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Now it's come, the new door, vital in the bold flows
for the gust of its eye, spreads wide the blank canvas...
a spectral hand sketches patterns of ferocious lust in the swelling heart, matters on the philosopher's stone crack and bleed on the base harmonies drowned where a mind, torn of melody, arcs through the new light, collects dust gathering at the feet after fires of night consumes the cool of the day, creates the urn for the sacrifice while a virgin sun dances, bloated with desires untapped, awaiting the angel of ascent, conjuring solely for the years' new child.
and compartmentalized in
a dance for the duration
of my dream to extract a
sublime melancholia by
design, horribly beautiful,
berating the source core
off its trajectory call to
my woman inside the man inside
the woman crouching in a sweat,
bleeding out her chances
at befouling the benefits I enjoy
being nothing still for survivals'
irony and shadow; taken to the
task to end the beginning of the
sexual confusions, what swilled
honey mind conveys the true
music of the heart on a platitude
where nothing coheres, colludes
or cohabitates but by force of
necessity's cruel joke on the dream
All gone yet here assiduously drowned
for finding a quantity fet of wanting illusions
for salve, the rapture of sadness
so gleefully deep one might assume
ecstasy bleeds despairs for dreams
of a convenient death in mystic
watercolors scraped off shadows,
memories that cannot die by
dint of a living soul bereft of the
narcissistic stone, held like a loaded gun
to the seeming enemy called heart...we
split from grace to meet ourselves
on concrete deserts hunting for a mythic
salvation on discarded garbage cans,
spying reasons no sane madness of day for
night could ever hope to find for lack of soul.
Severed from the masks who are we?
Above the tangled rivers
raging, ever deeper, wider,
faster, a labyrinth fanning
in and out, a stupid of Kells;
by words, the ubiquitous traps,
we split from the source to
speak of the source in a confusion,
the crushing stillness telling all
we are before we were, before
the hard shadows encrusted beingness
of purity with solidity of physical
purpose, on the furious climb
from the amorphous, patterns of
consciousness taking hold for
the symmetries and frameworks
of man, the facades, the sets, the
costume ball, we ascend and forget,
the place of all and nothing.
Now, I go. The mouth of darkness awaits. It's time. Preparations meeting needs of heart and mind, met with glad mindfulness color the shadows otherwise pervading the way, lend a clear view of the jungle ahead and the paths around the walls. One must watch, be attentive to those walls. They change in a heartbeat. Once a clear way, suddenly a thicket of impossible growth, tangles of human vines will assault the unassuming traveler...binding, blinding, confusing him. I attend the threat. I see the enemy. I steal his flame and put it in my pocket. The need is clear.
Sincere bets insinuating,
infecting the mind
swilled on winning the odds,
garnering the massive
delight where sadness
and gladness part ways
on a bet they dodge nothing
but the streaming events,
before and after, linking them,
whether recognized or
how often the end begets a wonder
vying for each others' dominion,
that simple complexity how life
and death are no different but
for the lies infecting life and
the certainty of death...no less
the wonder, laying odds
on the game being won though
inevitably lost, given who we've
allowed ourselves to become
in the dire straits when fatigue
drags everything out to the most
The mess arranges clarity for
a pooka rabbit hunt in the dark,
a fox hunt on the moon,
so I serve myself the collective devices
made for bidding the low as high
as it can be or not at all...into the
boiler room I go, a whoopidee do dah,
backlashing suitable repercussions
that could never be established while high
on mediocrity's table of bland delights.
Were I sated on the status quo
I should like to fuck you; as I'm not,
you can go back to the store for
appropriate modifications, then
we'll see, but be sure to call first.
The day is made of itself, psychical foot pressed to the throttle, hauling down the rutted roads, smooth highways, dark byways, secretive sideways, screaming over the discarded entrails of the past, meditatively swart and bright by the fueling moil of present digestions with hopeful incarnations diagrammed, lost and found in a flash, in a blink, on a last second lunge to the speculations least held lightly or heavily dropped, but no, no, I screech to the necessary halt, and see...it is this, right here, all of it; I needn't look elsewhere, the universe horrific and beatific in my thumbnail.
we have robbed ourselves by the side of a sword w e cannot see; in the hard battles beside hearts dedicated to emancipation, the upswinging mind and all that quantity of victory, unseen but felt, nevertheless, there is a working beneath what's seen as true; it shows us the hardened path, the way no other may go until vindicated or sold by savage completions of their sacred tasks. To the tasks we must attend, though we may not follow it to its end; in heart we assail no matters of assurance or discouragement. We simply follow what we know is true.
My heart sickens, a swell
of unrest sticks deep
the inner soul, and I
cannot fathom it;
yet another plug of stiff chew
to manage, digest and allow for
all its furious flavor,
gut wrenching distress,
and the pins it fastens
on muscles attuned
but not focused, resulting
in a wish to simply sleep
as long as I can; so
there's yet another
good reason to laugh
and cry at the same time...
hysteria works wonders
on the journeyman's soul
fitted to its purpose.
the tension building
like Chernobyl's piles,
the anticipations of
If I could, the song of my aethereal divide collects nothing solemn or sorrowful assuming a grandeur apart or confabulated on the adjunct theme once heard or allowed; centered on polite confusions, what was believed nightmarish and holy unconfined, the rapture I take to mind, soul and the core whereby consciousness is conceived as the unbegotten son sired by invisible delight stirred horror written for a quaint confluence or the tribes beholden to wishing...again that infernal disquiet married to numb, dumb, sullen and stubbornly dead ex-poets. What no man has permitted, I've been unduly, unfairly assigned and bonded.
I've taken upon myself self a task,
conceived and woven to my
life's track by a desire born
of madness' colors and luminescence;
not that I should bestow the undue
accord or self-satisfying glow of
being right, for I'm not right.
I abjure right. I take to heart
the need to face a darkness
seldom encountered by a sane,
stable, patient eye, except for
those incarcerated, made to bow
before the dictum of lock-down
tyrannies...so much so,
I recall, I know the drill.
Been there, done that...
so once again, I do,
I speak the ritual words.
Serving the heart of the
sword of God within,
so aptly misconstrued
as the patterns of our own,
no sooner stimulated,
aroused for the call to knowledge,
becomes the burning flint,
the poisoned barb,
the tooth of the mad jackal,
the shifting face of One
conceiving the children
soothed by the systems
erected for a death device...
and out they fly from the
mother's cheery asshole.
Chaucer should and would be proud.
He knew long before the erection
plummeted a moist glint of
feminine ecstasy...this is
what I'm returning to,
time and time again,
never fearing though,
Excited. Terrified. Bored.
Confused affects. Myriad
streams feeding the need,
the call of the need...duty
to my intent proves its
viability within me. I need
no validation from without...
from without comes the
rapture, implicit of the brilliant
darkness I'm exploring,
not within me, as I've been
so assiduously wont,
even obsessed to do,
but from a place of mystery...
what's seen of these people
is disregarded, though
in vague judgments and
Those who harbor the
lies bear those lies like
invisible placards for all
to see, and the reflections
are not of the seen,
but of the blind seer.
Can you fetch a hope like a splinter, shard of light from the side, a reflection of an imagined flick of mind taken for reality? Is there a way to extract wellness from a place that feels like a sewer...such a sick place, a place of continuous death and dying? All kept as one, that separation seems impossible; seen only as a dream, the heart of the matter is reserved for those who can no longer divine a way to survive as they have. That way is dead, truly dead, another way is asking to be found...and soon.
Sharp as a tack, with clear vision within and without, saddled to go in defiance of a memory slouched off the side of a tragedy, I'm resisting a resemblance to an unholy labyrinth...tangles of dead roads comingling, shadowing the tyrant of thought control saying,
"You're not ready...who are you kidding?" I am, while screwed to a sticking heart, vigilant, reliable, consistent to a fault, on the way to finding the pea under all the padding, I say, "Come forth, my swart passenger, I will take you on to spit you out...no longer will you be my guide."
Frustration looms from a dark place,
a simple, quiet place otherwise
collected, serene and decidedly secure...
but not so now; the vibrant assailant
called ambitions unrequited calls
from the expanding darkness,
"Tell me how you feel. Tell me
how you do when you can't do...
tell me how, and don't lie...
hypocrite, liar, thief of heart
and sandwiches." I'm abashed
by the frequency of evil colliding
intents to establish a landmark
house of self-reliance based
on achievements derailed. This is
who I am at the moment...filling
the reserves of bandit souls
waiting in the deepest
wings for the battle cry.
This is beside me, the outcome of a dutiful mission to record as many words as possible in the shortest amount of time; may be an exaggeration, but not as much as one might think. It's the best I can do. This is my key to turn in the lock of my head, cranking the mechanism designed to calculate the vitality of creativity ...jotting down the residues, shreds of rhetoric, mangled phrases lacking any sense whatsoever...fashioning the canvas, taking the heaven out of hell, twisting it, contorting it to conform to absolutely nothing as complete as a muffin cake.
Well I declare, the fits we can manage between friends. It's astounding. Nearly had a knockdown battle with an Irish buddy over a misunderstanding generated on my part and elevated to extremes at his door by both of us with me as the deranged pilot. Hell, it was knockdown. After trying to force my way inside, he tripped me. Gotta admit it was weird. "I'm a weird one too," he said, after all was cooler in the belly of his living room among the strewn papers and my dogtailing furniture looking for a mouth or ditch or desire to own.
So it was a fever of accusations flung for rage, long bitten off the original mouth, newly fueled, steamed and delivered. I listened. He was right and wrong, a mangled mixture. I kept mum for the most part. His place, which I shared for three months, I respected. I cleaned. I washed. I tended to the necessities but still made errors along the way. It was established I'm not perfect. He's not perfect. We're imperfect. Welcome to the human race. I nodded with enthusiasm. After all we smiled. A funny journey to smiling. We even hugged. Understanding came like lightning.
A lean fit of compulsions, offsetting needs crying out from too much levity, forced by the lack of a call otherwise, has left me wondering how in the world am I to establish some kind of control over the cruel, indivisible machinery caving the finish from affable facades, or the rude renegades on sliding scales from the issuing grief-stricken, relative simplicities reviving anti-hope telling an anguished old tale, best left to CNN or the fools of day time television... harsh make-believe is preparing the next disaster...sunami of the dying minds...too oft carousing for the liars.
Subservient to none but the urges flung from the opening, mature heart, I take to the streets as flint for the landed edges found on the frame with a name in certain years gone swiftly past, becoming no less the fervent man saddled for the path laid hard....in minding the tools of raptures, I've often forgotten how it could become so confused, so unwieldy, such a mess...recollections seen for a child squeezing frustrations out of dripping hamburgers under the yellow arches called fear; this is the child I feel most potently coming alive in a heartbeat after rejections.
There it is. I see it clearly, lowering itself on a gentle limb of light sprung from touching the harmonious blend of all that I was, to what I am and what I'm becoming in a fury of dreams...a true realization, total individuation. Hands reaching, clasping....But alas, a dream, a collage of images, melted in an instant for a mural on the morphing wall of spirit, ever displaying its own ending by the instant of another beginning, threading the wild and tame to the breakwaters pounded eternally by the oceans' refractions, reflections of a movie you've always been.
You feel it coming down the hall, a rhythm generating the cool anti-love drill rising...a fluid-like friend made for the energy reserved to the end of the frank sense of beingness, crawled out the fissure in the convenient brain vat...singled out in a passion not to be undone for its quality of nothing, you suck it up, has a brave taste, feels like a ghost of swim class your mother made you take every week for a year at a local YMCA...ya, the watusi is the place of eternal space, no matter how swing it.
Exalted in the grand sense of the collective, hunkered solemnly in the echo dome of head waiting for the word...by singular fascinations with the hosts of being alive in the precise moment of knowing it; greeting them grandly, openly displaying the love and regret, the sad elevation of having forgotten them for so long, having to admit the conscious denial, the rash fevers begetting the sores of soul and mind....turning in to turn away, that rude irony operated like a popcorn machine you keep hidden in the cellar, listening to what could only be described as your death.
that's it. feel it. soothing on a feathered razor. take it off. make shadows split. slit the breath. punch a bit o favorite cool and slag it on a pool of sound that has no temporary water level checker. feel it. sing the sang and soft the gears you dig in the quiet shallows of a lover bitten in a bank of pieces mailed to the family for remembrance' sake. feel it. serenade the top of the bottom, backside sliders off a cold shoulder...that'll teach 'em, render the mistake like a real smooth jazz on a bop riffin' weather.
Lately I've gone away to rend sense from celluloid attempts at reality in a box of violence, coached by the real deal in a fit of friendliness unexpected, a smiling, affable giant outta shit machine from god-knows-where, he won't say...eats his fuckin heart out if the mouth sits empty on a lag of activity when the call of feeding chimes, like last night, told me, "I'm about to lose my shit if I don't eat soon." I saw the need, saw the violence rising, felt the heat, chewed it thick as a steak rare but not cool.
Oh yeah, that violence was kickin in, had to rear back awhile to gain perspective proper if I was to take it in...I asked where does it come from, what does it feel like? He said in a soft wavering voice I don't know, can't explain it, don't know how...he shook and smiled that kind of smile before a gun goes off in a crowd without an eye open enough to watch the room bleed...I said, OK, here's a can of veggie soup....the old gal who owned the house wouldn't mind if you had some, OK?
He didn't take it, but thanked me for trying...I wondered, what the fuck? Is he going to go off or not? I was kind of curious at this point. He just sat staring and smiling. Then a fury of action called him to help carry the gear out to the cars, and he jumped at it. I saw the driving desire to fend off the mounting heat and stayed behind him the whole time watching, waiting, but nothing came but help. A small guy, heavily muscled in that invisible way of hard experience toning the inner impulses, cooled simple.
The hard reality of the crease she made, swelling a serene violence on the petal of her angular smile turned inside out, she walked with a bristling quiet, rocking that savage clap of heels on her lover's patience, derailed in the cool off kisses forged in sluggish shadows...how I can see you dancing, even now after all your instinctual death, naked to the child erected as memorial, a crystalline heart beating till it's raw in my mouth...I found that evil was a convenient goodness collapsing to the nostalgic cover collection, there you could be easily and distinctly heard.
You grow tired, and the anticipation reduces you to a caricature of desire played out by the dwarf living in your forgotten dream valley surrounded by the fiercest hungers imaginable; you think by escaping those sentries you might survive intact without giving in to the inevitable...but the inevitable has different ideas. A room is built especially for you and the translation of the idea of you when all else eventually fades by dint of reality's check on the house made of doubt...secure by design after death wages a private war unseen, unfelt, unknown as death to be held.
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