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It came out of me. A special voice. From a labyrinth it drew power. I cannot see or touch this deep maze. It curls my flesh like a worm in a tree digesting the tree's bowels for light. I am threaded to a keynote, a dissonant fall of notes, a cascade over the steel mouth amongst the eyeless hoards sniffing out the cancer for comedy. In the valueless parade of legs, what distributes my core from its shielding, is a muscular dispensation. I'm out. I'm in. The fit of organs had me out, then drew me back. How might I say this carved my day unsweetly.
Sipping down the sidewall, merry-go-round delectable descent, a face full of disintegration, my avenue of decay that I love to hate, except if I have a camcorder to catch the brown fireworks. It's a real gas to ignite the rocket in the rank pocket and make a splash at the funeral reception. How might the particulars be more appropriate for an end-of-the-world celebration than this? I can't think of an exception, but when the last call goes round, and the faceless owner of the place shows up with his ledger, I'd rather not be numbered.
Strange highways, a green billowing eye, the mongrel soul, one to be adored, reviled. In the shadowed veldt of mind it slithers, seeing what you don't see, feeling what you don't feel, administering delight for pain, commingling cyber-vitals sucked to the core with the petty of light that is darkness, re-analyzing data crunched for gobbles, frying the mainframe, giving the administrator a run for their beliefs in the singularity. In the vast realm you can take the tiniest bit of reality, hold it in your tightening fist, blowout the muscle it conceals as the winged bird of sophistry.
What say you, cyber eye? I flex you improper as you flex me. The dope is in your spit. I suck it up in the communal whirlwind where the believers gather to eat and drink of the holy tide and drown their sins for the love of the incubus, howsoever it divines its conjurations to meet the demands of the house. You gotta bring in more valued adepts to bleed their pocketbooks for the cause. What cause? I could diminish this by large to have the residuals speak for me, as I usually do; for now I think I'll rest.
At the touch, it goes, a whirligig fantasia; in its bath, all day, I drown pain like a tablet ejected into the belly of the earth; I feel it shudder. A tin wing unfurls in a private sun, and like Icarus I chew dirt for the extremity of my effort colliding with a reality I abjure. Nothing but my own belief, in a reflection taken privately, do I accept for currency in the necessary exchanges. I prefer the whirligig in the dark behind curtains under a long table of earth where I plant all of my fantasies like tulip bulbs.
Down deep, when you stop working so hard to stop, you move. You finally move forward in a way you never expected. The gun is but a rattle and hum of the engine; it purrs under a guise of smiling like a sad flower. No one notices. No one wants to notice. The river flows. You get a boat and go. You don't look back. There's nothing back there anyway, just a muscular fit to round the rattle and hum that stays for a grist and gobble. It stays for your pleasure, a pleasure most would fumble while throwing down.
You saw what you did, in a tiny bubble of inactivity on a stage you built. It was for the actors of your design. No one saw these actors but you. Like on a board game you moved them around. The city had such a wide place of moving, you never thought you could ever do something this big and so tiny too. In this dark place with your board, with the tiny actors of a special design you created the action. You created this impossible movement toward a liberation that would go down in blissful infamy. You alone know.
You don't want to think it's inside you, but it is. It sees you. It hears you. The viability is distinct in its quiet uniqueness. It'll wait. It has all the time it needs. When the conscription defines the nest by which the egg is wrought, so shall it be, and in the gestation comes a special condition, and it's this condition that'll define your trajectory from birth to death. What comes as a surprise may be mundane to others. Those who see with the eyes of the inner street, they know. It lives through them. The are watching you.
The valued being hid in the crease. Splitting wide, the eyes of the inflicted were distracted, so it slipped in. It burrowed deep. There was a delightful feeling of security in the moldering flesh. It heaved, a slow motion ocean teeming with a trillion cells screaming for last rites, but there was no priest. Should the body be bereft of its sweat, there may have to be another route toward the heart of the matter. The flesh held on. The sweat was sweet, tangy with an afterbite of a good rerun of Leave it To Beaver. No place like home!
At odds with everything. The slanted planet is granting me no respite for its edginess. Edge is sharp, a razor of a unique face. That which it slices, remains a new dress for the blade. It should always look good in mixed company. One never knows what it might encounter. You give yourself over to the blade. You live on it. Dividing off the residuals once shaved from your view, the vantage becomes conveniently smaller. It is this tiny island you embrace as your home, your soul, the only thing you see, and what you see is the only truth.
So it doesn't quite do what you expected it to do. Of course it wouldn't obey. It has its own way of doing things. The only truth you're willing to defend is the truth before you. If demon shadows prove solid and the walls of your intellectual domicile begin to crumble, take refuge in your ideas, paper thin though they may be. It's in the power of your belief that you shall defeat the scientific demons in league with Satan. Oh, how they try to befuddle you, but they never shall! Just keep ripping up those demonic lies at Target.
Grow the fuck up. Wallow wills. The tiger cage is steamy. Lizard life mounts the fantastic rock n roll jimmy jive to a place you go to fuck in a mental museum where wax replicas of Burroughs, Kerouac and Ginsberg stare down at you for nothing's pleasure of mayhem in check. The values exceed the domain rights. You're gonna get in trouble if you try to do what I think you're gonna do. But. Go ahead anyway. It might make you grow the fuck up. It might give you a sentence to hold onto in the chamber where gases smile.
Silence sings the way to the edge where the meat cooks the way he's been taught. Down in the guts of the intent he sees his face devolve into a crystalline visage no one wants to see, certainly not for long but in the vats of nightmare reruns. Time, don't you think? Getting the creation served hot in the despots mind resulted in mayhem in the dining room. The tables weren't set properly. The host lost his face again, so everything had to stop until the mistress vomited his face. She knows. He knows, but doesn't learn. Practice makes better.
Such pussies they are. They can't see, but they pretend that they do. It is us. We are all in there, but they can't see that, or is it that they won't see it? A wall exists in certain minds, arrogant and resolved to thoughts alone, they've lost the touch of feelings. Their pertinent limbs have been lopped, so they blather their slick rhetoric, dance around the issues, conceive a declaration upon the images, deeming them down to the bottom where the residuals claim host over an audience of the deaf, dumb and blind who hold PhDs for Teddy Bears.
It's one slot in. The others watch. On the sides they've distributed themselves inconspicuously, but the joke's on. They're right on the bullseye, and they don't even know it. Game has gone well. Played to the max, it's become the hottest way to get outta town while going nowhere. His targets drop like flies, and no one cares. That's the funny irony. With all the news these days singling out frustration of the folk who just can't figure out where so-and-so has gone, he's got indifference on the cue battened down for his pleasure taken with impunity.
I donít know I donít know, circumspect the violence with a white sheet face as a tool of sleight of hand in the game that goes and goes round the vestibule of god god god the gig of the god hat.†Makes the silence grow like deafening blasts of hunger from an undisclosed place where no one is allowed to roast wienies in public. The children affected by this are few; they are connected to the god god god gig of a god hat. Why worry then? If you donít know, thatís just fine! Who does?
Struck suddenly. Light was swiped. A black shroud flew from the wings. Capturing the stage it held the audience in awe of its ominous power. Insinuating deeply, there as no chance for rebuttal. The delegates all went home without their doggie bags. He was left behind to fend for himself with faces full of weeping hovering overhead. Hands full of questions, no answers were forthcoming but the inevitable. He was lowered eventually to a place where everyone was level for a short time. Words were thrown about, a typical going away party. One word was genuine. It left with him.
What do you think? Think. Think about thinking. See the bouncing ball. Think. The elastic won't last. Think about the next time you think. Thoughts come and go. Snap. You parade vestiges of intellect for a comedy show in your head where all the contestants win. You don't know. All aside the vantages of being smart enough to hold a thought for its own sake and not be dragged down by some charlatan who would rather just play video games, who's thinking now? What thoughts can have a future when such disjoint mayhem holds forth as the best show around?
All dashed. No point in trying to pick them all up. The pieces have no faces recognizable to the least eye or sense of wit to be wrung from the hard places you never go unless ordered. In time the puzzle will reform in spite of everyone's apathy. Into a wide spectrum you're flung. You should be very proud. You can choose the colors to wear. It's your day, the day of days. In the midst of being aware of being watched from within you can decide the route to the stage. The puzzle is awaiting your presence, your piece.
Lobotomy machinery. Gives a good kick going when the going is sluggish like when the TV's connections aren't properly ordered. The channels are all dumbed down to the order most suited to being the least effective at Christmas parties. Shadows of wine appear least frequently, but bourbon has a day in store for the night, and you know exactly where that's going. There's nowhere to go but into the meat of it. The tinkerings taper off while the complete designs are blurred. You see, none of any of this makes sense on purpose. The dumbing down machinery keeps its promises.
Sordid and lovely, the story was well written in blood on the roof, but the sun dried it too quickly before anyone could make any sense of it and create a nifty series for easy money. The donkey's tail was snipped. The zoo attendant knew very well the consequence of such a grievous error. It would show up on his next check. Things get out of hand too quickly. People don't think. The donkey's tail is crucial to the story being successful, but who wants to be successful these days? Seems as though no one wants to make sense anymore.
Grabbing at the imperfect decimation principle, whose diagrams defy any artist's conception of reality on acid, one might assume it's okay to delve the dark passageways when no one's around to pull you out should the door you pried open close suddenly, but you gotta be careful, bitch. It's always good to take a God Dog with you when fiddling the familiar's lute. They're available in several vivid, luminescent colors to bring out the very best conjuration you can tap out with all the cum you can muster...really quickly, because it can be a mess if it's done wrong.
Oh, the grudging twinkle in the executioner's eye on the dais with the blood in a fashionable aforethought that comes with keeping up with the worst cry babies in town; they bleed so well, it's hard to compare. Well, it's hard to make a decision on the right hitman. There are so many. They keep their names going through the killing mill by dvd releases belying the need to keep the shooting silent when the rockers have aged beyond any reasonable excuse to get up on the stage for geriatric funkiness. When the aim is right, you just know it.
Exhaustion writes my words, a scribbling on the decayed walls. From the smashed windows vomits dust of faces crumbling for the good of all, a shower of shards glinting in the moonlit day. Sun fashions a disguise of itself to appear gone, and gone it is. Lest there be a remnant to violate the sheeted furniture's pristine rot, all will fall. I am there for the falling, the fall of dust, a mind befitting the moonscape within. It can become a beautiful landscape, grey, black, dirty white. Some might say a waste. I say paradise, the withered poets Siren's bed.
To my last landing, there shall be a feast to end all feasts. Tables laid with delicacies to sate the gods that never get sick. To the wild monkey charms wriggling the dense fog of muscular wit, screams to water storms, puncture the chortling void, let out the fears, misgivings, final bursts of hate, let go, let go the mouse of madness chewing the dead cat's rotted guts. For who cares? Shall there by anything left? No. Let it all go. Spew radical fumes to fuster doubt. You will lay it all out. Man, it'll be a hellavu good meal.
Little eyes peruse the rooms. Cat's eyes. Or not. A feline smoothness slides a cascade of watching. You can feel it. The mastery and craft. Within the old walls groans a patter of voices once harmonious, a barbershop fete, now discordant with a conniving sneer gliding the halls, a patter of feet belonging to the rising id, no forbidden planet, but a shapeless facsimile rising, rising, grabbing at the hems of hopes dissolving in the psychopath sun. Who cares? Does anything care? You have made this. It is yours. You know the answer to that, to everything that will go.
You now know the organ of the dissembling muse. From a gutted well, once heaving with waters to heal, comes the fumes, a head shoved out, the last rosebush makeover with thorns deep as rattlesnake's fears. You cannot fight this. There is no fight to have. Sworn to the ending magnificence, the riders can be seen just cresting the horizon. Such a duplicitous game. The rules always change. The face is slowly shaping, from a blurred mist comes a recognition you want to kill. Is there anything left to kill? Perhaps, but now it's time to put the gun away.
Spit of my eyes, gouged quick so it was easy to mount on the story. It had been going ponderously, no advance, then the fuck of the light in the crushed darkness with a glad burst from the dead cow across the road. We passed it carefully, feeling for the maggot energy calling us to feed. Lest we drop our intent to finish the story, there would be no feeding until the place was saturated with applause. A standing ovation held us back. No one complained, but we held forth. The sky swooped overhead. Grabbed the cow. A great epilogue.
We do this. We do that. It goes round. We go round. To what end? No end. Round and round. The voluble cycles coalesce into a fantastical parade of sameness we'd like to ignore or rename or redress as something actually attractive, but in the end it's always the same. Sadness pervades the mind, slumps on a curb. We wait for a car to pick us up; any car will do. It's the waiting that grabs us and holds us down, while the waiting should rouse our hearts to ecstasy, for it's in the waiting that everything happens or not.
While you know it, there are many ways to unknow it, though by discretion, non too worthy of the trouble while getting down and getting out. Out to the end, you feel a kind of swaying sensation. The beginning is always hard, like a birth through a very long canal full of naysayers. You get in. You get out. The real challenge. Kicked out of form, though trim and in the melody of strength, you dive to the thickest point where sight is a disadvantage. Then comes a hard realization, that you slept though the better part of your life.
You see in the eye the words falling in, falling out, the blood flows easier that way. When you see, you cannot unsee. The words that sting build catastrophe upon a languid soup of living outside living. There. You feel it? Sure. The unraveling suits you. It'll be a surprise when that door opens. I wonder if you'll be ready. The eyes are waiting, ready. They've been ready for a long time. I assume the delight will be fashioned from a pastiche of agony. It goes that way. De Sade warned us all. No one paid attention. Such fiction! Hunh.
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