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Come back to the mouth of it. There's something you must hear, something you must speak yourself. You know the bits and pieces of it, but you haven't put them together yet. You need the code. The code is in the mouth you see. Come back to that mouth. It's been waiting for you a long time. It's patient, but you should never tempt it, never push its boundaries too far, or else you might learn something no one wants to know, yet everyone to a person will know it one day. Your time will come. Now. To the mouth.
We move thru meaning with fierce commitment to find precision and depth. We toss letters to the brain's wind as logos might gather a corral of possible connections, and it is perpetual. They are wild connections, like wild beasts. We hardly know how to tame them let alone use them for communication. One beast morphs to another and to another. Logos go mad for meaning that slips and slides so readily. Tagging them, nailing them to a parchment satisfies like a big game hunter who mounts the dead head on his wall for pride, as if he owns it now.
What gives this nothing such a something no one can see the nothing shrouding us like a supercell over a midwestern plain? Who derives from this nothing that can offer no one sustenance? What subsists off this nothing? Those who dress its empty form for a mural in a studio where nothing is touched but the artist who knows how bad it is, cheer themselves that no one will ever see the clumsiness, the awkwardness, the viability of that which should be dead but isn't. But it is dead! How can one kill that which is dead? Who's Dracula now?
I can feel it pulling at me. As my eyes open, the well widens. It draws me in. Light is snatched. Light of my mind curves down. It's pull is absolute, indomitable. In its core the fist stays clenched. I orbit the fist. I see it's glow, but I cannot see its eyes. I call out without a mouth. Body be decked in sweat on the earthly dais. Mind connects. Sparks cave resistance. There's no use resisting. Resisting is futile. I don't want to resist. Something inside resists. Hands without hands grab at the mess, a Pollock distribution of self.
So wide, it exhausts my heart. Beating so fast to keep the pace of its rounding, I'm enraptured by the beauty and horror. I cannot distinguish them. I hold them both in my heart. I will not let them go. They must not go. They define my logos before words consume them. Feelings are bled by words to an empty space that has few ears, fewer minds. I conceal my true heart in the undefined logos. Round and round I dance, hand in mind, about the expanding logos. Such as it is, such as it goes, riddles of my soul.
Slip it in slyly, craftily as you can, as will I. The door be nearly braked by the dim of day. You haven't much time. You can hardly see it now for the fogs rising in your mind. You saw so clearly just a moment ago. Now, the values have dropped. You've become weary, not for trying but for the dismissals gleaned from the herd surrounding the question, hoarding the answers; confusion creeps in. You know the need. You know the necessity, but slipping it thru the dropping darkness in a swell of night, tells you one thing, just go!
How many problems are too many when the eyes infold on the teeming mass, crosshatched with diseases as they fester thru the leaky wood of the communal body sprouting lovely flowers in the sun. They can distract, seduce one into complacency, render people ineffectual when the core is rotted. They say it's okay. They say it's under control. What's under control? Who's they? You feel it burning deep inside. It'll never abate. What's here is here to stay, as if that's a surprise to anyone who knows the truth. The burning is good. You need the burning. It gives life.
Big city heat wave quashes my disabling brain, divides it off severally, each to a different island of agreement, I can feel the arguments brewing, the dissent, the divisiveness the sparkling barbs collide their respective islands of mind. Each backbitten, each with a barb in their flesh, but these barbs are not deadly. They impart information badly needed, but where did they come from? Who or what sent them? In the fleshy nests, the work is proceeding. There is no delay. Needs are being met, but what needs? How is this, what is this in the heated city mind? Why?
One could wonder, what's next? What now? Good questions? No one knows, but opinions roar from every landscape, casual to cataclysmic, mild upset to apocalypse. In the middle the hamburgers are still good. We fixate on reasonable TVs with reasonable TV eyes drawing in laughs for residues after burns. Quite without devaluing the lifestyle glimmer and gloss of the wealthy parading the assumption, "It'll all go away. They'll stop bothering us soon." But it won't go away. We won't stop bothering you. We're adamant on your doorstep. We're in your mail, in your food, in your mouth, in your farts.
It could trip you up in a moment, but in a moment flipped, it could vanish as if it were never thought an issue but mere fantasy, as all fantasies blow over reality as if they might consume the mind of logic and dash all concerns till value is measured by how much you don't measure up but extend yourself in a direction commensurate with where you were before thought and logic corrupted the imagination in the first place. It's an odd dance, but dance you must if logic is to be trashed for its uselessness in an artistic soul.
So I'm white trash. Big fuckin deal. Get over it or deal with it. Made in the grug of a midwestern bug-house I was spawned for something other than the usual long climb up a social ladder; more like a steep climb down. Had the urges to weave a snarky web of deceit, attracting a cadre of like-minded bugs, and we ate away had society's garments with no regard for anything let alone ourselves. Some fell away. Some were cut away. Others dissolved in the morass we stirred for bucks, laughs and the inevitable screams. I somehow survived.
I can tell that's what you're into. I can smell it on you. It lives in you and on you with a very special scent. The need. You have to fulfill that need just about every night, right? It calls you. You answer. You have no choice. It pulls you in with its strange music. The allure is something you can't quite put your finger on, but a finger has been put on you. It's been pressing on you for a long time. It needs you now as much as you need it. Tonight. Yes. It has to be tonight.
You try it out. Feels right. The measurements were taken carefully. They knew what they were doing. Does that surprise you? Do they ever not know what they're doing? They've practiced this art of fitting themselves to people for millennia; so yeah, they got it right. Now, it's up to you to do your part. That can sometimes be problematic. People often don't really get what's being asked of them, which is odd, since they chose the fitting. They asked for it, and they got it. What they don't know is they'll be paying for it forever in unexpected ways.
Inside the love expressed vividly, chaos sits at the end of the bullwhip whipping around, snapping off the very end of the statement, I love you, gashing the smile, bleeding a question, always a question. In the beginning, the feeling's warm, expanding from the kiss thru the ghosts of affection raging with fires burning, burning, burning the embrace while the incendiary bombs go off. Always this turnabout, always a calm becoming chaos. Where does the trigger sit? How is it triggered? She doesn't recall pulling any trigger. She recalls the calm, the kiss, the embrace, the explosion, always another explosion.
I'm moving like mad; nothing's happening, yet I'm moving furiously. I feel the fury. Is it me, or is it something else? Am I doing this, or is something doing it to me? Am I in the picture, or am I creating the picture? Have I forgotten to step away from the picture? I want to belong. I wanted to be in the picture. No more. This is wrong. When can I leave? I want to leave. I know I started this, but I want to leave now. I'm moving so fast. I can't see. I've lost the reason why.
So you're losing. Threads of a bygone stitch they said would last a thousand years will only last until the end of the show, maybe not even. In the interim the vast idea of right was compressed on a hunch it might expand when touched, but nothing happened. Desperation seems to be the going temperature of the day now. Finding a place to just sit has become hard. Who can sit at a time like this? This is not a time for sitting. Okay, then what's to do? Be a good guy, bone up straight and take the rightful bullet.
The extensions are severe. I feel the imploding. One's face isn't enough for the entire picture. How can one fashion even a facsimile of the identity of it's not all there? What's more, little by little, pieces are being chewed away. Winds are stiff. Air is dry. The body I'm on is accelerating through the cosmos. I can only guess where I'll be when I want to be. I don't want to be. This pulls me inside a famous question. The whirlwinds are tightening. In a dwindling space I'll have a look. As it shrinks, I'm expanding. It's really funny.
I don't know. I don't know. I'm suppose to know, but I don't. They all at me for the word, but I have no word to give that might be the right word. They're looking only for the right word. It sits under an answer. It's a game really. That's what they say. It's supposed to be fun, but it isn't. That was a lie. I don't know. That's all they care about. Languishing on this unresolved moment, the land itself becomes doubtful. Being here isn't safe. With no certainty, it'll all go away. Maybe I need to go away.
So they say. Isn't that nice. They say. We listen. What do we hear? We hear what they say. They say the truth. They say it's good to hear them speak the truth. The truth shall set you free. Free from what? They don't say. They just say what they say. We listen. We're good at listening to them. They've kept us safe in the way they want us to be. Little will be done if we stop listening. They say, "Look at what we've done for you. Look at the world we've made for you." We should be happy.
It came upon me suddenly, like a rash. The sun had gone out. I was encased. The matters within gave me pause to stay. No eyes bade me look. No light. The darkness soothed. The feeding began. I accepted it. It felt good. I hadn't been fed like that in ages. The body of my body filled. Excitement of a kind that was alien to me rose. I needed to leave, but I didn't want to. Yet, the desire to connect, which had been dormant, ignited a zeal to seek it out. I departed. The wages, unknown to me, flowed.
Being good to myself was an on again off again proposition. The need to keep intact was never very important. The table was laid with elegance. I stood before it amazed. I hadn't seen such an assemblage of sumptuous food before. It lured me in. The man at the head of the table was looking through me. His eyes were affixed to a point far away. I took it in like a starving man. I needed to feed. He stood still. I reached out and found satisfaction. It came in a strange way. My mouth was shut. My skin opened.
Staid down to a lump, ground up bits of head laid to a confusing rest in a blistery way, on the lopped off sky at the mouth of sun leading one to a soundless scream, often in a gritty way, my body can only slide thru its own sweat to a place of inky comfort, a sticky brand of cool under a broad, man-made leaf. I can only aspire to a collection of moments beyond the current fiery green, red and brown to derive a kind of stilly ease looking past this long TV Show playing on all channels.
Wish I knew what was what. This thing is ingrowing my eyes toward a new kind of blindness I'm frightened of, because I don't want to see what it wants me to see in the darkness it breeds like a virus that doesn't really exist but in the imaginations of madmen in banned porno houses. We can dribble notions of the sordid goings on, but in reality we don't know what's happening. It's happening right under our noses, and we can't see it, because we don't want to see it. I'm being taught to see it by the ingrowing eyes.
Where puddles of poo became desks and books and the studious rhythms of the fascist few without faces or records of presents given to the dead at Christmas time. You know the dices. How they played. How they were thrown. They splayed themselves out on cutting boards when they weren't looking; the studious in line were the ones blinded by the brilliance of being taken away and locked down for no one to find but crumbs for dogs in disguises as pantomime cops of days gone by. The soaps had the right suds in the swirling drains of decayed faces.
Rarified, you could say, doubling down the entry level till it bursts, becoming a new variety of nuisance. One splits off the absurdity of life, scrapes away the rot, not knowing it's the rot that has all the life. You want something fresh, but you dig deep to find an obsolescent core that has no life. The past greets us with knowledge only if you understand and accept its relation to the future. The present is a crossroads that doesn't exist. At it's absolute point, one sees only the river roaring towards and away. If you live there, it's nothing.
You flew away, but you're not away. You're here, while you're there, and I'm there while I'm here. We meet in a gladsome swell with fleshless smiles and the roundabout of keeping time with your time which is my time, which is nobody's time but ours. You're away; I'm there. You're here; I'm here. There. Here. We go by a mutable river we keep in our pockets. It keeps good, timeless flows we ride like kids at those waterslide carnivals, but we go elsewhere while the kids stay put. We create pictures they hadn't thought of. The journey goes on.
Wheeee, the wind grabs flesh of neck, whips it about in the stormy sun; the madness is joy. In its vitals we tuck away our fears and fart out smiles. There is the collectible notion that we are not here but elsewhere. Such is the method of our idiosyncratic madness. Ecstasy, the lopping off of unwanted weight, the aged earth's fat, which we do not need, or want. We look up. The sky is reaching down with a billion tiny hands. Laughing we take this one, that one, another one a billion, then gone in the embrace of the cosmos.
Whenever I look inside there you are from without circumscribing the value we place in us as being who we are, that the underlying power surges from infinity back to infinity, not grieving the loss or cheering the gain, for there is neither but both. Leaving is but an illusion. We play with illusions, as they play with us. Coming forward is perpetual. We are ever coming toward each other in perpetual approach. One day will come, as every day comes, where eyes will see even deeper as the roar becomes song, as we dance out of illusions, becoming more.
Term down. Building rises after collapse. Subsequent interment of Eros in conspicuous alignment with Thanatos, driving the impulses to the correct outdoor gorno theatre, that the object moved into a manifestation of his desire was the greatest disturbance of a libido max. In digestion of the two on opposite sides making the distribution of physical collusion impossible, that which could never unite, united, and will never be apart. In this land there are many distractions. For all the geometric confusions there's one bright certainty, they are they, combined, even as one. The sauce is especially tart tonight, don't you think?
Quite the end but not the end. You got another beginning spittin' ends from its frayed beginnings. It's always a mess when the going gets good, and a mess is what gives you that sticky growth with a musty down-in-the-deep-like stench, like death-over-easy. That's the kicker, it's really about life; the stench fools 'em every time. You gotta love it. The mold is set. It's ready to be placed. You worked it enough. It's ready. You feel ready. When the cook goes under, he makes sure the dough stays wet. Gotta be wet.
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