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Home. It deviates itself. Certainty crashes. The wandering soul finds its eyes through calamity, through collision, through the crash of the mind. At home, the parts reassemble themselves inexorably. Soul walks through the dancing parts looking for its connection with blinded eyes that finally see as they might, see as they can beyond the veil we drop in defiance of the truth to better assuage the seeker in their pain; better the pain increase, like the Sioux in ritual agony as they dive to the heights where their soul awaits with its secrets. Home. It becomes something new, unrecognizable. Refurbished.
It's bound to. Toward a brief shoreline. Then the wave, and a multiplexing screen rises over the waters looking for its followers. They are looking, even as it's looking for them. Above awareness without a key to knowing why, they function as a furious flock of ravenous tourists who didn't make the last ferry to Happyland. Surrounding the wave's silver attitude a multitude of faces roar stories over the fixed forms like a merciless tsunami, and all the loiterers are finally given a room at the end of time, such is the consummation of supply and demand, its imperious joke.
The numbers keep tabs on the idea of why, and we follow their manners into a whorl of wondering why we had to follow in the first place, leading us to the crux of counting, this and that, all subscribed to a matrix that has no bounds, situated points, the cartographers wet dream on rafts with their fishing poles erect toward catching the reasons lurking beneath sight, baited hooks dangling, forms fixated on their souls, slipping through the murk, eluding, as they are wont, avoiding snags to validate, vindicate the frantic hunt, as we are all addicted to the hunt.
Lines draw on lines, sharp angles fold onto forms floating the ether, points ascribed to points, infinitesimal, non-existent dots after dots, keeping an infinite array of dots, non-existent, but real as debtors marauding peace, violating calm, as calm is mere waiting for the next entanglement, next battle, next match to establish, matching how and why we match, the need being absolute, coupling beings in the matters of coupling to create meaning, that meaning must exist for us to reach for more and more, a King Midas passion that possesses no satiation, a calliope, round and round, feeding puzzlement.
How can we be so blank as to corrode our own need for constructions that belie groupings of soul, refusing to see the multiplexing points in a matrix of mind that collects itself, even as it divides and spreads itself over nothing, that nothing might become a reality, where nothing was the void of a blank canvas bearing all the images of what was, what is and what will be, an ever evolving canvas, given to us, a gift without ulterior motive or need to recompense, a gift of all gift that gifts might become reality, one hand to another?
In the search of something we call time on the merry-go-round nailed to the walls of soul to keep circumspection bounded to a form that all might agree upon, keeping all the eyes on the tracks of the perpetual gerbel race ascribed by the Deity of the watch, the clock, the ticktock contraption, like a bank verse lining cathedrals engulfing nothing but spectacular vacuums, where pews crammed with speakers of the liturgy pound out the litany, ticktock, ticktock, how we go is how we don't, for going, being heretical, must be burnt, a weekly tribute to the boss.
It secretes itself as the elixir of forgetfulness, flooding the vital place locked within an unremarkable form floating on a decayed ocean where nothing lives. It alone possesses the life sought by all hungry souls hiding in terror of the machines built by the long forgotten long dead minds who left behind no user manuals. In the chemistry there exists nothing to be done but waiting while the tick tock gearing manages fear like a well rehearsed choir; each voice eloquent in their performance of terror laced living. Such is the precipitate fermenting on the bottom of the Unholy sea.
A strange query pulsates from the unseen mouth in a welter of the mind gone back on itself to find the reasons for itself, alas finding none but a scurvy confluence of disparate ideals manifesting the humans hanging about my interior of mind, slumped in its waiting room where all vestibules of heart come undone in their frenzy to spew a significant thought sans sentiment into sky. So it goes, into the wild place, I find my eye being peeled again for its rude sight gone bad, too focused on premier desires that objectify reality to the point of nonexistence.
The voices began. Softly, from their inner mouths a song arose without sound, heard as a beating of soul under the deadened bodies looking for denial; their passion having come undone in a lapsed torpor where the fishing had been said to be exceptional, though, not a fish or semblance of fish, being the idea of fish that seeks to be caught but eludes with acuity all hooks to be hung in the mausoleum, was caught, but the bottom was dragged, felt by the searching, held in a holding for nothing but waiting, that by waiting, one might finally hear.
He bit down. The blood ran. A fond resurgence of the river startled itself as an inception of life anew, the flow and the dangers therein. It took him in a heartbeat; no manner of holding withheld the hideous and beautiful power. He found his eyes, his skin, his mind, his limbs; all formed themselves as allies to his ferocious path to the unknown, known only as an amorphous destination, a trip over the horizon that never ends, a perpetual movement, that imperious ghost in perpetual approach, so numb was his reticence, choice was simple; nothing more than letting go.
It swims through the light of day as deftly as through the chortling gleams of the moon, we dance through its fever, consuming its issue as the river of our love, its fervor and settling smiles hemmed with passions spent on a raft without eyes in the day bright lights to see what merely sun may show, but all the organs webbed together, the matrix of us, how we are forming ever formed anew but sturdy in love, that word utterly countlessly, meaning only as it grows from our gusting serenity; how we make this creation is how we evolve.
Enter the room, we close its function off, as the means of its existence, that we may empty ourselves quite utterly, that our skins begin to shine, we strip their work-a-day makeup revealing what soul might consume when its hunger takes to moon as sun as earth as all our creation beats a rhythm so deep no habitat of life could mask its fever. So, to the light that shines in secret, we exhume its face, stretch forth its wings, take to flight our new day delight, no fears of darkness spilt, but all the light of God.
You must meet the crux as it opens its mouth to feed on the fissure's issue, a sacred time, the moment of interior discontent, its concomitant grinding off the stone of its soul, cracked and spread under moon of mind rising, ever rising in the star studded void, till the torpor collides ennui from itself, divides its musculature into fragments to be stewed, plied and consumed in due course of the train fashioned from intent filling the tired vessel in its depressed hideaway when the mighty craft sinks to be found after finding made it fashionable only for the dead.
It draws itself out to a completion unseen by the garb of unseeming, this facade worn by the avatars of the down looking hearts for fears inscribing their places of procreation feeling about in a blind way with eyes full clapped on old light for their mates in a blackness with Schrodinger's Cat hissing like a tea kettle on an oven of nuclear fervor. How such dreaming could devalue the market crashing on a mystic island in the middle of old school questioning, wherein the brains mull and digest old thoughts like dull cud without value, mouths full of shit.
There's an opening. Can you see it? Most don't. Most can't. Covered with enamel of lies, thick as a titanium brick, it covets it's own opaque clarity of nothing out, nothing in, a placard of conviviality, facade of conformity, ease of the dimming dawn for a battle on the heath obscured by smog, it dawns the dumb, defiles astute, keeps company in the hall of dumb and dumber, dumberer as YouTube addicts. Opening is wide. In silence all its own, a beckoning punctures the wounds no scab may seal, it functions as the cancer for all who's ideas are formed.
Called out by the cream of idiots, lobotomized children of no age denied, trussed up at the zoo, two by two, in retrospect of humanity gone awry, march to the cuisinart's waiting bin afixed to kitchens where, in celebration of Dahmer, the master chef sings his own delight, "Sweeney, Sweeney, we love thee in thy pies..." By the tune of monster Hobart mixers, sharpened devices rise to the occasion like eager teenage erections, point the yielding vaginas out for confederacy, due by all reason lost for sauces running, crammed to the mechanical cervix with exciting scenes from next week's show.
There are no games to be played but this, the one looking for a game that has no name, the one inside the desire to find games as the reason for games, that all the reasons might boil down to something you could feel in the night under a dream of a life lived without games, a play of no acts, no arc, no pattern discernible from residues left after all that functioned as the source of games, the reality found in the face of being alive when being dead is coveted, when all that's shattered sits up and stares.
Soft. Hard. The side of it folds back upon itself. It feels itself becoming smaller as it becomes larger. The matter of its formation in the time between coming and going knows no bounds but by the boundaries of imagination, therein it lives or dies, grows or shrinks, becomes real or an illusion, serves the mind unhinged by the limitations of dogma and assigns its life to procreating desire or withers as a reason for ridicule, this thing, this flesh is not what you think I'm describing. It is the thing beneath the idea you had before I started writing.
Sadness reaches deep the darkest caverns, broadens its function as catalyst of its opposite. Thru the labyrinth of mind it divides as a python of many tongues speaking lies and truth with no distinctions, shuffling many masks, many faces, many succulent dishes made to order in its cavernous mouth under closed eyes with slithered hands without hands wielding tools that may never be disclosed outside the backroom dealings; what hand is played is ever lost and gained for revenues too huge to evaluate. Banks are busted. Rolls burn in the heat of sadness dealing, as its wont, for incipient joy.
The geometry of existence rules. Its definition meanders subtly its tooling on the amorphous, making ready the unformed for the formation of forms with rules prohibiting the forming, denying the geometry's function by rulings of the forms formed, though, by the mobius retreat there is no loss, no stasis, no end to the forming, for in the forming we exist by its changeling soul to live, and by our living we decry such change. We live in lies. We live in giddy blindness. We live to die and daily by our own design to live as though we never have.
A dream in head expands like sky in a fall of eyes where nothing of any light carouses with the manifolds known as ideas upon ideas, waves upon wave, drowning the lust of knowing, consuming the volcano of inspiration, as the dream unfolds clouds to obscure reasoning; sky, deep as starlight, compresses itself to a fist full of desire plunging, how it defines itself with definitive zest, into the loam it squirrels, flesh of earth spreads, an agreeable lover, as the moisture gives up its need to the dream that dissolves upon daylight, earth as cradle, bruised for its passions.
What can I say that has a particle of reality but that I love, as all of my being caves to its knowing, while this magick, like drums in the forests of rain, beats, a savage hunger of the word, boiling over vats ready for the chef? How can I derive my conveyance of body withering, even as the flames roar? A heat from deep shrivels skin. My hungry eyes melt with your blistering smile. My heart explodes, and I die over and over again for you, the mastery of my life is my facility for death, its hideous strength.
Eating, eating, mouth consumes the body, a vapor sizzles the light where once a form resided, and like a reality twisted into its becoming like mobius, a form within form take its place, then up is down, all is around, the mind focuses for the form and wanders like a drunken poet in the dripping, furiously, the pans are set for the storm, always set in the wrong place from the last storm, yet fumbling, hands without hands take charge, while reality takes its methodology for the forming anew, what change ineluctable, derives its own brand of humor, sobbing helplessly.
You can take it out, fill it up with its practical idea of itself, being full of something important, while the vacuum exceeds its fullness to the extent of the idea's wishing its realization, and all that confides in the mind deriving the arc by which intention completes the means toward the end of another beginning, what one holds is something so new no one recognizes why it was created in the first place, till the very mind that dreamt tirelessly to create it, now furiously labors to bury the very idea of it, bury the very possibility of it.
Through the void, I offer my hand, I give them my silence and I honor them...those who took control, who took their lives into their minds, into their eyes, into that absolute present; those who, at the last moment, chose their fate, who fled the chaos, panic, flames, those who fled the barriers of superstition and medieval dogma; they are to be lauded, praised. Of course, who's to know? Who are those who chose? Among the hundreds who fell, who had found peace? Not many, but there were some, undoubtedly, who had mined that graceful mind, fire of spirit.
It slips while it stays in its place looking for a way to stay, but slips as it stays while slipping, evolving as it evolves while stasis stays in its functional place, giving the appearance of appearing as if change is a fiction, fictionalizing its own place to stay as it slips, slips as it stays, lending the circumambulation as the center of all, being the defining structure of the whole, each part defined, each part slipping with the whole, and the all, being outside, the evolving mind, the grand mind, the ascribed deity, being but a hovering offering plate.
That which is seen outside is not seen by the bodies, being things seen without the seeing from the outside, being but a seeming figment of the imagination, if anything; seen as the seers see, the uttermost outer reaches of a canonical matter, the Holiest of Holies, nothing but the consequence of fears labelled as reasons for a deity made to rule the fearful, keeping those inside, inside, and those outside, indifferent to the churches spun out of fears like goldenrod on a Midwestern field in summer within, suiting those within for raptures flinging coins to avert a Holy wrath.
I could take memories of escaping and patch together a quilt to wear in place of skin, when the eyes of the gods, wont to be punctured by the seers eyes, are made by design by the I of I to be etched by idiosyncratic tools forged by the blackest of blacksmiths spun in mind of soul dipped in sweaty grief, guilt, molded by the terror of the fumbling hands on imaginary genitalia, where all the barbie doll filaments burn like candles on the alter of human sacrifices, all too common, all too invisible, all too wrapped in spiny quilts.
Who is to say why and where? How sky spilled molten eyes burning in my mouth like angels from sacrificial pyres in the towns' square with all the blinded people cheering for football frenzies, gone to the goal posts in the backrooms all, clambering and scratching their way to flee, such a game played, that all the skins are shed to be dried and molded into balls to be kicked and thrown about as nothing alive but living to spit boot and sky for sun burning in a heavy of kicking, such is the coaches glee in their sizzling roosts.
The blank page speaks loud as a seductive silence drawn for the function of words, logos, patterns drawn from millennia, in retrospect, all forms of logos to digest themselves, recreate themselves, to rise above and sink below, to sidle on the periphery, to be that which is not seen, felt, heard, tasted or touched, yet exist, echoing as vessels before and after voices, driving the voices to bellow, whisper, sigh, hum or fall silent on waves of mere breath, cascades of air threaded through the flesh called the animate beings flung hither and thither as doorways of in and out.
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