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Heretofore we see what we could never see for the blight of thundering life blaring the necessary music away, settling the land of nod on the chaotic calm breathing what clever sensibilities we've derived for our committal to being constructive in the bonded ways meticulously determined as our belief systems stretch to the breaking points fueling a panic fumbling our boxed hearts, unaware of the golden waves awaiting the collapse...so say the bending voices we ignore in the whirl-pit of dreams that convey what waking questions miss, and so the semblance of light succumbs as the spirits dance.
That's not to say I won't, nor will I say I will, though the vivid desire demands an answer, as the impulse bubbling up the taught belly is delicately fierce. So the inevitability exhumes what little I possess, given the craving I tongue, well within mind by the volubility of the wrinkling wrestle of light's flesh with the vehemence essaying that deep quality, given the visible and palpable belly of heat embraced in collusion with swart muscles of light...yes, I now swear the committal is keen, as my eyes drive the necessary rigidity for the plunge I brightly clutch.
The true way begets the undoing of the way, sets the key in the viscous place where only unthought may derive the feeling into knowing, knowing toward a place of possible action, having made the search of not seeking the true search, having dropped the keen perusals into eyes without grabbing after sights of comfortability, security, the safe zone and embracing light that has no dispersal on a bending body, seeing how such sight might manifest the beauty that is beyond beauty in the very place you embraced a desire to possess qualities of wisdom by the perspicacity of lies.
Into the pool and onto the warm freeze of the eye, I grab for the waves, centered unto fractal extensions I make for the blessing way that tells our Hopi legend scrawling cross bloodied minds of those who fear to score the bread of fear, sharing how means of nutrition has dislocated the need from mere wanting to the source hunger, how I bleed with stretching fingers toward my screaming silence, preaching how not to preach, declaiming the right of not having, not to be disreputable on the clown face, but to exhume the matters I feel resonate most pungently...
By expansions of the calming roar I've come to love, I fete the melody in deep to score movements that cannot or will not be made without the primary gestures created by lies, as the crying face of the past dissolving for the celebrations of genuine silences sweeping from the core belly I now seek to sate by listening after threads of its power emanating thoroughly like a cancer of light infecting the accepted darknesses as commodities of necessary breathing through the wildernesses of loss, garbed in dead light masquerading as the very bead of life that refuses to yield.
Shedding one's special light, known for the gown of flesh of deep introspection on the heavy minded thrusts of golden thought considered to be the source of all trepidation and doubt on the road toward begetting a realization the road is not one to be trodden but seen as through a kaleidoscope of a splintered mind devouring its own indistinctly grave nature, being the true and correct nature known for confusing ardently persistent travelers on their way to being able to see without looking, where the seeing becomes the coveted blindness of Oedipus where the core of light is finally owned.
To the edge we go rejoicing, behailing the fall before the desire kicks the mind to the offing, and then off the fear we slide to the joy, to the rapture slipped from a cracked sensibility and the viable strains stitched to the machine replaying the beloved oldies from the ages dripped like aged creosote from the rusted vents left without care or thought, feeling the metallic blockage in the main vein strangling maternal flows required by the the assumed masters lining the celebrity boxes at the old opera house in the head of rock-n-roll anthem kings forever.
Fettered, as though mind could be encased in the marble of favored dreams during the wakeless living through mazes of discontent, we assemble in haste of the arrangement designated as the means of climbing invisible mountains above dead valleys where graves are considered proper conservative living while the alligators feed with impunity on heaven's detritus or the frequent source pit of barbecued gangsters on a stick, as it's achingly clear crucifying the bugs is the only way to rid oneself of the blights commonly associated with logical appraisals of mankind's persistent inability to balance its checkbook, let alone sugar levels.
A vibrant salutation to fire and all the honors bequeathed thereon, to all the manifestations of evil on the faces prescribed by the needs of the serpentine mind carousing as it wills, demanding as it wills, being the smoldering pit waiting on the missions of compliant mothers assuming the roles to carve semblances crying out for attention till the loving hands provide, and the extreme succumbs to the banal beholden to the mastery of desires; so, in deference to the sensational alter in the basement head serving up the appropriate sacrifices, one comes to know, to live is first to die.
Sleep, the fitful elixir of the warrior red, on the fever blisters rising in the blackest brightnesses, taunts the alchemy upon marshes thick and pungent of pert juices meant for intoxication of gods and the proper minister of the golden dawn in your own back yard barbecue. Those cooking shows really know how to grab ya, with the pliant meats of head assembled on the hot beds waiting for roofie dream drugs to muster favors from the stark identities nearly lost. One could write a cookbook or two and sell the proceeds in the red light district of loves' hottest nursery.
Let go the objective walls, the prosaic cages, the vehement distributors of limitations, and yes, we can create however the roads may fling us to the market, to the zoo, through the musty halls of masks screaming out for us to see, to hear, to be inside the skins and bones and books and paintings and sculptures and the stitching itself by the fractals assumptions we can deny by looking down with eyes closed for the maps of comfort zones where checks are cashed, where food is bought, where tools are kept for building the walls wherein we often hide....
It asks us by not asking, when we're ready to feel it, though not by the way other feelings become known, nor by the touch of that which has solidity of purpose, but by the blinding of the seeker for the sake of seeing that which cannot be seen, heard without sound, felt without touch, known without thinking. In the realm of wondering comes the question devouring answers as the Minotaur devours seekers of knowledge with greed as their heart's mask, as the one who knows it cannot be other than when you've finally come to it, you already know.
She comes in the gown of a disowned dream dissembling structures of flesh and sentience as to the logical semblance of words we fall within for salve and balm earning the disrepute of the unearned soul left for imagination and fictional renderings without the gears meshing, without the energy flows merging, without surges through and through the flexing might of the omniprescient ocean of light we own yet gown in gossamer darkness begging after the sidewalk seer to buy the way back, lining the seers' cornea with anticipations of higher fees, and so to the grave we ineluctably, ceremoniously flee.
The monumental assumptions drive us to the edge and back again to the idea of edge and a formation of the walls wherein we keep our dreams fractioning off the residues held for assurances that what we know to be absolutely certain is but a fog drenched clown smiling in the darkness waiting for the cue to make us laugh when we should be crying, though often in the gust of the primal urges, sending us reeling to the song of the end times, sewing the conformity of the best deal to be had....is just aching to own us.
This is the known quantity we hold in our cups, tempting our better natures, holding us at bey, threading the needs with exponentially growing wants, such that the hope for death becomes like a comedy of errors to be drowned by hopeless infatuations of love on glossy pages rifled with sticky eyes in the back of memories patched appropriately on the flesh faces we'd rather see consumed by forgetfulness and desperate desires modeling our worst for our best, as the hopes can only fall with the mistakes we're sure to make, and yes, even in the best of mindful times.
You grab a sense of what you didn't want to avoid and took the least corrupted option begging the next and so on till the variance of choice is assured to confuse anyone the wiser beyond their morality's scope of value; such is the premium placed on society's gods for the duration of the show, and please, no talking or texting, people are here at great expense for the express pleasure of betting on the continuation of enormous expense accounts balancing on unseen shoulders of the ruling classes, having long gone out of commission resembling anything the least bit sane.
The assumption is craven to its form, and by design generates the fire we cannot see or feel or possess for a rational alternative to the anticlimactic boredom, being the vitality of the assumption. We then fuel matters we take to heart as creations of the most sublime importance. What demands is the saving grace promised on the bondage key turned for the fee we paid at the door. Upon entrance we are to leave at once knowing that the fire, upon assumption, bonds the silence to the roar of true initiation and release from the death we most fear.
Understanding the flow going under the flow, over and beside the flow, knowing the flow as is and not as it should be or could be, is the root intent of knowing intent to serve intent to know the flow of energy of We, and not betraying intent by slaving it with notions of undue expectations or grandeur above and below the means to assemble the tools to facilitate explorations therein, but this, being at every point the core vitality seeking completion, not of the end, for there is no end to exploration, but the completion of beginning, nothing more.
So, we assume the right to claim the beginning, yes, and in that effort, we assume the responsibility of that beginning to meet its obligation of its momentum forward. Yet, how odd it is, indeed, so many ultimately abjure this responsibility and succumb to the laxity afforded them by their own efforts to begin, thus to flex and bend, distort and confuse to suit the face of fear rising from behind the intrepid face in the real-world crucible of intent meeting significant challenges of this face squaring off with winds created by its own need to create and destroy.
Endless serenity deciding the rule drenched future subscribing to wan fallacies that one may know by numbers the substance of the unseen, immeasurable and palpable Soul, not of mere flesh in the quaking rub of dawns without benefit of being becoming the claim over matter becoming the new image of man, no, instead becoming the higher reality of forgetting, misplacing our craven anamnesis and the vibrant wonder of mind reduced to the savage yet beautiful nanobot design, wonders beyond and a strange kind of death.....therein we grieve, but how? Rather, wait, watch, listen, mark the sense of it and know...
We worry. We wait. Is it even decent, moral, ethical to a fault of genocide? Shall we now? Who's going to see a different future? A premonition of the future, not what is, but that it is, waiting for us, as we sit cradling our wits, deliriously content on being discontent. Shall we act on this concern? Shall we bow before the dictums precluding a realization of what could never be in a sane collective, a throng of heavy beating hearts huddling in a mess of twisted steel, glass, brick and self fulfilling prophecies beckoning the end before the end?
Spidery hyperactivity on the fire kernels bubbling through my wiry living in a head of present affectations waiting on the right impulse and firm acquisition of redoubtable passions locating what heavy sense of me I had shedding the lightest sense go for silly embarrassed feelings of inadequacy; that it should land on this kind of landscape being torn apart by over-enthusiastic designers and keepers of the alleged law of the land. So, I'm thrilled to be able to report nonetheless, having had a tumultuous few days in the corn-husker veldt most of us save for our first date.
The static arises in a form disallowing swift assimilation of rapid-fire dispensations of priorities most often dealt out of pockets so deep one has to have microwave radar to find a penny and leaves me with a feeling I've eaten too much baked rigatoni, which happens to be my favorite meal, but not when I'm being waterboarded; then, I prefer hostess ho-hos or sweaty limburger, just so old girlfriends who happen to catch of glimpse of ragged resentments can walk on by and be satisfied by their fucking whole grain muffins or vegan meatloaf till they're auto-knocked up.
Fond of that thing unnamed in the heart of desire, I seek a flame without fire, a touch of the necessary blade and the opening in the mind vault where a suturing of the deepening sadness by an edge of passion without flesh or the indisputable temptation can be affected, arousing the hearth by a panorama of light that cannot be seen but felt in the sorrowful ritual where the Lady is comforted by the Man, where the phoenix sired in a desperate withering, whereby all that I have sought in vain, will rise in a conflagration devouring all that fears.
The vector violates as will the necessity to branch, and the violence ascending mind as derivative of confusions' demand over reason's clear forecast claims what little can be formed on the valueless landscape of conformity where minions of the Law transcribe events for events' sake circumscribing the boundaries of thought and feeling, so comes the matters to a head when times challenge the Law of the Law's turf and the logic commands pit bull rings flower with eager blood, and cocks vent fury on colorful plumes clawed and bitten till blood makes light the shadow of an old dawn devoured.
Soon, it's seen how words tangle words as agreements devour their own values when taken to task on a clash of needs as needs be the vitality of creating words to meet vital demands of flesh and the collective disagreement rising to meet the arbiters of said agreements as eyes meet eyes and the shadows beneath comingle shadows above, that the core of heart might never take its own life when that life caves into fear of its own mortality. So, it comes to pass the time beckons the savage calculus of an end to that beginning once valued immortal.
Masterful indecision demands the clarity of the idiot savant becoming the core provider, be it the last or the first, it matters little how the population settles onto mediocrity for the formula insisting its panacea over all health, that the might of pain could assuage all doubt in the torpid swirl inside minds given over to the least as the greatest, ascribing the only mission in the darkness to overcome what's assumed to say how easy we are to be gulled by cats on high of their own illusions, so it comes down to the gun as the final smile.
Thoughts to being, in the times unsettled, becoming the horizontal illusions of a skewed reality devolving inexplicably for reason of hard beliefs assuaging impulses to effect the rationale necessary for complete assurances otherwise addled by circumstances quite removed from systems likewise becoming to fearful sorts, hard described in religious texts as anathema to fine magic in private places of ritual. Therein we see the devices in harsh shadows designed to obstruct in happy form all that may inspire change or clear reviews of Self, and funny things are exactly the worst thing imaginable having taken on the guise of splendour.
The end of faith scrawls its fear laden paradigm on adopted mechanisms of day to suit the obfuscating comfort of night and the delerious means to save face in the ravages of challenge issued for purposes of maturation and clean solemnity in beds while imagining the fires waging the mettle's war of its own construction and ultimate demise, as the end must be guaranteed to save not only the hearts of its creators but their ever vitalizing bank accounts. So, we see how indestructable the avatars of this dynamic must be to claim life in the veldt of assured doubt.
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