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Might not the dance typically ascribed to the mischievous unknown by the blink of being seen and not seen, taken for granted on the loop of day in day out for night's parade of being aside oneself in a bar, in a bed, in any fretted place of dissolution, as in a cup of turning away from the cup existing in a head of assumptions so divided from the creator as to be considered a cruel joke on the joker? If so, it's painfully clear one might overlook this petty assemblage of time pieces smashed to bits as nostalgic delusion.
The second approaches the first by degrees, as the third derives its wide notion of the world in a heartbeat, whence the fourth eagerly assumes its place over the anticipation of the fifth according to rising degrees of effort represented, and the sixth, in the house of its fading fear for the decay of mental acuity by a severe wave of regret that won't come off in the wash, implies the seventh combined as one with the eighth allowing the slippage of the I to go unnoticed, and the lie is less of a chore to believe all the time.
The days have fallen away from me, and I wonder why the sore of the past with regard to a certain man, who was once a close friend, seems to mount daily, and the heart is twisted around an angry mind without the benefit of reason shoved roughly to the back. Cerebral heat, like a corrosive acid eats away at the source of a gentle sensibility once called love, for that which was held high, now being tucked in the cellar next to the rat traps and sump pump, has become a fearsome blight where the angels have gone blind.
Such is the amazing whirlwind discovered in the moment of true inspiration, when the solid core cracks, and the vitality that is creation by the unknown becoming the known by harsh degrees, being in the beast of itself, with the mind turned in upon itself and dissolved to find its true essence, must not be so judged to be avoided, rendered without the usual centrality most often associated with projects ripped away from the fabric of the unformed gown and taken on for the matters to be gleaned and devoured with the risk of poisoning, for that is its nature.
To retain the holy key shimmering as the magick to be mustered by need of need itself, thence turned in the lock of the unseen so to be rendered for the respect it demands, is the wonder we seek but misunderstand, though the respect of its malleable world rising from itself to a hash of landscapes bearing unknown attributes, that so many abandon the accepted, that the idea of its collective mind often buries the possibilities of recreated light to paint the blackness misconstrued as the darkness to be shunned, thereby assuring its persistent obscurity, such is our sacred mission.
We, of the circle, confine ourselves to hermetic studies only to discover the vibrant universality ascribed by the rituals, not be design, but by effect, and by the sole consummations inherent to the sweeping implosions so manipulated and consorted toward as the assignations of ritualistic formulations. In dispute of no one and nothing, the practitioner must be willing to put aside all non-functioning aspects of customary living, not to denigrate such aspect, but to orient them in their proper places, and to be well aware of the place of ritual and its concomitant assigns, so it becomes its importance.
In the veldt beside my breath heaving out onto the hot prairie of mind, though the insertion of the razor back doubt penetrates as a blade for retribution on a deal gone bad in the bitter alleyway set apart for the joy of death on parade, I am bolted to the flanks of a roaring horse; so it comes to be, and the consumption of the radical weathers endured for the ride within soul, is a vital sore that won't heal, won't disappear, won't leave its need to flower pain for pleasure on excruciating fevers we know to be salvific.
Then comes the mind we've all been waiting for, as it proclaims its words as a delicious melody one can feel burrowing through the back of head like acid back in the day while turning away for the acute embarrassment of being touched like glory on the pricking ecstasies becoming the spread feast table, ecstasies most reject as indicative of the corrupting blight on the descending moral spirals made famous for the dance designs they portend with big dollar benefit for the teachers and bigger dollar benefit for the students; if only they knew just what those big dollars meant.
Vibrations fleet from the core at that moment we adore, delighting in our flesh steeping on the calm for the blustery glory decked through the flooded morning wakefulness shredded like wheat for mouths sprinting for satiety lest they be found out, lest they be known for the radical dogs of complacency they really are; we know though. We know. It can't be otherwise if the data is really devoured after the hunger strike like gobbled dogs at a 57th street vendor just to spite Tiffanys. Thence, the waves, those utterly fuckable, tune-tapping waves come to us to seduce us.
I seek to dialogue with myself and others who allow my voice to penetrate as a disciple of seeing that which has always been seen but only by the few who have chosen to see...a seeing not lightly known, recognized for visions it allows, not for the extraordinary as the fodder of fantasy, but for the ordinary and simple, things commonly laid to oblivion by ignorance of their beauty taken utterly for granted. To see this, to open ones' eyes and behold this grandeur is truly extraordinary, for it properly elevates everyday life onto the sheer cliffs of Olympus.
Into the eye of the closed light, there becomes the shadow's defiant gesture off to settle a rousing infection that cannot nor will not challenge the future's past withal the eye fastened to its need to blind itself seeing the need in eyes carousing its circle widening to the extent of existence narrowing to the point of its suffocation; when to the fullness there is the might that won't be measured or judged but accepted on the violent yet masterful consumptions defining the abundance of creation's curious defense of its insistence on being supreme despite all voices to the contrary.
In a swoon, the tender of the vitals sing to the heart, as if whispering a soft acquiescence of hatred to the core of beingness that cannot be but the harp swing, mother addled lover flesh, indeed the very portion of God as is the necessary singularity defied, reviled, vilified and revitalized in a violent swell within what tenderness might convey as a river twines the spine of humanity about that pulsating point beneath vision visible only to the unseeing eye cradled on a bending shoulder hefting the responsibility of responsibility to the stars reminding us of our primal light.
The lamb indisputable, a cringing throwback off the aside that describes the outer reaches of the means to grip the under of over, so comes the voice saying that's not possible, not to be allowed to infect the sensibilities fusing dreams to the mind plummeting the skull's intent to serve its depths given over to the prevailing justices glued to a bench, dedicated to extracting wonder from the questions, implanting answers over time's need to pass on undisturbed; so comes the army of eyes scanning the parades going nowhere, ending elsewhere, being the compulsive mistake of pretending at life's nature.
Dripped on the walks a day of rain lends the flesh a widening, a range of weariness, a place of rest not recognized, let alone desired as necessary, for the working impulse craves its platitudes where the eye sees something not yet touched or formed by intent to serve the hardwired need to produce, even at the expense of strength, grieving the whittled sensibility seeking to embrace the intent, falling aside of itself, tripping over legs scrambling to catch up, not feeling the awareness of a silent scream trammeling the core, plastering its glow with an opaque lie of smiles.
Forming the magick conjured within the unseen mind, seen finally as the pulsation that no one in their right passion might vent in the formulations feared as the daunting web wrapped about an eager mind, when the inevitable crucible's storms threaten its majesty on the mountain created in the privations as the goal of intent, tendering what could only be seen as the desire to make a really snappy coat to be worn at the ballet or opera, and discarded in a heartbeat when the fire fizzles, and the magick considered, wasn't potent enough to cook an idea of eggs.
Again we sway with the gravely rhythms in the head of a skewed temperment not associated with the right idea, so construed with being inside the whirligig and volatile nature of creation laid open for the soul to feast upon, the mind to grapple with, and the body to digest in the heat of its majesty, not to sidestep the mentality with respect of the central issue at hand when the source is tapped and the well is felt wanting of raw material; this is the oft encountered critical obstacle that hampers the satisfaction and completion of the intended magick.
It's almost upon me now, the day of the break, the moment of stepping through the door sought through years of sweat and skewed ambitions obfuscating the course, blurring the intent, scoring the soul in the oven of its rising, ultimately deriving the critical means to complete the task and see the wonder find its eye on the foundation of creation at hand; so this day is becoming its fond arrival, and I see not the end of its playing but the beginning of its swinging through the walls that prevented it from even being seen, let alone effectively used.
On deck with the fire of experience embodied in the muscular and gentle spirit of one whom I've watched for years and admired, one who has inspired me to reach the high notes, one who has given me grist to endure the failures, the missed notes, the fumblings, the mistakes of heart, the misguidance of rage and doubt, the torment of not being as someone else determined I should be and believing it, but no more. The fire is up, mouth wrapped about its flames, heart feasting on the heat, body dissolving in its means, spirit rising to its rising.
So, it can come. The patterns of preexistence have been shredded, the fabrics made for knotting the wit to a stupid of frantic scratch and loss have been burnt. Now, it's time. The time is now. Allowance of delay has run its chapter of fretting the day into night with a confluence of sad denials screaming from the depths of soul rounding off on the gag meant for convivial acceptance, peeled from the mouth and draped over the rotted rags worn for the gown of Kings it wasn't. Now, I wear my naked worthiness for the rousing questions to come.
One decides their skin and places its variability on the edge of decision when confrontation bids the mind to guard itself from interior division of self, situating the matter of beingness on its head for the sake of another voice demanding its penitence. For what comes of the psychic surgery slays the heart of derision at its base; none other than the torment come result if the heat is deflected and the cool ascent of life denies its right to ascend. Nothing will come of nothing indeed when everything by unknown voices is heeded that should be buried and forgotten.
How high the impossibility of reconnecting the vitality of honor lost, as long ago in a swamp of our own forgetting as we need to keep locked in scored shadows of savage battles fought without wherewithal or clear view of the alleged opponent; so, it comes to us in ragged streams of dried blood and knotted tags of brain, splattered on boards for reading by the assumed gifted and initiated, these messages contained aside...and the irony, bitten with regrettable resentments by resistances for noting the spurious taken for the word, leaving all that could be to our dream caverns.
Weaving the cross idea of lusting after the hours falling backwards off the desire soaked mind into a welter of blistered skins I've shed through years of holding myself back from acting, and the fury boiling from the core toward the extremes I feel as the unfortunate consequences of burning for a touch a glance a moment of being alive in someone's consciousness, creates the web of light most noticed as the digressions by the serious play of eyes on eyes with satisfactions anticipated in the alone-times with fingers on tap and the mind bleeding words for new resurrections.
So, it's felt to be the worst rush of anti-sentiment when given the denial is hardwired in the heart as a caged beast to be released only on special holidays; such is the restriction imposed upon the instincts rendered fully non-functional in the dead head, lest the calm beset the fury in the midst of attractions, then passions clipped from the wings of fire set in motion after the means to penetrate the fog of ennui and apathy defies those rank conditions. How one might renew their claim to flame is distinctly hampered by these lovelorn, lost residues.
Glory save, how the heart undoes itself to save the knowing of the horrors as necessary for the warrior to live to breathe to become its own salvation on the fever residues for some who cannot know...for how could they know? They know the loss as seen through eyes partially refracted as the medium glass fashioned as a tinted screen on the battle scene, the wrought iron clasp on holding off its horror as an untouchable fiction, as the loss speaks over its need and beauty and cries to a sky unhearing, uncaring, being the dome under holy fire.
Crossing off a gesture marking the tributes as desired in the heat of tradition, bleating the horn, beating the drums, shouting the alarums, one is reminded how vulnerable the heart remains in the organ occupying the inner sanctum often unheeded if not hotly resented, that this core, being forged by the stuff of confrontations demanding resolutions of blood, surviving or not on the edge of battles, verbal, physical, spiritual, what is created is destroyed, as is always the case, though misunderstood by dint of shame lent to that which calls itself the fallen, a lie, a terrible injustice for naught.
It is in the furnishings of the room of this house, so dwelled upon within the hour of the idea meted out by stealth and a vigorous heart melted in pains of the task made clear by shedding all that interferes, obscures, seduces, divides intent by the promise of pleasure quite apart from the joy inherent to this task, this ritual designed as practiced through passing millennia with the grace of truest wisdom, gleaned not by intent but by the cross of living, by the three edged spar of sacrifice all must assume on their paths toward the first question.
A day of gain is made for loss of the pain of desire swelling the heart for the sake of the sediments arousing the sands of the oceans, all the stars, the minds in the sweat of all the circles of livings' expansions contracting, as is the practice exercised through unique and deeply personal disciplines engaged for the purposes no one may know lest they strive against the seductions of constant activity for naught and seek the roaring quiet under mankind, as manufactured moment to moment by industry of evolutions' secret core, wherein the magickal keys are forged and forgotten.
Evil is as evil does. OK, some kind of pat bullshit from the network coming down to judge the living and the dead, yet the scribe of the intent over the means to make such a statement tells its own tale and softly, subtly, soothingly to anyone who might be interested in ploying the craft to make it so. Or so it seems, but does it fashion the how or why? Hardly such clarity forthcoming, but that's the key note, the one you hear when it has to be heard, or you don't. You accept the simplicity, therefore collide yourself.
The wonder of the heat as it comes to create a necessary bridge of comfort over discomfort, season over season, tells a pretty fable as it cleans the whetstone for the sharpening required to render a secure belief system, that such discomfort is happily greeted in the end for the beginning of something otherwise expected but containing all sorts of super surprises in its own way wanting Our Lady Justice to render a different verdict. That the grief of meeting this unexpected, even under the dome of sweat and ache and frenzied pall so described, must somehow become our home.
Drawn fires were steadied in the passing breath shared, flumes under the grave belly of intent to serve the need buried on the arcane yet ever present freedom rising to meet the simple gestures chosen for the gravelly bite, winds meeting wild eyes tempered not by satiety or vanity or the crippling measure of hatred, wrath on the bitten key toward losing before the battle is painted on the canvas stretched for blood's pastoral glaze, but for the joining, not by loss or gain, but conjured for the joy...raptures mediating two humans sculpted down to the primal metronome clutch.
Slashing off the strewn spit, plays of tasting the core, the denuded face, skin tainted by skin in a heat, throngs of the mighty and weak, a blend of nothing to be taken for its own but meted out as the joy, no, the ecstasy feeding on ecstasy, an unspoken one of fond disrepute...that such as us, the vented man of two in the universal whorl, once seen but never touched but touching now, blending, creating two for one shredded and a smattering of dust, earth's mouth licking its lips for another one of its children's birth in blood.
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