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You've fallen me up, the flux sought via eager animal mind, back when thought colluded chemical arrest and assumptions of reintegration via disintegration, that all I sought became all I lost. In a vat with severed eyes swirling, the bead needed floated always out of reach. Then you, by touch of wonder on a dive through clouds binding the peak to utter mystery, fell inside my valley, sprung light by seeding my soul, and up I fell, tumbling on a landscape I'd only imagined, now this, by you, your smile, touch and the voluble crunch of a kiss, I'm found.
You could find the rhythm of feral blood surging for completions when designs of mortality reek of ego and the damp residues of hubris serving the sources we often neglect, the core ambiance of delights and horrors serving needs of something besides ourselves, those designations residing in expectations made while we were asleep, posted on our brains when distracted, left to hang for all to see except us. As our blood boils, we feel chills shudder up the framework created to serve the new numbers registered as unlisted; such is the trickery of the network supporting all of our sandboxes.
Same, that the game we got chews rules upchucked from the vat in the back where the under is really over, where points given are points retracted, where the perpendiculars confuse their right being not left, being what left might eventuate, that the mobius nature of space on the way to the coffee machine in reverse of its function, as the cup is emptied, grounds unground... beans backlogged to the bags to the ships to the toughened hands to the plants to the sun to the idea of coffee....I am the alpha and omega of my desires for coffee
The secret light engulfs places of private ruminations, places where the cave diving soul draws fervor from danger, knowing each movement might assail the sumptuous feeling of freedom, where falling liberates, and the eyes, being plucked by will, fire within and see without seeing the captive walls, prison gates, dungeon cellars, knowing their obstructions are but phantasms in the garden of earthly delights, where horrors, like caramel swirls in nutty cream stipple the icy flights begotten with spice and bitters, that nothing but everything soothes by dying's favor in the swelling ocean of life bounded by collisions after land vanishes.
Are you suggesting how the edge can or cannot be played by suggestions generated in viable dream states than ejaculated for feeding purposes? How can the body withstand that kind of mental pressure, or are you suggesting a higher sort of transformation via extreme states of psychological distress? Have you been to the edge where the barn at the end of dreaming is full of burning animals calling out your name? Have you known madness as a brother or sister that was born out of a mystical tree then delivered to your bedside by a dutiful spirit? I certainly have.
The light in your palm lifts rain from my eyes and drenches the arid garden where questions grow tall in seasons of begetting passion over mind via mind, where conduits of creativity flex like angry pythons in heat, starving for a vulnerable piece of flesh through waking hours when sleep dips hard the dreams along highways we keep sacrosanct in solemn stillness, where bred screams are edited silent movies with Buster Keaton dangling from Harold Lloyd's lust as Mae West flounces her poolside wetness over young boy's embarrassed smiles, where the cup overflows in a festival of purest, feral existence.
Servile, while seeking the mind's control over sensibilities of heart, where heart guides soul out of its earthly soils so to mount sky eat sun grab after air like cobras stinging rats, that the mightiest flex felt off earth's rounded gentility could invade such means to kill insouciance and rouse the mad hatter of us all, that creation itself might bow before its audacity, it's sheer bravado, that to the party we'd flee, hair mussed, skins still stuck on salty remnants of the night, waving heaving cups for satiety, being but disappointed while the master sleeps as the barnyards laugh.
Were you fond of turning within to the gravity point, into the core of pulling all that exists into shadow, where creation lives mythologically in the lightless place where it can change its underwear without shame? What you seek comes heavily after seeking becomes droll, disappointing and fruitless. Pointlessness draws its face out of the slumping mass and tells its tale brashly. That's how confusion reaps its reward, when doing nothing but accepting loss is gain. To surrender is all, to regain all. Loss is nothing but giving into the fall, taking that step off the edge into the abyss.
Lines are thrown out. The water's face is cut. Its blood runs furious, a deluge through eyes stuck on accidents, as though thru havoc we find our light while the parade of onlookers slowly dwindles, the belief remains, and thoughts of assaulting the flesh of our mutual ocean abounds without pause, without reason for cause, merely hunger without sense, that lust crawling the mind and soul like a ravaging virus insinuating by degree ineluctably every organ, till death becomes an ardent wish, where thoughts of fishing have lost their innocence, but remain stalwart as the impetus to wreak blind vengeance.
Reaching out of the interim box conveying the heart of wishing with need of satiety building its monuments over graveyards of lust gone awry, singing mournful tunes in memory of a glad time benefited with instruments played to dissonant perfection, their keys gleaming in the eyes of habit with fingers ployed for puppet shows under a tent where the lost have gathered by reason of exhuming a chance out of a billion to meet themselves square in the face of collective starvation recognized only as sorrow redone for the purpose of the ever furious construction of a shelter come hospice.
We keep rushing toward a light that someone said was over here, no, here, not there, here, oh, right over there, under the mats, behind the door, in the tent, conference room, available online, anytime, anywhere, just have your numbers ready, we're here for you, we care, behind the obstacles...always the obstacles, many obstacles, erected for fun and games, but not for you, maintained for sturdiness, but not for you...yes, come to the meetings, we'll show you the way, guide you out of yourselves for yourselves, trust us, please, we are your friends, your only friends, your saviors.
It's the stretch before the inevitable finish, hopefully. It's the last grunting effort, staggering thru the degenerating flux of energy, going slowly blind, each step scarfing a wavelength, one at a time, barely noticeable, ineluctable...the ribbon is almost in view, it's nearly time to stop, but not now, no, not until the finish is crossed, not until the crowds gathered, summon up their vim to leave, as leaving is necessary, otherwise they'll be caught, as the web widens, boundaries reaching ominously outward, cusps of delicate entrapment entice so lovingly, one almost wants to lean upon one, and so die.
Slip gone, pandering, balloon-like, sycophant parade, smiles puncturing personal spaces like electric eels; an unsuspecting fish, while waggling through a musty cove, despite intentions otherwise, confounded at last by the hungry mouths, berserk for completion of hubris' need to flex throughout indecisiveness stumped on begetting true viability as the source beneath all craving hungers, pulses in its own rhythm, that we shall all come to the sycophant's call, bearing alms of all sorts, contrivances meant to impress withholding the soul, being all but bright faces with mutable gestures aplenty, masks in a bag big as the universe is us.
Take the pill, drown the ill, take the pill, devour chill, take the pill, you know you're ill, take the pill, it keeps you filled, take the pill, & dump your rage, take the pill, it fills the page, take the pill, creates cartoons, take the pill, devour will, take the pill, your temper's climbing, take the pill, your body's chiming, take the pill, remember nil, so take the pill, collect the bill, take the pill, the bill's a thrill, take the pill, and keep the house confused, with house of mind, redoubtable fun, take the pill, you're up to none.
Driving the necessary way, entering the inner canyon, echos guiding unsure hands via damaged ears toward the inevitable rush roaring from that secret place hallowed and serene, profane and chaotic, that which succors the feral, divides the solemn, keeps watch on the towers, never sleeping, the eternal guard dog slavering for a kill, where we establish the fervent wish to accept what is, always fighting, though, always wrestling with artificial demons created for a game that doesn't exist save in the secret chambers of our soul fashioning thick fortress walls and the moat governing what comes in what goes out.
I understand why, there's no reason to be upset. The conclusion was foregone, and my expectations, which had already been pilfered by the guards at the gates to the exclusive chambers where the sacred and profane ministers of justice do their primal dances, provided sustenance to the unseen magicians, such as it was, I had to back away, and not to say it wasn't hard, it was; my source feed, the ineluctable core of energy gave way to the onslaught and dwindled to nothing, falling ever further back, farther from my wits that cried to be found when time was done.
Whaddya say? Howdya say? Might it be what it couldn't, howsoever it wouldn't, that it might not be or what ever could be what you say it isn't? Such is the dilemma found most naturally with the prospects falling every minute, that nothing seems to be as strong or resilient as expected, that our expectations, eating their own predictions, one by one, could make such a fine feast, our true livelihood boiling down to a form of cannibalism. Whaddya say? Shall we say how we say what we say when saying shows little or none, and then we got milk.
Who are we driven to be and how in the stream of configuring right from wrong, that ethical dance, whirligig dance, that rave under oily lights flickering, bouncing off sticky undulations governing the dance floor? Scoping possibilities, vying for a riddle to solve itself, facing off with self, claiming no harrow to be judged, nor retribution to amend, by the function of the unseen core pulsing as it will to guide the doubting form that occupies its space with questions inundated with answers, lest the figure turn to stone, the answers bid engagement, grant rights to swerve the adjudicating gods.
Your light, by the muscle of sight flexed by kisses, you feel the ripe effluence of my suggestions, by harmonies induced, vibrations from atom to galaxy, that rich confluence of energies so subtle as to obliterate suns, explode galaxies, erupt a smile from the dead alive, burst a laugh from the quite surprised, all that subsists within substances of inspiration, what began a seed in a mind rapt on its own sight, aware of being aware of being alive to death, to all that comes round the cycle of life, such becomes the magic blazing from your wondrous eyes.
Then it was gone. Vanished. Not a trace. A trickle of dwindling charge remained. A descending burn, fizzling sparkler, the fading grand finale, leaving a sharp odor hanging. It was there. A split second ago. You saw it, and with its unique eyes it saw you. For a reason it departed. You don't know that reason. You'd like to know. It fills the vacant hole, that memory. It bemuses and confuses. It asks, "Do you see me?" "Yes, I do, but not really. I see where you were. I feel the memory. I feel something." And distantly, an echo grins.
Into those eyes I fell. The rasping breath, heaving chest, by the descending arc of an occupancy, by the rising, falling sense of a life, within that tiny aura, that bulb of he and I, in the still air of us wherein we hovered I clasped my sensibilities around its fading and sought to give a word, but there was no word, no word could be given for what needed to be said, yet all was being said. In silence. We had spoken enough. A shrill touch of slipping away gave off its scent, like fall surrendering to winter.
Substantial and inviolate, vulnerable, invulnerable, immutable, ever mutable, empty and full, linear, non-linear, vertical, horizontal, substances pure, impure, father, mother, son, daughter, that which was, that which will be, what is now, the constructions, deconstructions of self, eyes turned inward folding the matters into nothingness and everything, eyes turned out looking upon the beginning, the end, knowing the beginning, knowing the end, that which gives, that which takes, completions' boundedness, open derivatives to the unknown and known, reams upon reams of knowledge flowing through awareness' fingers feeling the amorphous forms, shaping them toward their recognition of all that is.
It calls to me. This amorphous smile. This circle of light from the center of darkness to the edge of all that is, where nothing is touched but everything. This tornado, sans wind, within and without. It beckons me. Taunts me. Cajoles. I answer. My fingers reach. They bend with the flow. They distort. Trip and fall. They strain against the enormity. They lose the sense of themselves. They get lost. Frustration. They recede. They stop. Something remains, though. A shred of the coming and going remains. In the fretted stillness, under the bald universe, it stays. Becomes my now.
Scrambling the brain, messing the precipitates, clouding the glass, giving rise to the settled, rousing the sleeping serpents, hatching all the hidden poisons in the mud...such is the duty of the scribbler, painter, sculptor, choreographer, composer...to rip complacent masks off, reveal the screams, cries, bleary eyes, broken noses, shattered teeth, sullen cheeks, sallow complexions, that all may know the ingredients of the contemporary smoothie, that it may swell the core to blister and explode, splattering the inky, revelatory pus helter skelter, soak the insouciant, oblivious and ignorant, corrupt their living lies, and like frenzied termites, collapse their castles.
Filling voids as whirling horses upon a merry-go-round and round the swelling core of mute voices, we deny habits crawling the inky darkness fumbling for touches folding inward on a crush of reality too muddled with formless faces fingering themselves, as if they were losing hold on physical realms we covet without pause, yet we need those faces to govern our reality. Stuffed in bleak shadows with the harrowing sense of dreams like balloons rising ever higher blotting the sun, blocking our eyes from sight without sight, we keep to our paths, though in deepening darkness they lay.
Decaying, in check with hearts eroding mind, we vy for keys of loss in deference to acceptances without questioning or pause of that which destroys by slow degree our sense of questioning and the very root of questioning, our minds, widening, looking for nourishment, finding none in the habitation of our struggles but poisoned residues of bygone wars fought for naught but nothing garbed as something worth saving, that loss might gauge a meaning, once having was swept from our clutches, yet down the winding brook babbling from the mountain of delusions, we savagely clutch our erector sets of religion.
The sickness crawls comfortably from its nest of intent couched deep in the reservoirs of disbelief, and the fashionable keepers of its core, governing all that rises from its sore, welcome the curious and vain, reckless and depraved, all who strive to find its secret, thinking they alone will hoard its treasures once pilfered from its nest. By hardened hearts, unable to feel, see or hear, the sickness seems almost tame, a laughable thing that should be so feared, but fear, but its very nature spawns beneath disbelief, reckoning its sort with the voluble and passive, all who enter here.
Matters scatter the waves, no book derives its pages, opaque clarity moves over eyes bent on seeing what they don't want to see, them that carouse the ignobility of thinking backwards on a melody dividing on itself through patterns of keepsake treasures thought to be worth more than what is truly worth life itself, this goes round and around till we have the troubles ground into sand making beaches the land of blood bending waters for holiday snaps on refrigerators, wallets and for those who drive themselves off the edges where decisions are made that determine the fates of universes.
Waves hide their own circles of brave entertainment that won't derive the bigtops' means of procreating the need for fun, that the bears are diving off the lions mouths, big apes are confused, become enamored of silent saturation where the drugs are being shipped in the horses' eyeballs rolling backward in the heads of cowboys long dead, nestled in graveyards of their beds folded into books going back eons, that the treasures kept in hiding arte the very ones keeping the bigtop alive, and no one knows how the end must beget another beginning, only the clowns know; they conspire.
Upswinging the basic dyad with phosphorescent hats and coats of luminescent green, the boys of the warring thrash bands have their hands full keeping mutating fans sated while angry junkies with bad credit ratings hoard the exit ramps to the stadium, preventing smug divas from calibrating any new ways of avoiding autographs with lipstick so garish any onlooker might puke from exhuberance, such is the danger of being a rock star in the wrong universe while keepers of the gate take aim with exacting pleasure, that any responsibility to the owners might be more clearly phrased in their dissolving contracts.
Searching down such streams of sound your smile seems wider for the fresh explosion of antiquity blessing this aging mind resting on its need for sustenance and the filial combinations contained within this crush of notes striding off your ancient heritage. My thanks extend fibers elongated for the strident gains this soft parade elicits from silences between rushes, that fields of creativity stretch through palisades of modesty, crushing flimsy hubris gloating in the mud underfoot while horses guide carriages toward the palaces, wherein Kings and Queens languish in lavish expressions in lush collusion for the pleasure of desiring love's blossom.
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