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Moving, ever moving inside the moving, piling gesture upon gesture, completing the movement beyond mere movement, completing it into stillness, where the stillness spins deeper inside the stillness finding movement that has no movement but movement within a stillness that has no boundary, moving through all that construes movement in utter stillness, that the form evolved exists as an idea outside our banal reality where two plus two must always equal four, so it goes within this construction, a new math pervades the void and draws out constructions to mystify the eye of the eye, so that we see anew.
Crawling out a curious blackness, a blot of inky void that seems as through space has congealed itself on itself as a map of nowhere doing nothing for no reason but doing nothing, exists, as it is clarified when the void opens its mouth, like a hungry shark upon bleeding prey and burrows through the inedible murk where we stand like startled prairie dogs in a tornado not expecting the daunting dull, the wet heaviness that falls upon consciousness like a ten ton weight on a mouse, obliterating form for a mass of disconnected molecules, such as it is, puzzles.
Either we don the mess or replicate it on our subjugated animals in distress, hold it up in cages of many colored bars and chimes and rotating baubles with reflected lights flashing, tantalizing the trapped and deluded minds draining their guts of head like pee from a distended bull in a fuck fest, we are these bulls and mud and semen laced cupcakes sprinkled with diamonds of poisonous glare, so haughty we become, we rise above the mess in our fashionable gowns of putative wisdom, presuming lessons to be learned from the echo chambers of our adorned crematoriums in heaven.
If this can, then this can do what it can do as it can, and only when it can't do anything else. We've bought into the can-do party, a party of can-do folk, a fold of the residue that couldn't do but could as they might, while doing as they can what they did, which isn't much, such is the case when doing what they can do is nothing that can be, they do it anyway to spur a focus away from the dead heaps of bygone can-do folk that couldn't. It's always this, as it can.
Such as, it is such, this is the such as it is, and such as it is, it moves into its outstretched hand as if it might calm the beast roaring under all its stiff silences, under all the patchwork displays of decorations in its homes, its cells, its well-defined cages with the gilded edges glinting like forged blades of bygone wars it keeps as remembrances of things to forget but can't, as they keep us all in check, on guard, sharp as the blunted tacks we've become, pinned on wanted boards worldwide, as the defaced face of it.
We wait upon waiting till waiting can no longer abide itself waiting until the wait becomes something else without definition, and all becomes like a stasis in a jelly hung from nothing in a vast void; it hangs in the middle of one's eye, unseen but by the back looking gaze through dreams when nothing of matter construes itself, and all that lives to live construes the matters least seen in wakefulness, held by the hook of our hearts in a grip without form. Such is the death geared to its engine stuck on the plateau of no man's land.
Then it dawns on one...there is no going forth or going back, there's only an indisputable recognizance of a face hardly recognized, for no mirror of reflection within the mind can fathom its features, all creases, furrows, dents, discolorations, expressiveness is lost to the melting vat deep within someone else's soul, the place you forgot was the place of your sacrifice, place of love lost, unbegotten of its own merit, but dug down inside a sinuous cavern, a labyrinth, dark and deep, lacking the scratch of a spelunker's wish to wind its mystery in its palm and be found.
It's the feature of it that makes it special, when limbs go limp, when energy drains from trying, when the body reclines from itself as an engine of purpose, of drive, of ambition, when the eyes settle into their own jelly, where images of self reside in the concave momentum of no regret, where harmony is distilled by calm, by settling elements normally boiling, flung into the fray for gestating creation for creations' sake as the gist of living's need, then might restitution come softly, when night may parade off the day's bluster, where the moon may whisper its secrets.
Ah, the breath that rises like a leavened dough in the musty heat, as fumes of its spum in the deep spattering gels boil off their moisture for tiny caverns in the deep dark blistering the meat, bubbling out its thick gore after pounding, grinding, rolling for the gabble off in dire distress till the oven's mouth widens and takes it in like a hungry lover slavering for the quiet roar inside the heat, inside the need, inside the welter with service given for emancipation; it is always like that, but never seen so, always seen as the unsound appetite.
Spin, gobble, roll around, then retract the limb, its gesture befouled by a furtive whip of flesh seen as something other than, as the other-than is extruded, an other-than that's never when but while its done for doing, when its means as the source of love becomes a pit of fear, when it spittles, drools, vomits its venom out a swollen cavern glistening as the manic cancer it is, as the juice machine to feed the demon seed, so brightly called for real, is nothing but, pours an elixir off the stage for spurious food spiced by lies.
Supple. The flush. Morn cracks dark, splintered shadows bleed the muscular sleep, improvised plays; feted starbursts, novas, meat of spirits' appetites for the dead spread across new feast tables, all eyes are ripped of nod, the hunger rises, meets its fellows, gestures become clearer, move together, a communal hand reaches out the amorphous body with organs still untuned, confused, plugging in, coffee is brewing, breath is rising, yeasty pluck, what spent its time in cool repose, falls away, walls show different movies, the night crew was replaced, family shows are now in order, demons are drugged, put away for later.
We might, might we not? May we not do how we do when we don't? May we keep how we keep when keeping is not but how we keep when keeping is? Can we do as we do when it's all done, when no one can do anything but do what cannot? Then is it ever how it will but will be done when it's done or not? This is the mark of doing, when doing is done for not doing, being here for the doing, being ready for the doing, knowing nothing can be done that's not our doing.
It sweeps up from the dust of despair, springing out of the muck, it makes its Chesire likeness known on the calamity, spitted on the black wall of wind scoring its way across the valleys and drifts of the cerebellum, it drives its ruddy intent thru the electrical sponge, heaving waves of light and dark by musty thrusts of charge, sparking like a storm on a crusted desert, gorging the air with its torrents, that the might may calm in its tempest of thought, that the meat of its manners may divulge the tsunami of ideas in the derivative flux.
This quiet leaving, back into the fold, drawing out a breath, drawing in, accepting the pause, before and after, the middle, that island sought between wake and sleep, between the in and out, at cusp, choice is, passion begins, the possibility of choice, wisdom grows with choice, or not, we fail, ignore, we blind ourselves, willing Oedipus all, the flight of the Phoenix, roaring up from the ashes, eating the air as ether, flux of movement from here to there to here again, ever and always the same choice, passed over in a blink, during a commercial break for beers.
Off the clock in the back of the clock idea before any clocks knew of time, that time was spent in haste to reduce the need for clocks fomenting clocks like lemmings, cruel irony in the streams of ironies flowing like time flows on the faces of clocks, from here to there, always a forward seeming momentum, seeming linear, though, in respect of time being an illusion, climbing the stalk to the giant's laire claims its place as time's contradiction, while up goes down, there is the time in between when moments are crushed to their constituents, here to here.
There ain't nothin left, ya know. Bulleyes plucked. The boys are out getting cooked in town. People like em cooked with taters. They's real good. Nothin out here no mo. All bullshit traipsing around like fancy saloon girls. They ain't fancy, just diseased, sad old ex-marines in drag. It's all bullshit, buddy. You all go back now, keep your house. Tain't nothin for you here no mo. Tain't nothing no for nobody no mo. It's all got the pox. Innards got puffy and green. It's all choked. Even the machines can't fuck no mo. It's all done. So quit.
We see as we see, as the world spreads its light in its idiosyncratic fashion on the bodies of reality with mantles of darkness cutting light as a wedding cake of up and down, sweet and sour, icing flows like Niagara, spinning carbines crackling in heaves of sparks, the very hungers topping off their aching needs by assuming their natures. Eyes are fitted, measurements are taken in haste, with varieties of blindness, their sensibilities changing in a moment. There is nothing to be done with the machinations of light being so reducible as money in a carnival barker's shifty hands.
Meeting the eye that doesn't meet itself, comes disjoint, out of synch, grows into a vast darkness spreading like wildfire on the prairie between looking and thinking, a desolation place that marks the viewing on the tiny screen, big splashes off the vacuum sucking quality for quantity, electrical chips flipped from morn till eve on a long slope of sun, while narrow eyes widen for their collective blindness... "Let no thought intrude, nor halls of head with obfuscating mentals, spirit withering on the arid plain....that no beast or thinking man be a stick to measure our ever deepening death."
Climb to home thru the unseemly matrix derivatives, be swept in the vortex combining here to there and everywhere situated toward the cusp, that indeterminate point, the ever preset hub connecting if, the what, and why for evermore or nowhere or here or there or the other where behind the blinded eyes, where the soul tunnels in vain for the heart of gold rumored as the rigorous definition of self. That all be found is nothing to the finding, where the journey is all and the finding is but a comma, an eddy, a breach of the flow to everywhere.
To write, the privilege of logos' revelry, mastery of the painted heart, burst vessels of thought constructions, flowing into the shared spaces between the 'I' and 'Them,' from the core vestibule where mind construes its functions meeting needs off deck on plains starving for a drop of sentience, a seed of consciousness that begins the mitosis meeting one to a trillion on a form collaborating physical with the metaphysical, blending all that might be to all that is, a flux derivative of life, yet, how sold we are, on bending back the unveiled, evolved mind for the eye's evanescent masturbation.
We give ourselves over to something we cannot name, it propels us to another edge if taken to its extremis, takes us to its secret, if secret there be, a secret unveiling the veil why the veil is the veil, howsoever we reveal its need to be the veil as itself, we look beyond it, we draw it away from its necessity, to become something other-than, and in this depth we see ourselves looking in, we see our perplexity seeing the veil as sacred, we see the lie, we see ourselves seeing the lie as it is, we know.
The age grips back its aspect to age us over our age that is but a compendium of thoughts, aspirations, dreams of fulfilment. We fold the age back, we draw away its skin begging to be thought of as all in all, the extent of us, extent of our life so lived in the realm of the skin, we draw this skin back, where age becomes a footnote, a mere catalog of statistics, a folder of numbers that have meaning only in so far as we give it meaning, a meaning that draws us away from us, painting us old.
The remnants, as we were, construe faces that rise from an ash we keep in the back room for reasons not known; kept, not for mere habit, but for needs not known, not revealed until they had to be known, this being the nature of things vital to who we are, as we become who we are in the becoming, the ever moving moment, the sliding point that has no dimension but a movement forward into the future, our present being but a tripped shutter, then clicked away into the past, our reality being but faces in a photo album.
This day, how do we mark it, how do we mold its reality, or does its reality mold us? How do we fit into the fitting? Does the fitting fit us, or is it a matter of wrestling to fit both us to it and it to us? Are we the product of this wrestling match, and does it matter that we may deny the fight, repudiate the wrestling, or are we mere cocks to fight as the fight needs, as the cocks need the fight regardless, that the ends meet needs in spite of us, an a-priori drama?
You want to quit. What is quitting? Is quitting reality, given choice and the immutable clash in the fretted darkness opting for an out, the bell, a moment at the corner with trainer dabbing cuts and cerebral gashes, a deadly, front-line clutch on the lobe of learning that sight might may become smell become hearing become a vaulted mixture before another bell, another round, another endless dance around the core of life and death, the core of cores, unseen, untouched, enisled by the fact of us, of all who deem life and life as polarities without censure of repose?
It twists in the guts, this loud indescribable beast with animal madness looking for a mind to give it form, disembodied hands work the broadside etching, decals of burnt faces yelling out the cheers, and the formula whereby the annotated fire eats itself in the belly, where the mind becomes a landfill, heaves its own vomit from the center of the earth, bonfires blazing, scorched engine oils streaming from the gashed body, purple flames licking murdered ladies not knowing their fate was in their mouths shriveling with relentless joy. I walk out upon the desert, the cacti bellow off key.
There it goes. See it? My spine bends back. My stomach heaves a hello with rotten egg lyrics. The sediment of my love construes not its fabric, whereby elements of kissing spit themselves out, till I found you, the rudimentary key to my heart, solace to the breaking habits of dull and deadly, the rude search for corpses, never ending seemingly, surrender to our party with two celebrants shouting out their salvific joys, their utter satisfaction at finding what was never found till brazenly in the cave, when corroded beasts of prey made light of the hallowed eve, happily weeping.
Everything smells like mildewed gism looking for an egg to suck, habitat of blue becomes scarlet, critiques of writing long lost to finding in a miasma of failure, are strewed over the blood spattered streets. Such is the smell of success in crematoriums, where the ghosts still cry out the forbidden songs without voices, such is the monumental tree rising above the sodden earth soaked with the Smashed Temple's fears. The ruddy face of the enemy is concealed by the blue tarp falling over the idea of the sun, and the mind behind it carries off its ritual without question.
Far be it from the edge from crumbling its way off my eyes slanted on a plane cutting the high and low, being the divider from here and HERE, where here is just another glance off an idea made on the expanse of HERE that has no place but a necessity for completeness, taking the way found to be the way lost, as being lost is the way to be found; there is no dividing line between found and lost, merely a denial that mocks the moving from unknowing to knowing, the edge, the plane, off which crumbles the edge.
I found the heat a fine tuned melody, ripping its chords through the tangle of dull, wherein I stashed the frozen soul I called my sanity, a fragile form, delicate mesh where lights dashed, dangled and construed the whole of my heart that had no substantiation beyond its need to be in the frozen metronome, not a throbbing muscle bearing blood to thirsty organs, no, but a fountain that bore what no earthly flow could deliver, the key of light for which the lock of locks lusted, that this mating might occur, the spike of heat became my greatest smile.
I slid off the weakness on a strength that held me aloft, kept me alive so long that my skin might eat the kisses of the sun, feel the daggers of the stars at night that held no promise of day, where the darkness' entreaty bore the wholeness of spirit, and the circuitry of the mind was open to any child with basic knowledge of super computer programming, that the weakness bearing my soul like a naked tadpole was hefted into clarity under night's glare, switching operating systems at random, feeding the swelling dome becoming the me of not me.
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