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I stretch you out, the image of you. I elongate the value I deem my insurgency by the eye of the eye to keep us swift, a thrusting touch with no flesh, the spectral conveyance of me to you, of you to me. We dance on the dais we create for the oxygen it feeds our souls. This convolution, where destruction meets construction, places the heroic within grasp. Our insinuation becomes a rite of passage where there was nothing but a chasm. I feel you through the earth blasting its loam up our blood into the heart of our hearst.
You come as a breath to a flesh withered in a private vacuum, you unearth my earth, spit touch like a spike into the swelling core of magma I was as a vial of sightless wonders, to be seen and not seen as a value, a valueless creation looking for the creator, finding none but a backturned gaze, a sudden glance in a mirror of no glass, a fabric in space curved suddenly for my benefit, a gift, a snap of God, what I might call accident is something other than, a means to find my face from the cask.
Beautiful decay is evident. Green succumbs to brown. Firm skins, once luminous, become wrinkled, tremble in the cooling winds, wither, droop, crane to the fond skies for naught, soon to become fodder for loam, stretching its hungry mouth, licking the dipped blue, ravenous. It is coming again, and I am fraught with joy. The overturned youth is buckling. Tired of the mousing heat, I unburden toward the cold. Fall. You are the lover of the flesh of my flesh. I give you all. No restitution of of the rotted fruits. Let the earth take its fill. I am thrilled. Dancing.
Heroic measures come handily in the shadow of your smile leaning into the crease I bear with hollows of old echoes thundering through these personal caverns. My mind stoops. The hand of my hand reaches for the flutter of a smile I glanced while you danced your private dance. I can see how you create light in this mischievous wind. A breeze carries my future ash from the destitution once declared over and over to scribe an end to me, but no end came. I vied away from this slip of darkness and came to crouch under this mysterious smile.
From within he speaks. From inside the music he carouses the notes for his fashion and draws them from the core. A campaign rushes in for the eruption. Such a simple way toward our complex web. We are on the periphery, watching, listening, waiting for the burst. He is inside. Nothing holds him. He grasps. Notes collect. Together the earth and water combine him. He becomes fire, though neither flint nor torch touch tinder. He is all of the tinders. He is the idiosyncratic fire. He is the air by which the fire is fed from the center of soul.
He falls into silence. Watching. A tip of the eye flashes. Lips touch song without notes. Every ear hears. Every skin tingles. The river is rising. Boats are fulling. We are grand. We are meek. We are a spiral of feelings. They look inside. They look outside. So confusing. Stop thinking. Reach in. Reach out. He does. Listen. They are his dances. His lights. His fireflies. Not a one derivation but all. With all of this that I see I can magnify all of the sky into a spike of light called inspiration, and become what you may call sacrilege.
They come together in an extreme form, violating the containment expected. It divides the very mind of the collective in a frenzy of contention. This is what he is. This is what he sought. Nothing less. Nothing more. It is in the music he finds his way to fight the muses back against their riddled history screaming, no, no, this is the way, the only way. He collects his mind to the fashion he creates and speaks back into the collective, yes, we are, yes, we can. We are all. So he deems the time made perspicuous to his truth.
We expect it. We want it. We say no we don't, but we do. Thrills of imminent chaos pepper wits. We turn a frowning eye on chaotic expectations. We say our hearts go out to the afflicted. We listen. Drumming verses of the pundit choirs chant destruction, and we lip synch, lest detractors of the right observe and declaim. Fever pitches. Hunger for the pixilated nightmares escalates the day as we trip through the channels. Colorful screens trace paths of havoc. Our body stiffens in a private rapture. This is who we are. We want what we shouldn't and revel.
To the gusts we gather grit and cadge for the likely dead to spout their laments. In the empty places of day we fill our minds with dreams. A carousal rounds the bind of eye, and we go to where the id is fed. Whirls feast on blue; gray tigers of wind chase tails, lashing the licked beaches. Water spins the dunking sea up, spirals of day find their apex in the diving dark and dig the waves for a deeper meaning. Sun is blanked out. Eyes are fondling what cannot be touched, for it safely lives in TV land.
I call to you. My heart is agape. Hunger draws me to this fountain you hold, water of a life I never knew, never thought I could know. I do. Your fountain gushes. My stars are in your mouth. I eat with lust. You dip to me, and the petals of a flower under vision gape wide. Into the heart of it I dive. My call is heard, always. My hunger is sated, always. You know me as I've never been known. The desert is still wide, yet I do not fear it. Into its searing maw I boldly run.
You may dispense with the arcane criteria governing the belief of being controlled, of being a pathetic clod of helpless garbage, to be granted mercy by an all powerful deity who requests you be as perfect as he, though nothing but he is sacrosanct to existence in the curvatures of imagination where fantasy rules as reality. This reality is crammed with terrified eyes straining against walls to see beyond, seeing fears breeding like hyper-sexed vengeful lemmings just aching to run you through with love. You may dispense with all of that and become accountable to only you. Imagine that?
I come to this out of obsessive need, a desire for a window. A breeze would be nice, even a typhoon. My wishes field my dreams like mad horses on a sun baked plain. They are not for the light or faint of heart. I am in this well of wishes. It feeds me, even as it starves me. I am lost and found continually. This never changes, the one constant in my life, the one thing I can be certain of, a perpetual paradox. One day I'll reconcile this. It'll be at the edge, no doubt, edge of light.
It dips down. I feel it pass, though there be no light. I sense its heaviness and its lightness. It is for me; it taunts me, goads me to catch it. I never can; no doubt never will, yet it touches me. It even holds me, I think, when I'm dreaming. In these sleep swollen dives I am saturated by this mystery. Shards of its temptations glint off my work-a-day consciousness. They tease me. I put it off like my happiness till I can no longer hold myself against the desire beating my brain like a mad monk.
I sing my heart, sickle whipped, diving up through a dipped sky. I taste the moon. Furiously calm all this commotion to be still, just for a clipped eye in the brash looking glass before it shatters in your hands that melt. I am under the laughing sun, and I don't give a fuck. This wilding place is mine. I've made it mine, though it rejects me, vilifies me to my face. I don't care. I sing my heart. In the desert I call home I hear the embers rising song. In time, the funeral pyre will sing, as well.
Let me extend me. From within my incubus I seek a touch. No flesh of becoming, but a capture of the light within light flung out of a mind to inhabit the world while being not of the world, of being within and without at once. In my cell I coat the air with my sound without sound. I sing my song of silence in this zone my own. I am sacrosanct and safe here. It is here I plot my course. There is no virtue without extension. There is delight in venturing out, delight in rejection of my safety.
You could parade through the forest of words loitering in your dark mind, and I would lavish myself on the sensuality of keeping with the graces springing up the earth underfoot, dancing my heart out to find completion. I seek these words. It's the storm within I fete. My mind succumbs easily to this seduction, over and over. I find myself awed by my ability to repaint the past, like a disgruntled artist painting over a canvas, trying to forget and failing, painting the same scene ad infinitum. So it goes, my dancing to the beat, embracing your dark mind.
There it is. Do you hear it? The room is dark. I bid the light farewell to be able to touch it once, just once. I feel it close. I hear its breath. I am waiting. Eons. The formalism drags me out. I am caught by the protocol inherent to the call. There's no escaping it. I've tried. God knows I've tried. Now my room, my mind, my heart is dark. I've left an opening. Like a dutiful gardener, expecting a new growth from the seed he tended so carefully, I am here, fully aware of what may ultimately occur.
There's a fire in my fight. My struggle rounding up the zeal of the waiting adversary jostles my need to vanish, become one with a dissolving form. I hold the Chesire Cat to my soul. He is my avatar in the waking day slogging toward night dreaming of flight. Fire calls me to the watershed of creativity. In respect of my calling, I yield to the cabal with all my fires raging. This is my fight. I am unwilling to walk away. I won't walk away. The time is now. What feats I aspire to are evolving with my becoming.
We are slow to respond to ourselves. We need a death to stimulate action, many deaths preferably and all at once. We need to lavish in a De Sade fete of bloody grace to find hands to grasp. We grasp corpses. It is our nature to live in ash. That which survives is a fluke. To care we must be laden with casualties. Then we'll lament. We'll penetrate our spheres of indifference. Eyes will be opened. For a time, for a blink. Within that blink we'll see the tribe. We will come with questions, questions we've forgotten. Which door, Monty?
I'm spitting inside. It never ceases. The river comes last, as I turn myself over to the machine. It begins simply with spit. I'm spitting inside. The humans here don't mind. They don't even see it happen. I'm spitting inside. I have an ax to grind the grit to a fine dust so the animals will leave me alone, the animals who try to foist their spreadsheets on me. I'm spitting inside. The whole thing takes me out of myself and totally into myself. I'm absorbed in the spitting. Inside. I can then keep track of my bursts of creativity.
So I was soaking, and it came. The face. Apparently, as I slipped inside my heat and dissolved my angst a bit toward the edge where it held on for dear life, it thought it best to appear. It's hard to let go. I try often, but the edge is seductive. It keeps the face asking for reasons to let go. I offer those reasons. None of them are sufficient. I answer to the face. It is not a jovial soul. It's hard to explain how people can't accept a solution. They have to hold onto their shit. Their home.
It's the one. You can see it. My dream is yours. I folded it for you between my darkest blinks when the shadows sang. I felt it feel you feel me. I felt it slip away, and you caught it in your viscous sleep. I make my place a holy place. The star. It rises in a scape of my caving eye. I blind myself in hope of seeing this moment. You fell inside me. There was a river we rode. Outside of fears there's a wonder with a kiss. I sent my heart to unfold. In this I dream.
Sleep. I split myself for the death each night. Day spells quiet a cacophonous kiss. What can I bleed for this amazing thing I cannot hope to name or describe? Our star. A burning grasp with a fit you made for me. I was caught. Sleep colored me correct. I was never so alive the exact moment I first died for you. It is my dream. It never leaves me. Different particulars define nothing but its holy confusions. This is to be expected. I couldn't have created this. No man could. It was scraped off the skull of the moon.
The peace of the grave draws me. I am listening. My ears are ready for the music. I will hear it, and I will act. Accordingly, it's a most delicate thing. I'm nothing special but unto myself, yet I am special. By the will of my light I crush the darkness to a paste by which I form the shape of my love. There's no way to bend but back to the beginning. It's the irony we adore and despise. In a quiet place I sit. I am waiting. When the star rises to its height I will gladly yield.
To the edge we go again. I said something harsh before. It slipped out. Then I vanished. I couldn't reach you before the words collapsed the door. But now I know. I have come back. From the door I clapped shut I am entering again. To the edge I go by your side. I hold your hand. I am ready. We could never have seen this before. I wasn't ready to see it. The words meant nothing to me. I heard them. I even spoke them, but they had no magic. The magic is in the knowing. Now I know.
Who I was will never again, as I am now, who I wasn't, am now alive, and so it goes, being alive. I see in the mirror a fracture of my eye, how it splits to become the eye I was, but forsaken; this virgin eye sees, oh, how it sees, and I am seen. The light carries me forward without regret. In my passage I am found to be alive. My legacy begins and ends continually in this fractured eye. A life is lived by the snap of the sun over and over. I am revolving like the earth.
I took the job to task to make something of myself, but the river flowed unexpectedly. I veered off to become several things I hadn't expected. The dinner setting looked sumptuous, and the desserts made my eyes water. I felt a tingle in the root of head where expectations were corralled, so the manager let them out to graze. It's become popular to let them eat grass. All that did for me was to make me aphasic. It was good for listening to jazz, and having thoughts of sex. In the interim nobody bothered to set napkins. I was upset.
Each time I die, it grows smaller. I grow clearer. I haven't a name for it, palpable as my eye, like a splinter in my eye. Ill directed, the light blunders, it wants a cleaner way in. The sky opens wide. I look up. Earth calls me. To the elements I sink. This is my dream. This is my reality. Calamity brings me happily to another death, and smiles, like flowers, bloom in my head. I go down. The earth envelopes me. I rise to meet the new sky. I see better, wider, deeper. I am coming closer to home.
The wild wind swells. She smiles. Clouds break their silence. In a tiny whisper it is said the King is coming soon. All the air shudders like laughter in reverse to meet this proclamation. Streets unravel. They slip under shadows to meet their ends to find their beginnings, a furious tangle of Kells. It is the cycle's point sought at the desperate moment when life blinks for the loss of fear, for there is nothing left to fear. The words are heard. Silence moves aside. She smiles again. I am there to greet this smile. I open wide. I fall.
The space we have seems a glove to fit too small, for the heavy is always lighter than expected. His rage counters the design, and the room expands to suit incipient confrontation. Space on space. Vector upon vector. Do we know the boundaries? Have the boundaries been designated, or have ones who draw upon this design vaulted? Are we left to a tangle in the rough, as the roads pile on roads with no discernible definitions? I am in the car, ready to go, but the map no longer makes any sense. Did you think it would? Don't be ridiculous.
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