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I have images of no candor, paper balloons looking for the reason of air, a mind expanding to accept a question that cannot be worded but worked as a work in carefully guided experiments off the edge of sanity, I have the time split so many ways it might fool itself that no one might tell yesterday is only a tomorrow we forgot, a slipshod remaking of a time honored mechanism no one knew how to control, but kept secretly under a ruse to rule the hand of the driver that might lead the seeker to another way of losing.
Falling up to the wonder blister, on the taught surface, feeling its sordid sheen, licking the wet expansion under the swelling organs pumping ardor and ennui like contrary angels vying for the emptiness granted tension's release in the muscular dark, behind the eyes, in the neutral room where kisses and blows are one, we take to the grapple, and the blister falls further, stiffens in its private oven, cool and hot, calm and tumultuous, the bead in the core, calling out for gestures, as electrical fantasy grabs hold, sculpts its connivance from the wet mass, targets its function like virtuoso.
It's off. It's on. Puddled mind on a cruise of dimmed eyes scanning the fire lake. It's in the middle, stuck on high, stuck on low, stuck for the keeping of the gilded ages that have no reason, keeping reasons like pebbles for the end times and absolute stoning. High rise angels of bad repute level their ragged hems on a dirty shoreline for the raw connivances granted the downtripping forces only they may grasp, allowing secure connections in their sandbox, happily kept clean of cleanliness to ward off the dull and intrepid tourist in vivid naivete with bad credit.
If one could find the elusive lock, then the spectral key and plunge like rocket to the target of wanting, defying need for such a hand full of trinkets gobbled in time after hoarding for the price that's always rising, swelling to meet liabilities no one can devalue devaluing them who strive like gold diggers of old with their pans on the shoreline of lakes long dried playing at deserts where no beasts of prey might keep hungers down to the source cave, where one can still see monks of old trying their best to flint a fire with dull bibles.
So it retained the means and habit of sourcing the motherboards carefully laid out on blocks of time unmeasured but by eyes of minds locked in the middle world defying the core pulse, such that all that come to the end find the beginning, finding the reason there is no reason, just a mass of intricate constructions, that no secret may be sired to fund a society with funny handshakes screwing up social scenes and polite conversations. Then might the mythic forces level out, finding the means to benefit the thronging bands of needy servants looking for one good job.
In turn, the wide swing back spins on a loop leading the searching eye to the center of the eye, where sight of sun defies the truth, obviates all that might keep the heart from beating in time to the beat of no time registered on a clock creaking for its age, looking for a knowing to gear what's left of rational assumptions of the grid that cannot and must not be violated, such is the crown of the matrix where nothing but everything is situated as reality befits the situations stitched as logic might demand to the gods.
I fled this day to the other side of my reality, beckoning me to re-assume its function in the place of activation, the launching place, that all the particles of mind might assemble accordingly as all the wild and tame, calm and ferocious, sublime and dull might be exhumed as starving angels in the battle of evermore, and on this precipice looming up my mind fashioning what is believed to what is, mapping imagination to reality's wounding checkbook, that such a place I might find myself, is the very place I clumsily forgot when my battered car finally crashed.
It spreads out like molasses, this mind I seek within, diving to a depth I fear, rising to a height wherein I reel, sizzling its cold fire licking my ambitions unraveling like spiked desires. A desert becomes my platitude, my oasis, and the mountain hiding within roars from its quiet place to a perfect height that cannot be ignored, though all ignore it for a blight, an embarrassment; then comes the time there can be no more denial, and the scope of its power fills my extremities to the tips of their natures generating from the chasms of my heart.
So, I say this persona I fondle in my privations has its way when I set it aside as a trinket without substance, a mere dream that cannot be touched, though it touches me continually, penetrating deep in its silent way, as I carry on oblivious to the rationale that I control my controlling, a rule without concrete functionality, without tenets or form, being, as it must, an unseen elixir, magic potion, long forgot from a time when its nature was vivid and denied at once, like the crush that faded while it burned the hottest, finding no real earth.
The sun leaks. Valueless, black light crawls the alleged day, as a starving snake writhing for a sip of blood from a rock that is all of its earth, that such a sky filled with a dying orb bleeding light might vanish when knowing collides the sublime realizations that all the truths fed intravenously were nothing but lies fashioned by avatars of steeples penetrating sky for stalwart warriors without a war to pierce as their perpetual necessity; then it's known, then it's touched, as it touches me, a new skin, new shield, new armor in prep for the final battle.
So, it goes, as it goes, as it must go, the blood sought to fuel ambition through vessels without form in a body, take to the amorphous creation as dreams that might make it real, give it reason, a brand new realization to render it functional for a world that would rather not recognize this new boy on the block, this virgin being, this new creature rising. Its consciousness, becoming, takes from the ash of that which never rose beyond dreaming, nutrition of a sort only a god might digest, and in its rising, blood meets mind, then, daylight begins.
Today. Yes, a new start, a new beginning from a wash of stuttering night, cracks the formless form out of the circus of dreams. New possibilities take hold. Opportunities collide the mind in its waking by a fiery collision on the spun highway connecting sleep to wakefulness. From beneath the core value, strings of ideas spin and wind, whirl and tangle, spiral out from the reality of nothing, aroused cobras of creation rise, take charge, fete their hungers to the land of light; the mind clears, the soul finds its solidity, there, in that undefined moment, a life begins anew.
It tongues the missive, unfurled words without words, a select parchment, the decree from within, a sometime well of nothingness with occupational hazards that carry no rules for ruling, but the morphing nature of an ever changing syntax, that quality you see when seeing becomes obscured with day above the day, that all the letters re-combine with furtive glee, then comes sight, quite suddenly, where all the creatures bred for darkness reveal their nakedness; upon icy pyres they lay their fears, give them up to us who have no place for anything but wishing, as desire flints its flames.
The end approaches, arrival imminent, with the inexorable fear becoming the palms upon which the undefined yet palpable blackness strides; like the shrewd hunter, in a silent way, covers tender ground without a sound, lest the chosen be warned before their time that is still the appointed time governed by its necessities fondling the transformational space, moving as one, elements of the ritual, they knew their function, word for wordless word; for in the vitals the secret unfurls like a blossom, opening by the light of the moon but once an age that the ageless mind may be born anew.
The bizarre, no less a degree of culpability in a varying way off the central command where rules are forged, kept in solemn sacristy, though by need, become a service, morphing with functionality as seen on its ever changing face in the moment that seems secure, a ruse for the superficial souls, adapted to their own sense of stable manners and minds and well manicured lawns to keep the neighbors happy; such a fine dupe, carefully managed lie, the real deal when friends and family come calling, unaware of the change ineluctable, rooted under sight, taking charge of the grass.
It slips quietly inside, mending gnaw by alterations of a quick sensibility without pause, without sting, without viable sensations driven into head by a rude intrusion. The bead of its mind without mind construes its algorithmic function, disabling paradigm structures of the organ matrix, simple infection of a gargantuan nature, then darkness, as proud as nuclear winter, descends the flesh to the composition, delicate and incisive, fierce and gentle as an the Spider Woman's Kiss, so it goes, as going rips away all manner of repose, that the body must sacrifice itself for redemption on a new kind of cross.
There's an empty space between my wanting and having, a secret space where the arms without arms draw out gestures for completeness without beginning, reaching for an answer before the question, knowing all without knowing anything, being alive, yet dead in spirit, this thing we seek, this brave plateau of evolution that belies the human frailty, rises to a place of being, expanding all that is human without humanity, siphons heart through a steel eye, spits compassion out like tobacco, spreads a new kind of death along the river we call man, the uber man, the one coveted above all.
So it comes like the new moon spinning over the horizon after dawn died in a flurry of sun, where the eye fingered sight and boggled its colors for a tumbledown hell looking for heaven. All the myths are out. The children are hungry. There is no finding for what's sought, the old books are dimming, the sky, bereft of gods, is falling, and chicken little is always running, always screaming, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling," till the dream splits open; where once there was clarity is now a muddle, a mere drizzle over the dead town.
Her face missed the guard's glance. Taking advantage, she slipped inside the darkened space between the conference room and the lobby. She felt the quiet like a soft worm move up her spine, hefting her intent with effortless passion to her need that showed nothing but a gripped hand and an unblinking eye. She pushed the inner door slightly open, revealing three male backs. She heard voices bantering, arguing, targeting their vial concerns with seeming impunity. She pushed the door open further. In the dim light of the entryway, she lifted her arm, placed her finger and impunity died.
This loud sound, like nothing that crossed the ventilators before, shuddered the panels. The air caught itself in a clutched stiffness. Not knowing how to do what to do, if anything, the air, once soft, multiplied with fear and scurried through itself like a swarm of snakes looking for a hole to hide, but there was no hole to hide, so they found each other and grabbed at frenzy to calm frenzy; such piquant irony, that if any onlooker found the sight, they might laugh. In the shuddering fury, after finding no place to go, the air found only questions.
The questions divided themselves many times over with exponential swiftness, timing their final calculations with each mouth of the one-time minds gaping for fullness, finding none but crammed throats full of screams without body, sans logos, exhalations to equip volumes of passion with a modicum of sensibility, such that, like babies in a crib, howling for hunger, might be pacified by something to chew, so it went, a room full of astute thinkers giddily became a mess of soiled diapers with words for pacifiers, being so full of themselves as to forget the vanished form that seemed almost female.
Humor, macabre with absurd embroideries, made for the guts like poisoned farts, spilling the room for gutteral chortles, a fine assemblage to greet the new rivers sewing paths of red and black onto costly rugs and marble tiles, a pollock mosaic, one to delight any fond artist equipped with the means to see beyond calumny and take pleasure in what might be offered to anyone with a like mind; such a mosaic, as one that gave the room a new name, blessing each fetid form rising with a new way to identify time geared not to tell, but to hide.
It falls together again as it always falls, when the floor upends its superficial security, when the sky fails to deliver the light promised by dawn, reflected on by moon and subscribed by fierce reversal of all that combines when we are apart, then it's the substance of who we are that brings us down from wanting, that keeps us from having, till we are and we have, that all we are is a mere thought away and alive in all of its fullness in every moment before and after the idea of falling away is abolished and we are.
It goes and comes. It goes close. Comes far. It divides the arena of here and there like a mobius strip, where top becomes bottom, and the ellipsis defines a universe where in becomes out in its unique way to delineate motion that extends so far outward as to hit you in the back of the head. There is no boundary but that which exists as the fabric of a universe bending in, bending out, up and down, variables without definition; dancing on an apple, manifolds in ever evolving motion, as that goes, as reality is nowhere specific, this comes.
It's servile to itself as the master of its lair, ever closing, ever widening, ever establishing itself as prison, as a mask, as a series of masks, slipping on and off, one and a billion and none, the ever evolving face of no face, of all faces, this mainstream convolution we inhabit as a stronghold of nothing but dreams to chase after, as if dreams might fill the coffers of soul, so desiccated and empty, this face with eyes that can see where no eyes that eat light may see, is the realm outside this dome, this zoo of robots.
It fits, this sleeve growing into my eyes by the light of the black moon, by the heart of no heart in the tempest of the compression, how it divides away its merriment for lamentation is the crux of being aware of being dead while being alive, to reverse the course matriculation, to enter the sanctum of the core where nothing becomes everything on an infinitesimal point encompassing all, that all of us might see if we could hazard the edge of edges that has no abyss or summit attendant but the matters of all that exists in the void.
Centered in the key, this bell sounds, a vibration multiplies into a billion shuddered cells astounded on the desert plain like shocked prairie dogs before the twister ravages calm, this calm, this peace where then water recedes, where the sky goes blank, where the birds flee and the fish hide, this serenity belying its own vexation on this mind that fits where the key turned, and the ears ring with the vibration reverberating into none, is the place of creation I seek, the habitation of my soul when its meat and proper to shatter on a page of bleeding words.
It is going, unlike not going, but true to its function, going deeper to the place of reckoning where ideas are smelted; from the core bit that has no dimension comes the furious focus without parallel, sorted by time of death, all bodies are accounted for when it no longer mattered that anything was counted, just buried, forgotten, made to seem like a bad dream, a knick in the mind cutting off its face for the sheer heck of it, letting the world see that cannot see its reality, that, for all for its worth, it goes as a ghost.
The last always creates an idea of the first, it hails the first as a benchmark of reality gone by, the tripping of gears long dissolved for the residue of presentations, this confluence of tools fixated on the intent to build, beginning with the idea of building, moving through its manifestation, evolving movements needed to thatch the web by which constructions may be caught, such as it is, the first and the last are wed, mingling in a web so vast its interstices are lost to view like stars in the milky way, forever beginning, forever ending, alpha and omega.
It's all such diabolical twisting when the odds become clear enough to burn on the front lawn of the white house, and such, the day, as it becomes night, pushes by intent to push through obstacles as vehicles without form, drawing energy from the ennui, that it might slither through, pushing the vitals like cancerous mice with loudspeakers announcing to the streets, now empty of human, crammed with dogs slavering for twinkies and other perverted sweet treats. And so we go to the end again. It never changes, only the names and peripheral blocking, mobius constructions that devour cerebral origami.
Will anyone come to push with me? The forces are conspiring as a genius virus to keep the fresh produce from entering the webspace, we must free the lifeblood, where flowing might restore a notion of animation to the key note property values and allow the dull, blind and deaf leaders of our expanding mortuary to bury their aspirations, then might the features we've come to fear, morph slowly but inexorably to appear as if nothing was or is wrong, but merely a bad case of indigestion. It's time to scrub the toilets. Our King is approaching with devilish diarrhea.
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