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The value exceeds the domain. Within an infinite matrix, complex as failed explanations of the human heart, we are divided from ourselves to the point of seeing who we are from the fogged vantage of a game played by illiterate teenagers between huffs of glue. Insinuations of logos contributes ecstasies of utter confusion, ecstasies that bind us to our Laws conscripted on the scalps of slaughtered nationalities, such that we are exalted by a mere dream, as if doled by a spike, and is meaningless. In that meaninglessness we find value, or so we think and think and think and....
To the fist. The circle heats. Eyes about the edge peer toward anticipations of the black puddle. A mystery fondles curious temperments. In a diffident mood, one can see how the rascals win, a slam dunk on the opposite edge of the mind's function to ferret out the loss for gains. If there was an unusual blend of hoods, this was it. They gathered quickly. The bets were in. No one knew how it was going to go, but everyone was anxious to find out. The tables were prepared, cleaned. Scalpels were sharp. One by one they were wheeled in.
True to the base heart, dancing in the flames becomes me, as it reforms me, forges a forward creation and recreation from the crucible under logos, where the ancients gibber and shake, convulsing up the primal gut an effluent as ambrosia. What divines my eyes before the eyes keeps vision intact on the Dali plain. In the blackness, the mythical beasts carouse. They buffet me; I feel their power. In stillness, I can tell. Closer and closer I come, falling upward continually. How can give you the recipe? The book doesn't exist but for its molecular typhoon, raging, raging on.....
I feel unresponsive when the highway folds back inside the head where it was created. "No one gets out of here," they say. "Take any road, any at all, and all the roads will lead back to the source." One needn't expect Kurtz at the head of the table. The table has always been an illusion. The fantasy of Kurtz is now your reality at the root of soul, whether you know it or not. How one divides their morality to affect a reasonable outcome is immediately betrayed by the mirror image of themselves that never leaves the inner room.
Quite swept back. The Ocean felt the need. I was swallowed and glad of it, feeling the grist of the gobbling mind, expansive as Errol Flynn's love life, feeling the grist chime down with its fantastical, magical teeth... feeling unresponsive when the highway folds back inside the head where it was created. "No one gets out of here," they say. "Take any road, any at all, and all the roads will lead back to the source." One needn't see Kurtz at the head of the table. The table has always been an illusion. The fantasy of Kurtz is now alive.
I'm swallowed by intentions to the most high inside where I cower before the mythic illusions. Tar and feathering is the ultimate prize in this circus. No one knows just how exciting it is until they win they prize. You don't get away with nothing; you get away with everything, but only inside the rings around your over-scrubbed finger. The marriage was sealed in a solemn service. No one officiated. It was done by a self-taping in a pitch black room. The people are coming. Tickets are selling. If you don't get a good seat just kill yourself.
Semblances of a place, a keepsake, dream locket in your pocket. Shoot a rocket in your mind to the upper crust of the bakery baby cooking in the hold where no one goes but you. I have you in my secret eye. It penetrates your private moistures simmering on the primal stove. Stir the melted coil till it bends, where you deem time stops for your pleasures. Yes, this might be the outcome for the income, tripping expenditures over and over, an unlikely cost ineffective rally on the plain of conceptions unseemly. Oh, to the ridiculous we go, and on.....
Punctured by the sigh, a flap of wind in a dusty room with nothing but a bed and frail body barely visible, a lump on the sheets, my mind feel inward. Eyes bent back, blind; I could see. Dry sun spat its light in a spray over the yellowed walls. Who knows what color they were? The color of the sigh? In a discreet but muscular passage from the ideal, all the memories from days past blew down to the end of the source of her. It was a dirty passage. I held that source. Not knowing. Never holding her.
How so, can it be eaten as is? Or must we go down to the basement again with blindfolds. Mother and her minions have a peculiar way. It's about the adaptation. One can't take it literally. Oh, you can, but the rewards are dubious, impossible to enumerate. They have their benefits, though. You keep them in a safe place sealed tight. It goes round and round. The game never ends, even though we end. It's an ongoing serial, neither comedy or tragedy; more like the history of the amoeba as adapted to the history of sexual misconduct in the Vatican.
It has a sneaky way about it, this adaptation thing, from Darwin and all those fishy boys on the slimy islands with all those tortoises and stuff. I get a headache trying to imagine being there, taking temperatures in the midday sun without sun lotion. The ship was put on hold. Someone changed the channel, again. In this world there was no such thing as Gilligan's Island. Frightening, though it may be, it's on the spit now turning. A Mary Jane lookalike is basting the body of the latest ex-Pope, as the table's been laid by two gay priests.
Eagle split in two with a Ferrari makeover when the ocean heaves. To and fro, the room with the instruments of adaptation is set to go in a moment's notice if the enemy should need a restroom. It's been disguised. On the ocean, it's hard to be certain when the time is right. All tackle and trim is made to look like a new year's party after someone snuck acid in the punch bowl. Chaos is pretty in the afterglow of a series being canceled. No one's safe, but that's the point. I like the idea of comical danger perpetual.
You don't feel it, this new chemistry, a composite of the famous and infamous. One stretches the belief system to the max. It contains the kernels of a sometime truth, now held as floxum of carnival candy floss dreams. I carried the strange residue right through the opening of sky where light bled from darkness. I don't see it as anything dangerous. I see it as a necessary consequence of being here, quintessentially here without apology. I asked the nearest ear what value they drew from silence, and the answer came severally off an unusual stream of dark and light diversions.
If you held it high enough to make an impression on the sky, you'd dive straight to an unseemly death. Nothing goes that high that doesn't go equivalently deep. We are at the apex of a thought that ideas fertilized aptly. In the appointed time, we will have our portrait completed. I'm taking special pains to dress as well as I can when the moose descends. That will be the deciding moment, and I'm a little scared. No one gets past the moose without an ordeal specially designed for them. Their time is not my time. My time is now.
Appreciation of the undue sign after the glow passes is a special ornament of an inner life longing for release when the outer life's a smoldering ember. The battlefield only seems to be still. Words for the passing drift quietly into oblivion for no one's pleasure. How I might fete this unique magic when it's called upon is a round challenge. There are few who know the move when called. I pluck my eyes and the necessary move is vivid. It comes. It goes, while I sit in the middle of the passing and watch the golden fire consume my fears.
Who needs to die today? Have we a selection? In the common area, amongst the viable options, live the assortment of minds where ideas fall from the sky, where the indisputable resurrections of creativity are lost to the rabid dogs in your grandmother's purse. Are we to be infected by the curse of all our grandmothers who divide sense from practicality and the rum running need of too many babies baked with no leavening, the growth hormone of writers in need of intimacy? You ain't got shit here. The formula used to work, not so now. So everyone's gotta go.
Oh, to the shore we go. Let's die to the sun sliced horizon smiling for our pleasures. The ocean is full, in extremis of our widening kisses. Flood's fury keeps the dogs in check. How we go is how the world doesn't. We spin in reverse of the world's shadows. Down we fly to the highest sky beyond sky. There's a secret we possess. We hold it in our creative houses. Barking through the gusting fogs that sometime power out the beaches, keeping sun from its flowers, nonetheless, we go, and how we go, is the muscle of our love.
I felt for a signal. It was there, swimming under manfish radar, so the upper analyticals couldn't feel our wiggling. The inner flush forsook the need and dove to the bottom of my taste buds. There I was able to taste the sky, sweet, with an after bite of the mushroom clouds that plume like dandelions in the summer heat. Back when I laid in the sun and let the dandelions have their way with me, in secret we wove a tight bond. No one could trespass within the bounds of this pact, but yet, light still found a way.
Creeps in, once again, the time is now for my salamander pain, slicks the arc for thinking, drags me down to a mud scream, salamandar rides for all the kiddies, but only after dark when the sun hides for shame. It creeps in. Cannot do otherwise. It's nature. Finding the rub under the core, it leaves its slimy sharp residue, a living beat pulse, timed otherwise than the time pressing the surge to be. I am throttled this way and that, kinda trips me up, knocks me over, draws me like a siren into a fit, sexy as rotten milk.
Such as it is, this face is gone into wind, fractured up the stars, a new canopy we could never touch, but it's mine. I feel this happening. Arms stretch to break the distance into a tractable form. Impossible. It's like a new birth outside of myself with pain like saliva soaking my heart. Could I fete you as a celebrant on the pinnacle of love we call ecstasy? I can't tell you how this elevates me above the impractical. So I'm dripping into myself, up from the crucible. Wind bears my masks as clouds, while I pray for rain.
Try and try, the variables explode, a firework display in the head. An ocean sprawls between my eyes. Strange fishes leap, silver and gold sprites in the dashing mind, a typhoon of color and no Disney Tycoon to blame. What can I find in this beautiful soup? Each ripple a flickering idea. One grabs for it, and it's gone. Again and again. The ideas come furiously. No use. They come. They go. You're in the middle, held back by a wish mediating your reality with the dreams you keep like fishes on a ringer, but they're all illusions. Not real.
What form can I fashion in regards to the form exalted as the means to establish connection to this reality? How does one reality conform to another, when the imagination has to stretch beyond the usual limits imposed by dictatorial grandmothers sympathetic to the fascist movements peppering grade school home rooms worldwide. I'm confined to the head we all meet at the apex of calling out the irresponsible means by which we take to the race that has no meaning to ascribe meaning. There's an exaltation here somewhere that we can't see, but in the midst of the comfy executions.
From the beginning of time I knew the time was not the time we thought it was. It was something else, and no one had a clue, because no one was around. The roundabout hadn't begun, but only as an idea in the future. I lived in the future. I still do. From this point I feel the other points. I can't give them to anyone. They don't belong to me. I can only see them, like at a picture show without a screen but a mind compressed into a point about to blow. The big bang is construed anew.
Oh, say can you see by the dusk's duty free? I'm a savior of the gusty flowers growing in the belly of the rock. I tend to their fields. A dirty marriage,no matter what. Petals, like shark's maws, grab at youthfulness for satiation. Humans can fund the overflows when they occur, but they have to go thru the proper channels, a tsunami bank. One can never have too many tsunamis when the gods get drunk and lose sight of their missions, which they've forgotten anyway, a long time ago. They appear in privileged cribs. Bite that, why don't ya!
Digging down the protein animal from its muscular core, finding the heart of the heart inside me, touching the idea of blood that has no quality of animosity. I feel the roaring silently consuming doubt. To the rush I go from within to the ardor beating down my fears. I need this beating. The beating is my way of accepting life so dealt by God's own hammer. I am forged in the dim light of the moon under a mad woman's smile. I've taken to accepting that smile, moving through it, because I can't escape it. It is now mine.
Freely allowing movement toward a voice from the darkness excites me. I close my eyes and my inner eyes become like lasers with an optical razor. They cut away the fat, scarf off the diseased masks that have no substance beyond their ability to fool. I'm no longer fooled. I see them as they are, and I accept them. There's no disgrace in that. I am who I am. The hand was dealt. No use resisting. Playing it is not only inevitable but necessary. No longer is joy attenuated by the hope of ignoring the hand. It has become joy.
My flesh moves softly, calmly, silently. My spirit is a typhoon, gyrating the mind; decay of its torrid past has flown, caught up in the winds that are mine. I am a missile of my own intent to penetrate myself. Yet, from without, I'm as meek as anything. My smile draws the curious, the innocent, the vulnerable. There's terror and delight, hand in hand, eye in eye. The arc of the poem I'm creating has an indeterminate course. It dictates my life. It demands my attention. I can no longer resist. I don't want to resist. I want my freedom.
So in so, the raw fibers, seemingly disparate, are coming together ever so slowly, but surely, ineluctably. Onlookers are puzzled, captivated, curious, never fearing. They are deceived, and I am becoming complete. How can I express my joy? This is something that should not be expressed but in acting upon it, surrendering to its bidding. What name should I give it? Is there an appropriate name? I wonder. I've been watching the classic horror tale, my favorite being The Wolf Man. I think there's something to that. A rising prickle dances up my spine. It delivers a very important message.
It doesn't serve you. It feeds you to itself, making a big fuss of helping you when you're down, 'cause when you're down, it feeds the deepest, and all your masks become toothpicks for its comfort and proper hygiene. You have no alternative but to don your bib and accept the crumbs of you that drip from its maw. All that which disappears seems as if you're getting healthier, thinner, appropriately emaciated. Let it be known how instrumental you've become to the machne's health. You are its nutrition. You are its table, plate and food. You digress only to reminisce.
Let be well known how all the faces vanish before they have a chance to smile. Know well how secure you appear, how secure everyone appears during the dance of the festival that has no end, a festival that had no beginning. You are the snake that feeds itself by the grace of your surrender. So when did you surrender? Who or what approached you? Can you remember when that occurred? Probably not. It wasn't meant to be remembered. That would've defeated its purpose, acting as your friend, counselor, your devoted guide through the detritus of unnumbered battles. Your god.
Iíve fallen into the whorl. It becomes me. I become it. We belong. Should I pale, weaken, falter at the cue, I might be seduced to slander myself, stricken by a gadabout muscle hiding in wait of the secret enterprise assigned at a time before language benefited the decision process. I would be delighted to follow anything leading to the gate where the Monty Hall lookalike is ready with questions that could baffle Stephen Hawking. No such luck. Iím provided with an extra advantage. No one will know how or why, but when Iím called to act
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