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Fighting for the sake of fighting a fight not seen but imagined like hard love sought in the steam-baths wound around minds grafted to desire spinning its grit through heaving bricks and cold steel hands is a special war, reserved for redoubtable delights as primeval remembrances, not thought only but shaped for rejections in a reality formed bit by careful bit, a so-called psychosis riven for the shriven and sealed for delivery when the bag man comes to call, when the evening shuts itself down and settles open arguments simply, directly, quietly, careful not to spill a drop.
Enter the bright emptiness, the fitful void shimmering like a rain decked leaf quivering with too much heaven sent weights, when a violent peace overtakes the plight and sutures sun's savage fingers to play in the swarthy muck; how the whole, fully fet and craven group comes together and tempts not merely the minds but souls of all gathered for the revival meeting designed to scold any person weak willed enough to fall for its alleged claim as a place for voices to rise as if to meet God's own lips and put words in same for better offering plates.
The magnitude of bedlam, via clear headed confusions embedded on the core mind assuming its supremacy without question, vies equally hard for the residual attitudes made insensible by the patterns we created to offset the status-quo, overlaying what's known without question with the questions themselves and thereby serving the server up as the one to obey, the one to listen to, and when no one does listens, as expected, the true agenda may take root unseen, unfelt, unknown till the appointed time heretofore concealed, not by malice or mistrust but by the mechanisms geared to action at the getgo.
Then to the edge we go, to the moment we cannot know, to the place of letting go, where the utter insinuation of the 'I' meets the 'we' in perfect unison and perfect rhythm, where the vibrations meted out on the clear path toward the inner being by the hungry flesh filled to bursting by desires roused by uncertainties embraced by nothing's grace of emptiness can rise unchecked, ballooning higher, beyond any expectation or limitation imposed by rules to be burnt; so to the world created by such triumphant chaos we slowly crawl, slipping toward the edge overwhelming all others.
Titillating the I, unaware of the spreading numbness parading as the grand consummation of all that greets the mind in the crush of all senses blasted deliciously when the wondering eye is catapulted through what dense mist billows through the widening fissures of soul as the mind expands to accept the unknown and unrealized light shrouded in darkness, its lanky fingers tendering the palpable fire that freezes the heart when too little is taken for too much, as the deceived and surfeited body can no longer contain the realization of the deceit, when the lie belies not truth but all.
We fall in line without seeing the line. We drop our hungry souls into stewing vats while waiting for our dreams of a better fuck to be filled for better happiness and quieter bliss strokes of pain for hire, as digested in the gut wrenching soaps offered as effective panaceas to the ailing artistic hearts swelling off the charts in the blood core bleeding vacuum for sustenance and succor, that such whipped delights made readily available on wholesale shelves could provide salve besides the cleverly disguised seeds of pandemic they really are, but who cares? The pills work. Smiles widen.
The ball swings in the dusky ornamented prison of its idea and measures out the volume of worth unseen by most, heralded as the crucial machine mounted where the uninitiated cannot intrude, not by way of spacial presence, but by their knotted consciousness set aside the usual sensate particulars known as the nuts and bolts of living according to the best laid plan set forth by the gamester forefathers who sat at the head of the table composing the institutions claimed exempt from undue claims of illegitimacy commonly associated with the inner places where doubt reigns and lies are king.
To the day I find it unfolding heavy covers where danger hide in the guise of comfortable rhythms dancing off inscrutable source voices echoing loud in the chambers of torture seen by most as massage parlors and the indistinct locales where bodies line themselves up for examinations conducted in secret so to keep the establishments of order held at bey; that the instruments created by the soldiers of this special arrangement might divine a peace unknown by the peace mongers of the past, where subtle designs might dress our sedimented goals as alive, capable of making the most ineffective impressions.
So it comes to us in the dark flower blooming up dented shadows of personas poised in decorative yet provocative arrangements arranged as suitable soils to nurture this flower, venting in time its noxious buds and corrosive seedlings seen not as anything but innocent, unsullied germs of life asking for their chance to fly out the mere ideas of themselves and root their complex vitals round the light of day and wrap about a sturdy source of deniability where asking might only muddle the means of furthering the cause as politically correct given the blights arranged to plead their necessities.
Finally, a point is drawn to make the important point there is no point. The random scattering of suggestive points harnessing energies tapped in the deepest cathedrals of mind where sediments of light have calcified into attractive masks donned for party favors to be handed out at the doorway to the next plateau feared to be the last, as the last credits itself as the consummation deriving all that situates itself as profoundly necessary to the well-being, not of you and not of anything touching you, but of the underpinning foundation clawing at itself as the misunderstanding it created.
Intemperate scaling in the dusky attitudes rendered clearer by dissolution granted viable by weary acquiescence and doctor approval induces raves mounted like sexual excesses on the overleaf pages turned frantically by underage curious wanderers that leave calibrated behaviors to the sign posts erected behind the servant masters known as parental guides or the rash blockades built on stockades redolent of Alamo remembrances scooped to the boot of the matters we hold dear only when the end is near, only when the rude substances of reality start slipping away dwindling to the edge we all recognize as the final departure gate.
Roar of the parade that invites you inside its royal brain wanting nothing more than to inscribe its morality seen for a worthiness apart from the mask riding the wind. In its wake the voluble insertions will derive no more than what the fear of its followup infection withering the mind and body dancing out the furious rhythms made indistinct and delicious, shows; though unmitigated by the searching eyes skulled on heads reeling for a satisfying lowdown, then comes the party favors expected when all the deception has dissolved and all the driving lies have withered, then comes the thought.
OK, a fine time was had with the strangers dissolving into strangers on curious pulses; that the inner rooms, being accommodating, could've been larger with better instruments for the post-party cleanup. The curiously dressed group came unannounced, crashing through the safety gates with elegance and assertiveness, prompting the hosts to instigate what means they had at their disposal to eliminate the offending scratch. I saw the whole thing,and I have to say it was interesting and fun. I've seen efficient disposals before, but nothing quite like this, and in the future, I only hope I'll be as forceful.
Less is greater when the loss of same is magnified at the deep end of the pool of words, so ridiculously saturated with attractive bits of dark humor chewed for cud on the bits of trying to make sense when there's no sense to be made, or at least, not in the rationale sense of sense, but where insensibility pumps its raw attitudes, when the driving energy in the bloated belly breaks the expected fissure and releases the calm; not a calm most understand, but a calm that renders chaos blissful, where bliss is finally seen for what it isn't.
Yeah, the day sits on a brick of fire cut by chance in the pit of need ascribed outside realms where neediness comes readily with the off chance that a human might actually want what they want and send the impulse tunneling under grief and happiness back toward the programming source brain nestled easily too far away from getting to have, requiring the grist of a suicide bomber to manage its credibility and manageability when eager applicants line up outside the skin donning their helmets with appropriate spelunking lights and gear for an overnight pajama party, too often sadly missed.
Entrances defy the exalted states of exits by virtue of the contrariness involved or implied in the vented eyes of the creation state on the welcoming door, whereby decisions compel the uninitiated toward using what's left of their wits, having been devoured slow but sure through missions built from nothing to support nothing gleaning little respect or fullness in the habitats known to the intrepid seekers as relaxation from the drab drill or distractions, however delightful, yet brimming with nonsensical keepsakes plucked from average game-players hunkered down for however long one needs to find the idea of complete relaxation.
You can ask, they say; you can make your move, your play on the ground of the game all of us know and respect as the high point of grabbing after light when you're stuck in the dark, or on a very hazardous highway with no gas station in sight, or on the edge of the bed when it's finally understood the rabbit is not coming round, or in the divorce lawyer's office and it's suddenly clear she wanted you dead from the get go; ya, ya, I know. The biblical references are on their ratched way to the noose.
Is the expense account growing, or is it the length of your spiritual dick that's aggravating the timekeepers? I need a resolve here or the appropriate reveal in the base manner of too many monkeys eating moose pudding in my backseat that's just about the limit of this digestible notion to the contrary, whereby suitable patrons will be asked to provide identification where the porn stars won't go. As far as my thoughts can digest their own arrogance,I'm drawn to the woman in the front row who is consistently nonplussed by the copious advertizements scoring threats from the trannies.
As of the time in the ditch of heaven that revealed a flock of test-tube geese dressed up as Archangels, (who are you kidding?) I'm in a thrall of the implications drumming up my sensibilities that are way too influenced by classic rappers and jazz burnouts like Jaco who could strum a bass beat to impregnate a killer whale, and it's furiously clear, in the end, how Doris Day could never have balled Rock Hudson, even in the ruby soup he made for all them homeless DPs scooped off Santa Monica Boulevard buzzing on the jones. Yup, you grock?
Cracked places of face upended on the diadem cleverly hidden on slipping surfaces called face mutating the digestible realities asking conquests of day meeting completions by night, those swarthy graduations ending in servitude toward oblong and ill-fitting matrices of gestures without motion vying for a connection not a single eye might find for light in disrepute of accord when tracks multiply, when the variances expected defy the outer I and comply off the grid to the resolutions indisputably deviant and delightful, then comes the parade in shadows where the true face illuminates not itself but the need of itself.
Reason being not the one accorded a mind of thinking for reason's benefit of doubt, although gross particulars of the synapse gardens sparkle and divine matters of light and dark brimming with the blood flash on the base griddle where creativity finds its chef wielding blades that razor clarity honed on the stone of the philosophers, being all the rage in the chambers where deft devices devour the means to execute with impunity the opponents most soul seekers acquire a taste for as a guilty pleasure when the day has been declared done although the sun still aches for succor.
So it comes to this once again. No surprise. Shock certainly. Always shock on the gore arousals after baseline certainty caves to the flood of unknown waters raging through the quiet area of libraries after hours when the librarians are gone and the windows have been locked, doors too. What do you expect when no one's bothered to check the sump pump, having slipped to the side of its carriage and the fins are whirling ineffectually, having once been given the responsibility to serve not only the immediate basement but the whole house. Really, a bit too much to expect.
Fighting off the dross rhythms is the worst way to spend a vacation when it was expected everything would be in its proper place, as your apartment house has finally been approved for the workers right to picket for adequate ventilation and refurbishing after the grief stricken house manager was carted off forcibly to the hospice, and the cleaning ladies were given permission to have a go at the flat, having been sent away so many times before, despite numerous neighbors complaining about the smell for months, complaining about their disappearing dogs and cats ending up surreptitiously in sausage caravans.
All these days, months, years, skipping the tripping gazes off frantic gestures to quit the momentum and frame the days off their fashion of shuffling faces gleaned from the indisputable deck of cards that satisfies as it plays its own game, gives as it distributes the feeling around the gaming table of gain, while loss carouses like a spurned lover on deck as the workers make for the best offers they can muster, bluffing best they can, holding the poker faces up to all and none are worse for wear in the furious shows of confidence best left to sleep.
The trail is closing on the burning rhythm core, as the sensibilities beholden to the righteous advocates in charge of all advances of appropriate censuring that may or may not deter any follower from following the right path, as the trail we know quickly becomes the trail we don't, delivers the vices we slavishly keep close to our heaving chests and will not be the cause or reason of death, only a quick means to the next psyche ward on the belief we only excel when we eat absolute loss; therein is the cure, the grand panacea sought by none.
Monsters we know only as the images delivered by Pixar geniuses can hurt us only if we nod to the quickening by total surrender to the cause of millennium's decay over rash belief systems constructed out of struts of fear and threats of dire consequences delivered by agents that know no other way but the way taught to them by their confirmation teachers who hadn't had sex since they got knocked up by the linebackers in their Buicks, who said Jesus was the reason Mary had no lambs, and for a ruse, I have to admit, that was a kicker.
Master of the magic moment gave head when the eye blinked after causality defied the getaway gesture affirming the immediate fear was not only real but salable as stock options on a hedge fund rallying its worth on a whirlwind confusing the hell out of legit brokers at Goldman Sachs; therein it was felt by waves gaining momentum in an air getting thicker with the promise of true conundrum, such as it was, the voluble constriction found release in the magic magic moment by extending the financial doubt till the funeral broke its silence and gained windfall profits measuring zero.
Racing deliriously toward the end again and toward the giddy hopes of a new beginning, but that's not the new beginning from the other day when I said I was gleefully headed toward another beginning by embracing the end, being set up in my head as some sort of animal preaching backwards off the mind of the master whose name I couldn't find in the phone book; why should I want to, there's no such name, and the book, being the solution for some is the matter of nonsense for others, and that's the mainstay fib tooled on my grave.
Got a real number now, the best I could hope for, although the absolute surrender to this project remains as the mystery of the waning day; so comes the evening, and what's thought to be certain shall melt on the tip of regret flowing off the incidence of the moment into the mouth of the molded reality sculpted in the melt circumambulated and centered in the mindset I might trip toward by a dance taught long ago be a person I'm loathe to name, a person found to be the sort that could rip their own heart out for fun.
Several beings have stood out from the growing murk for me lately, beings whose power sears the fetid, yellow stench from the pit of its source revolving down toward the witching point I held briefly, but lost in the frenzy ensuing as the primary being, whose mind roared out of the dreariness associated with office work on hash or paralegal work while cranked on horse or the evening news eaten with ice cold french fries, so it roared, and confusion, we designed as the reality showered off the wet frame of sensibility designed as the root face becoming us, flowered.
It's the end again. Dammit. I wanted more. But. No one was willing. Well, no one knew you wanted what you wanted, or if they did, were untrained in the means, by which, said needs might be met, or if they knew, ended up showing you how stupid it was of you to trust them as friends. Live and fucking learn, right? OK. Sorry ass disappointments don't cut the wet mustard, nor can they proffer the rights that might answer calls to arms or show the way to the nearest toilet. If such things were possible, damned if I knew.
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