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Midday wonders afloat the consummations of a morning burned into brain by the advances of fear redressed by comedy scenarios implanted by suspicious agents of an unknown agency describing how it's important to infiltrate what's behind closed personal doors, and to the assaults in variegated forms assumed as hostile escalating by serpentine fashions disguising the attacks as something gentle and benevolent for your betterment of mind, soul and body; then comes the armada with mounted guns that laugh, bullets that tease and cajole, bombs that tell us love is on the wing by big brother's benevolence, so let us pray.
The cracks are getting smaller. Fissures that once allowed slivers of comforting light are diminishing, folding onto thoughts forced into accepting thoughts concealing thoughts, knitting open patterns folding onto closed patterns, where geometries held as sacred in halls of pristine mathematical ascensions implode on closed sets, circles of defiance, nothing within touches anything without, fingering beautiful walls raised for security of fear and the maintenance of fear, templates created, sold and fastened into the manner best suited for convenient blindness; so comes the parade of distraction clowns cheered on for their vital magnetism, compelling tricks and ingrowing jokes of death.
Yes, yes, yes, yes....I say yes.... He is one who was the one, the one I adored as the one I deemed in my skewed heart of hearts as the only one to be the one I was, the one of gowned dust, bedecked in turgid keeping serenely of the lies as truth; this one I held as the form taken on as the form of myself, taken on as the I and all, for all the matters construed in passions fled on feathering and beatings, seared by the oils of disrepute, held most high in regard of reflections....
Fashioned by myriad guises serving the sanctity of the one, fearing nothing but all, a standard that grief danced about for the rapture of none, for the mystery resolved on coins thrown to dry fountains of mind and soul entwined in prison cells, naked as the one of truest wisdom, wisdom of the one that cannot stand but cower off the salutations made in its honor, the place of a death disguised as the place of life most high... such is the captivating lie, such is the one I lived to die.... for in that death I found my I.
Am I bound to this dance proscribed by the unseen voices without proper introductions, uttered in silence to the cowering hoards off the grid of belief derailed from purpose beyond the scope pushed to the limits of cerebral endurance, nor can I be so gifted by the sacrosanct, allowed a touch of the beloved devices shared on the mental battlefield once stretched lovingly to seal fates to the blood bedecked shadows wherein mothers blurred with memories of fathers and became the diadem in head, the very false facsimile of the holy Mendala? So comes the question that cannot be denied.
Indeed, something sweetly harsh to the calloused tongue comes swinging past its own devices to distract or confine the outer from the inner, circumscribing a fashionable design on the old form; so the necessities of a bygone era can be laid to rest, assuring those who care about such things, matters will not be overlooked or underscored by anything but the highest authority, and given the scope and visibility of the issue, only the most confirmed data will be used to shut the whole thing down to comfortable dust. So comes the decree in bits to plague the original authors.
After the attack of the unseen demons by the swinging psychical hammers, crouching in the quiet when the mind falls on residues of growth materials painfully reconstituted for division of judgments from clarity eschewing what might have been from what is most certainly the next step hard won by lightly feeling the need from the need of avoidance, denial or rationale that takes precedence in cases delivered in the hands of the pharmaceutical magicians wielding their pocketbook solutions, killing the heart of the mind of the desperate and desirous of the orb corralled for polite graces harbored on society's gratuity.
You don't know, or can you know, or fashion the means to know that you don't, to redirect the obstacles away from the idea of knowing a way to know, then to know a way for ascribing all the fashionable ways around knowing so completely there's no knowing how to unknow the means to not know the knowing? So it comes, the viability and confusion centers made to bleat for fears unnumbered on designs of the abstractions settling into head for the rationale that could launch a million brave new ideas into the jet stream determine our best way out.
Kindness beckons the draft of its unique deceit on the cusp of being and not-being, where decisions to become rally the momentum of being conjured mindfully to allow the juxtaposition, elevating not the means alone but the will to move beyond the wanting, while believing in the possibility past the reality where reality sullies the soul of desire, not the soul of destiny... the crux of this ancient ideology held in spite of eons of prejudice and persecution holding us down, keeping us fixated by any means on the uttermost belief we serve the darkness as the light streams.
One has to benumb the chaos trilling ones idea of sympathy down to a rancorous shelfing of cause over effect, while roadways are being ripped up for the new ones yet to be unveiled in secret ante-chambers of the ruling classes; by edicts of the most supreme order we can only hope to face the investments freshly penned on the deck of the brand new dawn waiting just beneath the horizon, waiting on the ones who hold their vast knowledge of the base rhythms we've learned to ignore as they work their diabolical alchemy on our disintegrating charm machines.
Yes, you can. Who said you couldn't? The right is in your hand of mind by the creativity imbued by dint of the special fires coming on the radio waves glinting off the inharmonious gratitude-flurries besetting the how and why and wherefore...but that's the point. In the vat of thinkings' metronome glory and the furtive sensational ardors behooving the doer to do, not just think, not just fantasize, but take how the doer might take with all the fury, joy and ennui one might muster from a random murder...yes, you can...who said you couldn't? Not I.
It is the juice made on the slipped curb of intent where designs of 'I' escape the paradigm shifts of 'we,' so comes the expected radio heads insisting upon numbers obey their rules, as does the curator of thought museums on the grievous slopes, by differentiations complicit with continuity questions scooped off minds bespeckled with series of tortuous challenges, as Riemann framed, that such creations could rattle the best and the brightest given the opportunity; wonders of wonders the lot should make assay with so little to lose and everything to gain. Muscular minds know, the divided heart must stoop.
We might confirm the day's legacy on tips of temptations regarded as nonsense or the prattles of weak minds and cold souls looking for an available oven, so comes the instinct shifts inherent to the core that vibrates along without fear or the least particle of regret that such a journey might involve the one of no dimension becoming that which lives to feel geometric salutations, algebraic delights winding wild teasers in the pits of desire not a soul sees unless the blackboard has been branded on its selected brain; therein, no ill of disrepute shall trample the eons' muse.
Bring a change, as the notions of being put together are being modified to accept the corrections indicated by the recent memos distributed in haste, attempting to avoid the inevitable conflicts by way of indistinct conveyances of witless minds trying to act sophisticated in spite of having absolutely no idea of where they need to go when the party's done, and where that party will be in the event of bad blood and the odd chance of aged groupies being laid to rest in front of the entrance? That's always been a problem, but also the much anticipated initiation challenge.
The excitement of seeing the anti-money nodes collecting on tips of discouraged brains when the event horizon hasn't captured enough solid belief systems to replace the disintegrating ones due to storms of apathy arousing not a single ambition or desire to excel, rather the inevitable and dreary collision courses assembled to divert undue attention and the undesired scrutiny that comes of mysteriously placed question marks where answers were expected, Thus, with the odd man out hypothesis being the standard elimination rule, we've allowed the usual suspects to assemble. So, it shouldn't be a surprise when the worst imaginable occurs.
The metered flow begets a down-home worry over extra salvation packets being divvied out pell mell...My God, where did moderation get off the boat? Yee Gods, it's all a tangle now, even if they'd come back, do you think they'd even take the time to correct this godawful mess...NO, of course not! Heaven forbid they should even take responsibility for it. Nope, they's just a gonna go down to the store, buy a few more 6 packs than usual, slam the door in their own faces, and tarnation! Stuff indiscretions like enemas for Jesus on the TV.
Fits aside, we need the uttermost emptiness revealed for the prideful anticipations attending its most ardent avatars and maintenance men; those, seen fit to mold themselves to the needs herein demanded of the vacuum, set their goals accordingly, as the momentum generated therewith follows no prescribed course, but takes its delineation only from the attendees and esteemed adepts made to feel so welcome the idea of walking away becomes a rude notion. Once the followers have lined up for their instructions, and the designated leaders have been issued their primary targets, the only thing left is the one thing excluded.
How does one manage the indignation aroused by fevers induced by expectations flouted? What does the ever turning circle say about this? What can the inner voices that mutter eternally without sound say about this? Is there anything to say? Are we destined to become nothing more than a stupid of echoed shadows and misplaced dreams, only to be mocked for having something alive, held lovingly in private places that can't be utterly without blushing for the true feelings they conjure in a mystical heat that is not at all mystical but strewn about the playground by hands of resentment?
By a magic, dissolving. Quantities of the ego, supplanting the surge directive, forming the last remaining cowboy with his faithful drawn horse on the creative range, begetting not what is immediately seen, but hailing on the residuals, the fetal remains, liposuction garbage, plastic bags of the head, the mind, the soul, that which has no feeling beyond the conglomerate need, this cowboy scans the horizon, knows its furious rapture and the viability of the dissolution of the impending sunset, he feels and knows the body expanding on its time that has sacrificed its time; he knows and bows his head.
I gotcha, you, the magic can, clicking... I gotcha in my thoughts for the reams of clicks you master for the parade, the firm insurrections, tabulations, the enticing powerpoints, the fabulous gleams of the new machines...all in a row, pretty servants all...to feed on the takers'; the wholesome goodness of it all, the absolute fondness of the hunt and sacrifice. We, of the fond remembrances of flesh occupied with intentions' gleam to paint, to write, to sculpt, to build on the mind's foundation, do, in fact, recall those days, and we care! We care. We really do. Click.
The diadem is ready. In the flux matter that obfuscates as it entertains, the sordid collusion of anti-creativities, dividing us from us for reasons of impending unseen consummations, illuminates us, not so much the darkness of us but the perpetual obsession with which darkness consumes the idea of itself to benefit the climb from sense to antisense delineating the how from the un-how, saluting all those who have dedicated themselves to the matters flexing in the violence of such alleged peace that surpasseth all understanding...the diadem is ready for the sacrifice. A long time it has waited.
So it's to be, as we think it should be, not by our thinking, though we say it is, but by our actions in all their tiny manifestations and implications routed through the gestures these actions rendered, so to mold reality as the reality we see in our best heads often upon waking to the world before the world has reminded us of its sordid conveyances toward undoing all that golden creativity has spent millennia manifesting. Thus we take what we wish by vanity and fear of losing that which we never had, only wished, our sacred I of security.
We keep saying the dead-said-you-said in every configuration by the sought and denied, regretted and defied, then to the matter of being held responsible for the messes ensuing, or the voluble misconstruing of whatever was held as necessary for the common good then immediately blamed on Jerry Springer's light wit and astute summation of every human ill being part of the hydrogenated peanut oil regime being so embarrasssing to even admit any involvment whatsoever giving oneself the extreme benefit of offing one's dreams by overindulging in the very belief systems recently vilified as counter to true love.
We sort the ones out who seem to say, "come." We do this by habit. They come prodding the eyes of our eyes, and our hearts cave to an odd wishing. They pulse in step with an arcane mythology wriggling out of a stale hold on a fevered life afraid of itself calling out of its self-made darkness, whispering, "come to me." Yet, so vigorous are the morphing walls constructed to secure, protect and defend with marshal intent by gestures simple and direct to off the insinuations of this alien voice rising in pitch and clarity, simply, "please come."
Leaning into the hard silence, capturing what might be considered the last place on earth where solace could be found as the viable teacher for the decaying arts of communication still throbbing for attention, loudly gasping for life on the desperate thinker's crumbling fortress of mind, seared by the infections ensuing the halted courses once pursued as the means to obtain a modicum of respect or proper foothold on the climb toward becoming aware of being alive in the furious crucible of creativity, it is not so much the fear of taking charge, but the fear of losing the idea.
It is the brightest place of dance, tottering laughingly on the cusp of decision. Anything's possible, the flow being where imagination thrives, and where imagination creates its own momentum, the gratuity by which one assumes the next grounding for a launch breeds a quiet roar within the matrix of mind. So comes the violence expected, as the calm splits for the decided revival meeting of souls, not the cacophony of hysteria, but the diving gravitas of light penetrating the core of fear, flaying its muscle as a chef, with delicious anticipation of the broiler, slices through a freshly butchered steer.
Vital, these matters of trust and the associated infections of the organ of conjunctions evolved from the confluence of humors flowing like mad Kells on a Diadem of Mind so constructed by the firm devices morphing from qualities generated by combinations of aggressive spirits merging by necessity with the assemblies erected in the houses of agreement feeding such collections, that our human capabilities might graciously pour their powers over landscapes where dreams of flight may be allowed to land and stretch their desiccated imaginations wide, filling empty coffers starving for reasons not to die and assume their right to create.
The explications, made salvific in the golden dust heaving off gusts of the masculine twisting on sinews of feminine embraces, whose nurturing pulse shadows convey what nothing may convey in the devouring by need of hunger for the heat of blood, the thickening by the sodden melody makers manifesting their ineluctable passion for decay, becomes not the food for life through the murk of indistinct blood, but as the cancerous manure suffocating the rising matters in the ovens we sire by right and accept by need, becoming our manner of manufactured ends, defying what death must really bring to life.
The last and the first in a fist of joy, as an erection for the passion infecting sense after consummations following doubt's demise, being the clutch of energies we cannot coordinate but accept as a person might accept their heart, as is the need, the mind must turn to the regrettable defense mechanisms' deactivation, not by a clever swing of a switch conveniently located on a wall of head with a light perfectly illuminating the pesky circuitry, but by a simple smile defeating the emotional guns' defense assembly along the city's walls; for inside those armaments is a surprising secret.
So it comes, as is expected, but not unappreciated, the wholesome vitality of the primal fear, no small yet insistent idea of liberation might effectively penetrate the hide conceived as the swelling metastasizing shield our mothers' better heads constructed for their child's protections' insurance, with coverage way beyond the need; for in the veldt of livings' delights and pains we can see how these gentle guns, these warnings might design an emptiness as the habitation of fear redesigned as hope in the well regarded yet subtly devious mechanisms befuddling what could only be considered the better angels of our nature.
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