plunged to the core, seeding obliviously the body with the happy infections assuring ultimate complicity with the prevailing dictates and unalterable courses of the violated rivers, ever widening, ever deepening, ever feeding the burgeoning quantities we expect as our mates in arms, tells the onlooker how complete the assimilation is able to defy, defeat and absorb any encroaching standup entity.
Can one adequately describe the feeling of being utterly invaded on a level impinging the very core vitality operating throughout the streams of collectivity and cerebral enterprises complicit in the ways adopted toward full engagement over the series of carefully planned injections of a drug that has no chemical composition or even physical attribute, yet contains all the necessary ingredients for total annihilation of the ego? One could say that might be a drug to keep well out of the hands of those who actually might have the present means to create it. Just a thought. Don't mind me, really.
Beneath the happily exploded structures and sublime eruptions of fire that feed the hunger that never sleeps incinerating the defiant whirlwinds of unpredictable causalities inherent to the key distributions on QED conclusions, beneath the viral assumptions off profound paradigm implosions to mate feeling to feeling from inner streams coalescing on landscapes where knights of the matrix battle to the death off plunging lances piercing obstacles to the cause of causality, the need to capture the strung particles on the chess board delineating what rises from reason's undulating coitus, sewing passions to a clear display on a circuit board, is alive.
You assault me, and the infection spreads, your hidden sputum collapsing the guts of the prescient skins affecting the visibility of you, scoring the lineaments so to subscribe the fond disease, and mate a crush to speak so loud the silence under such sweet chaos bellows relief, and the magick how to become the rousing flesh fire... the fabrications, meat bleeding, faces melting, brains dividing off themselves from the shelves where idiosyncratic disciples arrange a dance line, the fire fetes bathroom excesses, bowel explosions, bladder eruptions, the hardest crossword solved, and it's all melodically tasty as the darkest, bitter chocolate.
It shakes me down rifling the secret vaults, for the fume of terrors are a font to baptize the criminal in all of us...we can be what we want to the death of all of us...on stage, such is the secretions in the dog's mouth we wither from, speak evil of, kiss and caress.... then comes the other one unexpected, having the means and catalyst to bring us together in one final throw of the energy made for all... then can we truly see, as it all falls. Matrix decides. The family of none can finally come home.
This worldly malange of souls, pertly associated with the present whirlwinds of thought situated on the landscapes of I rendered as one might render characters in a roadrunner cartoon, slip and slide throughout the dense electrical storms we are carousing the oily flesh of wonder made for the caresses of imagination reserved for the moments when time and its illusions give way to ecstasy and plunge to the vitals of life surging in perfect synch within the collective body, so eternal, so perfect, so without errant reflections in the golden eye of vain envy that scalds the visages by hubris.
Aside accommodations begotten of the secret desires fondled in the dark brilliance by swarthy gamesters making the grades come undone in the furious confusions of utter clarity when the many become one in the flash we blink away in the fears equipping minions of the law with reasons to exceed their own limitations serving boundary guards marching in step throughout mental battlements built for millenniums' ardors of extreme pleasure and pain, the indiscreet and solemn eye we all revere consciously or not decides for us, and in that veldt of decision making we find true solace that we can actually accept.
The rapture won't occupy the heart without a fracture in the frenzies all too apparent by the perplexities implicit to the ecstasies thundering our mutual blood forest blinding the leaders we expect to befriend, console and invigorate what's left of an ideal railroaded by a blisteringly hateful enterprise that hasn't the least bit to do with anything truly real, but tricks the uninformed minions of the law into favoring the images conveyed without pause, like a never-ending film loop flashing its keys of light that no one really understands, as the filters necessary for decoding are in cryogenic storage.
So, it's said the immediate needs of the mind have been occluded by the needs of the aberrant hearts cleft by messages fed through secret channels in secret codes no one understands, as the programmers have long since passed away. The desert spaces we commonly adorn with our facile albeit twisted imaginations are populated through and through with mutant emissions of the darkest magic; so, it's becoming to the conjuror to create spaces whereby the images revealed are the images transcended, but only via the vessels of deceit we conceal on breakwater assimilations that have no clear investments in truth.
That is the rock busted, this thing we got, fluffed in plenty with a face slipped off, mind bent on candy floss fucking, sexless assemblages congruent off vector sludge machines, then passages denied by reasons of the sordid ticket punchers languishing in the ring where battling toward the bloodless excesses have long since been sloppily relegated to the kindergarten reasoning we've come to expect and admire from the mortuary section, so convenient are the excuses to berate the beloved magicians in the key interrogation where tortures are assigned without limit by virtue of recent layoffs. It's the best way off.
How vital the importance of being at the correct cusp at the great divide occurring in the hidden heart cannot be over exaggerated by any of the reality shifts inherent to the cusp maneuvers, whereby viable providence is under extreme surveillance, such that the exacting protocol requires the sentiment reserved for the adepts awaiting initiation. The time is near, and no one individual has the ability or wherewithal necessary for complete assumption of the information nestled in the seed of hope sitting impatiently as Prometheus to be released from torture so utterly perpetual eyes cannot be separated from the ears.
Into the fever blisters breaking flumes of gardenia honey and the musty hoods of desolate dream veldts where the cracking flows on simple divides breed the means to disassemble, when final creations begin by ending the beginning again, and the fires we seek are the fires we eat, mouths agape on fleshless bodies, minds strewn heavily over landscapes of the divine inspirations given only when the wish is broken and disbelief beckons none to its laire...this is the model we shape, the plastic form we fondle in the dark on the bending cores of desire made for glorious death.
Them who allegedly know should die by their own belief systems creating the viable and oft unrendered disability acts in the collective mind-set most often associated with the ridiculous and pseudo scientific creations imbuing weak hearts and dampened minds with kernels of precognitive death, a blight on the soul materials assembled with grace in the ecstasy of letting go of all preconceptions and theories designed to bring a halt to the exploration of spiritus magni and excoriations umlimited in scope by trials moving inexorably toward the most special leave-taking of all materializing assumptions of the non-existent grail.
The time you find is the time you lose in the fractal assumptions benefiting neither one of the denizens of heart vying for attention in the betting circles. Coming off the denials is not a stretch or compression of any form of deciet masquerading as truth or even the semblance of that which has no substance of being ready, but rather the acceptance of letting go of effort to flow in the swirl of comfortable rejections left in the rooms where passion is relegated to the offing and begetting of fate...the grease spread over the body of my best intentions.
The optimum value control defies the ministrations who devise undue control levels in the mindset of premium ardors with provisoes given reign to hamper the already heavily hampered consciousness of the Collective's crime investigators commonly associated with fictional heroes of ancient texts, retarding their spying into rapidly vanishing constructions of dogmas, allegedly built to support spiritual truth, but in effect destroy all semblences of the primal connections adorning each moment with pregnant probings of the very thing it quashes. Such lives the irony we know so well, no one wants to question or encounter it but thoroughly debase it as unique.
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