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Plodding though our belief's thickness, meeting the soft mess with hard intent, gathering the fury needed to see what might become of the heart when mind tricks itself into thinking that the ease of finding is the cost of losing, and remounting the place of being keeps us at a distance from ourselves as the matter unfolds, as the loss we regarded as inconsequential makes its presence known, and the revelation reveals the truest nature when lies we treasured no longer hold sway by crush of wind and rock of fear and the pulsing armor keeping us from us, judgment.
That the ocean of the I reaches from its depths the secret of its source, that we, hard hearted in the guise of that which parades as something trivial to meet the heart's fear of that which it cannot assimilate, as that which cannot be seen as anything but a fiction, we take the medication offered and dive to the depths of nothing seen, nothing touched, nothing heard, nothing felt, only for the appearance of being together, being whole, not lacking sense of the forward momentum building ever hotter, ever thicker, keeping us in the compatible cool of convenient death.
Tempted to the edge we go, smelling furious flavors as we eat each other, tasting the rising fumes as our bodies cook in the magical heat, holding the dancing flames of us in hungry palms meeting palms as the singular massage evolving by love's passion feeding the kneading, feeding the muscular reaching, goading the plunging forth, funding the driven organ bearing the mercurial eye that sees without sight seeing as the body burns, keeping watch over the sacrificial pyres made rich of rivers flowing like banded ribbons of flesh unfurling out the pores straining to become veritable mouths of God.
I take to the meeting place as designated, that all the celebrants might bring their deepest forgotten secrets from aged folds of flesh, long arrested in the dim darkness where lies gibber with impunity, where all that keeps time with asymmetric salutations of song, twisted, atonal, dissonant, bearing slivers of discomfiting tremors of silence, may be accepted, cheered for their audacious natures, being at odds with nearly all who dance to measured meters, ever keeping tensions vigorously taught between them who fear and them who don't, that this perpetual battle might fondly wage itself by the manner of simply being.
Seeking, not finding, filling the need to seek by seeking the very nature of seeking, fondling the terrors aroused when the hand reaches out of the bag, the box, the comfort zone, reaching from the temperate and calm, the measured and made, from the safe and sound to the treacherous and told to be sold, held to be hell, known to be death, then all at once to leap from the core and dance, fall, break face, bend limb, strain flesh, blind eyes, burn hands, then get up and go again and again, never to attest but all that doesn't.
Volumes of the eye dispersed in abundance on the dried lake bed of mind, caved the infuriating paralysis, allowed the movement thought impossible toward the idea of movement rediscovered as a means toward stillness, where dreams might actually touch reality, where reality might be reconfigured, that all the sound thoughts drawn about the skeletal shapes hidden far below the realm of being aware of the street as lord of living, rule of calloused thumb, might rise and become palpable as bodies bouncing off bodies, as real as the manipulation of reality created as the active methods by which we live.
Hefted out of darkness, the repeated collective spreading out in the wide panorama in particles strewn about the galaxy as irritating gusts of biting winds that occupy heart, may become what all the fears cannot contain or restrain, can only become as beingness derives itself as the dome of creation bequeaths to its entities the right of the living to protect the living, to recognize the right as the center of all that might arouse in the seed assumed vigorous enough to break from its crust and serve the whole of reality to itself, the constituency of before, now, after.
Interior eruptions bend toward exterior arousals with the filling up of true emptying, that what exists within exists without, the in and out ever separate, ever one, the center and circumambulation instantaneously mapped, tracing how we move about the surface of the apple, being a perversion of straight, that nothing straight exists, only the illusion of straight, as the illusion of passing time, that what came before is gone for that which comes ahead, that nothing ahead touches the passed, when all that is, is past, present, future bound, we go for the rough explosion, the rude eruption, Apocalyptic dream.
Full disclosure, when we dance the dream fully, when we undress ambition to reveal the reality check bouncing without exception, when all the violence leading up to the telling of the tale rears backwards for the benefit of those who demand linear consistency, when the linear life is bent like softened lead pipes carrying fluids that sustain life from reaching the craning mouths demanding it in the first place, so the streams thought simple become so convoluted, our establishment of place gets confused, and we begin to invite the enemy in for snacks, such as it is, our inevitable doom.
The violence of such a peace that rips through the unregarded idea space of one who masters himself as becoming a fervid beginning of a definitive end to the quest of knowing who, what, why in the realm of being alive, of being aware of being aware, measures out this awareness as a reality, as it piles through the vital sedimentation collected as the cancer in the surging cavities of the collective heart, whereby all that we regard as vital, having become a chaff, a terrible sclerosis, revitalizes the final realization of death in the mind as the perfect palliative.
A penetrating harmony dissembling down and drowsy, injecting sluggish fits through fabricated ennui, claps the fortified rigor into form after easing its host into the room with the wide screen, fitted to the saddle, strapped by seductions made to order in the darkness of frustrated desires running amok, teased by hands without hearts trained to touch for satisfactions' illusion, that by this entrapment, so rich in nothingness to be hailed as abundance, seen as a gift sculpted in wild harrows through shadows dancing just out of reach, just out of sensation's temper, sealed in a sphere of dreams, it thrives.
Gorging on the new day, the bright sense of it rolling through the flesh and mind, staying hard in the depths of self, climbing to the utmost depths, falling to the utmost heights, knowing neither exist but as mere signposts of our reality wanting its fullness found, its enormity embraced, its magnificence felt as the true extension of you, even as you contain it, all of it, in a thumbnail, a breath, a glance of consciousness that possesses the enigmatic force of life, that spark without flame that fuels the stars, that draws the inner from its caverns of fear.
Fatuous sponge-monkey design haggles the riddling minions scuttling the workplace as aphids scuttle buzz-cut soldiers dying in the trenches or waiting on infinite Starbucks' carry out lines where brain dead patrons no longer complain about the wait or filthy bathrooms. That each of us must attend these fatuous regards and eager ministrations fitted to the landscape, I can safely say how excited I am to be a part of something so clearly deformed and deviant that its very existence is a tribute to our tribal stupidity, thusly, in the flux of intentions I will make assay and begrudgingly capitulate.
However long the light remains for shadows in defiance of the darkness lining the edges, lending borders, pert attitudes by degrees of separation, where all might watch the antics from afar standing sacrosanct, untouching and untouchable, reserving judgment as the fabric of connection, that such thoughts, created for their uniqueness, allowing the rights of their creators to be overthrown in a heartbeat, where heartbeats are trinkets to be hoarded or tossed at will, and by such a will outside the game, far beyond the borders, sealed within a fortress of deniability, held aloft by the mere idea of being right.
Tempers to the functions assigned as the means toward an apt regard of restraint when given the forces of temptation, the sneaky wiles infecting senses by the side-winding and self-serving ego inflated as its wont to be the master of wit, subservient to nothing but the self as a being devoted to consumption, dedicated to the satiation of hungers defined not by the groaning belly but by the curving of desire's eye prowling the feeding grounds as on a stalk slithering from the body electric convulsing for its attention as for its need to sacrifice sight for touch.
I sealed the morning squirreled under wraps of an unfurled kiss with arms embracing the eruption of you, by the close descent in the flesh of my quickening I sought your eye tunneling passages of a maze spreading before us with an inviting howl; how you thread your sweat on the map of our delight scales down to the bed that sees our dreams shuddering into reality, sees our visages blending, arms tangling, eyes burning, the whole of our bond blasted into becoming the fashion of ideas whose reality shapes the broadening vision. The boat is ready. The sea awaits.
Finding our daily origin in the golden streaming heart of it, the switching core of light for blood in the fighting place, we become aware of being aware, that such a confrontation with self upon the idea of self being the face deemed the very character of I, the absolute form of identity, we find the established arc of beingness foments the inevitable battle, whereby the world as such is inscribed on the world of self moving through the labyrinth of experience; in this we see the myriad faces donned by necessity for survival, by this we find our path.
Fire to eat, base hunger is the grab, fire in the guts, spewing need to favor, like a hot fuck off desperate kisses, fire to haze, like maddened leviathans of the deep chewing thick currents curling out of sense to feed, spitting flames in the base belly of earth, hurling mass of thought to the brink of extinction, bursting the heavy, flaming the light keepsake of dawn burying the fears, grabbing what earth may shudder under shadows laid like a holy shroud flying from the grave, piercing sky, fondling the sun, shredding the moon, yanking its fierce brilliance to bed.
Enter the materializing visage, face of mystery, the ancient form designating calm after frenzy in the hard breathing calm, how it hovers for favor, a patient haunting, asking for a touch, begging softly for the essence of completion, dripping walls caving for the ghost-like shimmering sparking off the center of the unseen eye, where eruptions of light defy reality to fondle their own misconstruing, and so the burning rises the wide expanse unfurling, its stretching mouth revealing its inky guts, within and without, as a portable abyss in constant approach, plunging depths being the quality of true darkness' light.
Into the circle of words, viable contraptions in the vertical heart, pliable attitudes on horizontal sounds, the trickling roars, rough hewn shadows on sharp curvaceous shafts of dark lights glittering off the shuddering simplicities, handfuls of dust, fingers full of flowers, heads full of the abyss, the rivers of words winding about themselves, threading the knitwork confluence, web of reality, how it beckons its own obviation, the tones, the muscular softenesses working the wiles of the workers wending their craft and art that might capture a capturing, freeing the found, only to be lost as lost can be, for liberation.
What rhythms may devise by conspiratorial device may shadow the heart when deviance of habit conforms the shape of imagination to expectation, that the form of the sink may not concede the shape of pyramids or nature's fury, that one may see when blind and the attitudes of conveyance realize futility of hope by forms attending day for night, that in the plummeting toward the singularity we open to the face of God, for that which we deny by mind's arresting claim on the dominion of logic breeds chuckles amongst the ghosts and the bowls of cereal waiting for milk...................
In the mists of mind, the captured virulence defies the opulent adjunct ministration of temper and calm, as being of the sentiment graveled and ground in veritable regard to nothing as said or done, whereby functions suited to the ambulance of thought driven down to the primal core, functions arrived by the infection of dreams filtering through the caverns of doubt and regret grounding their vitality on cables looking for the proper connections having suited themselves in compliance to our sacred need, our spirit's coined grappling with flesh gathers sediments of religious sophistry, adhering the mind, disabling its feral device.
On the crystalline border between here and here where ideas of here germinate, festering like ambrosia, steaming from a core, where the heart of embracing it discards the fashion attributes of denying the importance, vying, as we are wont, for the promise of a new day, imagined future, splendor in a heaven where all is discarded, released and contained in the golden vacuum of belief in a ghost, that all we fondle in shadows claiming solidity in the naked soul displaces here with interior palaces, distant serenades with trumpets calling the solemnity to rest, the hard labored heart to sleep.
The load, it supports the final outburst, the collective rage in the root, having swelled its chambers of denial for the decades digging through the soft tissues of kindness, the malleable core of selflessness, that which I found as my counterpart in play with injustice and the forms fashioning the armor to be donned as needed in wars long since cooled before hot metal waged its temper against blood, I fondle in secret, howsoeever I deny in the shadows I accept, I have found no choice forthcoming that might digest calumny, the indiscreet horrors we've come to hold for joys.
Should we pass unafraid, and the vast occupancy of rooms where fears designate the operant values, where selections of incompletenesses devalue the attitudes of right over wrong, where disciples given to rash belief systems succumb to the denizens of humility and conscripted devices fitted into the flesh of mental sewage demand repair and are rejected, we can find these compartments readily available, waiting for occupancy; instead, that which beckoned us toward them, now scares us off. Irony plays its melody eloquently. We stand afixed to our regards and fight to the death while keeping well aware of our deviant decisions.
Serving the sword influx, the capable insertion where apathy is run through, black blood spreading over a hungry plot of disease, that the variances conspire withal as matters of death convulse, entwining the decay, wrapping the offal tight, ball of heavy nothingness felt for the weight of the world, felt like the end, then as the majesty we crowd within the skirmish funded for its keen design on resolving that which resists resolution, we keep to the fray, we hold to its venomous need to keep us down, and we say no, we fight to the end for another beginning.
Adrift, perhaps as a dream life made flesh along the inner tangle of rivers flowing like Kells into the void of emptiness, into the crush of ideas lost on ideas, entwining the muscles of intellect on plains of patterns yet to blend the ruins left by civilizations crowned on habit; for in the traditions bound for the grave we desist the tempers ground into dust as the means for rehabilitating the grist to go where going has no window on destination but merely wills itself for the joy of purest curiosity, for the need to blend the void with wonder.
We can be given To the parade within Of flexing lights as Manifestations to Occupy pursuits of Pursuing dreams, The undefined definitions Where beingness creates Its own body, a form, Being one we cannot help But see as a residual of Who we are, A molding, Fashioned by hands Driven to move Over inanimate clay, A golum or god or... That which resides In the dust and mud Waiting for a cue, a use, A reason to be....then Comes the pulse, that Peculiar thrust of desire, And we act, those who need To act, we dig, we crawl, we Bury ourselves, To be resurrected as Ourselves, once again, To be free.
Into the hardcore Of soft sexual reality The wandering involved And the matter of the High stakes Granting the volumes Lining the hallways And the ditches Overflowing with The dead so envious Of the living That what may be Construed However indistinct And shallow By them who Draw up rules To cover the fact That all the women Fronting the show By crass displays Of sexual readiness May only serve The needs of them Who keep time With tunes long forgotten Long ignored Yet brimming With the kind of Fascinating allure Only good Nazis Might prepare For slow roasting.
Fondling the spikes forged by fits of imagination tainted, how they penetrate without apology the matters of our seeing, the inner fisted meat of mind arranged indelicately about attitudes of belief, about the patterns of intellect, how they construe alleged truth for fear of finding themselves trapped on the glittering landscapes of unknowing, beset by the beasts of questions, confronting the cliffs roaring up from the caked soils trapping is, forcing us to the inner climb, unnecessary, daunting, becoming ever harder as doubt springs its calamity disguised as inspiration, then may we stop and hopefully question the fear for folly.
Fierce, the emptiness expands like the bubble of nothingness called spirit, and the awful billowing, unexpected, like the lotto, grinds edges of belief, cracks the box stuffed of rules and the right to blind oneself to the challenging expansions, seeing as sight may dim the view, becomes a brilliant panorama as the inspiration blooms, imagination bubbles for the cauldron created by necessity, daring us to look, to feel, to hold the growing indistinct mass redefining us, reordering us, heating us up in the freezing coil called creation, that we may don the wings offered and dare the burning Icarus' sun.
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