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Sundered by a grievous night crossed blade severing what chapped minds could imagine by diseased evolution on a variable creation of options settled into the reality most often chosen after calumny carouses so deliciously in sordid raptures reserved for the memory of gangster ambitions excluding torpored facts trickling through bloody gratings in abandoned buildings where high end scenes are directed by the dreams that terrify and please by design, not by ruddy comedy or cruel drama. So it goes we become finer lies, set to seduce only what others reject; therein the hell we fear becomes the heaven we love.
The plate stared in emptiness. Hands came to touch the emptiness. In the vague span of one moment bleeding into the next, an eye of the crucial matters inherent to the questions of being available, became as one to the forest and the desert; in their collusion, by thought alone, an impolite derivation of why came to the body of wondering but not mind; mind stayed soft to the abyss in the bleeding, looking for the dots, being non-existent, so the plate remained, holding its stare, as needs for its fullness failed to even see but fell to hoping.
The vastness in the short space of reaching to thoughts of reaching collecting particles only assumed as the funding source of having, the certainty of touching is the furthest from heart, let alone soul being divided out of the question and the bathroom needs calling from undigested sophistry cramming the whole of our imploding world exploding onto media pundit proclamations, meaning nothing but a clogged toilet. So it comes, minds bending to this reaching, believing something can be reached. Fools. Jokers sans jokes. Waste. But what the 9mm Glock might do, shall serve us all...the only viable, ticketed candidate.
Launched on the motivation of the lacking, it's seen immediately off the indigestible confusions becoming what seems to be the only means for feeding the need to have the right to want what you want, the indisputable confusions that delight and bemuse even the most hardcore and righteous defender of the Law, as is, we are that Law, its presence being made known through us and our need for it, despite the vitriolic enmity that comes with the packages with our names and addresses for all to steal...identities being mutable as the fear of security becomes its own security.
Dig the inevitable rhythm scramblers, the dis-associative mind manipulators casting the wrong types in the right moldy forms regurgitated for failing to meet the nutritional standards opted as salient to the calling of the cloth in the religion without religion, so the means to preach is described in the manual provided at the post-graduation wake, and the boys from the backwater assemblies know what the deal has been for the last fourteen millennia on the cause of promulgating deadly viral attacks on the ruling class, and that's my thing, baby; when the going gets bad as good allows.
The voices are about, tumbling through cracks of the cracks of the cracks of the cracks of the undefined palaces of spirit...spilling their effluvium, gain momentum off indiscriminate sensation on a landscape where clocks are mad trappings of a bad dream best left to scitters off wakings' thrust to the empire of logic and the matters that have no hand to mark false...the voices, beginning at the end of speeches through beginnings scrambling the middle carousals, narrate the films played backwards for the elders aging into babies blathering in cribs for their bottles of light and theoretical popcorn.
The miracle is vividly the lapse of days gratefully heading the anterior march toward un-begetting serious infarctions on the issues of regret or the allowance attributed by forces unrelenting in their occupations dedicated to undoing what's been done in terms of how to make the best sense out of nonsense and recruiting minions to serve the necessary marketing procedures best left to those who understand the need of lies dressed as truth and particularly vice-versa, where lies become the panacea of all when all is thought to be nothing at all, therein the compulsion to serve is amplified.
Targeting my inner raptures, policing them as obscene, when in fact they're the vivid manifestation of virtues placed on high in the basement of soul, is the remarkable duty drawn from centuries old origins of a nameless group that has no physical location. It becomes the crux of dissembling of the maternal grief machine that relies solely on despair as the key nutrient, fueling the grist of dullards on the mill of poisoned grains grown from the heart fields; so it's the aim of those who command respect at the core of this group to beget the means to create.
And so, it's come. Makeshift humans, like plastic dolls educated by serious practitioners of un-reality by insensible thought machines, proclaim in their idiosyncratic ways how it's impossible to draw any conclusions from materials gleaned from all those secret experiments conducted on unwitting subjects rolling around on their wheels in cages decorated as prime real estate lofts in Soho or the marshes of the bayou and especially the garage attics where the old people keep their antiquated memories of wars, so colorful, as to make any modern pogrom or genocide seem like a pleasant diversion, so says the master Therion.
Yup. It's so good. The recipe, old as it is, worked like a bad dream, and with all the babies being chopped up in the back rooms of the maternity wards for the sake of better cookie batter, how could you ever say anything bad about our Holy Mother in the center of the Living Room while she orates the benefit of early death as the direct necessity of what others refer to obliquely as the vital core of all creation demanding not one but a billion converts, or be gone, as the attenuation of discipline expands its ugly shroud?
Something fashioned me aside as nothing to be touched, codified or falsified, that thing of profound intangibility, a patternless canvas of all that exists in a time that discriminates time besides the definable clock mixing pasts with the uncertain collection of idiosyncratic presents pouring into futures ground to pulp in a collective fist unwinding out of flesh, out of sense of sensibility toward the grasping, how to say, that which cannot be but is perpetually, fallen out of the rigorous registry index, a scramble of bytes popping like popcorn kernels for no one to eat, so it goes, into exhalations.
That point of no dimension, unfolding onto infinite planes and shapes, onto pages poured by hungry eyes starving for order by the elegance of pure logic... such delight entwines the fashioned forms, delicious to the mind's tongue, savored for a functionality in the purest of moments beneath all thoughts of practicality, before the thrust out of the huddle of secret tanks bounded by walls of concrete and steel in habitats that deny their habitations for the sake of the national incubus; such places I frequented for food of a sort I can only take to mind by the merest nostalgic flash.
Onto the implicit codes twining to the core indices, relegating oft unknown quantities to a magical place buried deep within a profound understanding and celebration of an artificiality that has no manifestation, as yet, but a lot of keen drawing board renderings just begging for someone or something to adopt their stark, yet credible essentials to the contrary of basic needs...always the contrary, as assumptions of agreement nearly always find themselves at the mercy of power brokers, so clever as to make any competition quake at the sight or sound or smell of them, basically, the price of profit.
Salient as the means to offset the norm, acting on the mind as the beacon of disintegration, the violently peaceful paradigm that breeds the need to scatter the collective chimes its alarms as the wire under foot of head is tripped by the encroaching predators seeking nothing more than an appointment with the acting boss, but as it stands, this boss is the carefully placed illusion, a pin-up doll, a blow-up balloon to terrify the typically deluded kind who feel the necessity to believe in things that have no clear relevance but as driving forces behind fears' power.
Enter the new born space, ripped from a ragged idea of a need to fall inside a better expansion to taste the fullness, a place of perfect accepting fertility, not decay, a hull of empty consummation begging for the eye to acknowledge its fire yet to flint by wizardy most collected on the firm forms appearing ever so faintly, ever so fleetingly, ever so completely on the mind ready to keel its vim to digest its digression off the insolent arrogance tipping the balance metrically betraying the sharp measurements reflecting not the affluence of loss but the poverty of gain.
Excruciating disciples on the nod of the value off an edge of disbelief carouses what little we really know of the higher end venture pirates after keeping the din down or the effective makeovers limited to who we think we might be if only the noise machines would lower their sexual innuendos to a height not a midget of mind could hope to rouse from its dreamy sleep being forced at gun point to make clever assessments when confronted by the keep sakes they fear the most and hold most high, or so on, when the death is done, celebrate.
This is when he appeared on deck of the ship I've tried to sink time and time again for naught but a creepy rebuttal by ancient girlfriends spitting in the back of head at a guy that's dead, or at least dulled and numbed to the degree aged muses demand as assemblages of the dire death ministers who command legions of ghosts to the mistaken points of paradise reborn or paradise revoked as a means to end this excruciating pain...so it went, he came, and delivered a golden time to my trip to the train magnet, therein we flipped.
OK, we did it. We found the greasy gears of Manhattan like slipping from the roped off sections with parades of security guards doing tangos on the building's lips dripping nothing but the secretive soldiers waiting for the chance to charge forth and deliver their least of the greatest blast for a buck diminishing rapidly to the rotten cues that're more out of date than anyone might evaluate. I swear we came to a serious point of understanding in the legs that began to quit after a day of trudging through what seems a good idea in bed or bath.
I've become enamored of a great lady in the face of a great man. The shimmer descent can only touch the vibrant ascent in a middle of light kissing darkness, a way not a fabric of thought could rightfully assume to be the best possible career choice at the end of that four year drudgery called High in fevered sequences assembled for the right of the few to mangle and mold inspiration to create a fire and dissemble the cold with the knowledge of the best of the brightest; since that day has gone, the point has become dangerously moot
The particular violence that commutes so sweetly in effect toward its own insemination and promulgation deflects all concern that might disperse what fears are extant in the offing before the administration grabs the necessity and trammels the delicate mind in deference to a beautiful crystallization of a reality where eyes become enamored of emotional baubles sweeping through the senses by billows of a light that have no need of sight but a core conveyance on a unique flesh melting to the needs of an evolution long forgotten as the basic skeleton, but desired by the few that still can see.
In a feverish sort of cool calm, with head on the lightly placed footfall after the fact of seeing the key persona dissolve in the whirlwind of creativity triggered by accident as the words fell from the scrapings of soul oft regarded as insulting to anyone with an ounce of wit or specialized weapon in their belt, ready to open fire in a blink, given there was nothing to keep from the composition and everything to give away; so, it became difficult to establish true ownership once the fog lifted and the expected piece was not found or even imagined.
March of the invisible connections betwixt the harmony ministers of yore holding musty ideas wrapped in comfortable fears clambering after what could only be referred to as the subjective servants nestled quietly in the head of bygone eras where the details of happy furies were left to the imaginations on condition they were not given free license to parade radical notions and disciples of that enticing new development in the cyber world where fictions of artificial intelligence are not only ready for to-go orders with extra sauce packets, but have the options to keep your soul on permanent file.
Entering the new realm off the old on the sly could be the most dangerous move one could ever charm themselves with in light of the numerous horrific chances one might assume in the din of dead ideas made new again with glossier facades and delicate odors attached for the sake of better times in the back rooms of decrepit bars or ornate living rooms of beloved aunts and uncles long deceased but not canceled on their credit accounts appearing nightly on the late show, agreeably the best possible dream machine where everyone wins even if they lose their minds.
A Mark indisputable, emblazoned clearly on the darkness' Face by dint of ignorance quashed after the clever sweep off the edge of irascible ratlike hungers with grievous appetites for regurgitated leftovers crammed in the back of stylish high-rises nestled in the core of mind that eludes scrutiny only by reason of its chameleon nature so beloved and admired, inspiration for countless nonalcoholic beer commercials, takes its place, commands attention, fills the air with sweetness beyond expectation, slips within consciousness' domain of questions' creation, only to find the rapture diminished and divided for the sake of superannuated devotion to certainty.
So, it comes to this, the final throwaway of a bond long gone for a supremacy of deceit over integrity, cleverly gowned as the face of love, rather, the face of contempt, distrust and a perpetually mutating fear of being seen for what seeing may claim as delusion over truth, a slippery slope off which the best have slid into puzzlement while looking for relationships' bathroom without a nightlight; such becomes loves' detritus, that place of sorrow where no one gets what they deserve and everyone gets what they don't deserve...a slap under a soothing kiss leaving secret wounds.
Savage this, savage that, a raging ball of fire rolling up the inner hill to the mountain of mind crammed to the molten guts of its stifled ability to fly, finds the release conspiracy a model of lyings' feast for the famine stretching the millennial abyss from the seminal point prior to its most indelicate expansion to the reaches frayed and burnt to frazzles without hope of repair, waiting on the vital cue toward the fires of redemption achingly desired and sought by the avatars of that special kind of wisdonm reserved for those who know the need to die.
By masterful indulgences, combined with the utmost respect for the leveling of landscapes reserved exclusively for the rich and famously undeserving, indolent and thoroughly bland by reason of excess gone wild, we can see the pleasure principle at work, even when it shouldn't be, but as they say in the most regretful position demanded for clear exposure when the going finally gets good, realizing the rapture won't be forthcoming unless you brought your lunch with you, this is the shit, the whole shebang, and after the juice is totally extracted from the willing body, the need to devolve will magnify.
Timer's set, the line is drawn, the race is ready to take its participants, as the participants gather in silence toward the deriving line dotted like a contract bleeding from its own excessive departure from the expectations scrawled on the course of actions assembling themselves like a demented erector set creating the necessary and beloved obstacles everyone who strives against striving needs to set the course to zero and beyond, where dreams manifest the race run as planned, run as imagined, run as the next run, with equivalent verve, becoming the next true savior of the day dissolving to none.
What do you do when you decide to do what you can't do, you go straight to the end of plotting and hit the dirt running, you scale the limits, then fuck the grief ministers grinding you off the edges of discontent plummeting you up the heights serving the avatars of shame that you might ascend that which could never be ascended or approached via thoughts of ambition gowned in practicality lining thresholds of fear and delight; So, comes the masters of deceit parading as masters of truth, then comes the animosity we all expect and love to certain death.
That's the prime cut, the bleeding back sliding flesh face in the soup of your discontent deriving the best way off the usual flaming, the best way to get that first rate success you knew as a young buck, ya know, when they were just aching for it and you didn't have to do a thing but smile in the coals, grin on the fires rising on the grid, laugh as they laid themselves down to cook, craning their lithe bodies over the bubbling sauces that took the chef all morning to make, the very ones now saturating the sacrifice.
The final throw for now. Looking forward, always looking forward to the new throws, however, wherever, some-ever, so comes the drip of the fuel lost to the finding for its value exceeding expectation of expectation, not in the base system of value, nor subscribing however to the raging sensibilities in disguise of fake raptures misleading the eye toward a backlogging that won't supply true demand lest the soul of the seeker clip the wings off its makeshift machine keeping the knife mind at bey, holding the scabbard heart in the quiet vision quest sealed and delivered toward the secret source.
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