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Aspiring to the uttermost end of the beginning again, the loop of us is digestible only as the means to establish the considerable momentum that remains sacrosanct and solemn to meet the enormity of us, so long as the heart at the center of us regards itself as itself, as long as the souls of us collaborating hold the confluence of opposing ideas as necessary to the creation of ourselves and hold no enmity or resentment toward the fundamentals of any of these conflicting philosophies. This being said, there is only the going forth in passionate enthusiasm, regretting nothing past.
Certainties abounding through the fogged locales of assumed homes confuse the points being attempted when the voices arise in unison that such a place is the only place to be, and the idea of anywhere else becomes an absurdity and regrettable notion to be jettisoned at once; such is the notions we've all held at one time or another, thinking our way is the only way. To extend beyond this kind of thinking places one in a vulnerable place where nothing is as it seems to be, and all expectations have been quashed, as all ideas of right and wrong.
Feeble desires to rouse enmity toward the eternal opposing notions and to establish even strains are revealed for their feebleness when the voices claiming these oppositions are shown to be as spurious as they are cowardly, for it's in conflict that we move, in conflict that we create, in conflict that we love. It's in the fires of conflict that we see who we are, though this notion be fraught with opposition itself, and so the yin and yang meet in the furious windstorms of consciousness, begetting the very kernels that seed the creative spirit and fuel its own begetting.
The fluid exchange of ideas extending to the exchange of emotions is not so different except in the nature of energies being expended, and the coiling of that which is known as love upon love, being that of the utter mystery of the universe without anything but evanescent definitions, displays the very crux of conflict and reconciliation constantly, being constantly in flux, constantly fluid like wrestling ghosts, able to move through that which was thought impermeable, and I speak of hearts, not walls or anything physical, and we see how we feel with nothing tangible but the recollections of love.
Fretted off its face comes the visage no one could expect, spreading the wonder born in the center of no centers, clawing out of its forming light to be seen and felt as the ministration one might see in the conjuration evolving out swarms of God, in the calm of a frenzy by the tangle of a storm unknown to the sky, a storm tearing away its begetting, as from a mitosis of spirit in the caldron of life's original seed. This, being the contradiction, its nature, all that divides to be free of itself can once again be whole.
The muscle of the night, flexed to employ its vitality to yield a treasure, unknown by the variability of cause and effect, draws its blood from the thickening mind of hope, surges alert, battle ready, and by the harmony of a conjunction meted out by need, we find the hard method befitting what history paints as diabolically clever for its nature of changing tones so effectively, blinding them who seek salve and completion, and what was once secure for its volatile soul, being held in the grip of intention to serve the primal needs, unravels, denudes itself, exposing its fears.
Drawn out of the mysterious vat held in the secret place of heart reserved for the digestion of the mysteries, a face becomes the reverse of itself, twisting a clear visage into a question of being that which hasn't a clue toward the quest of finding the center of its begetting; by which serious course we employ, the lightness we find after all the sweat and hardship, toil and frustration, settles our natures, forever seeking the simplest way to be. Yet, in this torpor, this swirling world, the face, as revealed, must follow its singular own to become its own.
Indispensable love, the emission of pure Grace emanated from within and without the flesh, fills, occupies, possesses without chains sparking the will to its highest peak, giving, not taking; flowing out boundlessly to the beloved, gearing all the organs of awareness to their brightest incandescence, it grapples their hearts to hearts' core, enfolding, nourishing like a Holy Manna, as if from the desert where love was merely a byword, the hungry wanderer, so hungry they could not feel the hunger, is graciously fed, and is found, alive again, glowing in an unsuspected beloveds' reflection, each, the mirror of the other.
This thing we have, this thing that has us, this thing, bearing its own by its own, being its own, nothing like it, bearing us, as we bear it, as we bear the challenges laid by it, as we enjoy the fruits of its bearing as time passes, as we plant the seeds of the fruit, as the seeds sprout feeding this thing we have, feeding us, asking us gently its needs, telling us softly to not be afraid but strong as assaulting winds may rise, storms may come, this thing we have, will weather all that call it wrong.
Blue skies after the purple fever bored an eyehole of its dying on the living, seeing what only the dying see, that which is, not which should; that which is, might take its brash colors, sharp black and whites, shaded hues and every blend within and without to infect the world by their possibilities, to become what it must to rise above these pallid greys, these lunar desolations, these lifeless valleys that all have come to hold as habitations of their earthly gods, their places of nutrition, of learning, of love, yet in truth, nothing but bland places of death.
By the dipped passion lit, secretly, and the downed kiss blasting from the center with dormant organs fired on choosing the rapture, what began, swelling hearts, as the means to devour our awakened animals, blossomed in a fiery conflagration, as crystals from a crucible grown by the fires, slowly rising, inexorably tending the vast spaces above wishing, sending all that grieves for itself spinning into oblivion, arousing our bodies creating the new gestures full of unexpected expressions, flashing wildly in the deep dark of questions' light, sending back to the bodies demands for the sum of us as its necessity.
Then, might we see the need to grapple the consequences of the new gestures, to take stock of who-we-are within and without them and who-we-wish-to-be by exhaling them, such that how-we-are, as the twin star rises, newly grown from base metals of crude passions blended in our Holy Blender, reveals the magic yet to be wrought, while we, actors in the ancient drama, catch our breaths on the sidelines, awaiting that which rumbles unformed beneath our frames to expose the twisted diagrams we vent in sweaty, smiling groans of pleasure and pain.
The feeling is emptiness, no other way to say it, and I don't know where it came from. I did as well as I could. The directions were clear, and I think for the most part I executed them well. Feeling soft in the head, weird, distant and numb, like the conduits of reason are slowly being pulled out, like the last moments of Hal, but no one that I can see is yanking my plexiglass out. Gotta relax. Maybe a shower. Wish you were here. Need a soft hug, quiet kiss, arm around me, head on my arm. You.
The body opens, bids its silence howl for the quiet coiling out of its hidden muscles flexing for thoughts barely conceived; virgin to the forge of begetting heat for heat's soul, folds of skin curling back off their devices to conceal the naked desires fretting beneath the armatures of energy sources thought too primeval to control, and yet the fires we seek are those in deep the matters not fet of politeness and niceties, no, that which is in the viable source pit where the snakes of ardor carouse for the digestion of their own plenty, seek nothing but raptures.
The touch is plunging, as the sense of US is widening, thickening toward the rapture, the shredding of logic in the fires of consummation, by which the sense of US coils like a cobra spitting out its fury of delight toward that which volubility and consciousness of US bends off the grid, curling off the convivial and polite, off the lightness of the passing kiss, falling with the flames of US that swirl up the dripping night, rage out of the right to be right or wrong, as a sacrifice utterly, to be consumed for completions' ardor and questions' blister.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light, as far as near, as loose as tight, as defined as defuse, we follow up the roar, whether good or bad, thought sensible or crazy, thought wrong or right, we are falling up, as the up is down, as we are fraught in souls being all around, as the core is the edge, as the circumambulation defines the center, as we define ourselves, the terror is the delight, horror the sweetness, we carry forth the path of US as the path defines US, therewith all that breathes in US fans its fires.
Then comes the round device to cheer the offering, the controlling guise of being within and without simultaneously, as the final gesture defines the first, as the river flows, here and there continually, being at the mouth and all of its tributaries, being the source of the end, that which sorts and confuses, that which gives and takes, that which burns and freezes, that which is full and empty, that which is and cannot be defined, this thing that we have, that we are, such a convolution of matters to be digested on the forming palates we have nakedly offered.
The bred territory bleeds its faces over the wide terrain as a means to irrigate and wash away that which intrudes by what spirited claims asserted as being right by need of fences, walls and gates erected as necessary for securities' sake, the fashion, of which, draws out of the calm a tension, at first accepted, then a new presence emerges, a new energy rises, growing from the fashioned crucible by tight woven threads of space and time, a web of seeming nothing that becomes a terrifying something, a keeping place, required safehouse, a place of dire reckoning and concentration.
Falling further, I am, an inexorable descent toward the touch of unknown depths, toward the voluble and indisputable connectivity I share with her through all the interstices it blends on its widening web whereon we gather ourselves together, whereon we clutch for passions' demand, whereon we ask our questions forming in mad kisses as words fail, as gestures of logic fail, as we blend our skins, our sweat, our lives, when the world seems a billion light years away, when all other connections hang on tethers without our sanctum, this is our magic, our legacy leaning into who knows where.
Arching up by the force of uncoiling pleasure, your back completes my hand's journey over your moist legs wrapped about my waist, and I see quite clearly what I hadn't before; that sight might grant the welcoming ardor consumed at once by the exploded kiss, that feeling with sight blinded in this violent flash of collecting all that may be collected fetes the ceremony held for private ecstasy and the feast of giving, where passion dwindles as it flared, leaving an ash of quiet, a flume of light so delicate as to be seen as a burning bouquet of Orchids.
Closeted, though emancipated by the spirit, bound to the wiles of venomous snakes entrapped in the depths by myriad locks, where psychical fingers, numb by decades of sloth, engage the prisons, fumble on the manacles, strip nails, bloody their tips by desperate need, though addled by the knowledge ensuring searches for the secret keys, are bent to the grope and gnawrl for its own exhaustion, are sent to exhalations of frustration and spurious suspicions, rendering laughs from the deepest pit, laughs around the hidden table where the darkest manipulators work their darkest mysticism on the thought machinery of my libido.
By the softest touch, you provided the choice, gave me wind to wile the word-light of a growing rapture and sent it whirling free to find its muscular hold on that which cannot be held, only touched...as touching is fueled to the heart strings pulled taught and made to carry the daring walkers over the pits of oily flames, challenging their minds to see the way clear, to find the path straight and secure the spirits that they might dare to behold sights, secret as the spinning flames of air singing like mad angels from the opened eyes.
In the circular race, what winds about the fury, becomes the fury, inherits the fury's sagacity in the spit of its heat, so in the final harrowing confrontation that we feel is the utmost battle, the greatest fight to be fought without guile or malice or need to prove, yet to fund its truth as its proof of light that flumes and plays like obstreperous adolescents in a maelstrom befitting grief's own discipleship, such as it is, we become the arbiters of this fashionable fury, we carry its armaments bravely awaiting sharp orders to stop and mount the guns accordingly.
Fluids of light-and-dark rush from the swollen banks on the roaring river of my soul; deep wells, blocked for decades, break their seals, erupt, explode geysers of flesh dissolved by passions' ardor, cleave breath sealing organs of the muscular heart on mouths dripping with savage hunger, split fused feelings repressed by doubt and fears, shatter the ancient bottles I've hidden in vaults under unmarked graves, now, unearthed, held with sweaty hands over the hardened flesh and thrown down, the erect revelation, waggling free with rude wiles and wonders, cracking it open, spilling contents that might arouse the gods.
Aspirations like the eating wind feeling its own vulnerability in the coming of appetites too drawn by the primal heat by muscular funding for the source mind being what it does, in the free sense of self we claim when the inner collects the outer, for what we want often threading what we need to our fears and private sense of being alive when we feel the most dead; ironic, that we should reach for the plenty in front of us only when it's gotten so bad, the shit we've taken to eat finally really tastes the way it should.
That we should reach when we should be pulling in, that the frenzies we're accustomed to might be the reasons for calm and polite harmonies, that however we deem ourselves fully realized as people who've climbed from the bottom of the buckets of cliches so raw and ridiculously sappy that it might be seen how we find our tempers becoming so brittle as reeds in a drought, so delicate, an exhalation of surprise might reclaim the funds we lost as the means to gain as dribbled away in the bombing, by crumbling the growth of our self made egotistical weeds.
Tempers that might crack by a kiss when the need outweighs sensibility and caution, when the heart of desire beats so hard car alarms go off, when we discover a calming frenzy so coveted as the drift of mind exhaling frustrations when proximity to the loved one adjusts to the movements necessary to reach the touch already touching, lips already kissing, arms already entangled, bodies threaded on bodies as the mind shreds itself by Bartok and Schoenberg fretting away on delicate Brahms' sensibilities, that however we see the end we find the beginning ever so lovely and demanding once again.
Then you might regard my attitude as one befitting a mountain climber taking their time in view of the challenge deriving its own defeat at the hands of the head undoing the buckles, untying the tethers, snipping the talons, such that the journey to reach the top has finally found its own completion, that the time to move on has made itself vivid, and whatever I may say or do is moot in the context of having that regrets giving, it's become the utmost importance to dive as low as one may soar; it's what we see when trying dies.
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