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You speak from a mutable mouth, your voice carries weights from low and high, flooding tangled byways with its seductive vibrations digesting humanity shuddering for fears, by which escape from the voice is futile, the festering wounds divide off sounds where blood dries for salve and false security, your voice meets the manners of politeness, garbs itself with conviviality, parades the streets with cheers tumbling down the avenues, pits ears for siphons, grabs its time, allows poisons to take; in sudden fury, should I wake for but a moment, I would fit a bullet to your voice, shatter your brain.
The dogma barks, the antelopes commit hari kari with elephant trunks over sauce pans full of whimpering babies gone awry that the functionality squeals bedlam for a lullabye, dissonant as the recipes shredding brain-dead cooks in beer-batter vats. "Come one, come all, we got treats for all the born-to-kill predators on the gun, it's merriment without end, as deep as the river runs red, wide as the tenements blare their relentless baby pumps spitting flesh for fodder in the alleyways of poverty galumphing and singing the starvation song." No one but all and infinite reruns too.
To the point that has no dimension, to its substantiation, toward its reason looking for the reasoning, looking for the residual of its scattering plot, from the point of idea through its complex evolution, to the expansion outward, then to its collapse, its contraction into itself toward the core pulsation and out again, where all points are generated looping the flow of the points circulating the soft machine, whereby function derives the means to suit its rapture, that the whole universe suits this circuitous pattern of creation, where all of our souls are instruments generating cycles from points without points.
There is the unspeakable seduction rising from a crucible of our vanity that overlooks what valleys of the dead we've wrought, it speaks loud its voluble disease parading a panacea for sin with a voice that pitches its grist, muscles like Hercules' bellow over the chasm of monsters spun from the id screaming out a fantastic planet orbiting the shadow of heart in the core of soul. Its descent is as its ascent, circumambulation and center point. It becomes what we fear the most as the remedy of all ill. It becomes out best friend, luring us to the ovens.
Fervently we seek the light, however we go, blind as the church mouse starving for a crumb, into the cusp hold of a curling gesture down deep into the crucible we seek the mysterious constituents, hardly aware, hardly guessing the volatility wherein we've come by this thing called life, where elements of the alchemy driven to their mixture by command of a higher sort upon which we lean, couples ideas proffered in secret, forming forms we can relate to, laugh with, cry with, depend upon in the moments of sadness, grief and despair, yet therewith, this gesture remains in stasis.
Muscling in from the shadows, an amorphous form dons an idea of its inception, slips back into imagination maelstrom, that eternal typhoon shuddering the eye that dares to look within, blinding it even as it gives it vision beyond seeing, tempering the cold plains with shafts of lightning. Spotting the earth with its own brand of arousal, pricking the sides of conformity, conviviality and the swooning nod befitting the cocktail lounge's mugwumps in their soiled slumps, sucking their entrails dry of waste, that through this sewer supped in ferocious calm, the form may move with impunity, indulging its rapacious appetite.
Between the blinking eyes, the wide light narrows to a pinpoint drawing the darkness from its hiding place, revealing the plan as the plan executes itself, destroying the plan, data being digested behind the eyes. Like a diamond cracked to a billion glittering baubles lodged in the flow where mind construes its functionality, the mechanism that cannot be found, seen, touched or compromised, cannot defeat itself but defeats only the presumptions of defeat scaring the timid off, goads the intrepid on, and a unique drug, generated in the driven, flows liberally till the deeds demanded have become everything and nothing.
Furiously made to feel calm abut nothing, in a snit for no reason this wit winds a place that has no design on itself, no means to be charted, but keeps its thatched form secure, all roads leading to other roads and no roads out, all roads spiraling toward a center that's always moving, changing importance, changing its worthiness to be a center of anything, this place where helplessness has an accepted name branded on every soul, every mind, every particle of hope, that the feeling of being safe is nothing more than the feeling of being ineffectual, a period.
Stepping stones crumbling from attrition through eons of ignorance, triumphant over eyes from seeing, hearts from feeling, bodies from acting, all senses cued away from being aware, the slope downward cascades through a maze of false promises, triggers compulsions aplenty, entrapping even the most stalwart talents from expanding, keeping mediocre minds elevated, weak hearts to appear strong, setting the stage for the house of cards to topple in a thunderstorm of tears shed without focus, purpose or resolve, a prison rises from the debris, bars and chains appearing as if by magic, binding need by desperate want for all eternity.
It spurs itself to become the means of overlapping the interior impressions of the exterior, keeping each from the other, as each are removed from the other, yet suspicions crowd the senses of each face to map the other, each following their own fears to delineate the other, each crease of the other but a pattern of its nefarious nature, each furrow and rise of the cheek but an impression of the criminal, both determined to outwit the means of the other, cross the other out at the pass, though the pass can never be but a fear to fume.
The function of the other suits its capability to manufacture a facsimile benefiting the costliness of crossing enemies as a last resort on the course of keeping the peace. When conflict sparks fire, nothing is lost but a face of something expendable, something cheap, something easily discarded, even considered ill to hold, better lost in the fray, buried in a landfill, burned in a heap of garbage, that nothing remain but memories of necessity barking its need to keep an even strain, even so, a voice, that tiny echo of a voice remains, the sliver in the muscle of conscience.
Monumental, how, then why, as it comes from a mystery, beckoning ears, eyes, all senses attuned, fixated on the spreading miasma, amorphous form forming its largess, even as it shrinks beyond view, collapsing to the infinitesimal, that one lone gesture gesturing before any gestures, a signature point construing our fiery momentum, how the collective swarms on a bead of one to a billion and more, how the function derives its means, being monumental, gargantuan, leviathan of reality, being reality itself, then some gladsome creativity, when the dove bursts into sky devouring blue as the sun drives its nuclear laughter home.
World revolves as it collapses, as it winds itself into a ribbon, mobius form, up is down and around the axis, parallel to the infinite, perpendicular to itself, planes bisecting planes, one form evolving to another, causality is crushed to anything goes, as it goes around and around. What we see is but a photoflash moment that wants more moments, but there's no stopping how one takes the path or how the path takes you; you grab a moment, moment grabs you. The construction begins, ends where it begins, but then again as it is, it is only the beginning.
Sedimentation leaving the crust too edible in extremis, vying for the right to be whole in light of unnatural appetites being divided amongst the population as a means to invade the inner sanctum where ideas are born out of need to conquer all that can be taken and used for food, no matter what, no matter where, the vittles are concocted, the table is set, and all who are allowed to partake assemble for the feast, yet no one sits, no one eats, no one says a thing; it's all fashion and disguise, masking a reality no one has unraveled.
The unspoken guest is yet to arrive. Anticipation crowds the mind, robs thinking of its space to exist, and the landscape on which thought might travel to discover its own existence becomes an amusing folly, a game to be played as a fiction, that the ones responsible for the loss of creativity are deemed the most worthy of admittance, while the ones who devise challenging schemes of intellectual intrigue are barred from participation. By all that is considered golden becomes a means of bargaining with bags of tin and promises that have no root in reality, mere sources of amusement.
The Fire God, meaning not to soak the time as shredded moments, mere kleenix in a blaze, yet the epicenter of heat draws sustenance for the coiling down of eyes from the seekers own wisdom exhuming their tiresome dogma while seeking a vision of the un-spoiled, being drawn to the matters of soul spooling out unregimented skies inside mundane skies hung like racks of week old corpses, hung like clouds full of extreme inner-visions hanging out their violence to dry; for it is no more a vain hope to look for a smile in the miasma of genocide.
The center moves with the outermost face appearing as if blithe, looking toward its leisure as no more a means to accomplish its goal than to sleep for the labor at hand, yet in the quiet of its seeming serenity fire blazes unseen, keeps its hearth swollen like molten iron within a forge's rocks being held at bey, held for the whim of the blacksmith, whose intent to serve the oven is as solemn as a priest serving their god on the alter of life and death, that the alpha and omega, as pinnacle of carnage and creation becomes real.
Long time silent, snuggled in passing gaze of a blinded eye, smiling mind in the swirling pool, where sight began as a poet's whim, painter's sketch, sculptors chipped marble on a dias of dreaming, the vestibule of nothing's supremacy over certainty's dull drab, in binding woes off creation's plateau, wandering like Oedipus with a drunken servant, stumbling over the blind man's feet looking for an excuse to sleep in, looking for that loophole of freedom and that long place of letting go, dissolving this thundering banality, then to the block, canvas, pad, funneling inspiration, we go for the happy accident.
Surety vies for the coveted bottle, still capped, floating in a sea we never do, hidden by waves under gaze, toppling the gleaming form filled as filling goes through ages spent emptying minds, caving souls, gutting bodies looking for that thing, that one bit of light, but squirming through the rot of leavings, graves of dust, caves of poisoned darkness, what is sought eludes with the craft of a child's wisdom, while adult eyes scope in vain, lost in self-proclaimed mastery over nothing parading as something, diving endlessly into the same empty pool, ending up in the same ER.
Into the wonder vat we dive, so long away the need for undress evades, we go as we are, in threads soon gone in flames of creativity, flumes rising as the doping gas, spiking the caged mind, rousing the dragon, leviathan form stretching, feeling the shackles, bars, locks locked tight, bemused, and rather rage, humor flames, absurdity meets its reality, and the bars split, prison shatters, force as none but allowance destroys the cage, seeing its weakness as strength, it cannot survive such glaring wisdom by the soft arc after loss decided endless wins by brute strength, its rule evaporates.
Trickle down, river roars, its current flows by need of needing release, though clapped in dressy arcs of action in the super-ordered system, each dot, a manner of ruling, that dots might emancipate, when periodic discovery is met with hubris' glare over all, in due respect the voluminous energy roils the core feeding pyramids of glory, driven humans as myriad Sisyphi' struggle to the peaks, waving evanescent wins in the wind passing through without pause, bearing no award nor word of thanks, but whispering the secret of all secrets there is no secret but ones created in lies.
We find the need to find the reason for finding, then we go, as we are bidden, by forces that cannot see their own course but for the ends by any means available to dismiss the moral questions with actions without apology or pause; by force of wit that has no charm, devices are unleashed for the course as described by intent to win at any cost. In the fires raging we manage to see without seeing the glory of guts splayed on canvasses without number like a flashy Pollock design for those in future's classrooms to marvel at unceasingly.
Fumbling scouts of interest, moving over landscapes of inquiry, divide themselves by each one's measure of importance, disguise ego-ridden minds as meek, altruistic seekers of wisdom, bent on collecting the debris of habitat as the walls cave, in due course by reason of the inner intent revealed when exhaustion carves the facades away and true faces emerge, fielding beauty as ugly, confusing minions of culture's base of servitude, driving ambition into desire, lust of form and matters of fashionable dust, where winding up becomes the winding down and nothing's to be had but courses of pretty food sans nutrition.
There is a voice we cinder to the soothe, our aching heart of heart, where drawing out its song begs its last gasp as an ever churning viability, taking heed of nothing but the volumes of living heaped in decaying piles grounding down the wings, once light, airy, winging us aloft to the fashion of its span, the very breadth of the universe, expanses beyond imagining, awaiting the word to lift despair from its mooring on the docks where lockers of dying eyes flicker thru dirty lights; it begs, pleads, goads us, take the breath, and drown to live again.
Time afterburns, the leaving as the going, into the center, around the edge, combining the outer, as a thin line pursues its intersections, the form is complete, what's sacrosanct within and is sancrosanct without, always this way, never seen as this way, defied, vilified, mocked as a way of segregating reality from itself, something of a bad celestial joke that won't quit; it's the manner of being inside one's thoughts and wandering outside the whole domain of intent, exacting only the single line of intent, as time afterburns to a stillness not equated with being still, the alpha and omega.
The waiting elongates, drives desire to a gritty pustule, pumps the roundabout thinking into a blue state of mind, carouses the fevers concomitant to attitude magnified by anticipation in degrees of fear arousing itself to a cancer, crowding out light by idiosyncratic darkness...infusions aplenty that cannot be summed, cannot be articulated, only felt as a barrage of fingerless fingers nudging home the point there is no point, the paradox that assaults the paradox, keeping finality a feckless wonder, keeping aloft the notion that nothing can be lost when nothing's at stake, therein the function is merely to mimic function.
Neither is something simple as assumed, or complex, as seen by the entrails exposed, all that's in is out, and all that's out is in, a folding array that never ends, a repetition, with all the forms existing within the forms outside the forms, and what one can see is the norm of being still, never changing, as being the one thing forever, that nothing is forever but that which remains is the most common lie, taught in every school that insists on having the truth; so what is the truth? As manifested in the heart of learning, nothing true.
Entering the arena, all eyes within eyes perk their nerves before nerves, complete the assumptions to derive the largess sought in driving art to its consummation, howsoever the function meets flesh, how device of banal habit deconstructs, how then all that matters to the walkaday blister of reality may burst in a flume of stuck disease in the release of winds before winds, where all that we find and covet is reduced to its flotsum and jetsum, by meeting demands rising from the unseen, untouched, unmuddied core collude on the isle of our heart, how things and lust, become dust.
He parades the gloom in the vestibule of disease without a name, in the fragmented mind devised in secret by the minions of creativity, them who construct the deconstruction inherent to his volubility, such as it is, his viability decreases while attention increases, hotter and colder at once, his fashion is to confuse, manner to bemuse, vigor of light in the male organ playing a symphony through the soupy night crawling out of day like a newborn lizard, Lazarus in disguise while the gods play soccer in the closet, the boys in the band conspire openly to complete his song.
The feeling is more complex than the simple rider of sadness, horse of no color braying and kicking for no reason, a face on its back with no expression but surprise, as feeling any feeling in the rush toward wherever in the dark. Howsoever it meets its goal, describes its fantasy of being crisply here, but not so clear a choice, myriad in the starry dome peering down on the lone rider who's anything but lone, trailing the course as if sacrosanct and distinct, but not, a blur on the foggy road, only distinct in its ineluctable course toward...wherever....
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