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This hard quality in due respect of the soft machine bearing its cogs and wheels, layer upon layer of mechanical entrails, feeding off rivers of light being tooled inward toward mysterious completions consecrated in the name of being alive for something outside life's parameters, that the body, being slave to the master behind the curtain in disguise, buried in its own deceit, grants a functionality serving nothing it can see or touch, knowing deep within how driven it must be, obsessed with the mind within the mind within the heart clapped tight under constant surveillance, being servant to the unknown.
Impassioned words bleed birds, the like of which blaze sky, scattering wide open strokes of wildfire with wings of flaming eyes, conflagrations rising to the peak of night puncturing day across parchments laid to the earth as graveyards'burying sight, that sight in its orbs may cinder till seeing becomes itself for the reality to be seen under sight that lies and lies, lying underground thru belief systems construed for the loss of hope, that despair may supplant hope as a means for living, yet in the fiery sky, flames broad as thunderclouds overwhelm and consume that which takes for truth.
Functions of the fevers, inner divings, a meltdown of several moldings decay as the need befits the sores. I am in the anterior miasma. the quality I seek describes how I cannot be in the same position at all points, but in no point being exactly where I was or will be, this, the tormented brain floating on a boiling sea, sputters its inhabitants over the eating sky, flings from its belly the effluent many would run from. Yet, being in this place, I cannot offer what I cannot give, this, focus that keeps defocussing, keeps trailing off its image.
My swing chop bellys up the farm, gears its hay for flustered neighbors in love with John Deere. Bales upon bales of overcooked blood pudding smear the neighbors running through my bathroom duties with rusty bedpans. My Lord and Keeper divides the good from the bad and no one gets the treats; we all have to run for the outhouse with rotten floor boards, descending in a shock of boredom as the lecturer drones on and on, the students melt in their notebooks, and their iPhones keep jazzy time while the chalk runs from the blackboard trough and takes aim.
Yup, it's feasting time for the scalded genes convulsing in forms without number for the transient passages leading the eyes most accustomed to being closed to open in a glaring swelter of sticky light unbecoming of its quality, photon by photon, an elegant parade drawing reality up to its recognizable face, when droves of followers crumbled in dismay, for what they saw defied any reason they might offer for its coming on and going forth, such is the conundrum of our time, being latched onto beliefs in nothing as something. In the end when the truth is known, merely whimpers.
Switched...he switched it, or something did; what was up is down, what was off is on, and nothing makes sense anymore, antisense. The switch, being guarded by insensibility, knowledge of its being unseen, hidden by all except those who won't touch it, and even those who have known it have forgotten it...now, all is flipped, love has become hate, light has become dark, the skewed attitudes, wherein the head caves into its brain matter heaving up its quality of delights, now vomits up its disease, and there on the dias where the King bows, are heaps of Twinkies.
Reading what was wrote that was read to itself while reading itself into what was wrote, back into the welter spit wherein the wish was made to write, thoughts crumbled at the gateway where writing was conceived, faded into dust of something wrought as worth reading, something worth writing, so the writing that the reading wrought wrote itself into logos' parade sparking through the synapses tangled, a ball of tangles rolling, getting ever bigger, more unwieldy, far more than the anticipation might've taken as something serious, something worth taking time looking into, making the time to create time to create.
It trails behind in a muddle of mind, leavings once thought the matters of mind, now but the detritus of beliefs exploded by the keepers of the imfamous key, scattered shards in the mud of a war long ended yet waged continually by adepts of sorrow, followers of the indistinct and palpable, rush outward in slo-mo straight into the center forever eluding the eye blinding all who strive to see, reminding the calcified heart it once served as a conduit of blood, a one-time elixir of life, the very thing no one thought would ever vanish but did.
It about having you, isn't it? Having you in the place where having has its way with tasty impunity, where the dust mixes with the heat, slathers itself into mud on the bed of your begetting, rises from the slurry, forms its own face, its own laugh, its own broad grin, mischievous, contagious, fond of its deadly nature, secure in the habitat of your instinct, well preserved without compunction in the hearts and minds of your followers, each one to a man and woman, driven beyond will to take not what they will but how you will...in your having.
Feathered for a launch not planned, garbed to beat the sun in the race for hiding self with moon as the gearing of the grist in the mills of my mind, that the flour might be kneaded as fuel for the jets I armor while tunneling this grave world bedecked with plastic horrors as collectible as barbie dolls stuffed in the back of a pedophiles garage, slathered to the walls of compulsion moving in on the harbor of intent, all vessels equipped with means to engage the enemy on his shores, to defeat the monsters living on the beach within.
The grind as before and as it will be, grinds, it mills the grist that feeds, the grist that denies, the grist that poisons. Can one ever choose which is which, or what will be if this or that? Poker. We sit at the table nodding, as if bored. Exhausted. We get our chips. We don't make the chips. They're made in Japan by slave labor. We see their pictures on the fancy bags in Zabars. We smile and nod in happy acquiescence. Better them than us, right? It's only right. The choice comes down to what ethics we eat.
Burning, as the curling soul devolves the inner sense of the outer, with fire in the mouth of the conjurer summoning the vim to meet the grist of habits overturning compulsions, the flame spreads from the idea through the core of ideas, burning off the reasonable from antisense incinerating what calls to be the summoning of sense across the once devastated plain, deep within its barrenness the heart of the mind beats imperceptibly, all ash and dust slurried into cake, all cindered limbs devoured, and from the crucible of the deadest quiet rises a cacophony only the graced may hear.
It meets you. You meet it. And you suffocate pause, dissect disharmony. This viable anti-function of looking so far ahead taunting you to see how you always stop for fear of seeing yourself, such that once again the end begets the beginning. Children of dying men are cradled in your arms. They bleed away their bullet bathed sighs, breed ambling souls slithering from their hulks plucked from the dark shadows leering over. It meets you. You meet it. Do you recognize it? Can you? Is it possible you and it are driving down a road you must purposefully ignore?
The cup tipped. Day fell up. Now, cool sliding out, off the lip of dawn into a muddle of sun spread like molasses on a frozen griddle, winter expands, leavened with a colorful fall, occupies a space hitherto forgotten, not made for anything but forgetfulness, a good job for something better off eliminated, though, from the possibilities at our fingertips, we who delegate the arsenal of our pride, we who man the guns, we who take aim with a keen sense of kill, are proud of our creation, while the creation makes haste upon its raft, to reconfigure our wills.
Skipping along the bright beach, hefting light pebbles, flinging them cross sparkling waters, watching the fling and dash of scintillating sun goblets shattering in a billion tiny laughs, while the belly swells, visceral blisters under the feet skewing dash rise, oblating skips, but no matter, by sound of sheer light pounding delicately on ear drums' diaphanous retinas, the playful surges unite hearts with the soul of the goddess, that she might serve our unspoken hungers for release of the darkness, yet over the crown of sky coupled deliriously by Apollo's curtain lowering, the face of Hades fuses daybreaks' glowering dusk.
A small stream winds, meanders byways, insinuates dark passages, floods the crevices, crannies and hidden chambers of soul. In the clogged vessels where eon's debris lodges, a seed has taken root unseen; it has grown unseen. Tendrils of its tentative growth wind carefully about its surroundings. The river brings nourishment from surreptitious hands that work swiftly, precisely, carrying each needed morsel as time and maturation demand, lending strength to the tendrils, as they slowly insinuate the organs, overtaking their functions ever so slightly, ever so secretly, bringing change, slow and persistent as its infection is inexorable, titanic as life itself.
I see the ground ahead of me. It rises to meet me. I fall into it, and become it, in so far as I desire myself to become it for the termination of slim definitions whereby I assumed a shape that was ever and always separate from any other shape or form. I fell into it, because I'd become tired of being so furiously desirous of some other way of life outside that which breeds a loneliness that never ebbs, that only intensifies, that entraps me in dreams of something other than what I am, or what I could be.
The words aren't coming. Stuffed in abeyance with mouths sealed for sacrosanct silences securing ignorance as blissful, jostling souls within a well of mind as deep as nothing might scrawl across a canvas its fluid nature flowing from this to that, from imaginations' root to overreaching dreams, all that obscures, bidding one's nature accept as solemn truth, instead of the rank tissue of lies it really is, a patchwork creation over a skeleton poised as if animate by early photographers dedicated to the assumption that what appears alive must be alive, and the words remain unwritten, and their voices, mute.
Flipping by the exits opening and closing, a slip here, a slip there, the means of escaping torment the follower of dreams, that such images might guide a way avoiding the crosshatched keepers' weapons, though they confound, the images remain, they keep for those who have been kept too long and long for release, this, my passage from a cell of worshiping icons held at arm's length, visages strung high above touching that goad the touchers to touch, obviating goals, dismantling ardor, quashing passion, opens wide for my leaving, disembarking the world that would have me die for vapid narcissism.
The descent is brimming as the flowery ascent from where you are to where you will be, even by the shortest distance, wherein moving is not seen but felt as an existential footnote within the diver's heart noting, cataloging, rendering the frayed note a reality, as up is down in the same clasp, the same fist of pounding oneself to insensibility, having grasped the ineluctable trashpit, bucket's bottom slurried with decayed hopes of myriad pitchballed eras. To open the eye, to accept the downslope, lend it grace for its inevitable resolution, is to be so alive, death's a mere illusion.
To the edge. A quaint mystery. What splits within. Flowing ensues. A fall. A rise. The turbulence. Each facet shining the ingredient. Participants. They get caught up. Bolstered by expectations beyond the usual, without precedent, looking for resolution, finding none, rousing the formation of answers to shut the voices down, shut people up. People. They're such a nuisance. Grabbing at this, at that. Never satisfied, getting what they said they wanted or not. All arrive at this point at some point, the edge. It calls in a way without a sound or voice. It calls, and you have to answer.
Then the music begins. Ears are pricked. Those who hear, stand to; those who don't, pretend they can't. It's a roudy gathering. Few know why they're there. Few have the sense of it correctly. Most think a movie is going to be shown. They've been made to think this. It was a clever dupe. Many fell for it. Now, they're waiting, and tensions are rising. The doors are still closed. No one's come to open them. It was said there would be refreshments. The ones who know the deal are already inside. With a word, they'll act. Then, everyone'll know.
Perfidy, the palpable face, his distinct sheen, that voluble roar of slippery light, and the turnabout refraction, however slight, a momentous recalibration, however it may realize the necessary alteration, the gearing up of the downgrade, his fashionable clamor, nothing more than loud flotsum and jetsum, scrambles of glittering shatters, quite hilarious and extremely sad, every notion leading off the platitude, allows his motion to go undetected, slipping under the most sophisticated radar of the thought police scanning every point along the periphery of the universe, this invasive maneuver maintains calm while mounting its pressure till the moment of inevitable revelation.
Tempers. Soft alliances of secret heat. The edges become razor. Ideas forged in passion penetrate like stilettos thru the face of armor. Under the surface a form in disguise of its true intent peers over the residue matrix spreading across the flat, unbroken landscape; it digs its place down, it fashions the sky with a missile of creativity, etching the blue that bleeds its unstable sunlight scoring the land, searing its humors. In spite, the form moves slow, scans thoroughly, keeps its calm, waits upon the attack, as in all things mysterious, it sucks imagination dry for all things unexpected.
Variegated. Simple anharmony. Slipsliding the nuanced barriers claimed impermeable. Lusting within. Lusting without. No satisfaction. Hard rulings given for nothing done, hoping something. Still nothing. A fist full of dust. Mouth full of sand. Belly bloated for bad jokes in poor taste rendered for the love of hate. Myriad eyes. Myriad brains. All disingenuous. The rallying cause lost in confusing rhetoric. Streaming rage flowing through china shops enjoying the clatter, shattering with glee all that maintains in spite of conflict far removed from the rumpus. It's a block party. Free bricks. Let's all have a good time destroying everyone's hope.
Interiors reveling the crush of exteriors. Bubble distorts. Sphere, morphing in the gusts. Rolling down a slope rushing upward, the figures described delineating a confused form of gravity, pulling in unexpected directions. Confusion ensues, but as a joke worthy of headliners, laughing all along the rumble. Faces smeared of insincerity. What's vital is the profit margin cabled to the exterior summons. Those called, fall in line behind barriers concealing the newborn chaos, ever and always maintaining the lineage. Cheers from grief-stricken brains looking for some kind of reprieve. Then the march begins toward the end we know not what.
Movements by degrees of currents like blue swaths over orange sun screeching up a desert laughing, all eyes of its sands glowing toward all that comes back in deference to weak assertions to the contrary, lust of sleek, muscular summations connected off diametric assumptions once upon their diffident mainlining the bulging biceps, thickened thighs, chests heaving up musical hearts, bodies plucked of shadows, playing black against the white, moon against the sun, decked to the max and letting go all of the windy whirligigs this mysterious growth implies, the reduction and expansion, such a blight of delights, keeping it clean.
Good busting for my juicy lady in the gusty nibs. I'm eating coffee, and it's like the ocean floor with windows. This, my table of witless pooling of mental resources when the animals have stopped crying, shedding fur and are finally asleep, the bending up and the bending down becomes like freedom on a 747 when the hull disappears, where you can spread your arms and the sky eats you like a Boston Creme, where all the wonders you might keep in your chest explode, the gulls have orgasms, the dirigibles bow, planes exhale their bathroom waste and you burp.
In the venting comes a spray of wit wound to a pillar of inner light that devolves as it revolves, as it blends its enormity into seduced minutia, that all the volumes of matter whirling about the core may keep its coiling in check, though brimming in all forms the majesty just under wraps, feeling the expanding power, what comes, goes, what dives into solemnity, rushes upward into sun, both dark and light, fists of tension and open palms of acceptance, we rend our living as it bids its complexities, then to the center ring we rush for the show.
Stepping into the fire, feeling its curious fingers wrap about live fibers, hungry for a touch, for ignition, that flint of the scratch on the back of the spine connecting all that slumbers, awaiting the flames. Now, up, reaching out, all limbs attending the fury and calm, the bliss and horror, the venting out and the venting in, circumspect, what delves to form connections, logos, muscles insert muscles, penetrations that bleed pure light, all darkness devoured and blessed, all flesh, by incendiary delights, consumed, shed of barriers, all that might be, is, all that was, is not, then comes ecstasy.
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