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You can tell the shadows drawn in perfect obscurity on volumes of form lacking structure permitted in defiance of its own self-imposed order; that the very core of its glittering matrix, reassembling itself by need of following the mind behind the original design, being as clever as the matters that fell into place after eons of chaos and redirection where that 'which was' became that 'which will' for the muscular soul fabricating the limbs of its actions, at long last crawls from the mud where it gained strength and the confidence to gather followers into its expanding, grinning darkness.
It's who we are, as the function of life at its root base heaving for its desires carousing in its guts like so many deranged wasps aching for a point of infection, looking for the insinuation ordeal consuming fears that such an insinuation might occur, that in the vitals bulging thick of hot emptiness containing all that is in a shaded blink, binds a blinded eye that finally sees through the vacuous smiles, those comfortable gazes that mean to placate while the wasps ready their meritorious stings, while the venom makes its way toward the point that is living death.
What throne of bright indifference bids exercising rights to place the means of its construction on the Dias of the deconstructive obsession to become other than the acceptable tradeoff whereby intellect rides down the perilous face of cliffs shifting expressions as suits the mood to accommodate the intrepid albeit foolish pioneers of a mind defined only by the rapid decompensation when least expected, when the habits of the heart have become lost for the habits of heads deranged, fallen away in the dusty storm on the plains where death was cheered for its keen ability to celebrate itself as life.
From deep the moiling sadness rises, and I have no balm but the crux splitting for its inadequacy and pitiable threads tying off flow to thirsty extremities; a soul, fronted by the savage draw off primal blood of blood, weeps like a starving child, and I am steeped in the widening shadow where I am split from the core, staring at myself, shadow's edges of which, frayed and divided from the wide majesty of light, consume the calm, breed ire from deep cavities long sealed in memory's harbor, where gates on the ocean scape have snapped shut in my mouth.
That I might suddenly break from the silence screaming in my old heart for the balm required, the medication needed, not for the flush of flesh metronome wagging in disfigured rhythms, but to be freed from fears drawn down to a thick peace that seems to elude me assiduously as blood thickens in a body stripped of life; I find myself wishing for this peace, wondering why I am pitted so clearly against a grain made whole by ineluctable tempers ground into mere memory on a bleak wind carrying the shreds of the alchemy of connection so suddenly, completely gone.
With the idea of granting reprieve in the midst of attitudes reviled by the means for reconstructing habitual forgetfulness, the situation of our survival demands regress of thought, that the memories locked for mere nostalgia, lost in the clouded matrix of mind obscured by fears without name, be exposed, that howsoever we claim our rights of beingness assume importance, we may find the telltale throb of the guilty heart become quite loud, overwhelming, in fact, as the metronome mind wags timing without question, that the ferocity of numb habit overcomes the need pounding on the walls of our thought-machine.
Fervidly, we pride ourselves on granting our energies full appliance of will, that the body combined with mind, rally the conjunction as a passionate dance, the feral nature being ignited, seeing as it sees, feeling as it feels, the absolute might of regarding dissolution of pride and the ironclad wall of ego, cramming the house of flesh we inhabit with furniture of indisputable claim over the stream of life polluted with excrement of soul, and no where to go, no where to rid the heart of its cacophonous beating on the breakwaters erected for the common crime of uninformed silence.
That which the eyes see is but a wide blackness by its eventful need to clutter the panoramic world with furtive and muscular devices equipping our vision with an inability to see but that which fortifies crafted blindness hardwired onto canvasses depicting scene after scene of relentless carnage, that the field, bright and luminous as it might be, shrinks to a bead of dirty light, a dimly lit cluttered alley of garbage cans with bloated animals of ancient disrepute beaming as if the Taj Mahal were erected in their honor, and the fashionable lies flow like a fanciful, corrosive deluge.
Regarding rain of intent, droplets of eyes after thoughts of carousing strict matters with fierce quality of mind sorting mind, logos in tempo with affecting sense with sensibility of crossing the pocked, gnarwly plain, riddled with the odd and unexpected obstacles granting leave to the wonderment excising order from order, rerouting the quivering masses over energy as one in constant multiplexing change, that the journey might collapse into finding need demanding loss of logos, even though logos leads, the map exceeds its course of logic and ascends in rapid descent toward twisting the skin, turning the tennis ball inside out.
Hiding what core ingenuity blusters for its rank hubris in the vestments of its honor so proscribed by minions within the sanctuary of the group, one must be made aware of how simple it might be to arouse its ire, set it in motion to be degraded, demoted, revealed for the inscrupulous manipulator of innocent hearts, yet how fiendishly complex it really is, how puzzling even to the puzzler, even to the master of the puzzler, the puzzles themselves, how they reach within their ingenious grasp on that which moves without and grapples seemingly unrelated threads tightly together forever, seemingly.
sometimes it would be the best suit of clothes, a tight wrap for a coffin. feeling the need to go. feeling the need of being soft in line for begetting the end, triggering some new beginning, some new germ of life worth living. the fly crawls down the wall. bad breath in an old, decrepit body yearns to blow its gusts forever out, leaving the residue for keeping in the hungry dust. that i should dwell in arms of agony is undoing my grist, the capability in ample worthiness driven to the edge of tolerance, blood, thin with rivits pounding.
understanding is weak for its perambulating integrity vying for the call of acceptance in dark arenas where thoughts of redesigning the fashion equinox where gods are swilling greasy feasts off bloated bodies slaughtered in calculated battles while the blue pocketbooks watch unmoved, waiting for some kind of resolve to a thundering banality too often accepted for its predictability, the ease of knowing the next move, the lack of ecstatic rapture upsetting the boat on the quiet pond situated in the center of wan activity playing at life, playing at the fullness life might otherwise possess if the heart were present.
So am I, the source point of a mind assembled in the fiery vortex of several deaths made vivid in the alchemists' crucible, my battered, war worn heart, that vessel containing means for breath ascending lungs into actions delineating the functions we call day to day habits and the vital signs we keep close to our chests, held tightly to an idea fashioning the impetus of keeping wisdom whirling in its ever evolving storm, hail and rains and freezing snows being the hammers of its forge, the creative manifestations whereby life exhales its intent to serve our dreams carefully nurtured.
The rite proclaims its supremacy in the action of its liturgy proscribed in the depths of instinctual taste buds rumbling deep for satiety within the grist-core of animal vitality, that which pumps hot blood on means of threading tissues through cabled networks of organs throbbing on the feeding fields, igniting the form without form feeding the worldly, street-winding form, prowling like panther, proud in its blood-lust, fending off those who stand in obstinate judgment by feral energy alone, meeting songs of rigid number crunching with the tumbledown and rapturous geysers spinning spouts from a billion bodily mouths.
The freezing stream envelopes the idea of heat- invested Northern involvements devising schemes to absorb and evade clever manners inscribed on bodies that evolved from the crucible of the sun, for the quiet, warm creature living inside the form of humanity, degraded and devolved as it is now, has lost its voice, its knowledge of voice, even the means to use the voice; the flesh, like a glacier, has crushed the vocal inroads, valleys of rot exude their foul stenches, the brooks, once laden with flowers, are lined with eyes focused toward the world unthinkable, now the unarticulated end time.
The time began, incessantly calm with a ferocious delight, a crawling eye, an energy beside itself, and the passage claimed its fervor without a pause, the substance of living made its place the implacable devising, the time as a denoted peak became the summit hung so far below without fathom that a creation could summon its forces spreading like sunrise cross the wide water stretching throughout the mind, its funneling spiral a cascade of fire, a tornado of burning desire keeping its coil like an exploding star snug in the ejaculating river of new life blasting reality for its becoming.
If it dips too low, the mainframe slips from its panoramic device and distorts the inner view, which no longer matches the outer, then continuity falls short of a proper breakfast arrangement, and when your daily death finds restitution in customary bathrooms duties, one discovers a sadness they never expected. Yet, it's found to be a remarkable expansion when the heart finally frees the mind from responsibility, when the head no longer has to answer to demands laid at the feet by the incessant rain, the non-stop celestial debris, the inedible manna; then the ritual, so desired, can commence.
Almost at the end and another beginning, the big ball of thread is seemingly without end, now looking for an end with the frayed tags being lost in the wrapping like delicate gauze about a dessicated Pharaoh seeking immortality hiding under an articulated dome of his inscrutable mythology, bound tightly for its wonder in the whirlpit of dreaming, where nothing that could ever be, is, as anything might be, where all that lives at the root of imagining oneself worthy of being worthy, becomes suddenly found then lost, at once, lost by the aching hand slipping from the frayed question.
Moving through the center along the circumference, extending inward toward the infinitesimal exceeding out to the infinite, tracing basic forms elected the source of humanity, bead of existence, and the entirety of all mass, the resolution of life's cycle and the inception of all that might be, I occupy myself, though not myself, all of Self, center and circumambulation of self, that which exists without reason looking for a reason to that which is the reason itself, knowing, unknowing, spiraling into questions breeding answers, flashing like momentary particles in the oven of nuclear alchemy, source of seeing, source of being.
That's pretty much what they all say, it floods from the inseminated matrix, habitat of warm fluids reaching out to extremities of the universe while only looking in, imagining, fleeing the pulse grab where methods of describing the mechanism fail and fall about incredulous feet like carbonized manna or teardrops of the elusive giant, that man-ship supreme that holds the mind down, tethers it to the rock-face as Prometheus refuses the choice, once again, to pass on choosing, content to muse, happy to wait for nothing but waiting, as the volcano becomes real, as the incipient death laughs.
Why is that such an extreme search, the distance you keep withholding in our backward glances, on the diadem you protect with inner Gargoyles situated on the cragged battlement decorated as wedding canopy protecting its lies, how such a fiendish invasion might the sore produce when heat melts conviviality and the normalizing factors issued like soothing cream over gaping wounds festering for their promulgation and fertilization, that we should couple in secret dust manifested in plumes of inky kiss and diving bits eating toward the unseen, unfelt, unknown vein awaiting the puncture, shall we dance then, when the spout erupts?
My strengths lie outside the fishing zones with regulations and parking rules. My exaltation lives in between words and the photo-flashes kept on bedside rests where assurances of tomorrow's paths ring with regular charm. My paths lay strewn under gazes fet of roadside rest stops. They wind about trails bespectacled for eyes of the eyes' penetrations, and I know not where to place my hands when walking private places where hands dissolve and bodies are lifted into wonders, where hearts beat in excess of blood without shape without form without designations aplenty for landing gears shifted on reality's airfields.
Did you violate the scene, did it make its pressure the availing strength you accessed after the subtle trigger was pulled, after the diamond being created in the heaviness blew away its cradle of coal, after its black crucible of deep pressure widened so far into its face that whatever face it possessed prior divested its monumental hold on thinking's devices to maneuver around you, with manifolds keeping the diamond safe, tending its delicate facets sharp, maintaining the clarity, though all of its brightness, bought and sold a billion times before commodity's invention stole quality from your avenues of beauty.
No, no, I don't understand why so many yeses are met with no; over any repeated form, that the volubility distresses the manner in which a hold upon the mind carries itself off with designs of something quite apart from the metronome introductions devised and executed by ministers of order and the status quo, whereby, energies elected to keep a regard of dying as bright as considerations of living is held in high esteem with the idea that, after all, it might actually maneuver its way from theory to a reality of being alive, while death smiles from the doorway.
It becomes about occupying a thread of imperfect disbelief when advantages of the first ascent to something unforeseen becomes untenable, when the raw sense of connection ceases to feed the seeker's hunger for the matters that would vitalize the main heart, get it pumping with new blood, virgin energies gleaned by mining the primal core living in silent blackness, existing in a thrall of abeyance that deceives the eye until the eye is blinded by its own failure to see that which waits upon the proper light, the light of self that illuminates what otherwise remains in the ghost mind.
You bleed how the mother of my soul excretes diametric impulses in direct alliance with the ministrations devised before experience divided off reality from expectations, when the heart expanded for the confusions we elected as our assurances by assumptions were laid to rest in the meeting place of here and there, where the wildest river roars beneath exhalations of the collective body commanding us, known or not; as the flow assumes a proportion that demands action over wishing, we dip our untried fingers tentatively, we touch that which has remained untouched but by the magic of imagination spun into gold.
Inverted to severe liabilities through entrails of doubt-ridden tunnels threading around the body of the body of the body receding through the body of backward staring after the source, launch place, island of that mystic spark between gaps in the fabric of expectation, back into the forward looking up on the slide down while riding spirals we inhabit, imagined and otherwise; how we love our carnival rides, our roller-coaster thrills crawling up while knowing the rush down, always the same, and back again we go, further back into the body of the body of hunting down the joke.
The biting sword, becoming the feeding spoon, penetrates the holding of our hearts, tools the means of nutrition in the storm of dark assumptions fending the muse of inspired light from the casement of individual alchemy, then deviously derives the source of self that subsides the torment when insinuations of its liquid light consumes the matters we created in our fears as ritual instruments of our regard of the conjured energies in confrontation with self, that all our substance might fold in the guise we've adopted as recognizable liniments, the traced forms of the walkaday roads within and without consciousness.
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