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Off the drops cracked from the inner eye beckoning the fear laden wish, one assaults the summit from the outer security assumed the safest manner of attack, and hopes against hope that reliability should decay in the face of the attempt and react badly with the regard made as hard as the mind is soft, sharp as the body is dull, ultimately severing the fear as seen from the fear that's felt molding the sinews of the flesh like stone flesh pecked by pigeons, eaten down by the incessant rains, snows and blithe ganders slowly shaping the reality to come.
It was assumed the reality would etch the face of the action through desire's muscle reacting as the acid of eye eating the dead or dying fabrics reserved for meetings with evil in the dark as dark determined by edicts passed from tradition to tradition, assembled bit by bit, meticulously created as the model we all covet in the abstract realms where drink and the soft regrets don't seem to matter as anything but diversions designed to disrupt, yet connecting the cores of reality easily succumbing to secrets revealed but immediately misunderstood, then might the action be the stillness dreamt.
Should the trophy be the one I sought when the storm of ice blew the undesirables through the window and made a mess on the laboratory floor, or when the options were reduced in the betting game after the house bank dissolved its limits for spaces between aged ears too jaded to hear, let alone listen to the jingles offering anyone hep to the cue a drop of light on puzzles spread over the bed stupid with bed bugs and unfinished proofs, mangled lines of logic naked to the I feeding the minds and hearts waiting patiently on the bus.
Tipping the deck for the crowd's delight on the blustery sea shadows the incipient storm heading off the eye-line in the distance to bemuse the spectator that such a voluble distress might angle the course from which you derived harrowing pleasures and pains in tune with the fight that never abates but only shifts in focus and modulated frenzies, often made to look delicious and nutritious, but are anything but. So, to the task at hand, we can feel the energy rising from the slurry gathering under seeing for the stew to be served to those who survive.
Those who walk in a slumped fashion under years of pounding shames spewed onto their brains from the disapproving hoards who bespeak the volumes lining the walls of shadowed prisons of banality called Halls of Right and Dens of Righteousness, may take their honors rightfully in hand to the source mind and be proud of the power they possess, not to bolster hubris' darkness, but to celebrate the beingness of the ever turning wheels upon which they corner the habits emerging in turn to distract their tasks, as when they make assay to build, the harder darkness strives to destroy.
It's begun, as it's always begun, it's never ended, always thought a surprise, always thought an accident with predictable parameters, reasons and solutions, yet to the ones who see beneath the shellacked verneer of disbelief by skewed sentience of battling realities, where nothing is as it seems, but is, as it always is, in perpetual flux with fringes defined by exhalations of sundered confusions after incidents eliciting blood and firey mainframes, where the sweaty arm wrestling event goes online in full view of unwilling subscribers, it is seen, as it's always been seen, as something to block by theatrical scrims.
It slips toward the absolute end decreed the viable conundrum crux of inspiration, that such a bright darkness might cut as deep as one may hope or fear, depending on the fierce assumptions crowning eyes and minds befitting this course. When the day becomes the night, as one upon the other, the resurrection motif grants no allusion that it's anything else but its own reflection, being that vision quest most dismiss as idealistic nonsense or elitist garbage; so when not a soul gathers interest, it moves unseen through what only could be described as the membrane between here and here.
We are here. We are there. No distinguishing the lapse of reality on the quotient petal of the falling growth spurts, a thinly veined flow off the typical grid onto a voluble net of disturbed researchers convinces us the problem needn't be as confusing as it often seems to be by articles implicit to its creation being distributed carelessly by virtue of the odd contrasts between us and them and the atypical chat boxes on the sly where recipes of dark and deviant origins are openly discussed without any regard for casual onlookers thinking themselves ill equipped in their kitchens.
A diabolical string of particles assumes the totality of life's rope wrapped about the self-proclaimed mountain of I ascending that peculiar place where words become ineffectual absurdities, as when love consummates itself in that fury of joy known as coitus, being the root reason and launch point of causality, then claims dividing the wants as decided by desire in the fits of love and hatred, we see there's no choice to be had, or truth, as truth be known or falsity for that matter, in that bead of life, the very seed of no substance and all substances, being.
In the extremis, I saw the feeling you decried as the meat of your kiss spread across the smile of my unseen face when I beheld the quality of light nestled quaintly in your idiosyncratic darkness, then it would be keenly understood how flesh might melt in the eternal sigh categorized, summarized, elevated and adored through the eons and millennia, taken to task as reasons for war, suicide, murder and the fires begetting the tireless battles for the egg by that wriggling head.that faceless brick by alchemical passions, where I am made complete and undone again almost at once.
Time fills the derivative moments compiling the residual decay off the primary, such that the secondary, the image of the image of the one receding in the background becomes the one we see, and the vitality of the original leaves its stamp on the iconic visage created for the prayer hungry and impressionable, so it goes and delivers what it commands, merely the breath of intent and the delight affordable in the empty places reserved for veterans of wars not fought, only dreamt, such becomes the fervent need, as is drawn on faces marching into dreams of non-virtual wars.
Separate molds made in the back rooms of secret intentions delighting the master of the house are fashionable when mounted on the walls where it's clearly seen how easy it is to reconfigure reality to serve whatever purpose you have in mind for the profitable moments, then it's left to the ones who are called upon to clean the halls of light when darkness describes the shadows of the noir milieu, captured cleverly as reflections of spirits best left to the unholy raptures rising in the east as an answer to the west, when west conveniently reconfigures the American dream.
Fierce passage onto the heated tar, a single mind composes itself for its excellent fall into a momentum it desires as the means to exit its present frailty and sensational confusion, disgust and matters that mire its mind, grabbing fury as the fuel of intent, the way away from the muddles and madness so complete and empty, wrapped about by threads it cannot see, nor does it wish to see, for seeing anything but what is, is the necessary drug, a conscious blindness fully realized and engaged, the diadem of night, a step away from day, always but a step.
The rights of those who have no rights are the articles sold as the precious metal of soul, the alchemist's dream of growing crystals of golden light from the lead of ignorance, so it comes to the street as the fist it requires to mold that street into something other than just another way to die, another thing to cross for no good reason, not even for the chicken soup is good; mama knew just how much seasoning to add to the stock, as the gangsters rounded up their armaments and reason for another day of violence for violence' sake.
Yeah, the day is exactly the right day for dreaming away its stuff of mind and soul of creativity by blending the ritual nod from being into un-being toward the credulous despair associated with realizing the pointlessness of pointing out the pointlessness, instead of raising the grit to sell the stuff you set aside as planned and stop complaining, but no, that would be too easy, wouldn't it? We need to make things harder than they might be if they were known as the inconsequential items they really were, so it would be readily seen, the potential face of truth.
Slave to no mind of being aware of trying to be a mind, such a one that delves the depths and heights, as a course inseparable from holding one's own light in the dark and knowing it's one and the same gesture without motion, collecting, as one collects a place of moving each moment following moment collecting moments, being inside the place without and touching all that's untouchable, being alive unquestioning, yet holding the questions aloft, as one settles the motion to be still, while moving through the idea of moving and becoming as one always becomes, themselves, without doubt.
As if it weren't enough, it started in again without pausing, and the sidelined eyes took a gander in multiple bits, shards of so-called seeing that could only be referred to as mulled in the un-natural mind of the powers beneath disclosures and privileged conveniences most often relegated to the elders who do pretty much nothing at all but sit around waiting for someone to wait on them or kill them, if they have the gumption, but most don't even consider this option, being the last one on the block of a mostly deserted neighborhood of talkative corpses.
Extreme darkness in the light exchanges made for free in the odd distributions relegated to the oft missed faces of realizations in the main circles entombing free establishments granted the greed free landscapes of dreams, the quiet arresting compliance that forms the rights of individuals to be individual without masks and extreme makeovers, most often associated with the viable and disgusting creations we see when the need overcomes the wants, when the wants overcome the reason to want, and when seeing is fully granted, then should it be seen, suicide is the worst choice, although for some, a masturbatory fantasy.
So clean it is, as she descended to the crust, keeping her formulations secret as necessity demanded, as the vow she made in the primary initiations leading all the grievous, yet indisputably determined forces to the limits of their formal ideas manifesting the forms called human as the means to be inside the energy sought to power the brand new claims of superiority, although subject to the fierce forces fighting in synch with true inharmonious claims of nothing to be done that promises nothing will come of nothing's grace withal such terrible albeit lucid naysayers granting their own imprecise choices.
You are the master of the nonsensical dance in the deserted alleyway where the door once opened for your passage, to which you ardently return, time and time again, looking for that self same door. Although you must suspect the door is forever closed, you are secretly bidden to forever try, to forever seek the opening. There, in that single minded focus of intent, shall the viable confluence of passionate and elemental forces, most often associated with that thing called love, grow inside the mouth of your breath yet to breathe, yet to spew the momentum of sight not seen.
Becoming lights turned down for the passage of love lost, suddenly found in mouths of eternal dispensations realized as the fascinations claiming the hard silences made when screams of passion are stilled by screams of indifference dividing the mounting inertia as demanded by the gathering storms that haven't a shape but a mere idea. As this idea gains, the freedom to deny it looms as powerfully as the tongues lashing out in fear and delight reaching their peaks of passion into the depths drowning the fashion of the dead spaces necessary as death claims its own peculiar brand of light.
So it comes as it always comes and not without its delightful associations created as the source pit of fires not yet torched, not yet felt, though beheld as sights behind eyes that are shut, behind the minds that are closed, behind the flesh that is cold, behind the mouth that's full of faux apologies and oaths rashly taken by reason of their assumed need in a distorted world becoming the absolute end of its vague beginning, such that designations inscribed on habits of artfully designed wants, are now broken and lost in shadows we only see when we can't.
We rely on the fevers rising from our monumental passions stirring from the core belly of that other mind keeping all in check while the present mind of pleasure seeking derives, constructs and devours its pleasurable constructs revolving the center of hunger demanding more and more and more of that which descends off the present screams of need, not the ones we have in store for the digestible world made manifest so easily by the stroke of high tech keys turning the doors ever wider, recklessly allowing neighborhood mad-dogs in, without regard for the infirm and lonely sleeping upstairs.
Tired of being so serious, tired of the rolling waves of grief biting pleasure on the pleasure principle gone awry, askew off the main-line rule-books toppling from the shelves, shredded by mad horses' hooves, the tooth of the lion garbed, oh, so delicately, in deference to the ailing Queen in her labor, way past her prime, hoping for a non-deformed child, hoping beyond hope, as the means, the womb, furnace of said germination reeks of decay her last crass, back-alley, posh-alerting abortionist failed to scrape away, thus, she possesses yet another glorious, post-partum beginning.
Yes, it is the yeses of all the hopes prevailing ofter the nods of no that we, as a crew of potential thinkers, are beset with in the vitality-brain or source-pit of delight skittled off remembrances in the diagrammed frenzy where the witless parades gleaming the streets and back alley fronts of crystal heaven skulled-hells are being designed, then could we finally have the realization of rebirth we may carry with us as the robbery no cop ever dreamed. It's the heist of a lifetime, and those of you who know what I'm implying, carpe diem.
There can we know the patterns assumed the best arrays of random colors bleeding into colors no patterns of mere logic might ever touch or predict, let alone diagram as a representational view-screen of a world that might be, if only the world that is could be eliminated, or at least seen to be utterly limited in scope and sensibility of who-is-the-true-master, if not the assumed master celebrated in the minds of the dreamers inside closed walls, bereft of the sights necessary for calibrations made accurate enough to allow the incumbent assemblages to root souls.
This day comes with the rains predicted like the mind dying in its own melting sense of reality bleeding onto realities foundering in the archives where the dead wander aimlessly looking for the way to see their own death as necessary and good. Without the leverage of thinking clearly on the burning landscapes, the dead, who found their needs to be lies, are the very ones being groomed to mount the high thrones of belief on mountains once inhabited by the gods after all their one time devoted followers vilified, mocked and rejected them for the creations of purest mind.
The words, as laid, gather grist of a kind in mind of being right obviating the right over wrong, that is, the stepping over a body of the corpse of thinking in the moment for the moment for the sake of a sometime truth spent on having that which cannot be possessed, only lent for the time in the taking of the time for the time, and speaking the words as laid to head in the idea of being what's felt for what's being seen as felt as construed the only manner by which any truth can be had whatsoever.
Where are you? Where? I look, and I look. Where, where have you gone? Have you dissembled yourself again, become another form of the name you disowned, redesigned yourself? Have you carried the platform above the platitudes whereon the name became a soiled sense of yourself that you could not abide? Has the idea of you become remote, so remote that no one may sound your depths, even as they cannot see your heights? Shall the residues we claimed in the frenzy of the shadows wherein we ployed a sometime sexual feast of bits and pieces remain mere varied confusions?
The end of days, as days might be construed in the soup that satisfies sane minds and hungry hearts, such that we have finally discovered the tether that's snapped, rope that's failed, the car that's broken down for the last time in the middle of Death Valley, with all the kids hungry for MacDonalds' sliders, and mom needing a shave, dad, a haircut, and the corpse in the trunk a lobotomy. So, it's come to this, and it should really be no surprise to anyone hep to the headlines hailing the new regime is withholding its plan for a reason.
Then the lady who sings has no song, and the musicians in the pit have no conductor. The ancient piano plays nonetheless, having a store of old rolls to gear the comic jets for the game days docked in store for newborns and prescient priests who keep the lid on cold realizations that the end days are mere fabrications most correlative to Arnold's best Terminator Films and David Lynch parodies of heaven and hell reduced to stage performances of such profound confusions, only the highest ranking Freemasons might approach and even then, with kit gloves that someone mistakenly color washed.
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