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I did this thing. The cliff was difficult. I knew I'd be surprised. A few people mentioned they'd been there before, but that's all they said. I gathered myself up and made my way. The earth ate some of my longings. In a stretch of legs I hadn't expected, I found the gumption to proceed to the top. Instead of reaching my goal, I found something else. Disappointment faded quickly. The head was defied. Expectations belied, there was a creation, but not before a destruction. They go handily. My longings were all consumed. A sacrifice that felt like a birth.
Non-committal to the core idea of fooling an entire race into handing over their livelihoods freely as taking a shit, I'm bent on abrogating the field of the Search And Destroy ops vis a vie the money grubbers, such that, we can find anyone to follow us if we have the right lure to lead them to the edge and push them over the cliff. If you're in trouble, vulnerable to a savage degree, hungry, cold and heating up with rage beyond your ability to cope, do you know of the nearest cliff that's better than the Sea Org?
We can keep this close, spiraling down the freewill carousal at Funland, where the whole family can replace their faces. In respect of a great mind sneaking around in the background pulling strings for the guests to trip on, all our leaders are smoking crack between their buttcheeks in the oval room getting rounder with each passing mess. Compliments of the dire distress felt at the bottom where the beer is gone, all the barrels are empty in the maternity ward, the little angelic nurses eating liposuction fat for snacks between visits to the morgue for inspiration and dietary roughage.
The search consumes me. I see it in my head wavering in and out of clarity. I can just make out a few words then it slips from view. I hold what I can, but I lose most of it. Soon as the piece flashes to mind a muddle crashes in. I am digested by confusion. Just out of reach like a dream, but it isn't a dream. The words are where I live. I see where I am. It dances out of focus, but I'm here, not there, not anywhere else but here. Why can't I hold it down?
The water waits. It can do that. Outside the idea of water the plan is to exalt the water. First, the water and you must come together. Like putting the egg in the head of its origin looking toward an omellete, but fabricating the means to arrive within a fiction that excludes the dirty business. The water is still waiting. You and it are still far apart. This issue can be viewed from anywhere. It's naked that way. Thers's no point in hiding. Such a bother. In time you'll find the way in. Past victories are available on exclusive videos.
We work against the grain, but the tide, a rip current like love burnt backwards in the vice, grips you. Remember from high school, that fretted old face chopped with over red lips smashed under the cowl of a bleeding moonchild? You know how the grist crumbles in the wake of the pull. It gets you giggly, driveled on the brink of drowning for another sip of fuck juice. You go, but the tide doesn't blink. It has you in its fist. You mock the moon. Seems like nothing can stop you now. Well. A surprise is in the mail.
Going forward sending it backwards, the die flips on the edge. Inner guts of the machine, confused as focused on the one thing it cannot touch, cannot measure against anything malleable as the least of the worries we carry for security. We gotta have something to hold us down, hold us back. We aren't ready for freedom...so say the losers in the betting pools who can't hold their drinks. It's coming to the point where there is no point. Just confusion. May as well just go for broke, dunk our pituitaries in a vat of Trump and sing Hallelujah.
I was told not to look, but I did. The party proceeded without explicit event. Materials correlative to its fascination multiplied exponentially. A fashion of wide curiosities blended the smoke suffused space. It hovered deliciously. No one suspected anything, which is exactly what they wanted. Watchful eyes took in the elevation with rapt interest. Burgers were consumed furiously. Legs bled into legs. Arms had no resistance to their dissolving. Buns floated before they digested themselves. Expectations were happily flouted. Those who derided this divergence from the status quo were eaten with relish. I watched with no surprise. I'd expected more.
It squirrels down to the lowest level, but you tell no one, least of all yourself. The climb is exhilarating. You feel the depths. It calls to you. There's nothing more to do but give in more and more. The attributes you revile are the attributes it praises. You feel this praise. It brings joy and the determination to cook the perfect steak. You alone know why. It makes no sense to make sense of something that you know is nothing. This nothing carries such weight. It has a gleam to it, a lustful sheen. something you can never own.
I can divide this. All the merits of that which dive deep inside the privations you alone commandeer is a fearful responsibility. The separation is said to be impossible. It would take a miracle. You go ahead anyway. You don't care about the danger. Living the duplicity no longer appeals. It's feeding the wrong mouth. The sky can see it. You feel the sky feeling you. It knows what you're feeding, but it won't tell you. That knowledge will come at a time befitting something you'll never understand. Yes, I can divide this. I will divide this. It's not me.
One's word’s one's gasp, exhalation of dust, a broken down car bleeding rust, a flume of the dead for the dying to breathe for grins in the chair when the doctor lowers his drills. You gotta drill till the blood makes shadows on your salad plate. It's a blood rush for the ruined mind you keep on a shelf to remind your family just how the sky fell and ate your Mercedes. Down, like metallic hail, like rocker be numbed in the gullet of the call. Take it off, burn it for the sake of love's labor for the lost.
Turnabout. The well within becomes what you feared, yet only thru the disguise of joy will you fall. This facade must go. A pollution infects between the you of you and the you never seen. A rising, implicit in the energy flowing thru, combines like a fledgling tornado in its whip, revealing the core, how it burns or not, how it throbs like a newly planted seed. The wind knows what it is. You needn't tarry. What will come divides itself off from the grounding. It is part of you, part of something else, part of a mystery now unfolding.
Are you shy of the secret gun trained on the melodrama subsiding in the matters you hide with such consistence brilliance that it defies the greatest minds of the grave? You sweep across the landscape, fishing for remnants of complicity, but you end up with an empty stringer, jonsing in the mud with the least of them. How might you rise above the cranked terrain pocked with mines that sit in the studded flesh waiting for the liquid prick to rise again? It's all a whirl. You have a challenge in the dust, and it becomes you like its lover.
You can be mesmerized above the horizon of love and not see the unfolding drama, like you missed last weeks episode, and you're clueless! How could you do that? They're approaching. Vehicles of many colors, sizes and smells cram the roads plugged straight into a heart that would rather go unnoticed. Blithe and waxing indifferent to anything but the immediate hunger that pulses perpetually, you draw a pattern of attack in your mind that may or may not lead you to the prize, or so you think. In no time really, you'll be discovering the actual value on your head.
Such a prize to possess, this wonderlust grabbing for attention in the domicile of your private most theatre. You've rehearsed plenty. Why wait? You know they're outside. You can feel them. They surround the place. In a deep crevasse on the mountainside that itches for the net hurrah, your will grapples its hooks in vain for a ledge to establish place and the necessary coordinates for proper navigation to the next landing alley, there is a definite shadow forming. At once fearful, it now looks attractive. Should the reviews be negative, you'll have an escape, a place in the moon.
Torn to the root, a viable construction of a new order entirely benefits the sum of the parts to be less than the whole; such a party they threw when that was unveiled, the baby, the bathwater and everything digestible by natural erosion out the window. They watched from far below and above the extremes to which you were driven so eloquently by the inner engine of disgust. The mess fell with an extraordinary beauty. No one was disappointed. They who made the impossible possible ran for cover, though. They knew the truth of it. There would be no refund.
We wait for the word. It slips by. The plates grind off logos to no avail but for the cosmos' ear collecting its bits like a mad forager in a forest unseemly. How might the digestibles fall into our consciousness? The elusive sustenance begs attention, drives the mind to its own demise. Come what come may, the food will be gotten. On the street, its petals yawing, hands grab its nectar, such as the case, devolves its creation of yet another Frankenstein's creature. The eyes that open are not the eyes that closed. What they see begs a vampyre's lust.
The bag, slung over the stooped shoulders, cries out its heft silently with patches of red. One's own life can be hung so. Across the barren divide, the man shuffles along wearily. He no longer gazes ahead. The path has been trodden for eons. He knows it despite himself, despite his desire to unknow it; it is who he is, as he is his work, as the work defines his motion. Like the design he's mastered, he has mastered the end coming closer each new sodden day. He prays, if prayer might be assigned him, this day be his last.
You feel the bullet of a special kind is waiting. No false denial in the vacuum chamber. The prime suspect is lashed to the air around you, inside you, with no echo, no reverb, no digression to another place where the bullet doesn't exist. It exists. You know it. You can feel it. Such a time will come when the vastness of probability will hone to the sharpest point on its target. It'll take you. Somehow, somewhere, someone will be the actor. You don't know any of the answers. The question lives, though, like the answers; all one on you.
As if I could climb that high. I'm enthralled. The challenge sits in abeyance. Tracks intertwine the view, a kaleidoscope of Kells, no which way or other way but all ways and no way. A coiling toward rapture. I found my way here. The voices fade, hands fall back; all forms who held me along the way vanish. This is my road now, no one else's. If help need be, the cry will rise like a bottle rocket and fizzle out. This is where it's made or unmade. Rite of passage or not. Could it be a more tasty challenge?
The driven eyes split. Foreign highways afoot take the challenge to the base. Blackness is an apt space for matters unseemly to trade each other's masks. Face to face, one needs no firm decision, no answer but questions. Stasis fits stasis. A balance must be honored. Diagrams pile on diagrams. The Generals have all stroked. Fumbles beget fumbles. It's a deviant clown show, but what's new? No one cause but a billion and none of them correct, none of them suiting the marriage of mind and soul. Line up. Choose your weapon. Ready, aim.....waiting for the word. What word?
It pounds, pounds, it pounds. Reverb, my dome of a brain, an overzealous mind grinds tabs on the tickers, a leap to a brittle thoughts, electric crash of head, a tick tocking, tock ticking, the maelstrom exhales a wanting. I can devalue the sum, as it devalues me. Once, in a vat of thinking, I saw something new. In this heat it's reappeared, speaking silently to me, wanting my input, driving me from myself into itself, being a pounding, always pounding, hammering on the impenetrable core. It knows there's something in there it can use, but I will always refuse.
It's configured in reverse of itself and finds it quite funny in the downlow where cups of wishes go by the billions unfilled, quenched only by exponentially divergent wishes spreading cheaper labs for the universe that pretends to be blind, deaf, mute and uninterested in the Oprah Winfrey mask exhaling smile after smile with no reason to be found for justification. Why look for reason when there's only a tiny reservoir of relief available for a few adepts? The fishing rods sold like crack in Kensington. Could anyone be the one to catch the big one? The bunker is watching.
Dashed about, under a watchful gaze, the old coin has withered. A new branch is reaching out, a serpentine beast of many heads and minds, clutching the spoils we lost in the last breach of confidence, holding them for security that is no security. The heavy wallow of bits left out the coming of the new age as the best thing, but it's the worst, singling you out; these bits have eyes. They watch you. As you spend their spoils, dead coins stink, yet under the muscles of the resting leviathan, one can smell the howling of the alleged dead.
A summary does no good. What was in focus has diminished to an afterthought. It was grand while cogitated for a moment in a crux of this or that while the moment slid toward the curving sun. The eyes bent toward the earth. It came swiftly. The summary, if compiled, was dashed, as it always is; the ministration of all the energies applied brought the minds to a place where nothing makes sense anymore but everything. It's all one. The dance pulls the unbelievers in despite themselves. We see a collusion that was mocked, derided and vilified. It is us.
Quite so, quite so, the bombardment, as usual, spent itself in private fuming online, then dissipated rapidly, a flume of stinky steam or what's better known as bad gas for all the party guests to savor while donning their winter jackets, making their way once again to their private domiciles of collective idiocy. We are all the dash, ain't we? It's a bitter thing to see, but there you have it. It might be better to think of it all as a passing bug or a swift cancer of righteousness gone bonkers. Pray to Christ you have enough toilet paper.
Intermittent flashes. A slog of mud bursts the sky, sun like interspersed serpents writhing in the heat, laughing. A mind becomes spaghetti of a billion dishes exploded. The sky is eating it all. Can one become involved so much so they fail to see they're no longer alive? Myriad screams unfold from one, a blood red blossom of action, white crash of starlings swoop the eye into a calm sea, water still as glass flowing the infinite reflections of man, then nothing. You can see it all play out over and over from the infinite to the infinitesimal then nothing.
I find that falling up excretes the new digestibles backwards. I'm not done trying, though. Falling sideways prompts the extra care battalion to ignore the fires. This only causes confusion. It's true; We dance around the conflagrations as gracefully as heaven dons hell as a fond new hat, so inevitability draws attention away from the central conflicts of the godhead in charge. It's not the fault of the ruling class. They lost control when they bid on the wrong constituents. All they do is tread water on old poker tables playing hands as incompatible as the Son and Holy Ghost.
The bark has a piece of it. In the piece of it you see the whole of it. Not so distributed carefully one to the next, as one village to the next but as a whole it's an even strain yet not even. It depends on how you look at it. All of it is in a piece of it. There's no one part of it that's not in a piece of it. The bark has a piece of it. Chewing it will teach you the way. Only then will you know where you are, what you are, and why.
Tripping off the bleak end, they got the gristy bits going like a mad whale off a thrashing blue moon of thunder. All a plenty, dug in with the insatiable need, they bit down on the wave, heaving, reaching out for its mercy, a jelly spread, grabbing at anything within reach. The mass congealed toward its own digestion, dispersed its fears for the needs howling as a great monster sinking in quicksand. Hands without hands fumble, for the distances between brain synapses and the gross bits are extreme feeding the laughing whale thumping its greasy belly, drawing out the sadness.
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