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Trilling on the upswing, a new batch of collectibles sits thronging in the whirlpool you've created to drown your mind through the labyrinth of creative pulsation and calumny, a fond conveyance of fresh elements are throbbing for your seminal touch of mind, so to wind their meat about the core of intent to serve not just a wanting heart for the revelation of the words' mystery when vented out impulses circumambulating what might be described as an invisible circus, plunging its animal cages, thrashing the mesh, exhaling the danger from safety's putative security wanting only the status of old ennui.
Just the taste of it, its thick salty and sticky nuance drums up an appetite too ancient to describe for the rationale most hold too carefully for conservative consciences hoarding their fuels to satisfy needs of hands and eyes focused cleanly on comestibles of the daily circus, the dainty rides trilling about their closed paths with prefab musical lines lulling the dulled mind to a duller drill parade; so we rear back, we take the ancient fluid up, we roll it about our mouths, we take it into our flesh, and we allow it to summon its necessary raw consequences.
The dark rider clambers the chambers of the car, rumbling its impatience on the drive through available preying on weaknesses set on obliviousness, the furtive glances aside a ridiculous hankering pounding on the dry mouth wanting its necessary fluids, its necessary feed, it's necessary copulation with a cycle's completion; so the vice fashions its sledge, raises its heft in a silent way for none to feel on an incautious surge. The crushing blow is felt as a breath taken hard, expelled mindfully and dissipated into wonders alone, with the few tremors of panting, violent moment of indecision but a dream.
How the drift of the latest popular god was piled on the passage through the winding labyrinth delineating paths, by which the relationship with the spirits most often associated with desperate measures taken too lightly, can only be adequately understood when the minds directed toward such an issue have been suitably drenched, laid out and dried under the strict supervision of the master on deck of the ship manned by the crew we all know to be the one with the latest processors set up in broadband networks, all for the sake of disseminating information appropriate to the next world.
We fight to find the right combination of heart and mind stirred by the morphing staff of conjuration accepted as the magical tool needed in the alchemy set on high in the secret, underground lab of inner life, all elements made with utter care, serving old fashioned notions of cleanliness, not so much for nostalgia but for the formation of the necessary environment: a broad, sterile room shaped for perfect applicability to the commonly unseen and unexpected derivations often saturating the sorcerer's sacred circle. Thus, such work is easily seen by the novice to be unnecessarily complicated, convoluted and clumsy.
The fluid of the day seeps the crevices of the towline underlining the mainframe habit of smiling. How the serpentine grievances may appeal are not in accord with the necessary hunting plans laid on the crew of mind situated for eons despite the call otherwise by clever agents of the opposing forces; these arbiters of the dangerous infections we've all had to handle in private and extreme conflicts might not be the ones we want, but they're the ones we have. Get over it, motherfucker. If it's change you want, you know as well as anyone, there will be blood.
Oh, to the salutation of delightful majesty hailing the subservient and obsequious crowds gathering in the desiccated marketplace, they are the ones we love, the ones we adore most when the habitations are affected most deeply and begin to crumple under arduous notions vetted and distributed by the carriers of hope we most deny and challenge for the rubble they manage to contribute in defiance of deep breaths taken in bad atmospheres; when, to the battle they march, the subtle intrusions begin to take hold and command their vitals in order of the ones chosen to die for better days.
Shall I build my strategy within a complex arena of doubt and the sham of misplaced sentimentality, resenting heritage, denying who I am, who we are for some imaginings in a safe place of severed thought, or shall I combine the rights of blood and the rough harmonies drawn apart from the mainframe soul to scrawl what designs I and my brothers decide upon fields fet of battle to wrangle confrontations, settling matters placed upon the crux of light and dark with muscles flexing, minds sparking, hearts focused on the consummations of conflict on bright breaths aching thick for peace?
Now, crushed, derived as fluid in transit, I've reassembled under a guise of self through mysterious arrivals once deemed a darker sort of consciousness reduced for convenience then discarded for its superannuated functionality gone awry as expected though commonly ridiculed when sight becomes its own point and no longer tries to see that which is obvious, so the leaders of the movement, of which I'm the supreme leader, can sort through all the synaptic rubble and decide once and for all who gets the banana pudding and who gets the fruit salad, always a painful decision to make but necessary.
Such is the grueling advantage we find, taken over by the unexpected calumny when jumped at mealtime as the hungry eye dances in the place of complacency denying the landscapes becoming a new world, unfolding like nuclear winter, an inky plastic covering, a tight capture of dessicated light on a darkening desert where survival is a bought luxury, where breathing vents the stuff of resuscitation for completions, where the nodding brain struggles against its inability to sustain activity and rouses the march toward the primal creation; so, the loss for us is the gain in the mind that is God.
The creation comedy pervades the fractured clarity found for its worth in the pit of confrontations as vital to the nod of waking to an ancient clash on a field of quiet toward a frenzied need; such need being the one couched in a crease set deeply waiting on the eye stripped down for its proper sight and sensitivity. Only then will the crease unfold for the stuff it keeps, the drugs without drugs of seeing sought in vain on bad bets in dank rooms of desperation...found passionately, held lightly, known profoundly and regarded for the life seldom known.
Slight cruising off the tune, one spanking singer bid his due on impossible odds toward a betting game on the track of fame, was cut short in the dibs, but for lack of clout cried his smooth charms and roused the psychopath waiting to kiss his heart, swell its flow, oil his blood; so the music shifted in the singer's betting hall. The cups followed ambition by the psychopath's offers not to be refused, till this charm, this man by slim, though stark conveyance of the gun, this tempter of teens, this Sinatra of the day, smoothed his Faustian bed.
So this final day becomes the polite riot of need to exceed expectation, fashioned and fixed to derive conclusions via all methods fired to the max, all fibers of feeling situated serenely on the bore expanse and precise device executing intent without thinking ahead of action, all actions fet of hard battle experience with delight clasping horror; once divined, all matters of mind dive to the heights demanded sans judgments venting their numbing codes, by which, the infection would cripple eye and hand. Yet, no blood shall be shed but cerebral blood, the mercury of creativity's fond cry to arms.
Dim days during decompression after the Midwestern depth charges left off their fire and fury through fields that swept themselves off the grid in deference to a quiet return when that quiet return dissembled itself in the turning of the keys in doors most ignore for obsolete and dusty fashions, but in such times, one must assume revivals are made for no one in particular but certain sordid conveniences that make themselves appear attractive to the uninitiated eye and mind; so it comes to a bad end if the mind resorts to feeding desire over assimilating needs left for dead.
So I'm planning on going to a show tonight. It's been on my mind. The person in charge of the show made it clear how vital the show is to her artistic growth and positive valence on the grid that destroys more often than not. She assumes the best, and after months of sweat to bring such a bright realization to the people, she deserves all the good energy she can muster. She played my daughter in the film Men with Arms about a family of watch makers. She became very ill during production; it was thought she might die.
It's true how much I'm tempting fate to bring this thing back to life again, but it needs life, as I need life. It's my story, but that's not the point. The point is to stimulate questions about the malady of schizophrenia that goes so grievously misunderstood without anyone or group to remedy the mess. So, it comes to the heart as the panacea sought by educating, even if that education comes at a price of threatening my reputation in a business that demands its players be of a certain mindset; ironic, this mindset should be such a deadly lure.
Vitality parades in the screw belly of a turncoat time lord having his day away from the front lines indulging his oft forgotten tendency toward over-baked and overly-sensationalized soft core recipes for stuffed eggplant with peanuts and random bits of da da poetry. Such is a typical wild idea made available by the internet these days. OK, it makes a hellavu lot more sense to ignore this nonsensical rant and go on to something more edifying, nutritionally sound and quiet...particularly that....very quiet. I'm become enamored lately by things that do not go bump in the night.
Twisted thread snaps. A memory erupts; a creation belies its own derivation, and the moment writes itself on the core viability of the path strung long on time's web. Another link sheds its basic acid. The metronome swings on a quickened rhythm, quite beside itself. The tempo of release decides a face made for a bright remembrance, that was once is now again, yet drawn on a unique shape, disguised, sending doubt to the wind that such a refrain could sing itself so completely, so loudly, so resoundingly; the acidic pattern recreates the knowledge, pop of the strand, winding wild.
They said it came from nowhere. She hadn't the knowledge, yet there it was, complete, crystalline, pure, bereft of confusion. The confusion was in the acceptance. How hard it seemed to be. Oh, it must be a divine intervention. It must be magick. It must be....something other than what we are. How ironic. That what we are, complex as the expanse of stars greeting a nocturnal eye, should be so often denigrated, belittled, shorn of its own possibilities, even when those possibilities become vivid, unmistakable, knitted on reality's visible face, and still it cannot be....gotta be an accident.
So, we search, and we search. We research imagined connections of impossible talents from nowhere, abilities not taught, knowledge not gleaned from books, and we draw conclusions driven on the vitality of mere dreams and fiction's power to seduce from the marriage of us to us, and we lose touch. We touch phantoms. How might the compliance of imagination, being our gift to the stars, so betray us, even as it exalts us? That we might we find our beingness intact when prejudice falls to simple allowance, acceptance of all that we are, all that we contain....in the strands.
The harsh mind of the moment decides the next idea construing means to establish a connection so ardently sought in the veldt one holds as sacred to the soul, as in the place of heat so cold one might boil eyes of mind into ice, melting the core beholding the fire's soul as the I. Yes, if it's sought to be held, it can be found, but not in the manner of sensations' diabolical strain against the urge to turn away from the search soldiering obstacles of moral plasticity that one may shape to their darkest desires sculpted into light.
Dreams you might serve to your closest head might table the desires firing hot to the moist levels inherent on conquest's salvific quality, but only if one can find the courage to speak out, show the source of heat your mind, reveal the specificity locked into silence for fear of being scolded, not by the source, but by yourself. So, one will hold this as its vitality, and shape the form of desire to a reality, as is the tradition of connections' legacy by the delight of imagined touch that approaches the actual touch, and on to the absolute consummation.
The delicate and amazing devices construing means to connect one to another in dark assemblages of doubt and fear from the ideas presented by those who feed those fears from the sidelines, so to pack their personal wallets with faces sketched for eating fears, are the wrought-iron soul-shapers shifting dynamics of mind to flesh and flesh to mind in the twisted medleys deep in secret code machines with deft servitude to killing freedoms by slow degrees; such are the gear boxes designed through the millennia and placed in frameworks churning their engines for the sole purpose of being.
I could place the face in the window with all the other faces plucked from the melting vats under boardwalks where girls and boys dance to the sounds of drifting musical passions rising from young wood bending continually with capricious weathers of head and patterns of rumble on an ever changing earth centered to the right to own their unique heritage as prisoners of light and dark. Then I might become what I've sought as the sole goal plucked from a punctured heart ripped from the breast I used to brazenly expose, not to gather eyes but deflect the flesh.
Take me out by the gristle of the nod in blank gazing backwards for need of being blind when seeing becomes a fictional rendering of a reality denied for its alleged verisimilitude on landscapes we would rather obviate in sessions off a skewed clarity, and supply me with the necessary eyes, thence to the servicing I might offer to the uninitiated and naive so to relieve them of premature death. We are the core crew sought for our sense of duty in observance of the highest orders given as means to climb the inner ladder coveted most by the blind.
Sent off creations' liability most often discarded by the meek and feeble minded human dream machine, activated when analytical designs go off the grid mangling what was eagerly sought as the solution to the problems most controversial and hidden from the masters of the status quo, such becomes the volatile nature of being alive when death has taken its time creating its mask and most durable form; the living who seek a similar crust have the means not only to follow suit but to fashion a higher form; only if they allow the designer death to take its necessary place.
The rear guard is dropping off the sonar search seeking the engorged fish while trawling depths of head managing the ever wavering integrity as seen for sound satiation but given over to the sly attacks on its sagging flanks. This maintains the grievances clapped as the criticisms centered on the leader's mind situated in the center of the storm fronts moving ever so slowly no matter how eagerly the counter-agents poke and prod in secret alliances forged in the forefront of arbitrary belief systems taken mistakenly for the ones in charge of counter assaults derived by superannuated operating systems.
Yes, I've sought the dinosaur of time's radiant compliance on the key note device scrambling for the rights to claim superiority over the scampering mouse under heat of the cat grinding off its ubiquitous appetite for endless food. The fight to claim its warm meat must serve the fueling of the need, not by way of satisfying the hunger but for escalating it, teasing it as a means to madden the eye scoping the hunt over fields riven of the mazes made to keep the hunted from the hunter, thence to create the proper fond and desperate depth of want.
The final lash, the prize slap screaming through silence's casual benefit of doubt that such a thing could ever happen, but it did, and did, and did and did the thing we feared the most...slipping down the dark primeval swag gesturing smile to say, "good little boy, good, good..." and the leave-taking switching gender parties off the mask we held up to our plastic gods for refreshment of forgiveness, that we should've even needed forgiveness, but that's what the man taught us to want, to need, to beg for, to be happy when the invisible face turned away.
Last straw shadows, heaving their polite infractions off what slight denials gathered for the devil-made fevers sending our make-shift heavens closer to the edge of a laughing abyss, derived the flutters in the stomach felt as positive assurances that the heaven- sent judgments we feared the most were as real as Velveeta Cheese Whiz snacks in the the closets where mother had her private means of adjudication and soft tokens of corrections lobbed in the wishing pool for hazy memories provoked and fueled while layers by seasons' of same piled high, slow cooking my special diamond of revenge.
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