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Yes, we are the living matters of the new constructions of breath forming beyond our flesh to shape it otherwise, beyond any heart or mind set to carouse the opposing parties in deference to the end of its beginning. This, as is, tables all its comestibles in the feverish need that defines the fire itself at the core of the mysterious flint. Yes, this, as the means to create, divides off the growths that are defiant, that oppose the conjurations, magically determined as necessary, so mote shall it be, and forevermore resolved that all the children of spirit begotten, rejoice!
Then, to be the utter realization of the seed so planted, we work; we behold its rising in the sun of its unique universe, that by the expanding gases assumed at its root, such a glorious and horrific mass might combine withal to illuminate the darkness spread over the mountains of our hidden caves where we've placed the alleged errant children of our vision. So, shall the mission defined be the subject of our sullen majesty, begin; let the confusions extant dissolve in our intent to serve these outcast children, that one day they might be recognized as our fathers.
The wandering time fits itself like a cloud enveloping the sky of mind under suns of one's own begetting for relations of the singular to multiplicities unnumbered in the root mind where the act of creation becomes an act of risk, taking what's known and blending it with the unknown via a graced gesture waiting in the muscles of one's heart to act on its pulse to find completion where nothing was anticipated or dreamed or even fantasized. This place where lust decrees its fire sets its flames to blaze for the time whose wanderings have suddenly staked a claim.
That such a thing might occur from the unseen mission assembly in the backlot where all had been forgotten, allegedly. The fury, heretofore kept on the landscape of dead roads, assigned to the matrix of waste and hopeful compost, where the idea of growth was jettisoned, reorganized into a program of recycling, but how can this kind of death be recycled, this kind of disease, degradation and swamp of lost souls? Such is the thing we are now considering after all has been exposed for its faux platitudes of trust and integrity, such is the confrontation I am confronting again.
With all the rambunctiousness aside, we seem to fit on the cross hatched moldings, whereon, our mounting vitality assumed is the vitality gained, as passions gradually ascend to some unrevealed summit, therewith all the organs begin playing in synch, and we find the ability to push past the barriers formerly erected for our benefit and safety and find satisfactions instead of the unrelenting barrage of frustrations fitted for years as the proper way to squeeze through life and its remarkable challenges. Then can we begin to see the possibilities craning for attention and engagement, then can we arrive the beginning.
I have dropped the necessity to view myself through the inherited lens ascribed to the manner and behavior of a life sketched in rough detail as one that must be living at a point beyond itself and the time assigned, that the present must be ignored, that the future place of grace be all that's assumed real, wherein future images designed to soothe you while confounding, become the ones to save your sense of self, thus the madness engages its power to assume command, and the reality hung on the edges of the eye drawn askance of seeing, fades away.
Dross rhythms repeat the unseen desires to the satisfactory emanation of melodies we know as the ones we cannot utter or confess, the ones we must keep to ourselves, though not for fear or shame but for the ineluctable nature of these desires' mystery to keep them private lest they be ridiculed, their delicate characters and muscular appetites, hungers often abandoned by the avatars of fear; we keep to our own. We divest ourselves accordingly to their needs. Before the waves of these profoundly inner songs, however, the heart will glide aside, ignore them, even deny, till we become them.
Resounding in the sanctum we reserve for our pet beatitudes and reservations most often relegated to the back alley storage areas for polite regard, we make ourselves as we are, we become us totally, we do not resort to fabrications for propriety or ease of acceptance by them who would have us be someone else; we defy openly the ministers of contrary wit and desolate morals where the framework holds a picture we cannot own but are forced to own, we convert these platitudes to the ash, from which our phoenix rises through its pain and delight of truest soul.
The comes the voices clamoring in defiance of our right to wend our way along the paths we decide; they rise within to proclaim it wrong, "What are you doing? You can't be yourself. How dare you! You must be how we decide. You must pose as the guide to all who witness, all who watch, all who hunger as we say they should. Drop this individual drivel and drop this autonomy, you have no right to defy us, for we have given you the life we've seen as right and proper." The war wages on, for those who defy.
A pattern emerges, as is its wont to emerge when the vitality of the opposition craves its own as its own for nothing else but death of imagination, and the servile center of soul revs the engine of self to achieve the necessary momentum to escape being caught and devoured; the pattern, as the structure of mind, laced on itself by itself, a web of enormous size and complexity, sets itself on the body demanding, such that it might continue forward on its own for its own, and lest the opposition defy this establishment, one will be vindicated in themselves.
The delight of day begins to pronounce the health of one who strives to live unimpeded as a soul asserting its sacred autonomy without chains of doubt and fear binding the possibilities to the dark cellar of mind; though a place fitted to the preservation of canned treats, the cellar having its own charms and necessity, one is reminded of the need to tender great care in its manipulations, for its power is its might, and its might may create or dissemble by those who choose to work its wheels, by gears unnumbered, a good eye becomes the greatest asset.
Savage, the loving touch in its sweetness, volatile, as devouring of all that came before, the world, imprisoned by its spell, empty time being eaten by the crushing kiss, thundered by the intrusive tongue insisting, its driven thrusts dissembling words in the throat, burying itself in the mouth's dark cavern blazing it with light, as the electrified hands follow our ardor, diving to the unseen places begging for discovery, begging for the body to drink its salty flow, be swept away by the surging waves rising higher, roaring in the ears listening only to the souls melting in our names.
Heretofore, the signature of validation is sealed upon the purchase, and the road becomes clear, narrow, unique, an elitist design of surety that none other may provide, such that all others must be abandoned as wrong, evil even, the workings of Satan, and in the spurious functions of the questioning eye, seen as possibilities, whereupon the former narrow road broadens into a vast expanse, an inviting, fragrant valley, a landscape of delight and putative freedom; beware the voices, they say, beware the echos of deceit, beware the machinations buried deep within decisions laid to walk this broad and captivating land.
By what rationale madness assumed by the plunging touch in dialogue with the fires of love manifesting faces squirreling spaces curving onto themselves through two bodies lost for reasons and divesting their qualities for benefit of consummations in the crushed flesh brought as one might bring a sacrifice to the alter, may we shatter our hearts to a billion fractals, erupting birds of fire eating the sun, blazing the eye of the eye, blinding minds presuming to see to put their egos down, lay their assumptions to rest, place their fearsome jealousy away, open their souls and die to live?
The eager volatility cramming the sight soothed in a fiercely gentle flame you send by a sideways glance while creeping down the tune we both adore by the passage through a telltale obstacle laid in place on a wide heart space unfurled for the pleasure of a simple kiss, is the truest delight I seek. It's really fine, yup, considering the rooms we have to inhabit, crossed at desire's gate by a formidable angel in charge of passage. It's kind of funny, really. We have to eat each others' breath; no way else; it's so fine, otherwise a savage downer.
The days fly furiously by through the nested awarenesses focused on the clever disguises of the combatants donned for shame or regret or the odd confluences of diseases not recognized in the habitats of medical wisdom. Those who have fallen away from their own fears can see the manipulations drifted high against the river's wild waters that carry the discouraged souls toward the distant ocean's balm; they can see how it all fits together, how it appears as the norm without a name or label to reflect upon. This, as the central crux of reason's failure to provide, calms us.
The quiet of us has begotten its mysterious delight. It parades none of the grandiosity displayed so garishly by the platitudes at the alleged summits, it leads as it follows, it doesn't coax, neither does it discourage. It is. It tells us there's no need to say there's no rush, for neither the rushing sparrow or sluggish worm needs to do otherwise, serving their tasks, humble though they may be; it tells us to pay attention to these small players in the grand scheme. Why should they not be harkened to, for the time asks us likewise. To be here.
How is it seen by not being seen, touched by not being touched? The sacred vitality assumed lost by the frantic eye is resting in the core of a patient mind, and the torment we assign by the clock's ineluctable rush toward it's own round goes nowhere. Round and round it goes, on a never ending rush of cycles racing toward the signature of here; if seen for what it's showing us, felt for what it's sensuously revealing by its ancient fingers, the wealth of its simplicity will be revealed. The dance will show us its pattern of not trying.
Voluble, of sorts, the chemical kind, a mess brewed by insertion of a mysterious elixir, a phantom penetration, a spike on the mainline feeding the pulsed engine on a tram fixed to a set course, now on abeyance toward a new direction, a parallel track on a set of tracks, the mangled designs seemingly seeking chaos but wanting order, wanting the secular blended with the spiritual, wanting what only meditation on eternity's omnipresent gaze may provide, such that all that is, by virtue of its daunting complexity and challenge might divest itself of fear and break the line to acceptance.
Fire, like the primal water flexing its waves as we divide ourselves on ourselves, feeds the spiral demands of the flesh of the spirit feeding its organs designed as limbs construing gestures of the Divine we know not so readily as the means to extricate the hardwired mundane from the extraordinary, so let go and stop being right, for the right is the road to wrong...fire, may its salvific cleansing render ash from the prison walls we've taken so easily to heart, accepted without question...fire, let its questions be the tongues we heed as the means of speaking.
May the dark blue signal snap the vitals, engage electric delights, flick the moment's pulse to a frenzied continuation, and preside over the grand opening of our biggest store yet as its core furnace feeder! Then, what only seems, shall be. What only gathers hope by grieving the glitch that held up the sales for years, can now assume its rightful place on the shelves of soul kept tidy as requested by the Man. He's always held me in esteem, I think, and the benefits promised seem to be secure. One can only wonder how the sales' rates will flow.
Such as it is, the voluble precedent of who we are rings out its prescient victory over the hungry landscape of soul to proclaim what could never have been but is by being, by the fullness finally assumed as it is, not as it should be, though voices cry out from buoys erected in ancient times of fear and doubt. This is the battle cry that will never be silenced; by its allowance, no earthly force may deny it ever again. Its selfless ardor will never demand or seek to dominate but merely crown the soul with the soul's fire.
Fondly, as we go, we enter the arena as we are, to meet ourselves where the battle breeds itself within itself, that such a confrontation might afford its own resolution, yet by the continuum of the rivers' raging and contrary flux demanding our ever widening consciousness to unwrap ourselves, as we must, vetting responsibility to self bades our diligence to all, that the all assuredly embraces what fears we bring withal our confidences and strengths. This meeting ground, on high, demands love be patient for itself, as its own fire, though glorious, ecstatic and illuminating, may well consume without patience.
Cooling down. Can't help the feeling I'm playing the role backwards, but it was written that way, wasn't it? Shooty shoo shoo, sogo the floo pooping topster, gimme gat dat time grabber, nick the rick, flick the stick, AND I play the whoosh, wop gop and the tiptop rack sackin lick, that's a mettle makin moonshine in the plentiful wit grit, sicky stick, bit the rippin pit, we got a sack rackin lickin storm brewin, don't we? Don't pistol whip me grip, and the flesh is getting BIGGER, oh yup, yup, don't ever doubt the route is wrackin sackin thwack!
Care in the tending of your vibrant heart demands my listening to your silent word, utterances of such delicate power and gentle ferocity, I might divide my self from the sense of looking ahead to the sensuality of now, the vital streams of soft whispers bading me to embraces desired in the moment's heat, and there is no other, yet forming outside of designations aplenty to worm the wit on the spirit's conveyances within such a wild sanctum of reality, we might wish nothing more or less; how I see you, feel you, listen to you conjures my passions' chrysalis.
It's the inner searching of the head machine pulled inside out, then it's getting used to seeing what we take for granted, getting our hands dirty, exploring the tinkered guts, manipulating them to our personal designs; that which we can't assume as necessary becomes a rare cliche on the landscapes we discover in dreams. How those dream symbols fit, how the fond raptures in those fits convey us to us, revealing the worn worlds' rhythms to the tunes we're the most comfortable with has a way of setting new standards of confusion, setting in motion a whirlwind of generous doubt.
Memories scope the terrain in the melting pot of words to come when need beckons, and when the words to wind their floating gestures to manipulate and shape the events swimming through psychical catacombs as a means to irrigate emptiness with the sense of the eternal ocean thundering becomes a possibility, those very words begin painting the missing pieces of the puzzles of us, challenging our hearts to bleed the blood for the oils of our driven intentions to see what was never seen, felt what was never felt, touched what was never touched, so to approach the completeness of us.
What has begun draws its life from an unseen energy, feeding the engine of delight and pain, as is the wont of such things as this, such as the machinations of the flesh expanding to uphold the rising energies, how the organs devise their vital dances, how the mechanisms derive their own going forth, with responsibility resting on the wills of the willing souls within the circle so circumambulated by the magical fires arousing what might only be described as the volatile conjurations to keep our wits from demolishing themselves, so mote shall it be, this most holy of holies.
Saying the last goodbyes, arousing memories establishing the connections threading landscapes of life on one quilt of remembrance, such that those who gather can see, can feel, can hold this passing life unto itself by the joy of its life, even as it faces death, the joyous accord of the mystery of mysteries; that one may not fear but rejoice in this round of hands joined on one prayer of belonging, accepting and departure, that all may know this, the most solemn and profound of all leavetaking, is but a step on the eternal ladder toward that which sings mystery.
Can I keep to to this, can I hold myself up to that which my words proclaimed, can I maintain the integrity, even as I move forward on this unknown terrain pocked with the most extraordinary, sublime and challenging visages of dream drenched reality? Can I do this? Yes, by my soul. For I am bound by a love so great I'm humbled by its very name, a love possessing a spirit continually expanding through the moldings of this multiplexing life, combining myself with a woman whose very presence is slipping ever assuredly into the fabric of my very soul.
The moments evolve themselves unto a scramble of moments stitched lightly on our kisses deepening however the canvas stretches to allow them, kisses spreading over our bodies, fingers dappled on our tangling skins tingling with anticipations of deeper arousals, deeper inflections of tongue, fondled flesh awakens, feeling the unzipped jeans by focussed fingers, both minds becoming fire, hearts pounding, breath coming harder, heat rising, sweat pumping, strong hands lifting your body, settling its wetness on the flame tipped seat of desire's inflection, and the driven core, feeding its hunger, bodies crazily lit by the magick, mouths mangled on mouths, flaming.
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