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One finishes an ending to assume a beginning, and the necessary fountain of desire, spreading its mouth wide to invite hearts that cannot pulse for blood that cannot flow for its certainty, bleeds its energy; thence comes the impulse, so graven in its nature of devolving form for intent, design for commitment and regard for expectations shaped for security, the breath taken to invest its muscular dance digs deep as the heaving ocean consumes surging and savage beasts hidden for the ocean's pleasure to reveal, when time fashions its need to create a diversion for the grace of questions' kiss.
The mark revolves pleasure like pain, a twin star of satisfactions' alchemy, about the dias we call consciousness, and in the volatile consumptions we derive, being thrust within the growing flesh of being, the crowning gold of that spark within of The Divine rises inexorable as a matter of profound solemnity aroused to fashion changes we could never foresee or control; that, being swept up from the centerfold we've held as the face of our presence in this superficial lack of grace, the picture of us, so defined, as Dorian Gray devolves as one shapes self as its own reflection.
Bear me, my threaded soul to the stitchery of your labyrinth of love, that my course of growing upon your heart, whose blood ardors grieve shadows on plains where battling eyes command fierce, unswerving bravery, shall be the quintessence of naked feeling, where fond tendrils wrapped about the heaving forms of us, once bound in catastrophic diving through the mounds of souls bleating their wonders from beyond, shall fund our passions' wit in the manner of what kisses might flesh from wishes to rouse the animus keeping anima in terrible delight and pain, so shall our quietus possess our thunders.
So long away from here, the vestibule coming closer to itself through valiant degeneracy, such as it is, being alive only so long as it takes to consume the revolving aspects we haven't the stomach to acknowledge, though the spark exists as it always shall to stimulate action and response in a vital fashion where the event itself spirals into the nothingness of profound something, as it is, we can never see or even become aware of this mystical process when the stability of our so called lives are threatened by such a calamity so known as life's bountiful grist.
Yes, the moment comes when all things accepted as true are thrown into a whorl of questions. As the crucible is formed, much as the arena of battle is built as a sacred place of primal confrontation, deriving the crux of seeing as being alive, truly aware of those struts and fixtures so carefully assembled into our safe house, that all things alien, regarded as hostile, perk up like threatened prairie dogs; comes the judgement machine, a trusted operative, kicked into violent action to sweep the spectres from our well manicured lawns, spits and snarls its gnawing way through truth.
The tease comes in a ghostlike form, unfurled by the fury of the gentle winds rising from our coupled centers creating the magical whirlwind through which we divine our coming and going of the fashioned muse, distinct, yet diffuse, hard though soft, furious, yet calm, all manner of aspects drawn fully into action and resolve, moving ever deeper over photographically sharp lines and shapes we call the face of reality, beneath which our thundering quiet spins its carousing magic; the tease, our bright catalyst, fondly devolves, becoming like ash by the fires of our creative passions, licking the twisting skies.
It is the spirit of knowing we seek, that sprite of bright life spinning from the core of collective thought by inspirations' bomb blown from the gathering of elements unheard of and mocked, considered a waste of space, then comes ignition, comes the conflagration, through which we dance like gibbering pookas, all lineaments sparked, skins aflame, tingled to the edge of reality's security, throttled so, that the very persona, as host, vanishes from here, a necessary consummation and sacrifice, little known to contain that which we extoll as that thing eternal, that flings itself to the eating skies for resurrection.
Fun times we crave when the belly of distress growls for sustenance, when the unnameable hunger rises like a thundercloud over Nebraska plains, piling its green fury over interlacing billows of refracted light, painting the face of demons' love of angels' grace, wherein, the core of Samael, prince of confusion, being itself subservient to its own mastery of darkness, entrapped yet freed for a time, arouses us and we become this thing, this Samael, ancient and wise, wicked, becoming not but being all things conceiving of evil's delicate touch, we become the corked vessel of storm, bottle of Genies' lore.
We seek this place of places under the widening umbrella of awareness donned for storms assumed incipient upon the paths we walk to protect and satisfy while goading us to shred it, for as the wisdom carouses by diving through dark answers bidding questions' release, we feel the growth within by infections without taunting us to strip for challenges in the naked rains, yet in the daunting winds we feel the vulnerability, we shrink back, we falter, hoping against hope, though in our heart of hearts we know what we know, going forth as we are, becomes harder than imagined.
We can find it again as always again where we thought to put it again but didn't, putting it on the edge of a reality few become aware of being aware of itself, that in itself, within itself we are found only to be lost again, reflecting back a billion trillion times, multiplexing a sense of self that deigns to find the gesture to occupy an infinite regression we've come to embrace as our own inimitable way of seeing through all the bullshit; this is where we reside, where we know what's known as the polite fashion of being, isn't.
One steps into the vigorous fold, the crosshatched web, seductive tangle of the unknown with a bag stuffed with warnings slung on our backs weighing a ton, driving us to wonders why, and the moment comes we hold as one bearing all caveats from mentors of the craft telling us to jettison the pack, discard the arcane offal; we conjure the voices, we enfold ourselves in their music, discordant, dissonant, penetrating and daring, for the violence of the complacent mundane encroaches. It seeks to overwhelm with nice, the comfortable salve of lunching ladies who smile and smile, waiting to die.
Lingering on the sumptuous impossibility of us, savoring the molten glow of skin fused on skin, and the urgent blend, the furious coupling of nothing to be done but yield to the delicious and terrible, the ecstatic and fearful, the quiet and the roar, that which tells but never speaks, shouts but is ever silent, that wonder of wonders when He speaks through our connections, delectable as the fury we smile upon; then shall the quietus derive our going forth with only questions crowding the prow of our vessel surging through the storm laden seas we've created by our Yes.
Then the violence caresses where caresses split the mad wound of us wide, and gushers of light erupt the tiniest fold where we bind ourselves to the shadows of our love, feasting on the light folding back upon our embrace, the light that shines for us alone, yet never alone, when triumphant magnificence relegates whom we've become, that the sum of us grinds its momentum into the Chesire's grin, luminous and consuming, the collective cheers in its galactic silence, for we have found what angels covet floating forever above our mystic flesh, wondering their wonders as we create our own.
Star bursting the vector gaze, the wide splash of wisdom crinkling, diabolical schemes to violate the status quo by the particular matrices we devised in the dark of our head and the backward revelations we attested as the path laid in trust and by the belief in truths untouchable by the residue masters found in fading photographs and paintings hung in austere and caverns of privileged inconveniences, we have found the need and vitality to reacquire that which was so cleverly stolen ages ago, the patterns we've made as the ones we hold in true suspicion of their absolute integrity.
Despite the tall smile twisted upon itself as a mockery of the witches of Why, What and Who that pramble our wits in defiance of the mastering goal shifters who design the rambunctious fits we keep as means to manage what becomes our management to obstruct, obfuscate and crowd our intentions with muddling distractions, so the course held as true morphs as one that connives its mind by emotional infections and the subtlest intrusions from the deepest corners of our shadowed heart where plots of insidious scope are wrought for the dark pleasures of those who are virtually born daily.
Inspired by hard words melting off your eyes in a soup of flame tipped flesh bubbling kisses by the whirlwind we create, claiming hold on nothing to be seen, only felt for extraordinary calms sweeping over the frenetic pools wherein we dive for our very lives, lest the terrors overcome with blindness, how we revolve in the anteroom after the storm, the ravaging disease of complacency may well reduce our furious love to blisters of how we may become ourselves as the masters of our fates existing so simply on the rising afterglow of our kisses, our beingness may explode.
A moment comes above and below all moments convolved onto a point of reckoning, that one may deign to pray that such sight be given to see the delirious spread that blankets our mind when surrounded, confronted, and put to the test, to steady one's nerves in the rapids rising a foaming rage, a fierce quality, daunting, terrifying, rousing through the fibers dimmed in the shock, unfolding off the stumble, rising above the clamor, assuming the Power beyond all powers, to surrender oneself to This, to drop the oars, to give the boat up and be within His merciful grace.
Peaceably, we speak to ourselves as the one we love to speak to, as the one by which we launch the aspirations we deign as particles comprising our beliefs in ourselves; we construct the value of ourselves by the base assertion that we exist to create the web of light and darkness by choice as befits our ever changing matrix within the matrix, and so becomes the pulsing orb of ourselves within a galaxy of orbs glimmering, racing, dancing through the hungry void bereft of nothingness by the very existence of our courage to live, to reach for the stars.
Our quenching fires are bound in mind of coupling the tinders we carefully nurtured throughout the wilding woods of our steely glassed society; wild like sweeping flowers over rain drenched deserts overwhelming the staid and dry, our blooming wonders defeat empty wanderings by night for succor, and we cheer this brave vitality, we delicately and fiercely claim our touching that cannot be wounded by the hearth of disrepute or denial of connection sparking like mad, surging our dynamic flows from which we drink like parched warriors at an oasis, finally discovering what we've always had, and are now deleriously celebrating.
Our delicate words drive passion's gears through the wild fires on our paths winding ever tighter, wider, rounding out that which begs a form yet denies the fashion expectation fondled in the designated matrix, so we forage ahead daringly formless; happy for amorphous liberty, we assume this regard, the quality of being alive for the joy of being shuttered in the photo flashes of our oneness as bright fantasies, dancing behind our eyes, tantalize, mesmerize, defy definition in the flames we arouse; they possess flesh, that which was ghostlike and blaze into our brilliant reality, as we exhort the silence ensuing.
Regards of fire bound within, that which burns like a goading darkness, blazing bright as a new sun over landscapes begging for the exhortation and extension of the dream, you fondle the edges, dare the precarious ledges, move cautiously toward moving through the inky wonderland of heart as the spirits of inspiration wind and whirl like fiery tongues of breath you taste as the heart dives deep as high as eternity may dare; you feel this begetting, feel its power and delicious liberty begging just behind the flowing red curtain on a stage about to be drawn back, revealing you.
Departing the scored landscapes spread over the backslid monuments erected by antipathy with mortar of unsavored wounds or manipulated skins covering forms without faces, spirits without heart, minds without calm or the gratuitous melody of serenity, I have come to the risen state of seeing without sight by the glimmer after storms that beset my wracked soul for salve of the impossible kiss, finding an impossible love and the inherent variance conjured as the means toward touch and the acceptance of touch, accepting the salvific salve known to the ancients as agape through worthiness, through a smile I could taste.
Cracked awake on the dawn spilled for its opening onto a spreading field of cacophonous quiet, so delicious is the din, my flesh throbs for the expansion; such is the beauty, the glory, the ecstasy of my feeling where touch collides itself on a glance off the inner eye glancing you, my love. How can I express this expression wanting words that don't exist, for in the violence of peace that broadens even as it focuses all its bounty? I am wordless, even though I cannot stop mining the source within from which I excavate the matter of your kiss.
We can drive ourselves down through impossible mind shifts by drafted serpentine thought machineries busted beautifully, when the brain is broken open as a vessel, bits of mind as drafted doubts shunted as fuel for the fires we resisted for eons, as we were called to act upon rules infecting the source gears. Like acid in the head base making whoopie for the reduction of reason and the elevation we mustn't talk about or pretend to hide, the glory of this path leading toward nothing but the ascension of inspiration and the death of hopelessness, carries with it our destiny.
Are we leaving in the rising fog? Are we disintegrating the flux of our rapid incision, blood like saliva thrust into a whirling vortex, falling on the spreading desert floor, luminous eyes blending our tangled music up a wild crying cloud shedding its tears drying on the vapid plains, can we not grapple necessity with our hands or bodies? Can we remain this pair of bright stars revolving about kisses where we find that which can only be found in the dissolution and device of love? Are we leaving this now? Has to come to the end of another beginning?
Has the circle been severed, punctured, bleeding the clear fluids we held in our privations with fierce connectivity melding the frayed ends? Are we in the crucible after all, where that which blends for life's alchemy fuses by a steam of nuclear awareness, and the deciding momentum conniving not only its viability or functionality or service must deflate its tumescence and fall to the side as that which had to die? Am I falling again? Is the circle of primal attitude driving me into the center and circumambulation of Divine Light demanding the coupling divide off the resolutions we created?
By inscrutable design with strange functionality, the bias of charge between the fleshy islands straining against their own realities rose as befitted the muscular connection so vitally attained in the dark by distant energies vying through commitments inevitably compromised, where the initial fabric stretched like lover's spirits over steaming skins resting into themselves, surrendered and accepted the invasive smile, at once an uncomfortable Chesire, floating like a pulsing orb over the conjugal bed, that once assumed a viable drift by agreement, settled onto the delicious sore, healing confusion, and once upon a day, began the monumental attainment we've since become.
I fell inside the wild mangling, the primal bloom, a mystic revelry, her brandished flower garden of frenetic mists of color, delirious slashes out a mad rainbow, the source of her, and that which couldn't hold by the unseen, penetrating magic wielded, I moved to combine the asking soils. I contorted to become my own fond sacrifice, happily mounting the pyre touched by a tongue of flame shot through our hearts unfolded, chambers split, our private blood fluming like ribbons flung out the core, revealed, binding us together, forging connection, allowing the slip of heaven and hell to become us.
The secret natures of the corn Bible-belt are left to skewed vectors in the dark habitats of megalomaniacal cohorts that plot without sanction, who work alone with the intention of defying that which the community allegedly supports, and when in view of all the dangerous methodologies so many exhort as the one ticket to heaven, I should make the habits I keep to myself as something no one but the elders could even begin to take seriously, and their quiet places, lofty locales of dubious security, are the perfect places to lose a thread or two as befits them.
Swerving on the visage of your dancing light in a whirligig motion suiting my inward dive, I glance the makeshift residues left behind the bonfire once tongued by your emancipated finger of fire, and I sit amazed by your resolve to truly love, reaching not for desolations' cave, where masters of darkness, gathered in shadowed circles, grin for lack of feelings eviscerated, but to hold your head high, to command the wonder you exude by every breath, to allow the passions offered, to accept my evanescent breath sacrificed in this glittering bauble expanding, that I may disappear within your embrace.
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