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You could ferret out spices from the bland extrusion and enisle habit from impulsive habitation when the ghost of your passion looms under constructions meticulously wound to the core of your mind, in which tiny hands work tirelessly to form the completed piece desired from the beginning, that the end might not divide you from your lust of life over a curiosity of death; the means are gathered, simple, raw materials where you fashion sustenance, as it serves its stability to the disturbed mind. The bed made is the place where conception has no bounds but reality's endless peripatetic joke.
Keeping watch for the moment where collusion becomes necessary to crush accepted structures of belief, when all the dogmas have found a place in the damaged heart for incineration, when forgetfulness has occupied the inner battlefield as the old flesh falls into itself on a bed where spirit reclines under ash waiting as fire rekindles by contradiction the bonfires of inspiration, as the tired lies are consumed and death howls its forms out of the windows shitting giddy lazzis of light for crude, hurtful fictions. When all is broken and done, when all the emptied spaces reveal again only potential.
Falling off the edge of death, seeing what can only be seen in departures, arriving at the new launch point as an amorphous form with designs of erecting a radical continuum of n-dimensions, discovering virgin needs, undisclosed in the mind of soul, humming up the belly of invention, fingered by eternal craftsmanship, knowing no bounds but that which dissolved at my desk in a reality vast as imagination, ruffling the rushing edges, riding celestial rapids, surging back the slapping crowns of breaking waves crashing over themselves in the pristine brine, stretching envelopes wide, hungry mouths of the new universe.
It claimed everything; nothing could stop its mind from disappearing inside curiosity, that tiny stream flowing from the gate where knowledge combats ignorance as the hallmark of progress, growing every wider, faster, clawing out debris from complacency, taking its energy from the seekers who must learn as they do, learn as they go by how they go, falling down a thousand times, rising ever more resilient, ever more sure of their path, while deep within the means of their going, inside their core, by which the flow emanates, that which insinuated itself, relaxes, gloating how it controls its followers flowing.
It eats from within, chews its fancy through vessels wound about vessels, into the core where primal inception granted its insatiable appetite, where the feast was fire, and the habitation of life drew out its death by servile ministers of flame. What depth might this power plunge if given sight to see what sky it denies for disbelief after regrets are heaped upon sorrows when lust collides limitation, when morals tumble from their pulpits, sanctified for their appropriate graves? How might we serve our unspeakable needs then? Might we embrace darkness as a new savior of light, shall that delight?
I have come to an end. You see me standing among the answers. They are my bane, my nemesis. I enisle myself by the habitats of their nature and succor the controversy where quality of wit divides their nature over a patter of wanting questions when there are none, that the island I fabricate is the island I demand, the island of my mind, wherein laughter mingles crying, expanding soothe for the day as it is, that such a daunting globe of complacency might transcend intimidation and allow me in to wander among the gravestones, until the questions come alive.
How it affects one, this quiet momentum, its insistent drumming on the base of soul, foundation shaken, structure heaving, rooms with an unseen form shuffling the papers, overturning the chairs, stripping away the wallpaper, messing the bed, screaming at itself in the mirrors that won't shatter, all the mirrors, above, below, beside, fused to the eye, gleaming to reflect nothing grounded, dead to living, only alive to dying, in the room's core it breathes, demanding nothing but everything, giving nothing back but ridicule, shame upon shame, creating a desolation place of becoming nothing but a cog in a useless machine.
I am still. I cannot speak. Shame of an unknown kind slithers my wit, stops the mind. A dead sort of calm sits. I stare ahead. God is great? Irony laughs. Something is sick. The sickness pervades. I am shivering. The cold is hot. Fear that has no name repeats a litany over and over. I cannot catch the words. They tumble the ground at my feet. Who might know? What might they know? How is it that we cannot see while seeing what's diseased. It sees us. It uses us. It has made us a game in its hospice.
Heavy as it goes lightly through a circuitous route around the back of the end to the beginning looking forward to seeking the profoundest release of creative expression; as the factors in play, driving the energy to the max, squeezing all the joy till sorrow meets it face to face, finally forces the vital question without being so naive as to apply words or anything grossly inaccurate, that the muscles needed to push the enterprise to its greatest realization are not the muscles one sees, but muscles that strain the imagination to the limits of a spirit's alpha and omega.
We go to get the goods as the goods are good for us, goods that we get to get more goods, and the more goods we get that're good for the getting, we get to the point where getting is forgotten, we got all the goods that we can get, but we want to get more, so the getting gets us gone to going, we go to get to be gone, so much so that gone is getting us going, gone to getting that we've forgotten how to get so we're gone to going, going, going, but not to get.
Trailing off the quiet to the impossible din of perfect silence meeting the desire before and the satisfaction after in the space where nothing and everything become possible, where the fusion of reality and dreams intersect, that, what happened, what will happen, what is, is all confounded to a moment stretched to fit the means to connect the running rivers in and out...the cable box where the cable guy moves with impunity to remedy the reason for remedy, relegating the calamity to the level of nothing done but everything, and so it comes that it never was nor will.
Ticking the clock off in a dream space of roundabout ideas, making time reverse its humor for sadness' process, keeping time in the rhythm of no time lost by all time gained for all that we need by shedding all we want for vain confusions to grip the methods of resuscitating our dulled spirits mired in a swamp of lusting after what can never be acquired, only dreamt as a way of satisfying the inner hunger that never dies, this, the mechanism, driving its own engine to the end of its capacity, mates the means of begetting to begetting none.
It finds itself to be very self conscious while diving off the board into the abyss, furious that nothing ever comes back; it's always disappointed, as far as the desire to keep the human flame from going into the red all the time, but no matter how hard it tries, or how diligent it is in tending to every small detail, the end always seems to be the same. However long the tales are told involving all the substances combined in who we were, combined with who we've become after all is said and done, makes it very ill.
I feel like something in the center of it, where the circumference is defined by turning itself out, then in and by some extension pushes the circle out. I am being defined by the center and cirumambulation together, a whirling in, a whirling out, a typhoon of being here and there, a furious meeting of elements created and destroyed, something hot, something cold, something dead, something alive, how they mix is out of hand out of mind, eyes are burnt, looking in, looking out, a fiery materialization of something icy, there are things of a sort that cannot be real.
It feels itself feeling the vulnerable organs of reason and creativity as it moves in silence without sensation through the vessels of spirit drawing light from the vast darkness threaded throughout the mind; from one to an infinite array, serpentine cables wind about themselves, winding about the shanty town huts built to house the colorful animals of our nature, tending to keeping doors open while the day falls into night creeping into day and over and under the streaming sinews stretched to breaking, yet bulging thick with the new news breaking daily on the street corners of our leaky souls.
I enjoy what I enjoy as I enjoy it enjoying me driving me deeper inside a sense of me while I climb out of the sense of me to find the truest sense of the blending, a dissolution of me in a whirlpool of you and me, flooding out of traps wherein I locked the lies of me held as the truth of me, exposing one to all the values rendered worthless, becoming a pauper in the coin, wealthy in the spirit, dredging the filth once plated like gold, now seen for the rusted tin for chains that bound me.
Rendering the silence as a great beast manifesting gently in the bosom of soul where the ideas of conquest spur light dressed in darkness for a play at the feast of creativity, that marriage of wrestlers grinding the habitats to dust, tearing away what pleads for rest, prays for that which cannot be, that which doesn't exist, as the battle decrees its combatants' hands that work the cables of energy, winding about each other, slithering up the poles, our spines, plugging them accordingly to fashion rooms of the castle of being human, able to defend as it offends but none.
I reach inside. A cold space expands. Warm thoughts spiral in, dance about the core of desire ploying its arms like tentacles searching for the questions hovering without articulation, waiting for logos' manifestation to finger the pliable form I am, as I've always been prior to answers' solidity, vying for the freedom to ask perpetually diving down the insatiable abyss, flying up the sky, threading the viscous reality that worms its way habitually through soils where seeds of creativity plunge, feeding off residues of seeming failure, being nothing more than the manure and substances of all that seeks to succeed.
It falls so far up till you can see yourself so clearly it completes self as the sky completes the earth's reality, with stone and feather, while soils move the mountains into valleys where all things grow to ascend the earth where sight is second nature to feeling, thinking is second nature to eating, that all manner of man is rounded, then comes the divide, differentiation speaks loud as necessity, and the differences chide differences for being different, till nothing sees anything but their own need to kill for being blind that sees like sight turned backwards for riddles.
I fell into wanting and the mouth expanded, oceans fell in, valleys swallowed up ideas of mountains, where up became down, where vain differentiation evolved from the unbelievers lusts driving prejudice into form, that rivers of light wove through the gardens of the house till rooms were filled with voices bellowing the soul of art in perfect silence deafening evils' clamor and roar rounding the house jostling its core, giving ever more reason for silence' dominion, that the release of spirit could ascend the body's defeat, resurrect the once defeated mind and prop it up on standards of purest intent.
There is this hunger. It pervades. It occupies. It has no bottom, no top. It has no dimension, yet it fills all the space of intent over all landscapes spread out in colorful questions. The hunger speaks through these questions. It bids me answer, yet I have no answer. The answer is me. Everything else is a mirror. What I see is what I feel is not real, yet it is real, though my seeing sees nothing but the questions. They are laid out in perfect discontinuity. Drawing a line from them belies the route I must take to me.
Ticking down the boxmarks, an ellipsis arrives around the mental matrix, dances its colors to the tunes no one whistles, no one knows, no one keeps as a secret treasure when no one's watching, listening or being alive to themselves or anyone else but to the ticks and tocks of leaving and arriving, coming together, coming apart, letting one's habit of being insensible while the ellipsis wraps round, keeps the jostling inside alive, keeps the the dust from settling, lets the head be turned inside out, lets the seer see nothing but the seeing that breeds noting but insensible dancing.
Hope is trailing the life cord, rivets from within drive out mind, penetrate wells of words where the resultant gush drowns the sense of cohesion, coherency, the right of ordering, ripping cords twisted on themselves, fraying in the furious climb from here to here on a bed of nails; lifelines, shredded from the core spirit, dangle off the cliff, and the man, garbed of hasty wings, takes flight of light to ride darkness' tribunals as the jury of blind and deaf preside over a court of nothing to be decided in the case of this one lone eagle dodging bullets.
It doesn't really matter by token of the matters out of hand in the grip of such unbridled release, given how the form of indentured morality secures the heart from flight keeping it abreast of crab-like dances in the mud, by all that holds itself sacred in the sun trips lightly off the cliff above the bottomless award ceremonies, brightly lit and canopied for the adepts seeking initiation by steps of the wolf. In the patterns arranged for the tests, all that we see must become all that we deny, and so the contradictions and trials succor the needy.
It's being in the state of being pulled out of a shadow filled with whirling needles of ice that pierce my exhausted body scrambling for sleep as the ladder to climb out of pain; by measures of dreams lifting the sordid from these icy blades, their shapes molded by rage that has no articulation, the stuff of desperation begging horses from whiffs of air spat from the cave of heart where the soul hunkers trying not to feel the gnawing hunger roaring like a firestorm over a dessicated prairie, the agony devours everything in its path, cindering thoughts for ash.
It strings along as can be derived by the concentration of minds colluded on a theme of the alpha and omega, all that exists within the structure of time and outside, being the realm I know as the homestead of my pen, that scribbling heart of nod on the swell of light bending as befitting an impulse to destroy then create then destroy, all as one creation that has no beginning or end where feeling has anything to do with touching, as the eye has anything to do with seeing, but all feeling and sight blended as one and none.
Time is falling through the mixer, in a violence of a sort where soothe is key to the medley of voice and muscle, where tongue and leg collude on a race toward something outside finding, but known well within losing, this place I seek, the kingdom without need of clocks, where time is abstraction and the volume of being collects nothing from within the ideas made clear on a page or in a computer, but the ideas formed inside the idea of ideas, that the call never nods to the ascension of descending, where here is never anything but there.
Oh, to the free, that place where up is down, where all is none, where the summation of collection is the summation of dissembling, this wholly place nodding to the light absolute, by function swelling through the core delights, funding compliance as the bountiful fabrication, that takes it all apart on the dinner table, that invites all who would eat to eat, but not to eat as to eat with a mouth connected to physical appetite, but to eat with the notion of feeding this thing in the center of mind that goes hungry constantly, the very core of starvation.
Truth is...but what? That the night covers nothing but light, where the beds are broken like poker games in hell, where the tempests are fondly keying their ferocity to the source-pits where I dug for fossils, where I sought an answer in well crafted stones through millennia, where this place I keep withholds the truth, and in the night this truth exposes its place of harmony, its bed where things happen that have no substance beyond their happening, then could the delights and terrors take hands and dance their way through any quarry on any planet or zodiac.
The vital bit, with sharp teeth on the up and down, takes the chew grabbing meat from both sides of the question and separates the expected grammar, where the form of the question becomes divided from the flow, object and subject, quaint necessities, are found hanging off a cliff of a unique device, such that any manner of letting go must attend to discarding the reliability of asking, wherein, the answers, if any, become victim to a humorous killing. So, who takes home the prize? What's home? Who may be designated the taker? What's the prize? It's a disarming charm.
The metal speaks loud, though benevolent, as the means to interact, to become solid in fusion with flowing matters, being able to become able as ability called for transport; then the flux pattern, being interbulated, like the clever con as vocab man, functions differently for difference' sake. This sums the man, places him on diagrams with nuances needled in precise tabs, and calls to honk the eyes for safety eyes, pushes the flesh aside, that the keys in deep might be turned in favor of going forth, cataloged as extra, an extra piece of me for extra gears and cogs.
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