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Vital scars, they make us what we are, what we've become by taking the sword up, by ascending to the depths of being assaulted by necessity with the devil's angel's storm museum. We design the exhibits, sort the colors through and through, maintaining the gristle and chomp of eyes on eyes plucked for sight unseen toward the manifestations growing from the widening, heating crucible. Thus, can we feel the unfelt soothe by blissful caress softening the hard gusts exhaling debris unknown from naked skins, pitting the flesh, as is proper, marking as tattoos glowing under lightning of our brightest darkness.
Sharp, as is sweet, the fragrances erupted, are bound to the coil, twisted on the strands, like a new DNA, felting the walls we own as beingness behails its reality wash, as is its wont (freed of nuance that deploys its deceptions) cleans as soils, softens as it hardens, delights as it frightens, forms as it dissolves, the uptake resolutions know no conclusions befitting a cosy QED, or derive any polite answer from such as it is, this typhoon of questions. We are honored to the field whereon we stand. No small issue will be, or fashion of obvious gloss.
The extreme crash of gentleness and the soft violence of love, how they conspire to redefine the arbitrary chaos assumed as real, assumed the acceptable prison, where need wrestled want, digesting going forth by standing down, and after a fashion, dying; so to the soft machines we hold in our grip to fashion gloss of smiles over frowns, how we deflect in kind by fears of love, the besieged and derided soul once thought dressed in certainty, now garbed in questions, then comes the body, as fueled by the circumspect knowledge materialized as manna from the heaven thought a fiction.
Residuals, nothing more, of who-we-were, and the collapse of humanity as ash about the one time foundation of the collective, where the substrate of caring upheld the bulging frenzy otherwise known as the utter lack of empathy, now assumed in kind as the necessary recorders of death; we parade these values through the stone faced streets for a grab at anything one may sell for a slice of the American Pie, deliciously displayed where regard of a single life is disregarded as a nuisance if nothing can be sold. We buy ourselves plots in an ever expanding grave.
If hearts of compassion cannot be released from the cask of comodification we assume as the mountain of all that's worth living for in this decaying society by the wellspring of art and its many faceted faces of love not shadowed by derivative maudlin nonsense where pity mounts the saddle and brays its emptiness, those of us firmly aware of the encroaching holocaust must take ourselves by the soul's hand and enter the realm where the cleansing fire of questions' redemption might burn away the faces of lies so cleverly fastened to the avatars of so-called bastions of reality.
What fire lays in wait of ignition on the gust of seeing what's never been seen as the sight of you, you, you increases its flaming embraces past spines of regard missed for propriety's lackluster viability by the vigorous sweat we glanced in the back of nostalgia for lack of doing by acceptance? Believe, and we shall rediscover the grist, the gall, the blistering bluster of loving on a swelling, muscular kiss smashed on a flesh come lightly in a love thought impossible....Yes! The music in the rising organ grows for the bound fervor we have so deliciously wrought.
The walls follow; they carouse, spy the wonders of wishing, severing our fervent whims to seduce the indisputable corruptions divided amongst our free form wits as right, and the entrapment we divine as right and proper after relentless assaults, imprisoning rights of mind and heart to the cask wherein Poe-like recreations circumambulate the rim of reasonable love with deadly force enforced, that delight is ultimately crowned by disbelief when assumed on the erected standard born by the weary and worn spirit marking the made soul, when confronted by the chance of freedom, jeering as commanded, the fires of God.
Closing in on the touch that's eluded this heart for such a time it felt as though time had stopped and the chances for connection had ceased. Not so. In the deepest fears there still lurks that voice jibbering the swelled ears with cogent venom of the lost and utterly lonely persuading the soul it's found its laire till the weirding and wild world implodes on its chill by a dying sun whirling off by agreement, that the found have been actually lost, that the firm resolutions made by clarity of recovery are but mere lies lending none for none.
You are as you are, a vitality I thought forever lost, abandoned from its begetting in the head of the world as met by the head of my searching eye; yet, I found yours, an eye fet of life's aching darknesses, fet of the fathering eons, found by this battered soul assumed to float the landscape upon which all that masters itself to become its own fades by the eating mouth of the realm's appetite for anguish. No. An eye blazing, dark as light, deep as might be caroused, dipping its orb, by God's grace into the well of me.
A step through the crack of a dark cornered thought, fallen on the soft, impenetrable idea of going forward after being rejected for going back; stasis, that's not a stasis in the usual sense, a stasis of continuous motion in a fashion that hasn't time to consider anything, then comes the dissatisfaction where nothing can offer solace on the landed moment, but the moment itself, and its furious regard for the reality of having made a really bad choice, not out of disreputable intent but out of sheer inspiration; when that hits home, there won't be a dry mind anywhere.
Driven through, crashing through the wall, the impermeable and secure wall at the end of most people's universe's collects the radical residuals most often associated with those sent away from the herd as unacceptable and deviant, labeled and compartmentalized, branded by the number that cannot be seen but felt, marked to be known as used and without value to any buyer, rendered obsolete by the judges without faces and all faces, yes, driven through this wall, made to feel the wounds of liberation, the violence of knowing the lies and accepting the power therein, to be seen as truly real.
Is the confusion the confusion or the way in which the confusion is handled to be clarified or sent off to mill to be ground into edible bits of causal sensibilities that won't confound, upset or divide the liked and regarded sane from the questionable and questionably inconsistent and rebelliously defiant? Shall what's seen on the table be given credence as the lunch to be eaten or the garbage to be cast away, or packed away by those who truly know as the manure of minds and spirits to germinate in the flowing patchwork quilt you know as truly you?
Does it matter when or where? Is it merely geared to the grit of rules pounded on the block for keepings' sake or the regard of inner judges leering over our shoulders looking for anything off the grid, anything not quite plugged to the expected cues? Shall we dance when bade to dance, or shall we keep our seats? Shall we fall to our ministrations as conspired by the beatings of two hearts combined as one even though stretched to musical bars at a distance? We shall dive to the depths and heights. We shall challenge limits to exceed them.
Shall we discard the materials we've wrought for the assembling of the walking soul, our flesh, as we see the need to become it for ourselves, or to obviate the truth by regard of the vitality assumed true for those in orbit around us? Shall we lend the voices we possess to the grand assignments that divide us from those who persist in ignorance and defiance and rally our grit to an offense? Surely not. Let them be. We must be. We are. Truth begets its own if allowed, as we shall rise in the light of our sincerest gestures.
Evil is as evil does. The best we can do, as I see it, is to prepare ourselves when it rears its head. Talk to those who live in the Holy Land where someone might be going out for bread, and that's the last thing they'll do, because some human bomb needed to pull the trigger. When walking home later from the Starbucks, some nutball might decide to walk up behind me and put a slug in my head. End of story. Some of us have faith in the Divine. I'm one of them. We should lean on that faith.
The light distributes itself like a child with finger paints, swirling, dabbing, piling the oils on, coloring without care, without knowing the melody, yet yielding to the music within, bubbling, contorting, playing, just that, playing and enjoying the play, not even trying to enjoy, just enjoying the colorful fires, letting go. In the depths of creation, we are the molten pigments, deciding to cool as we decide the need without knowing the need, just yielding once more to the play, the gusto of play, feeling the need of play, not as childish whimsy, but as the expression within of God.
New insertions via minds over love, creating a bend in the clear view, render what's assumed obvious, decked with soothing consistencies driving the sense of now toward confusions, as shadowed, coated with valiant colors of truthful intent, then the shifts switch; they carouse and twist from expected to grave insurgences of male fire that flame and burn, destroying smooth lineaments and surfaces thought beautiful, that the volume of wisdom creamed over with sediments of grief can only be regarded as evanescent, once solid, then suddenly plumes of smoke and ash, such that the surfaces we sleep upon are cracked open.
The time comes when it goes and you wonder what you did with it and why it did what it did when it did it to you and with what. There are skewed considerations to the management of desire over practicality in this valley of ascending time that betrays what might've been the reality so often relegated to insentient considerations of humanity over the loss of time spent unwisely, that such undetermined fears of losing time, as such, be discarded and replaced by confidences placed on floating parameters that will never be fixed on predetermined landscapes that contain our paths.
Please, please,to the insulting grey do we infect our contagious beauty, we mount the penetrating kiss, the heat of the rapture, excavating buried prisons, cracking walls, dungeons unearthed, gems revealed for living, the time of dying be done, simple passions captured by the overarching violence of no being rendered as the living soul of all souls celebrating yes, yes, yes, we've caught the emptiness in hand being filled...the eyes, being slathered with blindness, given sight; at last the thing thought lost is the thing found that was never really lost but obscured, the thing of God called love.
Light stopping day of infamy, the crux of darkness infecting soul on landscapes of crystalline delight approaches perpetually, as a ghost on a metallic horse, through its coil of nothingness comes the disease of mythological muscle, of the servitude designed by masks of salvation creating its swarthy connections; yet, I see, as I feel, as I know this gown of light, this bristling blanket sweeping over, this warmth, this unexpected smile crashing all that existed in the violence of past decay, is all that is, allowing the bloom of hope by fits of day as a whirligig of ecstatic love.
Now, I can be lonely. Now, I can ride astride the winds called love in the fretted dome when love lies away on distant soils. Now, I can feel this thing denied me. Now, I can feel alive in that way. It is pain coupled with joy. It is the taste of fine milk chocolate with pimento or chili peppers. It is the night embracing day. So full is this rapture I cannot assemble all its parts, cannot wrap myself about its span, these wings of light, yet I am wrapped, I am held, I am warmed, soothed, made whole.
Fire swells by the cool ignition, the invisible mind on the available switch...then flames surge the pit of clapped soul out the dark maiden, the dungeon belches all its rotted venom, its foul stenches, its gibbering demons. Yet, I smile, for I can hear, see, touch these flung diseases, they are none to me as they were. They have lost their battles, lost their malignant spires that punctured my heart, pitting its laboring muscle to a demon's dart board for casual practice when cooler times rendered me vulnerable to their games; such is the victory I now may cheer.
In the vital source where the heat combines, and the chill bends back off its harrow, then slips inside the flesh embodying all that is sought, all that is dreamt, all that is found in the unfolding realms we walk, that such a rhythm might still our shuddering earth, but no, that we are clapped to this shifting ground is the journey we are, that this might lend the visions we sometimes glance when fissures erupt on the molded skins we've accepted as truth, and the blinding light floods our mouths with new words and eyes with bold entwining vistas.
Fluid, is, as the smooth violence of our love in the calming storm we own, the storm we fondle, rains we eat, as flesh of thunder and the kiss of lightning becoming rhythms so hard, thrusting in the plenty of heady delight, high as low by fevers and chills, by the wrestling bodies smiling in the sweat flooding earth holding our surging lights aloft, then comes the vista, as is its wont to surround us, the vista held for the calming embrace, breaths heaving slowly down the mountain ascended when the mind materializes its dance of Kells...meadow of love.
What was loud becomes quiet again in the safe realm of the unsound mind where grinding gears of soul have discovered rapture, where thoughts, once clothed for decency's sake, having coming unstuck, breed joys in the falling away of rote necessity and the pall of predictable keys turned in locks we kept once in a binding, now thrown to the garbage eaters, the predator dogs of the ancients, taking their fill on the waste of minds given over to becoming freer as they strip away the loss they've held as gain, thus stripping walls of confusing scrawls and their lies.
Turning the key has never been so easy or hard, the dark mystery cowled in a bright fantasia, the sloping eye melting on the landscape stretching out of view in the beholder's vain sense of seeing, slanting the bending light off the reflected face looking for itself, but not finding itself, a slick remake of Parsival, such that credible delights will always tantalize beyond the ability to resist. The time will come, as it inevitably does, for the certain satisfactions we desire to be revealed, then will the lies be seen as they are, and living will exalt its truest heart.
So, I've seen it, the matters we devise are set for the resolutions demanded as the end of the beginning, that the firm resolve we grasp on the idea of reality, when truth as we know it will fold, and the inner sensibilities, as a result of this beautiful calamity, will give way, the fingers will relax, the muscles will smooth, the eyes will clear, and the way we see will gradually move through the kaleidoscope realm of exquisite confusions onto a plain we'll one day find, the whole of the world...found as the one that was always there.
This place we've carved out of an unseemly mortar and pressing of armor, being that of the wounded heart in defiance of that which it cannot control, blends anticipation, forging a reality from assumed desires, sacrosanct only within the heart creating it, only within the walls of the castle built from growth without, packing venom in turrets manned by suspicious eyes. Sentries of the insecure mind, starving for their final regard, send wild arrows aflame to alert no one and nothing. It creates a desert space we are aware of, a desert space we respect in our place of loving.
Being there, alive to our folding back of desires, meeting our spirits in the keeping place where trust elevates flesh by its hot devices, taking our time, seeing the time to be taken, feeling the time bending back inside our acceptance of the time for our tree, that this tree has made us, once a thought of a seedling, then the planting by wonders, a mysterious growth, now the branches stretching outward, asking us to play in those branches, being so bold as to lift us up to those branches, asking us to tender its leaves as our very own.
The symphony of us, as its stretch of notes to become its contrapuntal melodies threads our rhythms quaintly to the pulsing of our need of it, the mounting need of us to be with it, to tender its muscular growth, to be inside its volatility and calm, wrapping our fingers about the cogs of its musical body building on itself without a touch, yet needing that touch, that attendance, needing our voices to sing, our fingers to play the instruments, our minds to discipline the music to its rigorous demands, hearts to fill that music out to its exaltation, divides.
That is the key turning, can you feel it? Can you sense the organs of primal music shift their weight, feel the stage change its inner momentum to carry the music of an anachronistic style that no longer blends, no longer ties to the cables of light to illuminate the sheets of scrambling notes fluttering in the sudden winds of heart, as is, we go unto ourselves, as the fire of our begetting, by all assumed, our mind rises to the summons, sparks its gaps on tynes of altered states, and by the flames consuming doubts, new compost is laid.
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