REPORT A PROBLEM
The new passage is grieving the lack of understanding, the under evaluated flow of information gleaned from the catapulting of now into now into now into the vortex of the cycles of being, such that correlations attributed to the vacuous and stunned minds regretting the loss of being aware enough of being aware that the tangible connections are immediately lost to those ribbed by their own self-deprecations and self-mutilations, so it comes that the violent upsets we know are the ones we are least aware of as the ones we need to pay attention to or be lost.
Tantamount to the deep ruptures of the body electric in due process of conspiring with solid ideas created from the splinters of ideas lost for lack of credibility, such that they could not be assumed real enough as places of landed thoughts or feelings ripped from old fabrics called either hate or love or the combinations we are led to believe as carriers of calm granted as the reality we can only attest as the reality we can record for posterity and easy reference when the moments known as the moments leading outside convenient awareness, ennui comes as no surprise.
The days keep mounting into months into years into decades, as the pressures rising under the platitudes bleeding profusely onto landscapes of past victories making us all feel rather down in the ripped away qualities that beget no other process but the ones that inevitably lead to the residual confusions characteristic of the madness set apart as the finalizing mental state, where the old guard surrenders to the new, and given the enormity of delight resulting from the surprises inherent to new designs of light and dark conveyed clearly and completely to the unsuspecting masses, we deserve our new sackcloths.
Smooth parabolic ruptures of mind delicately caressing tight sinews of doubt wrapping taught skins over skins over skins bound to their rising fevers by separation anxieties denuded by ecstatic fires slipped through the cracks in clever prisons and released under fears by too much joy compacted onto horror, there comes the realization we know only too well after all the relatives have been carted away in droves to the box repairman and garden supply store, we know, then forget at once the peerless state that cannot be undone once the switch is thrown, clarifying creations of our own imminent deaths.
Collections of I, holding sway against the considerable momentum of individual energies mounted primarily as fascimiles of self on reflections of the collective, are viable only as time allows, such as it is, known as the power humans can only know when tracked beneath the crust humans glibly accept as reality, but a mere sham, a carefully constructed fabrication turned delusion as the acceptance goes without question and the masses rise in unison cheering the gargantuan lie forward and upward, the clear turning point we see as the true teaching, born by our vivid readiness, to be accepted or not.
Week by week a deep absorption leaves the eye crammed on a forced blindness, though blinded by the clarity rediscovered after all the ends tied to beginnings folded on themselves, giving the clear impression no one could ever be as stupid or arrogantly misplaced as the mind I was fitted to in the procedural game of going for the record. Yet, it's painfully obvious the endgame has yet to be played, though driving toward the garden I was once planted during the before-time that situated my ego on the dias showing its reality as being nothing of any importance.
Dredging the impossible, as the extremest reach infolds on minds calibrated to withstand all issues relevant to their survival, yet unsuited for the battles waged on the fields assumed as fields of grace, really, the fields of desperate fallacies unnumbered; thereon, the fighting cannot be taken as the need arises to assuage hostilities and rediscover assurances of peace despite dark thoughts replicating in furious fashion, then comes the childish regards we can attribute to the Alliance of Death, therein we can clearly see it's all a joke. We've taken the whole thing as true, when the ballots are still out.
Empty vessels that once fueled head, given its capabilities and potentialities dancing in furious whorls when other minds delicately ascribed fetes of magic that had no precedent or competitor, lest the few odd extreme minds could relate to the assault of superior creativity and the viable gains maintained on battlefields cooling throughout eons following what only could be called an apocalypse, although few were even aware of it, and those that were, standing on the cobbled derivatives that sent the enemies of certain egos running for their habits and frocks, so it came to this, havoc on the monopoly board.
Such as it is, I find the few matters of true inspiration are worth the efforts required to relate on a more basic level where the contestants on their privileged platforms might actually find what they're looking for, instead of looking for what they haven't got, as is too common, that true warriors of enthusiasm and despair clasping these primal aspects to their breastplates could arrive where their opponents still wander in a fever no remedy might assuage or complete, that the fighting has to continue until the terror is seen to be nothing but a smile turned upside down.
Words fall or rise, they have that capability, then comes the need to verify their sagacity that hasn't a particle of sense or sensibility, other than what is made out to be the truest of the most false; so it comes when the mind has no place to put its denial and confirmation of the extremist notion, however insane or unlikely to succeed, so comes the time and the moment when all the efforts are recognized as wasted muscular expectations of grandeur gone to the worst place of head, and tempting the balance to offset itself, creates only its opposite.
They move through the precipitating void off the edge of the carousing head steeped in the arrogance of knowing exactly how knowing collides the fringe of belief stretching the bounds of desire denuding the vitality trembling under facades of carefully poised indifference; they walk as they must, run how they need, hide as recklessly as deftly as they assault my consciousness, kernels of inspiration that assume a revival of heart eschewing the fears most associated with becoming alive along threads stitching bones to muscles to vessels of the invisible blood conning the mighty to stoop in grudging respect of light.
How it grievously comes to a place least expected,like at a highway stop for G-strings. The credible doorman offers his thumb, and the next step precedes the one before that, slyly incredible, and the 'how' kneads itself into the 'why,' there comes the surge falling aggressively up through the gossamer fabric between 'back-when' and 'how-then,' such that the present, assumed banal, becomes the sudden mystery blossoming that subtle opportunity only dreamt in haste on the flood of waking within that nexus fondled like a forbidden love, in the dark, in the back, in the opulent grave.
It is so assumed the sore of the untimely bristling confusions assigned by need to the roots feeding the overhanging, engulfing faux shades, can be undone by a few clicks of mind drawn down to the clicks of the wrist grinding available head onto wheels of the cyber vagueries taken for immediate granted. Lest they be seen as the purveyors of lies they really wish to be, but only at the expense of the person filing their devices of creativity, can they truly be held up as viable alternatives to the world views pasted to the fridge for convenient recollection.
Receiving the new energies, via the old delivery systems, can enervate the toughest mouth, around which, stretches its formulaic constrictions on sentimental variances few journeymen can even sense, despite the crushing yet fastidious judgments falling like volcanic ash on the circle of the swarming thoughts stinging with fierce commitment on the honor of a realm relegated in defense of nothing-to-be-done by those who actually see the joke for what it is, and thence the mentality of the operatives given the onerous task of carrying out the orders to dismantle and discourage an further attempt to seek asylum.
So it comes to the point of needing to enjoy the simplest of things to assimilate the most convoluted, those things that tear you down for their insidiously indistinct and deluding natures. By fangs of their necessities digging deep the venom assumed as fuel of grist but really the dissolution of enthusiasm, eviscerating the belly of heart, replacing heart with feverish anxiety, they come at you, but by the fire flinted by experience of no-mans-land, you can ascend the moment, drive off those rash, infectious agents, make that cup of coffee and relax under umbrellas of reasonable skepticism.
The moment decides its undressing of the undesirable answers parading like questions, being the virus on the circumambulation of consciousness round the bucking ring with clowns aplenty, rearing their flash as goads of the gallery for games that spuriously define the edges of yesterday's consideration of today's confluence of tomorrow's angst ridden expectations, parading around the bloodied ring and down the avenue without fanfare or warning or proper traffic controllers, such that the seeds of beingness may thrive on the invisible catwalks seen as the only place of genuine contemplation; moreover, the compensated spokespeople may be allowed their due dismissals.
The temptations, having spilled their loud assaults on the guests, gratuitously snarfing the entire liquor cabinet, much to the dismay of the host who was unable or unwilling, as the case may be, to dissuade said guests from storming his stores and numbing their minds sufficiently enough to allow certain snarky garbage gatherers the inroad to their bad angels, thus the carnal mess was made, ugh, but it was recognized these harsh results were not nearly as catastrophic as expected after last Sunday's fire and brimstone sermon, given as due pay for the congregation's customarily bad behavior sacrificed for Lent.
A disquieting impulse generated in the shadowed realm of the germination of ideas, the crucible that undefined itself in the searching of it, as it doesn't exist in the existence paradigm situated on the crown of head when presented with the diseased yet rarified face assigned to the body electric. If it should reside as claimed in a drifting modality, however indistinct and confusing, we should be cheered by its unceasing efforts to ascribe the definitions we so ardently seek after dreams have deigned to free their materials through unsuspecting muscles, there it's seen as the final and absolute master.
OK, the weird and wired day is soon upon me; that it should obscure the details necessary to play it out accurately and properly, there's nothing adequately to be concretely seen as the outline of the event, yet the event, as designated by the arbiter of said event, will occur. "Just be ready," the voices chime on the sidelines, so glibly and violently unconcerned about the matters being digested, even now, by the assembled players. This game, as is recognized, is the absolute and final reduction of the benefit I hope will become the outcome, despite the ruin that's inevitable.
Those of us at the steeping heat, where all has been dissolved with the one waiting for consummation and consumption of the prepared elixir, should take in hand of mind the notions of possible reanimation of the elements of poison addressed by reactions creating the assaulting opponent, whereby we can only sit back and wait helplessly for the outcome to breed its offing. Then can we see what we have wrought; so it comes to the point where we must essay our deepest beliefs, that what we've followed up to the critical cliffs of being may be a deceitful muse.
Why slave at the grist of the unknown face goading me on toward the edge, grinding my heart into flints of bloody spears hurled at the mouth of gods for words yet unspoken? As the craw yields to the words gnawed for my sake to honor the Most-High of inner realms, that place where the fashions of angels and demons twist on wrestles showered in fire, we battle for the rights of dying ever and always for a life seen but never touched in glimpses off glares through fissures torn on curtains between there and there, evermore un-there.
Under the fall of a shrieking moon, the detritus of clammy heat decides how often the cool magically derives not only the idea of heat but the reality claiming not one of its minions but one of its adversaries; for antipathy divines progressions not easily seen as the resultant manifestation of efforts decided behind closed minds, yet that which is seen is often what we want to see, occluding the bitter and sweet nestled but lightly under our manufactured membranes serving the necessities of accepted delusions fashioned as the fabricated masks we wear while parading our ever artificially sweetened truths.
Funneling sweet enterprising complicities that combine the unusual desire motifs exuded after exhaling the mundane artificial platitudes craning for attention on the dream plains stretched and smoothed when the dearest and decidedly accepted beauty of true ugliness that cannot be defined by flesh nodes vibrating in tune with superior musical notions in the head of certain enemies thought once devoted allies, retreats and settles behind seeing for the moment that's best to reappear, when the innocent make their personas as clear as can be, as sweet as they can taste as winds rise in abeyance that have no clear definitions.
Tipping over the edge of your edges as we come to the point in the dialogue where words cannot suffice but gather dust for the fires to come, we find ourselves laid in the optimum continuum where we notice those things otherwise disregarded as not complicit or contained in the vat of mind that establishes the brightest and boldest of idea men, mad men, mad women, becoming mad animals for desires painted on the walls of brain that hobble for their treats, create virulent notions of festivals for gatherings bound in planning stages, locked to the heads of ill repute.
The pounding or the drifted sense of satisfactions we cannot allow when the lights flicker, as becoming night in the skull of day with dreams of youth and plenty of grifted shadow-breakers dulling for none but the gifted, we shrive and delight in patterns of the old and tried, not to establish the serious movements otherwise offending watchers of the right, but drawing down the profligate leftists coining terms to confuse, bemuse and gather threads not readily seen, so comes the taunting, drawn skins stretched over bodies laid out for cruel Apollo designing our fashionable deaths mistaken for fears.
These voices I hear in the dawn licked dream-soaked confusions I can only laugh at for matters most assigned to gods and the gatherers of true inspirations. Prolixious light is snatched out urns of hallowed delights; my seared spirit, appropriate to the infirm of soul, absorbs the fallen, spews the initiated, ascends the notions no book could ever serve, for recipes as the feed sought for salve, or palliatives for the fumbling loiterers, party goers who can't stop or won't leave at the gristled dawn, even as baby, growing in the belly of head, screams for its aptitude suck.
Dropped as a brick in the hot soup, dinner table stretched and stained like the mad confusions bubbling through my sacred place sought as some kind of fun, yet cannot provide for the ridiculously craven and wrought iron wit kept at bey for fears of ridicule, the manifestation, reducing fond avowals where the rest have gone to bed, steeping the adults guarding this ongoing party coining the advantage, might even be persuaded, at best driven to violently preserve the haughty anxieties set as the modes we loathe but secretly desire, known most particularly in models of humans marked for death.
Yes, the days have bit down to the bright base of mercurial bloodletting, in delight of the violence I'm blessed me with, dosing dog-dayed furies that aptyly assuage my joys withal, to suck the plentiful horrors astride the horses appearing from the dark and brilliant caverns of imagination stampeding into head gathering for the imminent attack on mountains of mediocrity towering over towns and camps hidden from the watchers we cannot hope to love, even in the din of drugged down and complicit morals claiming the rights etched on trees of surrounding forests wherein, beasts of judging eyes carouse.
She was the ear I sought for days unnumbered, and her body, bedecked with smiling wonders, ushered in the superior yet inferior manners considered to appropriately insinuate the questions she presented me with; for soothe I could not know at once, she bade those tenders of unholy patterns offered in defiance of creativity so to confuse the desires entering the fearsome vessels to conquer, as organs designated tissues of so called evil idea mongers bedecked with iron gilded shields fending off questions with flaming swords swinging like mad, often prematurely lunging into battle without the proper training or necessary papers.
It's necessary. I can't go a day without it. Word pressure bubbles the mountain of my head as a Mt. St. Helenas gorged with the boiling mad heat of an inner body presumed cool and cabled to an engine purring with Ferrari elegance and clear expectations of nothing threatening but a glide through the inner desert roads without the odd confrontation or mechanical difficulty; such is the naivete I'm often addled by, that this petty nuisance might bedevil my psyche with an answer so arcane and superannuated to the task at hand. Well, that's nostalgia for you, a distracting little doggie.
The Tip Jar