REPORT A PROBLEM
My words are the muscular gestures of a soul seething in its tiny frenzy wanting to eat the universe in several bites, wanting to consume the heaven of all hells, needing to find the ceiling of eternity, to touch the bottom of evil and kiss the top of good, to find the threads of your soul that keep the harmony of my eyes riddled with splintered light and mangled lust, what kaleidoscope divination divines when your skin burns mine by the fevers fumbling for exhalation taking in the boiling of our souls to cook our inhibitions like so many oysters.
That which we are morphs as it moves inward and outward the path of us, through the flesh conveniences, the voluble designs of light and dark, and the quiet roars we keep in our heart of hearts, knowing the danger as we step off the rocking deck, slipping, sliding, caressing, plunging matters of passion in step with the raging ocean ever so slightly skewed as the wonder of us increases, as the fears rear like aroused lions, as the baseline curves, as the subtle intent devises its course, we move as we move, and the threads of us bind deliciously.
Spider-lights scintillate our web, and the violence of the keeper's calm trembles in the fretted fingers of us tripping off skins that collect delights feeding fears to be digested mysteriously, completely, as the stretched web keeps its form as the changeling body it is, to be derived in the wholeness kept secret, a wholeness knitted to surprises we couldn't anticipate or prepare ourselves for; it simply is, as it becomes itself by the tangles inherent to the web's creation, for its the creation that arrives as it leaves, keeps as it gives away, questions as it answers, nothing less.
Tripping through the gates as they appear out of nowhere, it seems, laughing and grunting intermixed with the fluttering of limbs, as we work to fit ourselves to the rousing game; no one knows or may predict where or when these gates will materialize, but they do, by God, and they demand attention. The fond regard we fondle in response to the flexed skins marking their muscular arrangements to the challenges is a fashionable delight if seen for what it is, or what it wants to be, especially as the core grows in its glow and feverish throb of light.
Should I say how the warmth envelopes me upon a thought of you? You might think me ridiculously romantic; as in the streams of my life I abjured the flower of this warmth. I took pains to regard such warmth as meaningless nonsense and a nuisance, a thing to be derided and scorned for its spurious flush obfuscating the grit of truest life. How foolish I had been, yet, waiting beyond anything for an awakening, such a one I have found in you. My heart has opened. I give it to you. Not a thought should I waste for doubting.
The call of I screes its voluminous breach of conduct as its call of war on that which mocks the I as the pinnacle of peace of Not I, where no conflict is necessary, only assenting, where the diabolical construction assumes its rise under eyes, under flesh, under the beat of convenient assumptions, where all that exists in the functioning reality fades gradually past any awareness, where all recedes from the naked mind being duped by the most clever lies and becomes the fashionable wear of popular prison systems, where all, as marked, bear the vivid identity of Not I
Can I say how you delve toward the very core of my heart, that it feels essential to lay the nakedness of I on the very fire stone you've born for sacrifices in the giving places assumed the birth place of I, where the spark we flint by nodding toward the ritual might catch the unexpected tinder we cannot see, where the consequential conflagration roars controlled and uncontrolled, violently and peacefully, high and low, across the expanse of imagination, pitted on the crucible we've fashioned as the canvas of your children's procreation, the very hotbed of your need to create?
The siphoning secret we sire collects the uncollectables of heart to heart, bleeds the black ardor, seals the souls bound together on a landscape that's ours, solemn and sacred, a world we might feel as we feel in the deepest of touches, widest of embraces, feverish kisses tonguing the blood of light flowing like Niagara from skin to skin, eye to eye, blinding the mind to fears that have no purchase; such as it is, we seek this place, indistinct, lacking earmarks of maps on the map designating how we find that which cannot be found but given by Grace.
Should streams violate issues of skewed reality, the skittering, psychic morass, myriad crystalline shards of seeing the root of seeing after blindness grabs light by its belly and blows it heavenward, I would ride the currents readily, assign myself to the sacrifice demanded, give in to losing assurances of safety, allow the function of possible disaster rally its muscle to the meat of my endeavors and drive the ecstasy factor through the highest high and lowest low, thereby defining the manner in which love ascribes its mystery in my gravest throb that pulses toward the core of your sensual soul.
Marching through the oily fogs choking our fervor, fogs stifling the collected wits we divined within the conjuring crucible, colliding the obfuscating barriers erected, taking them on by our wits wound cleverly around the hidden objects of our desires, we challenge them, goad them, beckon them to fit the ardors they arouse, for they'd love it if we stopped, denying ourselves; crouched behind the defiant screens with smiling faces goading us to stop, we plot the move ahead, we wait, we watch, then we take the step, we ignore the fizzling voices "stop, stop, stop," and we go, we fly.
That incredible strength, crouching fever of the need, that voluminous core of light we create in creating our place of creation, how it trembles under the dressed flesh that fingers its bulging skins; we step over the edge of wanting to finding, to becoming the very face of desire burning itself for a sacrifice on a landscape widening as it stretches through the limits imposed by the horizons rising from its bed to the summit of its crossing charms, its tempting call, its nature defying all complacency that wants security and calm, predictability and freedom from that which defines nice.
The shrill moment was defined when the value of indisputable vitality surrendered loudly to the raw sensibility we know and respect as our form of being when falling into wise and compatible grief machines held as complete and irrefutable, though only as the last measure held up as the final throw of faith before apostasy, then comes the tsunami we recognize from the inner realms where fighting is regarded as the surest way to ensure disputes, then again, as a mind made whole from bits of shattered dreams, that which resolves firm isolation keeps the value of self at zero.
Intemperate light entwines dark desires twisting their own redoubtable natures we fear, confounding the sense of them as the ones we hold so high without question, so when the answers bombard us with designs that can never place what joy seems to resolve that despair deflates, we carry the torch as lit to the highest point on the landscapes spread thick with functions begging for resolve, challenging our computational hearts, bitching and moaning at a shot, to put to the test those very claims made when everything's fine, when everything seems beyond reproach, when the effort to change seems pointless.
The day is lost. The day is gained. Day is pushed to the side by angelic need of demonic awareness assumed as designated, then fronted by its own delight and horror, full blown as a wild flower blooming like a sun gone nova, seen as the power fueling the substance we hide under guise of right and wrong, missing all that's fully undressed in front of us...the subsumed methodology and vitality denuded in turn by the rigor applied to its imprisonment, released ever so slowly, ever so delicately in the minds of those in need of its true meat.
Subtly sweet exposures fade into view dividing the whole as assume, and becomes the complete dis-assembly we find to siphon a mind desperately expanding with the rough inflation so hard pressed and grievously bound to the templates hovering like big brother's monitors labeling the violence as peaceful, the insertion as correct, the violation of self as necessary, then comes the smiling comforters, the beneficent brothers and sisters nodding, "oh yes, yes, you've done the proper thing," as soul withers in its bottling, expands to form the quality of its cell, decides the need to decorate the bars is essential.
We can wonder all we want, fondle all we feel in the heat of undoing primal matters ascribed to the patterns we've created to fashion our place of being, our place of security, but then it comes to its own confrontation with all the revelations begotten when diametric energies carouse the doorway, as nimble fingers explore the passage from the viable light where all is seen as the world we know and accept, and the vital insertion begins its viral attack, then the means to fuel intent drain away, and all that motivates us to fill our lives crumbles deliciously.
We don't want to piss in the carrot cake, not now, not with all the relatives coming over to congratulate the tender new initiate on their way to bombing themselves with unexpected ardors and golden chains to dress the inner wounds festering like rotting bullheads on a dock under a Midwestern summer sun. No, we have to understand, these things are vital to our survival when the mad monks of innovative thought come round to spit on traditions upheld in musty garrets where artists are properly relegated by the ruling class to contemplate their vicious misdeeds and totally soiled underwear.
The need conceals intent, and the hidden volatility mainlines the ambition of the architect. Construing design over belief manufactures a forced peace, exhumes the darkness from assumed light, and all that conveyed its protection falls before your eyes, and all that exhaled a breath of love now fumes a breath of battle; eyes, once soft, harden for the fray. Conceit conspires with need, packs the emotional explosives tight within pursed lips, and when vulnerability vys against its temper to save the moment from daunting ire, the trigger will pull, bomb will arm, and time itself hardens, tempered by goading fires.
Threads fray for the reassembly, our reconnection fires how it cannot be but something other than what it cannot be but how it might or how it might not; our arrangement decides itself on the cresting wave, presaging a tsunami of overwhelming humor and delight. Being swept away on its bite digging down the meat that simmers on the barbecue we made in the room we keep for our own erotic undoing, that which devolves in head by the heat made supple for our pleasure only means what it strives to mean, then by absolute gestures is wholly made clear.
The dialogue is drifting off the island where the bomb exploded so deliciously in the midst of our funneling how we make time fold backwards by inverted kisses in the flesh machine devised and operated by everything and nothing, our extremes being the means for habitual denial of sharp demarcations of black and white, greys having sway in the decision process, however free we seem, the entrapment looms as the only reality, then comes the split, and the viable mechanisms of connection long lost in the fits of finding that can never be found are found again as never lost.
Sent in the midst of a storm without precedent, your spirit flung itself through the fires we sparked in the museum of past regrets, then came the middle blooming in the tangle of the end and beginning; we fired how we flew, and by the energy that could never be touched, the angelic and demonic, cold and hot, left and right, a masculine aperture of venom, untapped by the feminine exclusions, bled the time and rapturous music conspired to the Holy entanglement aroused indelicately by the words spoken so softly, yet deafening in terms of speaking at all only silence.
Fisted knuckles and the softened hand melted into one solidity, the only sure vibration that skin might devise given the extremes of going and coming, appearing and disappearing, shadowed in the pressing play where bodies dissolve, such that we have the right to gain and lose at once, this one contentment of hearts and minds, being the sustenance of loving, not a pattern of rules, we go by the instincts shunted into firey view by an impulse as a godly touch of demons, so hot and cold at once one might define the towering and lowering entwisted like backward birthing.
What volatile surge can revise what hard confusions might sway or buffet in defiance of such quaint destructive fondness for utter blankness and the terrors we assign to turgid belief systems insisting we never act as ourselves but rely on that which emanates from a place no sane mind might admit for cruel pleasures in deference to nothing but nothing? My heart climbs its own limits to touch your loving, and how my body tires of the battle, how terribly lost the solidity seems in these blank confusions, how distant love feels, how easy it would be to fly away.
How goes the lion after the insertion of the lamb, how its variance distributes the quality of the digestible means of reaching the inner goal obviating the outer reaches of a space for which we have no regard or understanding, yet fondly signs its name to the register of thought machinery grabbing at the proverbial straws wherein the particulars are dialoguing with none but the tributes given as rewards for sensibility and sensitivity, this being the goal mentioned obliquely somewhere in the nexus region that lives for the certainty of no one or nothing; thus we see how we don't.
Would this be the what of why or why of what that cleverly commands that amazing plunge of the ineffable fluid up the down and around what of why of what we are that treads as heavily as lightly...I dare you to figure it out with that rasher of rules stuck on the brain in the musty office where daddy died, so like the rule monger of the hour to place such a wicked premium on the schedule updated continually without translations convenient or even readable, such as it is, we lob on rasher's pasty, and why? Search me.
Filling it out, and you got me, I got you, our stuff is clogging the radio airs...tipping off the obvious circuitry, you might say we grabbed at the art of confusion real sweet with clarity of our kisses radiating down the metronome flesh climbing up its tempestuous rhythms that may not deliver as well as expected, though the searching mind glommed on its squishy electricals seething in the fretted secrecy you might wish when the heat gets so, the orbiting town mind would send its devilment to the movie house where we enjoy sex the most, thrusting between frames.
The ploying instrument of the artist's soul deciding matters of functionality we fit ourselves within happily, mangles the officiating rule master wielding the rod, lest those who defy may learn the errors of their ways, and we bless the gathering of life's bleeding that may never pollute our pulsing organs assembled for weathered wits to wind their spirits about the erupting dances gibbering for release by cadences of rapturous contradictions parading under the radar awaiting the melody that must be corrupted for loving's drive to insinuate the core carousing skittered ways we kiss the very face of our rejoicing God.
How one sweeps the diameter of psyche's circle infecting what's buried as sacrosanct in the midst of the heaving, throbbing machinery we designate as the cogs of love, be it the streaming flexion of flesh by heat of desire's pattering screes or the mutable blood that flows as an invisible marauder striking by will of the will tuned to invest its prowess toward occupying the keepsake locked in spurious words spoken under romantic haze, or that which climbs over walls of wit and steals itself while the master sleeps, then we shall know, then we shall greet our truest coupling.
Within that ritual of connection to one, by flows we cannot vet or behold as we hold words spoken under euphoria's canopy, that which was held at bey becomes our yen to hold another; in the alchemy grown through hearts thrust into the rapids like mad Kells churning through ideological foundations to which we surrendered, we divine the perplexing blend, and the driving madness, as a golden fire, consumes the day, the hour, the minute, the second, the quintessential present for the one met, completes the needs of the other; so the river flows, we drink, and we are strangely nourished.
Hard as a rock, my enlivened flesh pumps lava like kisses in the dented break of day, stippling that core of darkness, surging your font of light so thick as to drown regard of denying desire's chortle in the plenty of giving; how I might cheer our widening river, its raging rapids, its calm swirling pools, its ripping currents, its engorged life teeming wild, I can only smile a private kind of smile that only you can hold for its implied truth being aside all the other truths you carry in your mind, body and soul treasuring privately this hardness.
By the ministration of the center most-cavern that designates our most private realms where the habitat once made vacant has sensitized the matters we've wrought in the tangling of spirit and substance, how we create this sordid and sacred blending divines most vividly our conjunction, however inchoate such a conjuration might be. We've divided off the insufficient means to fashion our expectations, thence comes the monumental creation of feeling without sensibility or reasoning; we merely opened the door offered and passed through, seeing how we see, going how we go, thus becoming US.
The Tip Jar