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So perfect a move. Elegant. Simple. None but its own value can place itself on itself as worthy of life. I was drawn into an egg. I found the energy to penetrate the function. That was long ago in a different time. I cannot summon the memory to fashion it as a reality I can rebuild. A reconstruction isn't necessary. It lives inside me. The whole form of it assumes itself as a beginning of sorts. I rose from that beginning, but was there an end to it? Not yet. It has to come together with another for true understanding.
I wish I could put this aside myself, be allowed to evaluate how I might go when the going ceases to be an option with this thing inside me. I value this moment. It speaks loud in silence, and the attributes concealed are the dressings of my inner nature crying out. So much confusion, as the time devalues itself; it runs down. Soon, it'll be at the point where a decision has to be made. I don't have enough me to make that decision yet. Stripping away the layers seemed fun, but now, it's a matter of life and death.
Later on the ice cream face will attend. In the meantime, I divest my sorrows to an inner well. They cook slow. I tend to them fastidiously. By the patterns I'm given, I hold myself like a diamond in the deep surrounded by a million pounds of black pressure. I'm feted by this isolation. It's a blessing to be hidden so well. By my own volition I'll come to the sun in my own careful time. I lust after the ice cream face. It's my dream, my fantasy. One day I'll find the strength and courage to rise toward it.
I'm moving thru a peculiar energy. A billowing cloud emanated from a core. It felt ominous. No one seemed to notice. Angst bubbled up, like a tumor. I put it out of mind. The house heaved. A great breath was taken. The stench was thick. Rotten eggs. A thin voice echoed. Wait, don't go. Wait. don't go. Wait, don't go. Over and over. A man sat a piano. He played a Cole Porter tune. My eyes misted. Light from outside became dim, purple with greenish hues. A large Hispanic woman entered. She asked if anyone wanted to die or dine.
It scrubs the heart out of you, feeds it to the machine. Under the driving wheels of progress underlies the myriad catacombs of captivity best laid to darkness out of sun's eye. In the core one feels the hearts being eaten like candy. Digestions precludes the outcome, less known for its volubility as its corrosive nature. Its face belies this nature. One comes to it for answers. None are given but ones repainted. A makeover is necessary. It uses your heart and billions of other as paint. You can feel the brush as it swipes your senses for a con.
Uplift. The ground asks for you. You are connected. There's no other option. The web has you in its clapped interstices. One must take stock. Be aware. No going back. No going forward. You are where you are. Uplift. You can feel it. Something is happening. It hasn't happened before like this. Fear doesn't enter into the equation. Perhaps this will be the end. In some ways, this is what I'm hoping. Once the end comes, another beginning will come. Nothing but a radical design can alter this. I have nothing to offer. Looking outside myself, I see only wonder.
A merry-go-round of seeking and not seeking, being at the center, being at the circumference, being nowhere, being everywhere, with eyes that see but cannot see, seeing but the attitude surrounding the eyes. I'm down for the digestion of blindness, being fraught with desire, not for titillation, but for the calm coming with being here, right here, nowhere else but here. A no-brainer? But the fire that extinguishes the calumny of destruction. I sit with a four year old. She builds an empire without lust. It towers over desire. It merely is. I could live in that.
So viable. You see it; I know you see it. It sits behind the canvas upon which you paint. Most cannot see. Tentacles of fire bind you to the mind behind it all. The tumor of jealousy it envelopes dissolves, flows through fears, dissolving them, flows through the envy that cripples you when love does not match the hand that surrendered to the mind. How might I tell you, that it is all in all for the keeping by giving it up? Those that lust cannot know. Those that envy cannot know. You know it all with the tumors plucked.
A glad dance. Victorious. Caught up in the melting of you, a whirl of mathematical magick clasps the point into which you sink; into the infinitesimal. That which cannot exist, exists. You fiercely dash the circle it inscribes, a roundabout of eyes outside of eyes. You can feel the voice of you plunging toward the pronunciation of hearing that which cannot be heard. You intone the soundless song. Many hear. They that hear approach. When you are ready to see them, you'll see they are nothing more than you in all of the complexities erupted by ecstasy none may buy.
You could never touch it. The idea of touching it was far more real. It was best if you left it at that. The few families who came to ponder always seemed frustrated by the lack of genuine fire. I was told the fire was a gimmick. They had to see, though. A few reached out. When I turned away, as I always did, I could hear the others come in, and the onlookers were taken away. They were disposed of properly, and the show went on. The show had to go on. That's gospel. Everything else was a barbecue.
Round about the circuit, the flow grabs the insouciant, muddles its intent to circumscribe its function, that it might become what it could never become on its own, become its own apogee and perigee in the diagrams laid out like a massive circuit pattern that belongs to it alone, beguiling and confusing, as it's wont to do. Certainty is a funny idea, like perfection. It means nothing. That which assumes its perfection, as the end of its means, is living a delusion. They might clamber inside cells meant to praise god, but all they're praising is the King of Rats.
Something you can never find in tune with the harmonic soul we seek in desperation when losing heaven and the idea of heaven, such is the case when our crass reality punctures itself with grand delusions of another world somewhere out there, some place better than this. You think, there's gotta be a place that's better than this! In fact, as the mind dives into an infinitesimal point without dimension there's a kind of relief; we see this place, we become it ourselves. We see ourselves bound by nothing but ourselves in a reality that has no solidity, just belief.
Do you have any idea? The means to establish are the means aside the main focus. We grab at straws for love and gather twigs for kindling. The fires we desire are the fires we keep inside. No idea matches these flames. They are singular and resolutely isolated. I live under such a flame. My keepsake is my soul defined by this thing I manipulate in the dark. Can I touch your idea? May I stay awhile in its warmth? Down by the lake where it's cold, we cleaned off a small rink and dreamed of skating in our rooms.
Fueling this hard time keeps the mind clapped to its question why,that the heart should collude with the mind is a foregone, ill conclusion; it's deceptive. We are divided. Outside, you see the sky? Yes. Can you feel it. In here? It's out there. You know it's out there. You can see the possibility. You've never been there. It's a picture you fashion in your brain. Data culled from a billion years of being far away from everything keeps you here, keeps you looking at the sky. Wondering? Is it real? One day, you'll surely find out, or not.
Is it designed purposefully to deceive? I would say, yes. Around the center you have a time in your little car. Bumper car. Sexual metal. The offing is in the crash. You feel the crash. It lives in your flesh, a bright conception of pain and delight. Which is which? Can there be a conciliation? Opposite sides of the track,, we glare at each other, faking wonder, curiosity, but we're not curious. It's PC to appear curious. Where is the hate? Concealed. Pushed down. It's not there anymore, is it? Then wonder breaks the skin, rage flashes. Guns become you.
It works hard on you as you work hard on it. Transference. The delightful feast, one mouth into another. One mind into another. A valley of rivers intertwined, a multiplexing being of many beings. An indistinguishable array of voices. That such a choir might sing for the salvation we so desperately need. Could it be the one question never asked hides within the songs? We are swept up. All earth gives way. The communal mind rises. Hunger screams. "Dive within. Find the meat. It is waiting for you, hiding inside a darkness, nursing a hunger that will surprise you eternally."
They rob us of our wits for the sake of prominent advantage. Key to the summation is the fall of eyes. Sky is raining eyes. Light is consumed. In the valley of shadows is a weird assemblage. Cave dwellers unite. The blind lead the blind, a merry-go-round you don't see in children's carnivals. Something wicked this way comes, as always. It's in the blood, the literature of the blood. How one avoids the inevitable is easy. Find a way into a psyche ward. Trivial. They got peculiar blood gas to fill you up like a brain dead balloon.
It could be outed, this thing lapsing under a guise not too thin to be wrung dry of any sense whatsoever. I'm punched down in this thing of my flesh. This mind I keep dolls out a rhythm I feel. My dance is the uttermost gesture. So it goes and comes back to a stance. I see myself in the mirror of the past. It leaps to the future as easily as I wasn't born. What can I offer you that will keep me in the glass? It wavers. The optics are weakening. It's up to no one and everyone.
We dive like magical fish into a sea of our own devising. What may we catch? Shall I catch something for you? You caught something for me; now I find myself at the end of your love. I vigorously toss myself up your fiery womb with glee. Letís start again. All around this fiery creation you prod me with smiles. I can only dip my thoughts toward to the source of your love. It extends itself. It extends me. By the witchery one may assume divine I feel inserted into your rhythm, clocking me into our vibrant atomic light.
There isn't time. Wrapped under faces we don't recognize, our course is conscripted tediously. Obstacles pepper the fashion highways. The dire situation conforms to no one. It divides us from the power brokers who live under invisible faces. Our faces rise in the smoking air. Our brains blister. Thinking becomes, as usual, harder as we go. We were told this wouldn't be the case. Our mentors lied conveniently. There's no time to win. Losing is the riddling game. Chancing our luck through the gateway appearing in flashes is dicey, but what else can we do? There is no going back.
How many chances do we get? What are we allowed? When do we report to the ring? In a fury we decide otherwise. We back away. The risk is too high. Foundering a place we neither recognize or enjoy, thoughts of returning to the place where the decision was made feels necessary. Swooping as we may, away from the center, we seek another center that doesn't exist. By our design we've come to an understanding pf no understanding. There's a curious dilemma. Being in a betting position grinds our betting minds to a chalky point of one to a trillion.
All aside the odds, the men in charge cable themselves to a doubtless glare. You're in their sights. All they need to do is pull the trigger. Come what come may, I could escape no matter what, or maybe not. I've taken it upon myself to fall away from this place. I repudiate the game. It is not me. I would like a refund, please. Where do I take it to be refunded? All eyes turn away. All mouths droop. There's no answer forthcoming, but I think I know what it would be, so I apply imagination and I'm gone.
Too much in the sun. I can't focus. Overheated in the core. Decisions must be made. I'm divided from the source that tells me to stop, you're no good. Well, fuck you, source! I'm a man betting on my grist to grind my own meals of unfashionable art and disgusting pass times. I will go as I go, no matter who or what steps in the light to blot my form from sight. This is a game I can play. I make up the rules that change in a heart attack with dividends. Playing the odds has never felt better.
Servitude. It grips me in the guts. I fart like nobody's sick angel. Who could tell that I was headed for a win or loss? My eyes are pasted over. My inky cloak projects a feeling, stay clear or pay the price. Shall I play my keeping as a consequence of your error? I'm watching. This won't go far. In the end I don't think I'm the one that'll be stopped. So few make it to this point. I used to wonder why. No longer. Plain as day. You go as you go; inevitably, you'll meet me as I go.
I heard a sound, craned my neck. My head was off as I turned. Eyes looked into the dust. I saw my bead fall. Then I caught it peering into the abyss. So what is this? How does my head pay for my passing? Is it the proper ticket? When I descend fully I'll know. I can keep this to myself, but I feel there will come a time that I'll have to share it. That will have consequences that no one will want to take to the bank. Unbankable, intractable, not viable, I'm as happy as I can be.
Oh, so wonderful. I'm embraced by this falling light. In its eyes I see the beauty that was judged. We like to call it a name, but that name means nothing; mythic, a durable fable one tells their kids to keep them quiet. Fear works wonders on the vulnerable. It take a lifetime to see the lies. How can one see them sooner? Search me. I'm falling gleefully. We will catch each other in the end, and I'll be glad of your catching. Ceremony is light. No words need be spoken. I'm my own priest and gravedigger at my funeral.
The strength to continue is in the blood, the blood of the heart seated in the core light. How the main gust of light flows, conveys me to the world thru eyes that welcome life and death as the present vision, seeing only the inevitable as the inevitable, a thing to be accepted, I am in the primal flow and blessed. Given the fierce love of a soul outside of me, I have nothing but thanks and more thanks. What would I do if it weren't for this miracle? I cannot say. I am here, but nevermore as merely one.
It pulls it down to the basic rhythm, creates a space where creation is a given, slanted off the diagonal of doubt, spearing the mind full of fear, bleeding the terror; one is found in a state of becoming. That which is crusted over is revealed. Lies spoon fed to you by the arrogant and ignorant, fall away, as we assume the position, 'Do What Thou Wilt.' We are taken to the place we have always been but never recognized. Now is the time to take that place. Now is the time to do what you want. Nothing else matters.
We think we're safe, bound in our secure cells, severed by conscious design from the spear-chucking world, as is, the matrix of aggression. In our privations we divine our habitations to our liking. We fabricate our friends to fill faces we can manipulate. The residues are our dividends, feeding us by their ultimate failures. We know the endgame will not favor us. This game we play can only end in one way. Yet, we persevere for all our worth as if it defines us, and indeed it does. We forget who we are. A blessing in disguise? Oh yes.
The threads of grief run deep. Howsoever the minds construe their connections to feeling, the old order is upset in the fracas ensuing. One needs to find the heart within the hearts sold to the buyers in the marketplace who have no concern for life. Such a search is blunted by the avatars of the new order prevailing. Death rules. Its endgame proves valuable to most of the players, and how the game is resolved continues to baffle, as there are no rules except one: keep changing the basic rules to favor the ruling classes held in the back offices.
The last drain on the doggies is now. One needs to keep them free of the ecclesiastical auras that divide reality into fabulous, fantastical sandwiches no one can get their mouths around, so what's the point if you don't take the doggies seriously? In view of the coming world, ever widening as it's shrinking, you can feel how easy it would be to take advantage of the lesser capable doggies. We are in dispute of nothing that can be bartered or sold. We're at the table where the deal will be made. We can feel the doggies inside us, squirm.
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