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On the grief deck the ship lurched. Ocean found its hull shaped well for the surges that came without warning. Hull kept its integrity. Sailors stooped in the furious currents to keep their balance and found a new way to lose their grip. It's the way of the sea to surprise even the saltiest of mariners. It keeps them fit for the battles that lay inevitably ahead. So it goes, now to the center where the best and the worst wait to have their time. I can see it all. In my room I have the sense of it vividly.
Interior design makes itself complete with an unseen derivative of disbelief. You know the way of the world is conscripted by the means by which you stir desire into lies, and how the lies are dressed convinces them all you're doing the right thing by the way you turn your back so conveniently when it all goes to shit. It's the roundabout rhythm. Many do the dance. It's got an upbeat sound, a snappy backbeat. Could it be that this is how is all ends? Could this plain looking windowless room be the end of it all, or another beginning?
To the end we go. It's a lot like that game kids play who want to own the world in a smelly sidewall corner of a house that disappears when the game is put away. We play the game in shifts that age poorly. Our kids come out. They have desire in their eyes. Their hunger runs deep. They go for the boards. They lay them out. The sun shines in. They can see where they are, and they don't like it. It's better over there, they think. They play as they think, as they lay their desires out nakedly.
Jumping up to catch the idea is the worst thing you can do to distract your mind as it plunges to the problem at hand, thinking if you jump high enough, the answer will be caught, but you're wrong. It never happens that way. You catch something, yeah, but it's not what you imagined it would be. They come to tell you it's not good. Your delivery was off. The angles didn't fit. The circle in the square wasn't the thing needed, and that's about all you can take home. You mull things over. It was a mistake. Too bad.
No, it's not bad. You're determined to show them how the intention just needs to be cleaned up. That's all. The execution was off. That's the thing. You argue the point bravely, and a few heads nod; most do not. Your head goes the way it's always gone. The game you like, is the game you turn to when everything smells really bad. You jump high, higher, as high as imagination can drive you. When you're alone, you place the circle in the square, over and over. You see how it's supposed to fit. You see the magic. You see.
Is seeing good enough? I can tell you don't think so. How can I tell? The ambience is cobbled to your drained mind. You do a tea leaf reading. In the bottom of the glass you see the leaves arranged in a pattern that isn't all that disturbing. Everything else is horribly disturbing. It's not allowed. You let the dog out. I want to stay with this idea, but you keep telling me it's wrong. Who are you anyway? I can feel it's going in the wrong direction. That may effect a bad outcome. Who cares? No one, it seems.
Let me tell you what this is. It's a scam. You've been led astray. Faith is dead. Dog has run off. Tea leaves have been thrown away. It was a good idea, but that's not the problem. It's the idea before the idea became an idea. The germ of the inception was the spark you thought you followed, but you were wrong. It's not the right way to go. Well, I will go as I see fit. Scam or not, I'm on it. I will go where I want to go, do what I want to do. Nothing else matters.
One may escalate. The earth seems to swell. The defiance you feel in the core of heart marks itself as the epicenter of a growing personal violence. There's no calling it off. I might deflect the heat, transmute its nature into a fiery bloom like a red tulip caving up the crusty earth in a frosty spring looking for my mind. I'm feeling the mounting pressure. I can smell it, see it, think it. Skin crackles like a roasted goose popping its grease, filling the house with the smell of seared blood. This is the source. The way of creation.
There might not be return. This may be the end. I'm not sad. There's no mourning a loss that's found a way to bury itself, become a memory, a landmark of failure. One learns from failure. The bigger the failure, the better. I feel exalted in the rash feeling smoldering in my guts. The smell defies its blessing. No better disguise. We go on. Time to scarf the ugly, pitted earth we've carved, scrape the dead from the roads leading to our inner Oz. How silly it seems to uphold this place, this Oz, as the home of a god.
It's about the rhythm makers, the love pacts divined in the dark of our souls to brighten the dark within the darkness that has no depth or understanding. We try on different glasses of sorts in tribunal rituals to effect a focus on the matters scrambled inside our domed heads. We feel the emptiness, and we become afraid. In the subterranean soul, this thing called love chimes a thunderous song. When it claps us to its vibrations, we dive. In the waters we find, where there was only dust, we drink. We sate ourselves. It rushes upward. We become whole.
We keep it inside to protect the offender; it stabilizes, as it furnishes us with excuses to append our morality to suit the night as the stable of our most secret beasts of war. We collect these beasts to secure the day, collected for our defeat dressed as victory. Death is victory. It molds us for its value of none. I've fallen to the passion spiral. I descend, as I rise to the challenge. The opponent has made the battle lines clear. I will neither run nor advance. I will stay to see the perfect move meet the perfect death.
It points to the heart, where it is, the core, how it beats, how it moves to move you, how it feeds off feeding you. Matters aside this, held at bey, keep a fiery calm, watching. It's good to know they're watching. Denial is futile. They'll have their way, as their way is the way of everything. A funny way of living, denying the very engine of living, thinking, believing, proselytizing it's something else. We are very good liars. Most of us hold to our lies as the liturgy of our religion, chanting them relentlessly, binding ourselves to their emptiness.
Can you smell the wind? Can you feel it feeling you? Can you grapple it in a private heat, bound to both breaths wound tight in a whorl? I can see the rising? Feel it seeing me with desire like lava eating the ground, rolling toward the ocean, begging steam to eat my heart mercilessly for pleasures forbidden to the exhaled mind. Can we delve so deep to become the least of all diseases and bond without apology, without judgment, without the badge of evil badgering us, taunting us with its no no no no? Regroup. Couple ecstasies of yes.
You wrap yourself around your hatred. My dog gags inside my head tied to dreams. It howls my mother awake in the hidden room where all my sins were tabulated in a volume written on her vagina. She smiled so sweetly with a scribbler's hubris, that she might be vindicated if I were to turn around and smile with her. I never turned around. A sacred spiral, that has no beginning and no end, replicates me. I'm saved this way, but I can never wake up. The dog is inside me. I own the dog. We share the same mother.
It splits in the mind. Two lakes are there where there was only one. I'm on a blanket having a picnic. On the other side, a church group is having a lynching. I'm watching TV. There's only one channel. It jumps from signal to signal. Many entities are trying to use it. I'm in the middle on earth with sights unseen on earth. I live in a mirror. Both ways are possible. A gateway. I'm puzzled to be stationed in this place. I want to eat my picnic lunch. I can't. I have no mouth. My evolution forgot about it.
Through the gateway, my sights are disrupted. A kaleidoscope of confusing equations are being scrawled across a blackboard situated on the far end of a long tunnel. Seems as if I'm right in front of the blackboard, but I'm really light years away. No telling how far. My hand can touch the board. It's the only part that can. I'm sitting in a rowboat. The sky is darkening. My vision is cloudy, but my mind is sharp. I will rely on what I have, to see with my mind and allow the blindness. Touch. Feeling. Excess baggage. To be discarded.
I send myself to your eyes. I combine the ocular from the depths you've forgotten. From their entrails I'm fed. Light that has no body in reality shared amongst the blind who inhabit the creations of secular agreement, secures the faith of what's not dogmatic to the absolute touch. There is nothing beyond this absolute touch, so they proclaim in their most sanctimonious voices. We descend to hear those voices. We become the buried dead, the decayed offal of our parents who failed to tell the truth. In this truth, born weakly from the body we glorify, we are erased.
Open yourself wide. The head chef sees. In the dining room, tables are arranged helter skelter. The Sous chef is watching watch too many channels. Orders are confused. An elderly woman falls on the way back from treatment. The TV is mounted too high on the wall to be adjusted. No one's getting the meal they ordered. In the storage room, a few disoriented guests are fumbling the ingredients. Oven is hot. Filled to the edge with the dying and dead, it's clear how misunderstood everything is. The prep room is ready. A elderly lady is finally laid out. Vittles.
They got the spices right. Flavors, mixed with tight emotions on the route down, are tossed like tornado leaves. The tastes dull as one descends. It's hard to make clear decisions in the dining area, where everyone wants what they want and nothing else. They get everything but. Harmony's not an ingredient. Discord creates the best atmosphere. I wasn't designed to be a worker in this place. Someone's made a mistake. They won't even show me my application. The line is long. Mouths hang. Hunger is in their air. Eyes have long since gone out. Old ones have given up.
Interior design maladjustments. Seen from the vantage of the uppermost deck of a starship pretending to be a Monson Truck Convoy. It's clear to me. What we have here is...an inferior clone corruption from the genetic pool base, just when grandma was adamant about having a swim. She was done before you knew it, and no timer was necessary. The cook was very experienced. He'd enjoyed alligator delights like an alien diabetic enjoys our pancreatic juices. I'm making the adjustment. It's taking a long time. Why the hell do I always have to be the one to do it?
Tick tock, a mouse around the clock. There's a rhino in my head. The room is bursting with incompletion. The valued function, despite all derivations, remains asymmetric and divergent. Can I attribute this to the diminished thing in the room, the head, the motherboard; be it shriven by the mastery of the cues or distributed amongst the poor on the Bowery? We feel the current progression is necessary. A hand flutters over the deletion key. We're waiting for the moment of the crash. I see the sky. It's smiling. I feel warm in its company. I don't mind being deleted.
It spools out, dragging the leader to the head of the pack. I could smell it coming. Tables were asking. Faces without eyes were begging. It was time again. In the circle, I saw the expansion. Hands took up the tools and worked them appropriately. Nothing to be guilty about. They dragged the rest to the compost heap, and the library was thankful. Many came to pay their respects by leaving calling cards on the front desk, where the sergeant gave their weapons and IDs back to the obliging visitors. I was taken again. No need to say anything. Abrahadabra.
A scoop of cream, frosted with sticky tar, rude whitewash of a diabolical love-sandwich gone awry, hands fisted with objective leers, each hand an eye of volatile light. You could get burned. This beach runs for miles, and the sun never sets. Sea is boiling. Islands of relief exist light years away, and the sound of love is an echo at best. One tries their best to dress with happy masks, more like a dead person, badly prepped at a cheap funeral home. It's time to jettison this morgue, time to find the fresh land where the soul emanated.
There's a brand new swirling in the private room. The insinuation of an awkward gesture fabricates the rude redecoration, hard spices dumped to a dough machine of impossible dimensions. Walls of the room are skewed off their symmetries. Nothing makes spacial sense. In the volume of mind, brain functions seek to straighten the shrinking as it expands. In a quiet way, I value the disruption. There's a contentment I cannot explain. Others fall away in fear of the new creation. It doesn't pay rent. I hold the insensibility to my heart and allow the collusion. It will pull me home.
It's a progression of evanescence. One leads to another face bleeding into another, on and on, the river rides the rough rapids to the cues inside, and you never knew just how sturdy the raft is until the rush is roaring, face to face, body to body, voice to voice, it all blends, a magical Cuisinart. There's solace in the grinding flow. One only needs to keep afloat, out of the blade's way. It takes you up, parades you as something that devours or is devoured. It's all up to you. Eat or be eaten. The way of the biz.
If it could be, so what? I'm adrift on an island of questions, peering into a room that no one else sees. I'm glad of the privacy, being the sole arbiter of compliance, in or out, I have the choice. In deference to the immediate, I feel the onlookers scanning for weakness. In their gaze, I'm prey. They defy the rules. Rules mean nothing to them. I adjust accordingly and allow latecomers to enter. Surgery will be performed, first come, first cut. The editing hasn't gone as well as expected, but I'm certain, by the end, everyone will be satisfied.
It hasn't settled. Odors entice. Eaters are preparing. Kitchen staff is getting nervous. I held the door open for as long as I could. Such sweet anticipation of completion, I've waited and planned for this since my conception. Too true to be false, the ideals are manufactured for the ones who are no longer with us, who entered their vote upon departure. I've described the circumstances as best as I could. The eye recedes. In a deep sky full of blindness, the ones who hold true, are the ones who don't care. Truth be told, I don't care. I lied.
"You speak privately to the hollow. You wait for a response. The house breathes. It expands. You contract into its heart." I've divided the means by which I eat with the means by which I used to die. They live in this heart. They collude with a fierce commotion. How can I express the confusion if it's contained in a hollow with no dimension? The dilemma cries out for resolution, but there's nothing coming. For decades I've collected the means in this hollow. My squirrel space. When the end comes, I'll be there. Perhaps then the hollow will make sense.
It had to go. I'd been tolerant for far too long. This was an issue that wouldn't resolve if I ignored it. The day came to make a move. It was hard, almost impossible, but I did it. Now, years later, I can be content. The people come and they say nothing. I can see by the looks on their faces they have something to say, but I never ask. It looks good on the wall, almost as though the wall was asking for it. I keep it there for my pleasure, and for its pleasure too. It needs me.
I become what I am, what I might be, as the base variables are stripped away under brash red and orange lights on a greasy barroom operating table. Eyes are riveted to a figment of death parading as something of a strip tease, sexless and seductive as a toothache. The soul's the last to go, but hot wings are free. Take as many as you like. They can be used as flowers on the grave site. It depends on how much you pay your agent. Your death could bring in a lot of votes. Don't underestimate that kind of cadging.
In this quiet fury, you keep tightly bound in my brain where the furies sell their angel dust at a discount, I can feel how you expand your flesh under flesh to meet my tentacled gestures reaching out to hold you, and in some manner of ancient design you've drawn a map of our souls where we play our games of espionage. This, our private game with designer demons and angels, elevates our hearts on the ancient alter for sacrifice. Our feast, like a firework display on Olympus, sizzles air, and the grand finale is where we are vividly devoured.
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