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Oh, to sail and see the lands that funneled up the mind in rapture of its freedom's wit, when lands contained in forming earth of substance by a fuming cloud regarded nothing of the air and sea, how mastered, though they be, diadic frenzies in a circuit simple, we beget complexities for telling where we walk and how we walk on highways of the conjured lands, then in the fretted bough we rest to claim the ardor for its cooling, and to the clasp of flesh, the imagined twist, the rugged and the soft, a form we breathe, eternal be.
In the bricked silence, my shouts melt the astute misdirection of able minded souls of sorrow who cannot or will not pursue the viability and virtue of that kind of soul machinery constructed behind the eyes of sightless sharpshooters who revel in not seeing as a way of living in a harmony construed most delicately in the roundabout of imagination's root, that my heart can lodge in this place of such cacophony and peace and still beat as needs the dream weaving blood surging through the violent paths and byways few assume as passable through the depths of waking dreams.
Finding the root of what fends off a mind fet of filling the psychical sore with salve to save how tepid the calling has become, diminished to seeking the mere sensational, tipping the grace off her hat in the windy caverns we beckon for desire's hauling away the deadly weight in the drugged down state to serve our tormented game, that the face upbraided to the scanning eyes is clear, assuredly by the deeds we deem necessary as demanded for their distractions, the eyes must be fed by the dragged out conjunctions of animosity as the duping tale is spun.
Halting grave designs on elegant expectations, taking the force from its own direction, and applying it as an inner strength to the captured state of beingness in a bauble, in a box with fretted surfaces and deforming sides meant to confuse, yet bemuse, entertain even, to distract the ones wielding its heft through the dog-dayed nights when habit construes all that it can to assure the sacristy of its form and intent, yet within its bulk comes the voices trapped within, held in spite of those who sought their demise in ditches, ovens and other dens of adroit disappearance.
Masterfully rigged to reconstructive attitude shifts in the matter of drawing out the vitality from that which appears dead, is to call out the party lies, elegant favors of the privileged to assume their places as meted out by that which has stayed silent within the dead form, laid on the silty bottom of its stillness in the inky darkness waiting for the time to summon its voice, muster its body, claim its time to be the word appearing amongst the words spoken in vain, words held high for the residue of the incipient resurrection, to provoke the necessary transcendence.
I take it to mouth, and in my mind the substances configured by clever manipulations of heat and gestures arouse the senses to an unprecedented height in its value of being alert to experience an esoteric satisfaction not to be undone by ecstasies in the passing touches of flesh to recreated forms delighting the soul behind the mouth, for it is in this very summit of descent to the humble place wherein I revel in the value found, not in the value placed in head prompting the act, but in this wondrous moment that reveals the reason gods were created.
We vy for the flexing moment when exterior demand summons interior command, when the serving senses succeed the horrific attitudes crossing paths, marking lines, weaving a web for our troubles, when all of our hopes degenerate into nostalgia and the absolute height descends to the absolute low where there's no difference, when we succumb to fears being the face of needs violated, and wants ascend the ranks, plotting their calculations neatly in the folds of deniability, when every facet of our waking lives crinkles into a handful of frustrations, then we might diagram our fates as easily as we sleep.
Subway car on the N line at 3am was nearly empty but for a loud crew of four thirty somethings braying out their Friday revelry, spraying their words like projectile vomit. I sat at the far end tired but bemused, grateful actually for the rude entertainment to keep me awake till 42nd street. I was in Bayridge. They got out and it was silent. A thin, fidgety black woman stumbled on. Behind her came another man, hooded with his hands in his pocket. The train groaned on. I had a weird feeling, so I kept my eyes trained on them.
Falling through the new day breaks a loud silence of sleep measuring out its volume by extensions devised in a vast stillness, executed in extremis via flesh being flung out of a spiritual conundrum, visions of an empire rising from a mere wish, a tentative dream, the slip of the mind crossing the barrier, tripping over the line, making its presence known by a frenzied storm of imagination gone happily berserk, smashing the carefully kept store where creativity was held captive, releasing its needs, rushing forth like maddened polecats seeking whatever meat they may devour, seeking out the sleeping keeper.
Mouth's full of the greedy burger mind folded inward on a frenzy of onions and cheese wrapped in a fashionable vehicle driven to the edge of appetite therein falling upwards toward a satisfaction devised cleverly in the moment when opportunity demanded its action and the tools rose like startled prairie dogs, when subtlety no longer held sway, diving down under the brash tsunami wave of delight, so it went and aroused the unseen, unexpected and terrifying thoughts made manifest by hunger's complexities, a fiercely tantalizing matrix sparkling under the new day's sun gleaming from the eyes of those suddenly alive.
Tis an entrance to the ending of the beginning, begging off the bygone reliance holding onto the frayed threads of one-time wishing, one-time romance, one-time of a time when all that was was you and him and the promising glow of an Isreali moon beaming down its momentary assurances of a love that would live its own as all in all; that such a bridge was passed, that such a land was left, that such a landscape, once filled with explosions of love's blooms, novas and blazing comets, has added US, begs pause with a sheerest wonder.
Fleeced of spurious makeshift laughs and the under towing frowns on all that wakes to sleep, relieved of the perpetual din deafening that which strives to think itself into knowing, stripped of sleeves too tight for gestures made to touch the untouchable, uncoils now through the heart unfettered, unbends the long body atrophied in a pose of unrewarded piety toward plastic gods created by society's five and dime in respect of nothing's grace and the assurance of all that dies in life, that which sat in waiting leaps from the rickety chairs and stinking beds to dance the freedom's symphony.
Now in the rude indigestion of coming forth toward the grist of gobble by the fits we claimed as becoming the nest egg cracking for the spillage evolving to distract yet bemuse the arbiters of passion's claim over sense, when the gusto reveals the simplicity defies any confusion over complexities so delicious as to make sane decisions of love in rational heartaches pulsing with rivers of tasty vaginal excretions, then might we fondly say the end justifies the means, such that sheets of mind unraveling so completely under our mutual touch will gladly separate out the eager judge's noncomprehending ruling.
Fire in, the ashes flash, dispersal toward the fire out by the sought and found, lost in the middle of thinking, we find a labyrinth spiral, a mess of curling highways funding a need to find the self, a fervid search, a terrible delight as the mind is made aware of its own ability to blind itself; therein, we see the absurdity, the bitter fashion of deceit as truth is the last thing to be found until all is lost, that the hard bitten nature of the path must own this, as its necessity, is the great absurdity of all.
Thus, to our meetings we fall headlong into the hissing conflagration flinted hard by the pocket of our smiles of absolute lust, by a round of gestures flexed to hold by loving's need to loose, by the whirlwind we keep within careful words wound to our minds for privacy's grace, our rooms of soul buzz ferociously through hard stretched breaths of bending bodies burning to meet our clear and unwavering desires blending in starkest terror and exaltation the unknown with the known, devouring expectations, sacredly entwisting us to the core that hides itself, even as it reveals itself so recklessly.
So it goes, the raw vitality that's wound around the clenched fist, having its tough time of it rallying what seems to be its idea of strength, readies the moment held high for all to see, for all to reckon how powerful it is, how indomitable, how beautiful in the rank constructions assembled under careful laws laid down for reasons of hard justice served liberally to those who haven't a clue why certain people seem to get away with murder and others can't steal a paper napkin without getting caught; this marks a unique place in our timeless, historical boardgame.
Lashed to the deck, billowing waves broken, frozen sprays biting cheeks, flecks of ice darned on hairs bent to the winds, and the bed seems wider, softer, the essence of turning over with ease has been lost, searching for the other has never been harder, seems they made a radical decision, and the main mast cracked, four top sails crashed to the condom strewn deck. We had a time once, but that time was laid to rest with Lord Jim, his honor having been found again, yet my truth seems further than ever, cause now they mail their kisses.
Cracking plenty through the crass crust showing itself off means toward underpinning what saves the moment from the next and so on till what was felt as real dissolves in quaint confusions supplying the mind with substance of acceptance over denial, that all the world we feel as nestled in the crux of love is the fullness made manifest, as all the questions of survival boil down to this one thing, when matters whirling chaos and rage become as bubbles bursting in the floating air as two become one, not for boasting frenzies, but for that one smile of smiles.
Freeing myself is freeing you to bind me to our loving, freeing my heart to engage the flowing throughout our severed vessels to satisfy their function coupling organs of knowing with the realizations becoming clearer, that such a connection is not without conditions of a sort that defy what's known as the means to entrap, rather means to liberate, emancipate the feelings bubbling up ever so subtly, yet insistently, proclaiming the value of being who you are for yourself, not for anyone else, and to place the stakes where they're most visible, geared to the thundering of our mutual blood.
Dreaming, always dreaming, imagining heads in the looped core of conjuration where the curling fires laugh in absence of sound, where bellowing glee by consummations coined for salvage on back swept lands of mind forgotten by the calculating head, figuring how and when to wrap the body around the vehicles of the natural day, roar by that which marks the heart on multiplexing variations of flow, that we might find the places we thought lost ages ago as the ascension delineates the decent into the one well of confusion where all the raptures are hiding in respect of our search.
So the weariness redresses the voluble day of creation, and the tender acceptance of light bows once again to the den of darkness where eyes of a different sort scan canvasses of rarest spans and quality, where the heart unfolds itself, no longer guarding that which it feared by day in the clenched fist warding off bodies defying personal warnings, bending headlong toward the vast, uncharted wasteland wherein we dally for its plenty of mysterious sorrow, keeping time to that binds us by the equally mysterious need to seek out that which hurts us, coloring our valuations by temptations' fire.
The variations of the duck have come to their scrabbling torments, as the waves by which they ride their special kind of earth rise in defiance of the ocean's need for a smooth surface and curl around the forms we've come to accept as flatland corrupted; such that in the rotation of the ocean's belly of its energy, bloating and shrinking by turns to meet the earth's shapeliness, we finally arrive at the beginning we've so fastidiously forgot about, that the ending might value its mark with a humility no one mind might evaluate or hold as anything but true.
Wondering the wandering wonders, placing situation dynamics on the open flame, divesting resources as they appear to the rejuvinating flames, serving attitude as fallen up to the need's outcry, funding attributes of the images appearing for lack of the unreliable substance we call life on the planet in the face of morphing steel, glass and the rotating core of belief calling the shots in defiance of humanity and its ever pulsing life, though bidden to the storeroom for introspection and the careworn hems ratted and ragged for being dragging in the soiled mud of a one-time mind gone mad.
Peerless, the gleaming head we create to serve our heads rotating about the idea of head that it must be there in attendance of our belief in the ever dominating need to be the center of all, from the middle aged mind grabbing at anything for suck and plenty where nothing looms as something to hold when all else has fallen away, to the mastery of our beingness, that one thing, so often forsaken, forgotten, even reviled, found at last while crawling through the detritus of a society crumbled and decayed in the face of spurious splendor, the vigorous lie.
The right to be loved is the right to reveal, to shed the weights, the masks, the disguises, it is the right that exerts its tenets of rule as one might seek satiety of food and rest, it is the substance below all substance, above and around; it is the source and completion, not to be denied; its scarcity is starvation, the disintegration of wit and serenity, its ending is the beginning of loss and the scattering of mind, the dissembling we fear the most when those whom we call the ones we hold most dear begin to move away.
This, which cannot stay, moves ahead to the beginning, as we peer into the alleged end, and that which vies to stay put slips beneath awareness as easily as we deny its existence, that thing within us all that defines us all yet changes continually, that which morphs to the form unexpected and strange in the eyes of those who wish upon clear design, placing bets on certainty, that which we live upon, barring steady stance as the landscape that truly fashions our foundation, existing as the fountainhead of our beingness, the kernel of our soul, source of our creativity.
Breaking the code that feeds the code, breaking through what barriers laugh and jeer at us, smashing the austere viability assumed indomitable, taking charge, being here, not there in a rule book, arcane, dusty and removed from the rushing, glittering streams from which we are forbidden to drink, diving from our crumbling molds, leaving the foundations as statues shaped in reverence to nothing but air, plummeting the high answers into frenzied questions, misshapen and deforming, forming as the moment blossoms, kissing the unfolding flesh found hungry at a new touch, starving in fact, piercing the willing chill for eating fire.
Fanged in the habitual fondling of that which feeds off nothing to be done, resolved for keeping what is wanted but not needed to the backside, dissembling the hefted energies we hold as the means to recognize ourselves when lost, flung to the canyons far below the natural gaze, clinging to a raft drifting the sinuous rivers, barren of life, stinking of a stagnant despair idiosyncratically created as the heady liquor when all is lost to finding, therein, we become what we never imagined possible, that all the wonders denied, suddenly rear to the fore, beckoning our soul take hold.
In the heavy load regarding loss as befitting gain through the winding route to ourselves blended for the inner kiss, suturing flesh of the other kind into the melting pot as one, this nesting place of the load removed for the lightness unbearable as known, must be withheld, reserved for surety, for the sanctity of sanity in the swell we create, for the world we divine, for the love we burn, that ignition keeps its flame to the matching core, as such, we become as two rivers conjoined, roaring toward the ocean within, toward the release of salvations' disquieting calm.
The unfolding diagram extends its boundaries, flexes out of head onto a manifestation of mind exhibiting canals threaded within, a matrix of collection and dispersal violating causality expected and ignored, by which reality, all the realities brimming under guises of conviviality digress upon their creation and fearlessly combine what times may extract from clocks and the ticking, tracking the day-barraged-earth we know, to create an earth of all the earths contained, restrained, withheld by need of adjudications concomitant to the checkbook-jigs and merry-go-round regards of logic's playground, whereon we fumble for ignorance parading as Pleroma.
The heart construes its vitriol as brimming its valiantly posed cup to sate how thirst of light denied conspires the falling up of thoughts devised as means of containing the fullness considered complete when drafts drawn from the inner vats cannot satisfy the soul shriveling in its beatitude knitted to the mainframe said to support the world without the daunting keys jammed into vaults that crane for acceptance of such a world that has only existed in the patchwork fog of imagination shimmering like the ring nebula fanged of lights stretching the eons without boundary or need of a beginning.
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