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It lives in the truth of a great celebration under the secrecy of its need, and the celebrants who divine their muscles to be in service of this feast come to the understanding of the stakes by which the feast may realize its consummation, and by numbers counted exquisitely, meticulously, they head off their wonders to the end of their beginning, and so it goes, a feast is prepared one dish at a time, with tumbling of digits, flesh by nuggets in tune with a nearly Biblical solemnity, I can see this, how it grows, this deep hunger for death.
Tricking down, through the base meat of an idea, the golden stream of the alchemist's elixir flows, running liberally from the sudden conjuration, how one is struck by the surprise and wonder of true creation happening in a heartbeat, between the blinks of gods; into the fountain of life it flows, into that which ends, that which begins, that which is all and all, the summation of efforts without effort, creating the knowledge of doing that undoes the doing to become a knowing, no waiting can suffice, for what is sought is already known, the creator merely confirms this silently.
I have fallen away from the edge. It all keeps widening, all keeps compressing. In and out it functions as a life force drawing mine out, spreading it over the flat arid plains of mind seldom touched, seldom held for anything but the playground of the indolent, the slothful and irresponsible. How all matter of the creative spirit lodges within the matrix of this dissolute land. What seeks to be heard falls on deaf ears. What seeks to be seen falls on blind eyes. The vortex wherein the secrets spin, keeps time with the rhythms that no one may know.
So it goes, this terrible starvation in a land of unseen, untouched, unheard plenty. Desiccated forms, once called human, hobble in their comfortable darkness, thinking themselves rich, feeling wealthy in their poverty of spirit. Their guns parade as the mouthpieces of their gods who tremble at the notion of anyone seeing, anyone feeling, anyone knowing the truth; for the truth clapped shut behind the muzzles of their guns, keeps the starvation appear gluttonous. The keeping of the hearts far from the true blood is the secret. Once this falls on minds to tinker for its muscle, then shall freedom bellow.
In the spit of the fire, by the eye of earth, the blacksmith drives the forge that the elixir may run freely through ventricles deep within the knotty muscles of mind. Brains, being dried for the dead, celebrating nothing but the round sounds trembling for rhythms to be found, into the ether this music without sound crawls like the prehistoric fish finding legs for fins, lungs for gills, the ascendancy from the slime, as slime we trail under jungles created especially for the clarity not found but won in minds cleared of sanity, suckled by the light hiding in darkness.
Tempers, I keep, for the hard tack, by driving myself to the brink and back, over and over, serving the eye, for catching but glimpses, shards of truth, as flak from a grenade blown from the shattered certainties, not knowing the worth, not understanding the necessity, feeling as though this is, all in all, the summation of our worth, the completeness of our existence. How droll we become in our arrogance, believing we have found the grail, however a grail may be configured, but a trifling dance of nothing to be held for nothing that's won, but the eternal joke.
I hold it all so dear, this feeling I cannot name, this sensation bubbling under grief, that grief is the face of the trickster, ploying its fancy to distract me from being here, for here is where I feel this feeling. By confusions I stay to keep my sense of finding to be found, that the ministry of my finding marshals the way past the mask, past the trickster's skill, past all that seeks to keep me dull. The knife rises from the forge I tend, its point ascends like a truth to be known when I finally stop trying.
yes, yes, it runs like rabbit to the hole, into the hole I fall, I follow to fall, by falling to rise. Such a mind I feel brewing fluids to fund my creative muscles. In the stew, into the melt it spins. I see the timing as timed out. There is no timing to be timed. All that is timed, as if the race to find is a race in time, for time is the lie we keep to our wrists and heads and walls, ticking for tocks that mock our knowing, seducing us to the race to always lose.
I can keep my heart to this wonder. You've clapped me to it. I stay to find my gold. In the deep well, wherein my eyes fall on spindles of wishing, you hold my keeping as a trinket of purest truth. This is my truth. This is the truth you are, the truth you've given to me. By selfless reaching for this lost mind, you've clutched the very source of spirit, that my soul is won in your keeping. I cannot name how. I cannot designate your fingers, by which you tender me softly as my hard spun mind revolves.
These are not the muscular suzies I keep in my roving box of eyes, this revolving cube of seeing that's constantly duped by cretins in garbs of elder monkeys. I see nothing to be gained by following these ratty monkeys. They are the lies I keep deflecting. In no small terms they define confusion's art. I am funding my source of seeking truth under the monkey's fingernails. In this pursuit I've found nothing but trouble. It's not worth it. I keep slipping on the broken nails. In my dreams I find solutions, yet all of them fall; I am tricked.
I start then I'm done. My end begins to start. In starting I stop. In stopping I start. All the function I aspire to fails for no function. The dead come alive again. The living die. All the same. I am naming the futility of being named. I see myself in the mirror hanging perpetually in front of my wanting. By wanting I lose. By losing I keep my wanting full. All the same. And again. The same is nothing but the old. The old is new again The new is old again. I can't seem to flee this carousel.
I am burying these words as they fall out of my head. My head is emptying its coffers. At the bottom is the precipitate I seek. They told me it would be there. I believe them. Others say I shouldn't. I don't care. In my deflating balloon I begin to see more clearly how seeing is defeating me. I am waiting patiently as my words tumble from the source vat, to see the end, the bottom, the leavings, that which I have earned by the tumbling of these words. I am obsessed to this seeking. I am driven. My life.
You can bitch like the golden dog of yore that crouches for its pleasures in the boot of the back of the head where mind holds spirit hostage with a plastic gun. In the venting of spleen you could say it dominates the ruling. How cruel it must be for its finality, saying how so-so the crowds cheer, like sheep in slaughter lanes baying for something not known until the blade crushes curiosity's nay saying it says he says she says it's all a bad joke, bum steer, and for all the blood it ain't a bad show neither.
Once again found, a thing called hearing, by the beating of the amplified drum, the dance ensuing, how I'd lost the rhythms for so long, fet of eons in and out of the springing, winding womb, only the unborn ear could hear, but now.... how the streets fill, how the sidewalks suddenly speak beneath my window... On and on their voices rise and slink, slither and sink, bubble up the portal primly primed for their vibes, every chatter and chip, lick and flick, and how happy I am to pluck the instruments forth, and once again rejoice in blissful deafness.
Folding myself over and over flap by flap, clapped on flap, each edge dulled by reductions inward, each fold a bend away from here, for here is the dwindling place, a there that coins me dearly off the books, plays me as I see, a scion of nothing seen but seeing less and less, each well polished bygone drifting inexorably from view, till no pulse of reminiscence, that which fell up from the past, beats in the sun that shows me nothing but my own growing blindness. My fading body, rising as it falls, feels joyful in its burgeoning forgetfulness.
That was to the hilt, where the crux of life lives on a point, either this way or that, but not both, and you don't get to choose. It chooses you. One way or the other, and you'll feel it when the harp is played, when the strings are strummed in the unholy holy organ of being and not being. So it goes, the livelihood and the desolation exists or its own sake, its matters of flesh driven through its wheels of fortune, are ground to the source pit, become food for the future, for Soylent Green is indeed people.
Movin' through the wet confusion, a fine tumble with the corned dog flesh, slick like monkey-sash in a puddle of molten mind, to the end fightin' with the muscle that won't quit, you divide the streams between in and out, combine the screams of have and have-not, stir it fine, make it swarm with no end in sight until you start again, over and over, the story never finishes, the end is always changing, always being rewritten, for nothing can satisfy the way dissatisfaction collides with reason, when dreams can't swing charm, and the bum toss is you.
To the end, giddyup, callin all the doggies, right now, we can fum and fibble till we scribble off the indentation made with a bad pen doing the signature on the contract that never stays put, when we got, we don't got, when we want, we already have, when we think we got, we don't, when we want to get, we don't know how, and nothin is easy for everything makes for confusion, it's a continual comedy this pressure from the so-called chiefs of the world, it's a fumble and a bumble, it's a rat's nest, then a grumble.
You may drive the sensibilities through the piss-pots addling under-brains, crowd out the vitals wherein doctors spew their tinny gold off rivers of sophistry, that no brain can be had for the keeping of intelligence to be plucked, for where are the children who promised to bring their wits to worm the rot clogging up the possibilities, just that, the possibilities that weren't there before the bell rang and the professors who schemed in secret ran out their habitats screaming for more time, with nothing between their brains and genitalia but bad attitudes and year old TV guides?
In the cream of it, the necessities bobble up to the surface for a lick of light that may or may not suffice to grab need from want and devolve desire to eliminate opposition, as the field of opportunity widens, as the sky stretches out connecting what's beneath to what's above, such is the plenty and advantage of the horizon. In the severest sense, we come to understand how and why these things come to the surface, how they are absorbed by the horizon, showing us the way in deference to nothing but it's own unique ability to hide everything.
I cover my eyes, and the image sealed by seeing through the darkness that presumes to hide the secret, is emblazoned on a deep surface of mind where judgments never hold sway over knowing a thing for itself and not for its ideas dripping off the manufactured edges, where fearful minds grab at plateaus pretending at securities bonded to promises that cannot be fulfilled. In the heart of these safely deposited articles of carnal knowledge, we find a curious collection of desires being grown, like a mutant strain of the Marburg virus growing in a petri locked away from sanity.
In the escape value exponentially rising on the heeded skull ripped open, blood wings unfurling from the very idea of them taking flight to the height where sky devours ground, where the horizon slices itself, where sky and loam fall through the widening gash, where all of reality is confounded suddenly, irrevocably, utterly consumed by the mind that envelopes all, the absolute mind where heart and the nerve to complete all actions subsists on the flowing waters within its ventricles; then shall we see how creation may be recreated, how the substances we decry become the elixirs of our rebirth.
Breathing thru the swollen lungs, heaving on the heightened rhythms, over and over they come, deeper and deeper drive the conscious breaths, till head flies upward in a giddy spin, eyes flip out their orbs, flutter on the wings of sight, fall off their foci, spin on the heavy lids dimming, body becoming numb, arms and legs dripping away their powers... deeper plummets the breath, as will is wound tighter to the swirling vat of experience, where distant memories swim freely, as though untouchable, sacrosanct, then comes the saber of the dulled mind that can no longer protect itself.
Into the tight organ the blade plunges deep, gushes the scalding issues, like silver birds fashioned by quicksilvered brushes, mutating forms swoop mad, arcs, bitten by tight angular fits, spout furious glories of light, the fused white comes undone, spills thru a spatter of colors across the arc of sky within the eye. Shiest madrigals of the memory come alive, erupt their mysteries, as one might suddenly reveal missives of utmost secrecy and solemnity. Such is the unraveling of the lost stories telling their tales anew, spangling the mind, solving the mysteries, all hallowed darkness, now spun out of might.
I want to feel it being ripped from itself, my life, I want to feel the bullet crash through my vitals, feel my body cave into itself, fighting to feel a way away from dying, away from the inevitable. I want to feel the animal's teeth rip my flesh, to be aware at my passing, I want to feel the closing of consciousness, the falling of my ego, I want that moment of passing from here to here to be clear as a jangling bell at recess, I want to hold the unraveling of my knowing, gate of my exile.
It became a spiritually valued gem, a grail, so now you cannot have it. You cannot possess it. It eludes you. You lost it once. You will lose it forever. The mythology demands it. The mythology wrote it out. It delineated its course, its value, its summum bonum. It has no value and all value. When it came to you, it made itself known. You took it inside your heart. You devoured it. Your heart devoured it. All belief is now centered upon it. It lives inside you, and no man can touch it, especially you. Its embroidery is nonpareil.
After all, the all is one, then split again and again for selfish, egocentric parabolas, lies for truth for lies, around and around in the whorl we collect toward the center of inspiration, then comes the arid plain upon which dreams of fire wander about dreams of water, fleeing each other even as they need each other, all a tempestuous fury leading to the core, the silent stillness of the rapturous core, singing and silence vying for each other's space, a curling about, serpentine gatherings that have no end or beginning, an oruborus like a child's merry-go-round forever.
Oh, shall I see, then will I not, the flame arouses such, this need for seeing, coming after the spark that pricked an eye, drawing it out of its orb for the spark, the inception of flame, finding but an idea of flame that exists before and after the spark, the eye knows this from its coiled information through the eons clapped to procreation's petrie, coming here, coming there, coming everywhere, looking for the center, both mind and soul, hunting down the center where the flame was born, then to the adoration of the flame for its remembrance, nothing else.
So we see as we don't or otherwise this puzzlement, this mystery that remains unsolved, though its solution abounds as the means of our animation, the reason for our wondering, the impetus for creating the wonder, that the wonder might be filled one day with enough material that both it and the wonderment, the mystery may vanish, dissolve in a welterblast of flame, a gust of wind and be gone, then shall the minds that labored under strains concocting ways around the solution sitting smack in front of the eye, become the eye that may remain as the salvific driver.
Under the weight of the wishing, that which is sought is crushed by the idea of wishing, the very obsession to solve, to seek, to claim, to hold, to possess obscures, that which is sought, if sentient, might laugh, no doubt at the furious lie machine that knows no regret or value in and of itself, but only exists as the instrument of our confusion, so it goes and goes, around the desert we fly in clouds of debris feeding the myth, sustaining the lie, and so we go, driving ourselves into darkness while looking for the light that's waiting.
Finally, finals coming for the final time, finally in time for the final final, it's time, and we got it, we got it in the seconds ticking off, final sheaves shorn from the flower, peeled off the onion, tears upon years of tearing away the layers, one after the other, seeking the sleek nakedness, the seductive flesh, the optimal layer with no layer below, the place where going means gone, gone for good, and then the idea of being there, actually finding oneself on that slim layer with the abyss yawning below, looking up for your below, for your hello.
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