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Directly on the crash course of specific dissections taken in hand, keeping up the momentum fed by intent when concocting linear inroads to making a meal, the magician knows the course, he's drawn it up from the well of arcane knowledge, lava from the mouth of spiritual volcanos....knives, forks, tanks, missiles whirling in a delicate, furious dance by the fury of fitting themselves to ways of serving creation, each item an important link in the methodological chain leading from the idea of creation to the manifestation of that which defies expectations and the convivial assortments of a vertical diet.
They talk how they talk, words are bullets in absence of the gun. They proffer delicate interruptions truncating flow, severing intent, how it pressures the swelling conduit between the intended and executed, then steals the vacuous idea of the end from the end itself, a quiet, tumultuous opening into begetting, a new beginning of that which decries the operating hand, the manufacturing gesture for a wildfire of discontent made glorious on a heath of wonder that defeats its own expectations of delight; that horror, which completes its own in necessary harmony with delight, must fashion the cycle for its symmetry.
The gun is the flesh of a private intent forged on a passion that directs its flux through the belly of its heat forging the means by which it makes its presence known for the device of wanting a need to defeat that which forms a dark reality and the face of its muscle, a body electric, spirit of fierce quietus when ample grist becomes the fire in which the blade is reddened before the frays, where all that bends for the mastery of war creates the mettle with eyes fused on nothing that creates a something worth holding free.
Rectal insertions and the quiet violation of the blistered heart cracked bursting the flow of convivial habitat's disease becoming pure, becoming the service of the opposite funding its might in the mouth of hunger, the terrible and delightful spread of breakfast, the lovely murmurs of child in the feather of the noonday sun on the sacrificial dias wriggling its tiny energies for the descent and ascent in the core of having that which was taken away, breeding the favors found amongst a gallery of masked eyes wandering in their sockets for the right blindness to fashion as means to create.
Tormenting the nail, plunging the perpetrator egg, by its matter in the gristle of motion that sups the fiery fluids emitted in passion's gusto, the beatitude succeeding the platitude whereon ideas thumb their skulls for wonder of manifesting the growing egg, shapes the being within, having its time away from colliding external time, fending off the vitriol bubbling up the patterns of analytics when forced against confrontation's amorphous walls, that when it finally emerges the space of its life may hold its own as the place of thinking, being alive for its life, aware of being aware, when keeping time.
Created infections of head we keep tucked in holds of dynamics scripted via means to inhabit constructions laid upon constructions mapping the web we are, onto webs we aren't, by drafts of spectres folding outward from depths of dreamscapes cracked like plains under showers of internal suns boiling up through millennia of crusts built to conceal the core, to create the masks donned to play the roles in balls where the prince is eaten by the toad and the princess devolves into the King becoming the Queen becoming the arena of the endgame rapture, where infections of old now rule.
These, I give, residue markers, bleeding points of spectral bodies dancing, mouths attuned to songs of flesh turned inside out, manifestations regarding the detritus of mind by functions of splitting the multiplexing core dividing off its ambulant limbs gesturing without motion, seeing without eyes, hands gripping without hands crushing air in the palm of holding nothing falling up to the windswept beaches found by exhaustion, exuding light by the crumpled forms looking for their acknowledged deaths and rebirths simultaneously in a welter of stillness. These, I give, my offerings filtering up from the psyche engulfing the galactic edge of all.
Funny thing, skin, by Strindberg's lament, a tenuous scrim attenuating forms of feeling, the outward cover of the inward flexing, how muscles of the eye overwhelm the muscles of the flesh, flotsum dissolving in the core bluster of creation, thin membranes stretched over feelings ministered in the absorption of darkness blended light, a swirl of indigestible reality where logic defeats its own, and the fulcrum where limbs connect in the acrobatic function of touch, how the tenders shrivel, how fabric between the sky of the watching sun collapses the sky of the inward rivers as feeling scarfs our skeptical eye.
The movement toward is the movement away in splitting the movement away and toward, then off sides to the plummeting down plummeting up in spirals, to the pinnacle that is none to the bottomless abyss turning ways of the time moving out of the present containing all that was and will be in a blink of an eye, seeing reality's primal cataclysm, the final collapse, all one, then toward the hardwired confusion laid in by need of checks and balances, the rigor of assimilating our universal nest, the web of causality, its beauty, pristine elegance, its joy and agonizing frustration.
Sending us all home with shouts folding inside the organ of enunciation and clarification, we don the garments of nakedness behailing revelations that cannot go the route by their own predication, cannot assume but that which fails their structures to provide any likeness of an answer but a compendium of questions severing the connections set in motion as the feeding of confusion takes a new form altogether, and the reality of the source is the fashioning of the ending, then comes an inevitable rapture where the acceptance is approached like a dangerous wounded animal in the heart of your soul.
The calls are all coming, can you hear? They're falling up from a deep place far above us, wrapped around our home inside our need to find a home that we can call a home but cannot isolate, cannot finger as so much plastic or clay, but to firmly resolve as a domain of beginning with the resolve to meet its trigger with gratitude and enthusiasm. The calls are filling the air, they're flowing entrails of our labyrinths of doubt and fear, they're threading their calm ferocity, their quiet cacophony, their unique fashions and becoming the matters we all imagine.
This is the core region, the underbelly evolution we've feared since sight met speech with articulated terrors of indistinct completions of unsatisfied goals set as markers on an ocean without shore, without borders, without any means of marking our spots, places of being. It's all shifting, and we don't see it, none of us. We play the role of setting sights that never waver, never alter in any form suiting uncertainty and the utter terror of not knowing who we are, where we are, how we're going, where we've been and now, most of all, where we want to be.
It finishes you before it begins as you rise to meet yourself, it's already met you, felt you, become you; it drives itself through its complex web of contrary intentions till the flux of its core intent blooms vitality presumed an imagined burst of faux god-light on the receiving eye within the eye clamped shut. It divides the materials once found in the pages of dreams mapped throughout the mind's broad desert spaces, plains and ragged mountain peaks, and the conjurations, given supreme sway on the formation of your being, having evolved into a void, will never be found.
A flash of eyes in the crib deck blowing over the ocean on a blast of innocence fanning out like a nuclear smile, a streaming soul vector about the body electric, entangled, exploding Kells, pictogram on the fashionable catwalk concealed within desire's map of maturing in the eye pouring its necessary light bleeding darkness, a nod to fondle life as life folds onward onto life, into the infinite regression seen as a dream, captured as a means, the way of wending the craft of art to the growing face we don as the calling card in the miasma called reality.
We, who fondle nuggets of ambition, driving engines of our intents through musty swamps of doubt rendering confusion as our benefactor of lust dwindling as rust off a dead car consumed by indifference; we, who wander the forests of muttering trees, where diadems of ancient souls clamber as leaves in the wind, take heart by gusts we eat from within of plentiful light grown as manna ascended from the seemingly dessicated well, from without its depth a silent emptiness rises, it consumes the matters of fear, harbors light as liquor to a starving soul aching for the bread of life.
The goat in my super belly kicked me drowsy. What shall I do, but dance the fevers you bought me in the tustle of the night for freewheeling ardors rising a purple consummation, that the wonders you fondled by fingering the core-dials on the inner controlboard let me carouse with impunity, for all the injustices we crave to abolish, there is nothing else but the cartwheeling process of the descending orders found wanting even before they leave the hand of the author who isn't clever enough to mask them, as the world by their elements will surely decay.
From base conjurations of our love, ably mastered by the delicate and ferocious fingering of unseen strings humming in dissonant harmony over our bed breaking river, funding the mind by a trickle down of magical songs sung in silence, quenching stale caverns of my soul with gales of space bending tongues, fire-tipped and crowned by a whirligig of light and dark entwined to the majesty of your touch, commanded by kiss, the utter annihilation of doubt by the fire we create and the fire we are, reveals what's truly necessary in a world fraught by the assassination of soul.
The weather becomes chilled nuggets of eyes carousing edges where fault-lines of shadows break the slumber of light folding inward to its sleeve of silence and outward to its penetrating shout bidding the roving mind and soul combine in fervid alliance to capture the connections sparking for the fever of creation, gathering cables writhing in empty space looking for their completions, roving the domicile where private energies arouse the fabric of secrecy ripping away fibers that entrap, shackles that bind, thoughts that imprison, releasing the simplest and most complex devices grabbing at darkness shredding it free of clouded ignorance.
Taking what's left of the armor down, making the shift fall sideways leaning into the offbeat center craning on its own pivit reaching the limit prescribed as the one for the assemblage as needed for the bodies ready for burial looking for a death as justification, finding only residues of reasons slipping off their certainties exposing the privates of true intent, I've found a strange sense of peace pervading an otherwise cacophonous chamber of unfunny jokes being hurled at me mercilessly. Had I been taken utterly by surprise, I'd be asking not only for my money back but an execution.
We surprise ourselves in the bubbling soup, being stirred in the whirligig matrix; we say we want that to happen, we lust after it, then when it happens, we don't want it, we regret it, we even resent it, we clamber after our securities, our sandbox blankets, and we whine, we chew on tough fibers of entrapment, yet we enjoy the chew, we derive our teeth from the sinewy bonds, the fashionable iron maidens shaped for our tolerance in the cells we've aptly decorated to suit our forgetfulness, our comfortable prisons, the places of our continual judgment and execution parties.
Entering the fluctuating screens hovering about our idea of self, we divide out acceptance from belief, we turn away from unsettling certainties to assume the creative need to absorb reflections off insubstantial mirrors of soul rather than the solid absorptions divined from devices created in the desperate moments found in the war zones of eye to eye, where meeting the sight-lines on the plains unseen by anyone but ourselves funds those deserts of delight and terror, found to be the same thing, that how we meet these glaring contradictions decides how we move into actualizing their immediate consequential flows.
I found the dawn to be wanting as it warmed itself beneath exposure, leveled under eyescapes molded in their precise designs to attain what most would regard nothing special, as the orb of day beckoned itself to rise above doubt and take its place among those elements of living we can be certain of, those pebbles along the winding paths, being isolated as that which never changes, never moves, never alters itself in the going forth along these paths as we find expectation flouted, finding confusion and resentment flowering abundantly in the rippling air, choking sensibilities fet of lies' soul.
We pair our going forth with intent to serve a need only going forth may satisfy, we manage the flux of energy to suit this going forth; by going inward, we go outward, we parade the grounds of our going, we encircle the arena of our beginning and we contemplate our end, we function as mediator and guide, host and guests of the host, we become many in one and one in the many; this multiplexing, this dividing summons our storehouse, that secret place where we've hoarded the elements of functionality, the very cogs of the infernal machine we are.
We can't help it, hardwired into valuing the mustered grit for combat of wits to earn respect of respect of the surging need to fulfill that which lives in continual denial of its life to bolster life as the reason for battle, that such stings might harrow the calm belief we can do no other but follow such urges, we become what we think we must be, following the edicts impressed upon soul in service to the keeping place of battle, paying tribute with coin and nod to the very arena wherein we lose ourselves ostensibly cheered as our legacy.
We hit ourselves up for grandios reasons we exist to belittle value placed on gearing choice for those less privileged, earmarking the nod to extinguish value, repudiate the very soul of humanity in deference to the goading arm of venomous mettles seared onto souls like cancer on a mind deranging its functionality that howsoever it plies its wits to master our inborn instinct to shutter calm for balm to guard our tribe called humanity, that this drive be cabled to the desert like Gulliver and bound to silence while the screams portending blood rise like green boiling thunderclouds over heart.
Driving through this muscular wind, this billowing brake of curling black screens feeds my ardor to occupy self with the heart of self, seeking to shed this multiplexing storm of mirrored visages in the fractal sun spraying dirty light like cawing ravens over carrion on a desert goading scavengers rip the dead flesh, sate the mouth of my intent to exhume rot, devour all that blinds my eye from the greater hunt hovering just out of reach keeping the desire aching for the refreshment only activation of soul scarfed of death might offer, such is the plentiful need, my road.
It creeps up from the hidden tingler, a vital prowl of ache that stems nervous lightning from the hard core under feeling where electrical screams parade flesh on the round earth of being where I carouse basic needs to engage place, finger the source of finding my road in the obscuring weathers and employ whatever engine of mobility I might find to secure firm footing is the highest desire sought wavering in my solemn wakefulness, this hard bitten battleground feeds its passions by the needling prick within, the prodding fire-tipped alien materializing with impunity along the watchtower I clean.
Payout of the heart derives qualities never anticipated till the encroachment of leaving the zone of comfort bids you seek passage on a stage formerly relegated in the mind to fictional escapes, smoky attitudes after the backroom smoke, like the fashionable goth obsession in deference to nothing but a nodding acquiescence to death as the door of a different sort of life slithers inexorable into subtle action, while desire builds its engine on the car designed in secret for decades, lest the word get out we might exercise our right to sit behind the wheel, turn the ignition and disappear.
Entering what might be construed opening of that which never should have been closed let alone re-created in the sense of it being the absence of equality to the means of begetting superior intellects to let go of the status quo in relation to how the ministers of impatience seem to feed off our confusion, that all the heavens of our hells may surely succumb to matters not to be discussed with patterns of the right juxtaposed with patterns of the left, duped hearts are given supremacy, and the vulnerable but intellectually weak become fodder for prime time news.
There's a time inside a moment, a descent of time within the moment that has no dimension, where a being lives to be lost in its shrinking informality, its amorphous specificity lacking shape, being the very shape of a unique evolution growing into a clasping grab at something tangible without form looking for a form, completing the expansion of its collapse, the unfurling nature of its undeniable seduction to bring everything to halt that rallies to fit itself within its peculiar matrix building upon itself, like a continual restructuring and fabrication of a city possessing the true life of illusion.
Pondering the unmet finality, how it's watching, how it always watches, thinking on the incipient guest after all guests, wondering where he'll put me, this guest of every guest, this host before parties and beyond all parties, this one we decorate with ornamentation delighting the eye crossed with keeping light from darkness, keeping the beingness of shredding beingness off its gowns, the one who unseams the lining of wishing away from plentiful abundance without loss of wishing away the form of being kept inside the form or any form, stripping away the form, having a look at its golden underwear.
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