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Fixated on the onetime expansion budding streams tangled, oceans of thought boiling like radium soup, in the vital schema patterns become like galactic novas, tributary rivers slither, where crafts of ideas navigate currents deep as the muscular pulsations of the big bang convulsing within and without, that trembling, quaking, thudding proxy we call the other, reflections manifested in the waking blink, subsisting as copy, clone of self, a backed up fist of humanity, a pure bead, seed to be sown when nothing allows its growing ground's God-Light nestled in the darkness kept sacrosanct as the ideal held on high.
Your melody sings in my body, the scent of you, a flowering flame, ignites shadows inhabited for loss of light in shunted means for diving the darkness. Your insinuated light, like sun, sears the fused core, cracks its shell, floods it with materializing kisses; gestures of touch from the crucible reach for embrace, then close around our place of private worship, where we dance about the bonfire of our love. This is the way of my salvation, my revitalization, my return to life having lived behind a brilliant scrim, feeling the electrical fascinations of mere dreams, my true Mother Source.
Wither the opening, crust peeled, an avalanche of tears, floods of laughter, cackles off extremities, vital signs pirouetting through a crush of melodies, rock and soul, jazz, classical, rap and punk, their rhythmic arms like maddened octopi in a mosh party, glowering mouths dripping their inconvenient desires, bloody steaks on pikes bleeding ecstasies vying needs over wants, that imperious collision where nothing but everything dissolves in a vortex we call home, and the silence of home roars like cacophony in an abandoned forest, as lightning lights its spark, as the idea strikes home, as mind arouses its awakening, as life.
Rude extrusions like feral assigns to a grabbing core pumping desires out frying pans of body and head, a mounting roudy for a pleasurable hiatus on invisible islands dotting the ocean as fashionable, rouses itself when least expected, that horses are wishes in the burning barn, and who said the sauce would take only a few minutes? It's not ready yet, but the need overrides means, so the clambering claws make for the spreading feast, undercooked and raw, no matter, the appetites will out, firm digestions will cave, and the bodies will dissolve ingesting untried missiles of alien wordy goo.
It was Mr. Puffy and his yellow sauce that concerned me most. It also concerned quite a few bystanders, as well, who stood by helplessly near the checkout gate after the 5 O'Clock bell and watched while Mr. Puffy appeared. He had the most regrettable habit of appearing among group of mutant workers and parceling out packages of his yellow sauce wrapped neatly with red ribbons and green bows. This was supposed to cheer people up, but it accomplished the exact opposite. Many were said to moan uncontrollably and wander off aimlessly, looking for a TV and any reality show.
There is a way of seeing the exact opposite of seeing in the viable place that has no definition but a quality of regard without judgment and the regrettable violence associated with polite acceptance, that the way to unsee seeing ways we go about not seeing yet looking for everything except that which is vitally important, Oedipus marks his action in our ancient hearts beating under all that which screams for naught but screaming for attention and giving nothing, this is the call to the draw, the enviable moment when the mind decides to blind itself, unveiling reality's naked butt.
Sure, it's what we take to get to it, where we go to get it, keeping the idea of it safe within boundaries of have-nots, that the freedom to keep what we cannot have is to keep the thought of believing we have it only by believing. Where we go to insure it bodes well the question how we go, yet we go, far away the plodding places, ironed out painted places, tarred, bricked and glassed in places, to the woods, where the power is, though many deride and sneer, it is where we go to find the gold.
The pipeline is widening. A fullness befitting the call of the wild sensibility crying out from every limb of the organism slouching in its dull habitat waiting on the lie machine to gather its forces armed with smiles and affability to keep the organism properly drugged with belief it's doing something worthwhile, has begun its rise, from trickles in the dark its expansion through the many organs proceeds gradually. What fashions its indomitability is the patience needed to support it, not to maintain it. Those who feel its burgeoning power know the coming emancipation will deliver them from answers' darkness.
Out of its funneling flames, this emergence bore a reckoning on mudcaked smiles in festooned holiday hells. From a dialogue with dirty blood careening through vessels flexed in feelings arousing the expansion of flesh looking for its reason, hobbling as a cripple, blinded, deaf, belittled by its own for its own befitting the fountain belly, cored and corroded, in remembrance of its violent caresses as nurturing an essence of spit and snarl for kisses and laughs, that such a one as I scrambled from the cave as a means to don the furies of its mother for passions rounded out.
I haven't led myself to be inside this package having its matrix undone along the path by maintenance workers who've been underpaid and overworked since they got out of jail. My grievance is not so much with them, but with the deviations I've had to endure while maintaining my self disrespect walking up and down abandoned floors of high-rise apartment buildings priced too high for anyone who won't be dead for the sake of rneting, not that I complain. The food on the way to their crematoriums wasn't bad, and the shower stalls were a lot cleaner than expected.
We move to find extremis in delight of minutia. We fondle lights on the flash dimming out in furies of the path. We couple hearts by desperate need to fight our way out prisons sans walls, shackles clasped tight to vessels of sense, ears bound, eyes bound, flesh bound, multiplexing screens before us glow, play their horror festivals, loops digressing the value of value to the agreement point erased. Till we nod in knowing deeper, we manage empty spaces wherein we tumble, decorating vacuum with belief, plastering faith over starscapes afraid of falling, mesmerized by the grandeur we truly are.
You field me, digress the involvement assigned muscular compressions, tender my flexing to the nod of pain's exactitude, resolve the quietus made in sleep's enclosures, you savage me, my shell is cracked. In the grey river of scowl, frown, grimace and groan you fondly swell the insertion where brain's aura decays to a sprawling swamp, a vital gas belching mire, the entrails of primal conjurations, you dive through murk and slime, curving your arm over hot rot and venomous seductions so aptly cored to feign its beauty, you rip its guts, shred organs of lies and sculpt for me, reprieve.
Setting aside myself now, being indisposed of the outer circle's divination, being assigned the inner bonding, that place of reflection where the body is drawn into itself, spirit assumes itself as the light by which the new planted seed of I is nourished in the soils gathered for this time of renewal. Setting myself aside, allowing limbs their retractions, all needs for extensions dissembled, mind flowers, its tentacles of curiosity extend; that which slumbered is now awakened. Lest one think my effect is dimmed, they should ride with me awhile in the gusts of this going, and hold on tight.
There's a wonderful sense of going when coming into the light you proffer in gusts of bright thoughts clapped to the pertinent skull of us where electrical flesh coexists, completing an otherwise disparate engine of spirit, that who-we-are defies the who-of-us seen as distinct and separate, threading feelings onto spiraling streams of two minds carousing like bodies in the dissolution of love, that each of us on our daily trails knows the other in ways no one else might touch, in ways that no one will ever know, so distinct and potent is our primal joining.
Ascension to the going place, coming through a web of challenges quite apart from the expected path, expands us, reveals us, takes us to the edge, wherever that might be, whatever it might bring, shadows and the cut light by the edges surrounding the vital place, arena, asking. The gallery awaits in silence, their habitat is nothing but silence, still, cacophonous, wide, narrow, the longest and the shortest, most beautiful, most ugly, temperate, vituperative, smooth, rough, all in all, the all, and how we meet by when and where is the question pleading its ubiquity and its ever breeding soul.
A place is a brick, a brick is a place, a place to overthrow overthrowing us, this place that's a brick without calling out its form, its face, its recognizable mansionhouse, reveals itself as it calls itself out. This is its strength. This is its failure. Not a brick so much to fit onto a wall but a brick to fit into an idea of a wall, of many walls and obstacles, a veritable plethora of castle walls in their ascension and indomitability, walling us in to the philosophy therein, thence striking us in the way we feel it worst.
The words are hidden. They're not coming. They've taken a holiday escape where bars and bistros abound with drunken, festive people, being festive about nothing. The words are gleaming, shards spattering bits and pieces of light not done, like pieces of meat poking out from a drunkard's puke. This avenue, so broadening, envelopes the process by which we find our liability construed a virtue by design of something we could never fully understand or fully keep in the sacristy of our wisdom's party with the devil. Heretofore, we may actually see how this disease might do something good, something cleansing.
Out of reach, not a word may touch, in full view, rapt, eyes on eyes, no contact, the vitality is inward, attention drawn away from the source metal, the collective of senses curled up, hung on the core's hangar, a fitting place for psychological, intellectual and spiritual athletes awaiting their return to the ring, thoughts breeding their totality as an idea merely, a thought of engagement while watching the furious become like frantic mice in their Molotov vehicles, such is redecoration of the habitat sucked into a fretted beingness by the host eye, ever scoping the means of going home.
Clamped in the beat cycle slipping off its ring, the matters begotten of rhythms wrought as sediment or the praising found for regrets fostered in those undefined moments following calumny, where eyes, suddenly gutted from the brain too well ignored, too often denied, initiate service with others we've always suspected were hanging around in the back or around the corner, those brains we frequently felt but never saw, never touched, though in their spectral gusts of intrusive light, we always felt their calloused fingers touching, digging ever deeper, all those crinkled, fleshy swells we ignored, thinking nothing would ever intrude.
Waiting on the knob juice spiked for habitat intrusions purple and pink, a polite invasive spiral functioning as if needs were a carousel prize, a ride down at the park, an old-day park, old timers clamped on the horses riding the grinding gears, holding on for dear life, keeping focused on the matters magically held at bey, spread out in bright, invisible ribbons stamped with numbers large and small, investments pouring from craned lips, parched for spewing out the deep center of the machine, dedicated to serving the means to survive, where the means to live are survival's benefits.
Rounded down in a peculiar sludge, fabric stretching itself for incoming forces like asteroids on fire, planetary forms infused with a comet's icy mantle, eye of crystal focused on goals set a million millennia ago, She made a sound without sound for there was no one around yet to hear it, and it penetrated the shell thought impenetrable, inviolate to insinuations clutched for mere fears without names, fears donned almost playfully like at a Ball, where the wearers laugh and tickle pause with innocent flirts by mechanisms infecting partners with sideways kisses as high tech spyware performing the unspeakable, strange.
Body may be backthreaded in the gloom matrix', gleaming black tynes insinuating subtle fashions by a smack in the face divested of defenses made to look simplistic, hollow, and the pure manifestations of calamity that might never be, never teach, never derive how chaos can smile too and be a friend, take your hand and lead you straight to refrigerated beakers rattling pharm office party favors for nothing but everything when you ordered death on a steaming platter, that the mind dopples its vectors, soul suturing temperate linearity onto plastic forms you could never hope to see on funhouse mirrors.
That the wound might find its reason, the gaping, raw edges, full of mouths stretched wide, are calling, their vital streams bearing echoes of millennia upon millennia reap a warm, seeded wind across landscapes bristling after smoke riddled comedies etched over a skin of a billion, shredded and torn, fitted like a mosaic on the lawn of indifference in the charms we assume for holiday speechmaker's holiday pleasure, their dubious comforts rise and the wound speaks, though ears stay deaf to the message drawn on a spiral staircase form fitted to a landscape pocked and satisfied in dreams locked down.
Windows upon windows stare back upon me in the quiet isolation I've secured; light shreds shadows on myriad cracked screens, a road is painted by a methodical sun beyond reproach, metal shapes as breaks in the flow, an electronic mind clamps hand on puncturing messages, as the world waits for word, that an infinite tangle of verbose rivers are wound tight, how should this or any word keep time as a coherent mind fertilizer, however the word dips, the body barely twitches. Why should it otherwise? Yet, in the fog, in the silence, the tsunami of soul, inexorable wisdom, rises.
We gouge recollections. A canvas waits. A new window. A painter scoops oils, thickened as the heart is burning, racing, subsumed in a yellow garish blaze blocking sun of insouciance, it strikes their core, smashes it, this trowel dripping from the board, in a wild stillness, splitting it, spilling the collective blood across the canvas by a single fiery arc marking one to a billion, and the frenzy takes command; their is no returning, no regrets, layer upon layer the answer is buried under rising crescendos of wonder, how, why, whom, shall it thunder thus, are we but the rain?
Half-way through, and the buzz cuts masses like atomic air in the grist, oily-bitter, buttered on the side along the top, with fire on its edges, a dancing ribbon of eyes sutured on my belly with burns bright and dark, busting up the crust, freeing the day-breaking juice, rivers of sensation, where I'm beginning is where I'm ending; it's the flesh in the corral, riding the beasts, rousing their hunger for me as my hunger for them in the biting down that slams that first cup of joe in the brousing place of head. Nothing like it!
She came down, slid within the openings barely felt, hardly noticed, aching, as if to consume their very attitude of being aloof, fissures of a secret sort that revel in private bleeding, but to bleed evermore, this buck in the heaving shed will have no more of it but satisfactions aglinting on the tipped cup pouring gold flaring light for swelling out fantastical desires meeting minds that clapped together hearts for heart, skin for skin, all that resided in the fabric of reality we've created, such a serenity, such a cacophony, such a joy I cannot name for silence' solemnity.
It split down the middle that split, splitting the sense of the middle off its center, and the symmetry defied, released its guts of control out of the place of recognition where we harbored quiet necessities in a back room filled with dirty poker tables strewn with empty bottles, sticky, stinking glasses and ash trays brimming with yesterday's detritus of habit, the entrails of excess; this inner room, this special place of bonding might only effect the right to establish itself over and over again, become filled with loud, boisterous activity, acquire a face, a body, a soul, a god.
When the end flips back and asks its meaning, by which its place is secured, fixed by need, connected to that which can only be another beginning, by this need alone the end has a meaning, but what if there is no beginning? What if all that resides in the idea of end is a fantastical array of everything that has nothing but illusion as its reason and resolution. We fondle the end. We crave its feeling of completion, closure, a job well done, well earned time of rest, but what if there is nothing beyond it or even before?
Between the blinks sight pierces sight, eyes of no eyes recede toward a brilliance no light of light may touch. Utter rudiments of creation, elementals are drawn from the ether claimed as a cabinet within the idea of a cabinet, and upon agreement settle into solution awaiting touch, the fuel, spittle of energy issued from clouds eating the earth even as the earth eats them, a roundabout of electrical frenzy, and between the blinks we fondle visions that cannot be seen otherwise, we devise from our hallowed place of arrogance the wit to wind about rigamaroles we will never fathom.
The interior speaks loud, while the shell remains silent, reverberations echo on the gulfs within, walls, deep and wide, jutting high and low buffet the mind salad's quality, vectors of indeterminate origin vy for attention, this way, that way, no way, all ways, the distribution boggles attention till its numb, and the viability of being one aware has become one who is adrift, subject only to the waves, the vectors guiding the waves, and the soul seated beneath vector's crucible where the eternal eye directs its gaze however waves become their precedent rising above the toiling, teeming mass called day.
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