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Persevering the dream machination off the regard of limitations imposed by reason of love fearing its own convolutions in the whirlwind of a connection sparking how it becomes the source of who we are and how we go wherever we stay the moment, however we drive desire to its peak, whenever we see the opening, the crack through the scream's steam, by this the flood occurs that drowns in a happy hysteria all that conceals the vitals and reveals the passage from the viable present spreading into the fantastic and sublime life rumbling just below all our questions' feverish heat.
Lofty sores, concealed by convenient lies, erupting their own kind of pleasure at the proper time, their own kind of splash of light by cross vector spaces of myriad definitions crushed into the awful mix, arouse the horribly delightful emergence that has a name, a face, a persona of undefined grandeur, such that all we conceive as the animate I of eye may devolve its fractal confusions associated with the sumptuous sensuality driving the quality of love unfolded by fleshy leaves of lust flowers blooming like mad men belching frenzies in the spongy dark where all the wrong becomes right.
Did you see the fires, the leaves of flame slithering round the trees of us that ascended the sweat stippled alters erected in solemn silences all our own where all that was held as true disintegrated in a whirl of strange laughter and tears, the fever of which that could not be summed by unusual means where logic crumbled like day old croissants under bedeviled reflections revolving the ancient doorways behind our eyes ripped from the frames we keep for assurances of our precarious sanity as the visage beheld in timeless fashions wavers ever so slightly in need of blindness?
Howsomeever the drift of telling our times of loving while recreating the means to redefine touch as the source of our need to find each other finding each other found, that the mystery of our collective heart beating by a thrash of invisible cables carrying the precious load of lights sparking mind and soul of our mutual seeking while holding those evanescent truths shooting like wild stars in the hot messes of kisses so roundly fashioned in a welter of wishing our passions might tell the tale, even as it tells the tale...grants our lives a gentle touch of God.
That thrusting body of light infecting the center of my soul's gravitas toils in its fond rowdiness in the ever contriving madness throbbing on a wavering blister of shadows like a thatched raft on the Colorado in spring thaw rushing through my dented awareness laboring to release its tormented agonies and ecstasies as the battered shoreline erodes, as my need to expand the flow tempts my crafted heart to break free its shackles and give way for the informed blood of God to seep the fissures and sate that which thirsts for emancipation from that seductive, slippery serpent called hubris.
Who is the guide in the dark wings waving its arms, smiling its Chesire smile, carrying its shimmering weight like an eagle carries its power of eye eating all that spreads beneath its wings? What is it that slips through the stage floor cracks, slithers up the worn feet, the itchy skin, the tired blood, assails the voluminous heart within the heart beating without thought of beating? How can this unctuous passion that flowers beneath one's gaze infect the polestars of the I, such as it is, the imperfect perfection of the insinuated soul climbing up the spine of yours?
How the personal flex machine dissembles ease for its pleasure principle dividing off the attitude I possess for leavetaking of wits can only be measured by the ease of making mayonnaise and drawing no quick conclusions where delicious source materials are utilized against their wills or given to savage realities absorbed in violent waves against shorelines ripped and ragged by eons of storms, that I may find the raptures, created for the flows and weakening breakwaters the means by which I may crack my own limits, that I might inseminate a fertile landscape spreading wild like a field of goldenrod.
Taking time off climbing time to its limit of sense, re-establishing the key center of time's tripping coil, that vast impossibly small point of origin, defined before definition was preferred to mere acceptance, describing the temper of its right embracing the soul of time as the meaning of time without the need for it, but the reality of it, which is no reality but the reality of illusion, and that which traces its face with circumspect delight knows not how to deny it, yet clambers frantically after it at the least insignificant provocation; thus it goes, this whirligig deception.
Fixed to nothing and saying the accorded verse appropriate to the saying as the verse needs a sense of beginning, ignoring the middle being a whole lot of gratuitous stuffing, or that which vies for the reality of the end ineluctably carousing a mind dancing about its own mortality recreating the world as it sees unfit for its salutation, let alone a keen vitality, though, as hard as it may be, the conjured hands meet hands on a circuitous mending ferocity unknown until known, forgotten immediately, stored on the wake of actions taken not unlightly, just swollen by their regard.
Under its own beatific, rarified momentum placed under a glass for reviewal and sensational stasis in a lazzi of intentions medicated beyond the soul's ability to reap reward from its own awareness gone batty off the flower mind blooming down, plummeting the grave attitudes held aloft for fears of fears not seen, heard or even imagined, the proper manner one strives to adopt for political correctness has to gear its sad but happy, calm and furious methodology wherein masses of unimaginable density may beget their own dissolution aptly screwed to the top of the neighborhood's current pet deity's bathroom cabinet.
Arousal through a quiet fit in the clutch we cannot assay by the reasonable ascensions aspired by that which sits on low, for that which divines by assumptions of being alive to the landscapes spreading out our fierce consciousness collecting jagged shards of mirrors holding our visage in skewed lights off the center of awareness may combine the digestion wherein we devour ourselves to recreate ourselves in magnificent geysers of soul spouting out fissures in the beauty blast, by the uncoiling of flesh crushed on flesh, in the diving up of wits dissolved for love's intrepid bliss spangling metallic kisses.
Residues of soul, sweet as baked honey splashed by crystalline ginger and cinnamon, spreading over the new tilled soils of heart, take to the risen sun of us spinning in the dented nights as food like manna rained from heaven to refresh the lost on lifeless deserts sprouting not the leviathans of the deep as means to fright or intimidate but as the collective creations found in the core of being where logic curls on itself as a fond reminder of that which was necessary for a time while the new temple was built, while the heart regained its pulse.
Silence is not sound, the reverberations off the soul deflects vibrations throbbing up through messes of right and wrong, the radical diagrams of wanting not the wishes inherent of desire's molten gold, that which floods the mind, drowns the heart happily on the finger fretted path toward loving, keeps our semblance of self in a quirky check. The balance of need over want exceeds the patterns of silences twisted to unrecognizable shapes and guises redolent of being awake to the seeking out the eye, just that, the eye of the beloved; the secretive gusts of light infecting all that burns.
To those methodical gusts we crave, to their fevers inside the gestures recreated to inhabit the flexed flesh to fund its passage into mystery, we ascend to that which frets like fear of death in the soul beyond the lineaments of soul, but the gown donned as the mobile apparition so declared a mystic revelation on which we we can pin the donkey's tail for salve and soothe, yet in the mind we fashion as mastery over the kernels of growth, the acorns, the walnuts that guide us cross the river Styx, we deign to engage our lovers' fond need.
I seek your hot breath. I seek the wild need you keep tucked away like so many stolen diamonds, like the Bengal Tiger we become in the sweat sopped festival no chef may standardize. I seek your mind unwrapped by a thrusting kiss, stabbing the moist, deep passage of speech stopped in a startled frenzy, coined against the starry sky as a burning comet frozen for the earthly eye fixating on its gorged path through black where light reigns as the gibbering gods of Olympus, piling toward the wonder we exude by such secular thralls that steam might only cool.
There it is, there it becomes again, the wonder, and not so lost by the distance begging a touch over work fraught landscapes as such; we prevail. We sing our mystic love. We praise the mystery no mind may unravel. We yield to the touch. We gather the bits of temper crumbling after clutches, that we may tear away our fears and ascend even higher, plunge even deeper, travel to the very core where tendrils of spirit dance about the glowing rod; we pay the ferryman, and as we leave the shore looking out over the boiling sea, we laugh.
Wild variances of sexual tastes have merely succumbed not to the radical shifts implicit to the right and left brain playing volleyball or inexplicably cued to the rote rundowns of methodical analytical surgeries for the removal of irritating and confusing joke festivals nor the raptures that accommodate what could only be referred to as illicit sums of pornographic platitudes when reduced to the simple recipes for mince pie with sardines and rat poison, that the prized enterprise we seek is made manifest by slowly climbing down the ladder within our staid psyche, if for no other reason than to awaken.
It is the quiet wherein I seek you in the vitality we don as the garb that glistens in the dark, shimmers from the place behind the street, behind the noncomprehending closures by values blind to mysterious needs, unconscious by wits bound to implacable cells of right and wrong; it is there where we commiserate our pains and joys, there where angels wrestle demons wrestle angels wrestle in a round fury as kisses demand their own fire, their own idiosyncratic branding. It is there we fete the magic infecting the whorl on the dias of sacrifice to bless our love.
How often I have set aside time for the privilege you've blessed me with that removes fear of abandonment from these old sinews, whose strain on the vitality of hope cranes its voluminous engulfed cathedral of silence, beckoning not the keepsake of trial and tribulation, but the raptures held most dear as truth drives lies into oblivion, as honor craves not its own for its own but takes hold of living and bends its sensibility off the design we've accepted as absolute and drives the want from need where we can feel, hear, see that which only dies to live.
I hear you seeing me feeling the way to feeling me, seeing me, hearing me that which belies not the radical shifting of hope into chasms of despair, but however one might conjure the passive way to aggressively assume what we've accomplished, not by trying but by letting go of trying, allowing the crystalline fluids to feed the ventricles of soul that so often beat for naught and the frantic need of being accepted at all costs, this, my ocean of spirit bulges at the seams with hunger of the mind sated by your touch of touching my touching you.
Driving the driven further out, further in, wider than the breadth could diminish to infinity, broader then the multiplexing reality derived as being the source of all that lives in the muddling complexity beyond all comprehensions leaving the residuals of soul discarded as unnecessary, reducing us to the final assumption of being alive enough to know we need to die to become all that exists for the living behind the diaphanous veil challenging, goading, beckoning us to fall within the perplexities to chance the impossible possibility of seeing beyond that veil, at last, to breathe the flesh of light beyond.
Falling in, falling up, the grateful living alive to die to lies, falling beside graveyards where the found weep for lost questions, taking missives of right to be wrong, throwing patterns of grief to the eating wind, gathering the rarified wits, letting the tripped mind bleed its wounding for redemption and the wrought tempered soul to be saved begotten of its death, so into the ocean the scattered dust of words dissolve, so to the inner currents these matters become the new seeds, inseminating spirits that they may be gowned by the new eyes formed of ones that never opened.
A patter of hands displacing feet compose the source of sentient motion, the receding, morphing body within the decaying body, a ghost, forming and deforming to fit the unfittable flesh saturated by forgetfulness; limbs dried and arthritic, long separated from sensibility, long dissociated from associations assumed the means to drive the decayed vehicle from here to here and back again without so much as feeling passage as anything but the inconvenient shit, feel about without clear intention, a mere groping as throes of death beg the body to let go, refusing to see through eyes that can no longer weep.
Slipping off the slippery mind crying out for capture, for a means within to feel a trophy world as a living room, place of collections, a series of display boxes glimmering with splintered memories fixated like statues of sometime souls terrified of motion within the idea of motion allowing the form of beingness to assault like a bug of mind stinging for its sense of sensibility, for any feeling is better than none, any tingle, any spark, any gesture of a gesture waiting upon the mark of wakefulness to assume an assumption beyond the overarching need to sleep and forget.
Fire in my head, an exhilaration of the senses untapped, wriggling up, boiling through calloused tissues of denial, once coiled under tangled muscles gathering fierce torpor for degrees of separation unknown to those who merely see with corrected vision; now, for the challenge broadening, for the battle straining upon the start like a maddened greyhound in a slip, I find not fear, not horror, not the wrought finality resounding for the burial incipient of a timed out peace where packing is a skull releasing the cages of thought, but joy, rushing forth like a hungry mercenary hunting dawn for battle.
We have entered that realm beside the waking sleepwalking realm, that realm within that place where claims made to preserve our wavering consciousness as a vase of milk hurtling down to an inevitable pulverization, begs a mind grasp its worth for the life of living itself, for the vitality presumed as the keepsake held under the ancient, mystic glass, and how we keep ourselves from seeing, let alone feeling the incipient recreation necessary yet avoided at all costs for our salvation deemed the only thing worth living for, as the irony bleats out its deafening song to soothe awareness' calumny.
A sorrowful joy shouts in extremis of need blanched in sweat from the volatile surrender, the collapse of flesh after the long illusion of distance has dissolved, faded by the forgetfulness of erotic ecstasy, blown from wild exhalations dividing off inhibition from the comfortable matrix of convivial duty, such as we are, the missile majestic clawing after hungers pricked to attention, the steaming frenzy, two hearts folded onto one, where fevers flaming up the heaving muscles have become the arrival and departure at once, the end and the beginning, the ascension and descent, toward what caverns of soul may exhale.
Threadbare in the mischievous lights dangled over thinking the dots that don't connect, don't summon the rational man to his posturing on his private landscape of dissolution when 'being' becomes 'not-being,' when throngs of tormented clutches of neurons labor under logical duress to fashion cause and effect in the manner of a car navigating a city with a drunk GPS, such that all the fond constructions deriving their missions from residues of thought, from the shards under mud softened by the deluge of inspiration flowing in a foamy rush over baked moralities, we see that seeing demands its obliteration.
On the ruddy ship shaken off the balanced idea of itself on a wave deforming as it shudders the hull, that such instability might divide the shadowed path from its own intent to serve destination with reality, provide actuality with a dream dissolved for the benefit of a keen imagination roused for its own good, dismissed as fast as its legitimacy cheers not its fashion but its pose in the winds rising in the heat of action over wishing; that once the matrix is seen for its spurious root pulled up in a frenzy of curiosity, we can finally die.
So I arrive on the ground sunken in the attitude where life can no longer satisfy itself with bent truths to muster calm in a fond storm, force knowledge to become the slave of conformity, temper cause by effect of keeping-the-peace, such that the disease grows unseen, metastisizes illusion over form asking for its questions' threat to bury wonders with a wild-fire web of convenient certainties, shadow mystery with obfuscating lights of mall infatuation and fast food indigestions, this majestic design drives the heart to a furious throb that surges power before the need of it cries.
Hard throttled, my body, feeding off a pert tangle of ambition grieving age and wear is a spiral round itself into a seductive terrain of weariness, the place of surrender, where the head nods at the wheel, where thoughts made clear on bold patterns held aloft fall beneath themselves, terrorize clarity entwisting obfuscation, with threads frayed, cables sparking, feeling the slight disassociation expand, and the plentiful raptures felt only moments ago, a weird tale, unexpected and fearsome, is told; so to the edge I go, for the edge comforts me, draws me into solace, creates balm as I lean out.
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