it were a great moth of a man, he roving rollsome up towards the
trailhead as spoons of stream bewhittled down their glacial treads.
like whipporwhills and canteloupes, they's passing down below,
catastrophe of fruits and eggs all strewn about. he made straight for
his woman where, an supped against a drop of hanging slaves, were
awful-lockt an crucified below their swimming consciousness, whose
opened gates were flowing forth immense candescent truths and lies, it
smelled of offal, rattling crackbad dairies with their worthless hides
all sewn on backwards, split an carved again besides their fast and
quickening pulses (it's acceleration as you know, not speed that
counts) so fly! united once they foundered on the brink and fell below
the surface of a moor emotional eclipsed the afternoon in pinks and
shades, where inside ousted metaphor. he'd aped beside himself,
without-within himself, unsure of where he stood and crawling slowly
towards the bulk of what he'd seen, a tone was swimming in the air; it
rang tenitis eared which perked up pricks and flew its length again
repeating. but never never now it's dawning breakfasts on the splitted
grapefruits shining lovely sugared sadness on the people laying cast
from right to left to up and upside down in misery, he's ought to
kindle on a light before the tomb of reticence, to open on a throbbing
thing between himself. they'd tried and tried, they'd climbed out on
the statue's prong, invited by their faith until were glassy cleared
that nothing'd passed the grate. so lifting up their union'd arms and
minds, they roared out words that spake with gleaming shean upon the
winds, and rolled all swelling pools flooding lakes of sound to swarm
the dales an in hollowed pits below till all the grooves were darkened
drowning with the scream. the clocks were ticking filling up with
warmest wine. the threads were pulling taught, their strings all
mensely pursed. and echoes of the noise went wildly swinging up the
banks for miles up through the sky. so take my leg, one said, and carve
of it a meat, to cradle nourishment, to heat and boil over cackling
flames. and long below were hearing voices trembling below earth, where
often firm affinities were cast in stone to ne'er emerge a tie beneath
their grave. some nonsense grafted on the temples from a varried time
before, whose prostrate theologans spread themselves upon the sullied
floor with bugs and creeping things until, their hands flecked riddled
limbs apox they'd near expiry send themselves in shining holiness into
the boulders. i were another wish a shattered plate upon the brow of
inconsistant memories that wiggled to and fro upon a burrowed sleepless
photograph. what meaning fell through all the wrinkled pages of her
histories was sacred to ignore, and in itself it felt a part of
information cloistered from renewed integrity by red and rob-hand
jewelling. so snapping, thumbs upon, and coins all drizzling down as
rain in sheets, we pulled the covers off of her til there she was, all
peeled down and naughty in her skin, and tarnished by those looking
eyes. who knew it though? who thought was horrid pensive sensitivities
were waking in the arms and legs of all those beast identities: were
one, and all united, summed it up, to conscience any other like a seed,
that grows and seems to say that every ought is notwise like a
metaphoric bloom, that every thing as seen resembles something other
not, like salamander's skin a-glow with whistling hotness on the parts
that grew apart. these are your sacraments, these felled the burned out
homes of yore where ages passed between a blink and breath. the muscles
tense. the juice and strength had all ran out evaporated slowly
steaming right into the jungle mists, and no one saw the little people
reaching out to pocket what they could of all our lore, and fliching
so, they told it subtly small in groves that it were best to keep all
of creations to the self, that that were where it wronged and one was
right unhappy when it shared its soul and found respected all but
lacking, in complexities and raw compatriation. invisible, women and
childlike men had found a different way, and struggled on it daily,
tilling ills into the dusk where satisfaction burred away and tumbled
down like pastured wool over the eyes of sleepers. and cloaking,
croaked and softly sickle-celled, it were asserted first, that that is
no tomorrow, so they stape and, humbled, wound their crosses up above,
and tranished by the falling mosses fingers, claimed themselves a pot
upon the tarry, stripped and feathered moon. She leered down wearily
and roped up all humanity with sorrow'd song, then clinging to the
entrails of a hope, her sputtered ignorance becoming more and more unto
itself was shown as heiracy, so flew out children, little ones and
babes from all the worlds open eyes till atmosphere's had clouded o'er
the streaming wire electric waves. astronomy is dead, he'd clear
resounding shouted, bottled within coffins for the silky hand of night,
and closed his open contract with the dreamer's empty thought. i'll
not, as he began, nor ever recind any word, an army or vocabulary
stalks, and weathery, they've grown up high about this world and fenced
off from the understanding of the parson's ears, they'll thrive in
ever-reproductive splendour, endless combination'd meaningless and pure
- if purity's a thing at all - so all forget and back to farming
earths, then back before and unto nothingness, from all where whence
was borned a bride and vacuous the hogs that scrambled empty-heading
into what was else. i'm leaving my perenthesis open. from tale after
argument descending into conscious lies, the truth's that nothing ever
starred my in the face, was bold enough to read my weeping sighs, and
now we've got a robe-begotten prince, a half-said sacrosanct and
mis-begotten family, the royalty of whom's all clotted in their horror
to the world. are you different to me? are you safe? i'll shatter
suddenly, and yelp a little howl of my own til no one's willing me to
similar conceits. it's helpless here how everyone is lockt withing
their selfsame locks of hair, about the neck reminding selves of
seperateness and isolated narssicistic love. what time is it, thought
time, a missing-gendered animal with nothing in-between its eyes, and
hyphens convalescing on those shamed so silly brows: nothing, nothing,
and nothing. growing from the ground and aged nutritious fluids spilled
and soaked in all about then shot up sprout and seed till all was
furrowed sad and shouting water on resounding joys. what oscilates so
fragrantly and cries out minimal for skirting round the truth (what
truth was there was smeared and belly-end) with lying shade all
misappropriated. greeting all the wanderers we probed into their souls,
took al experience, the bundle synthesized in several penny whispered
books, whereby the populace had laced themselves in spiritual shapes.
i'll not pretend to worry why a whoresome woe was scintilating,
quiverring with fear, but nigh the dialect of misty eyes and temprtress
walk, a man was beating on himself in agony from bloated old religion.
so crafted by a hoax, they found their power in the lowest gut and so
suggested on a repetition all their old philosophy and novel cream of
representative communication. woman, man and all between was wearing
out identities like corn-clothed leaves and strands of flying hair was
trembled on a wind of rounding hells with nonsense or confusion of
itself. i'd nary writ a thing before, and as he contemplated all
creation spread out on the plate before her, she was weeping blood upon
it, such imploring coquetry that all emotion came to shuddering and
roarious laughter tilting slowly cross the heads of pins. we knew, we
always knew, we though, that it was bound to end this way. we cooked
our charities below the green leafed canopies and lugged them beading
sweats into the shadow of the conquered devil's towers, served them to
the poor, we skinned ourselves and gave our skins to those that had
them not, and every toothto dentured servants, i'll your worker be, and
smile every un-so-often atthe trickling sands of lightness spilling
from your robes in waves and lending shimmered ripples through the
lives of all, as stitching on the gown. so as colombus wove, he sailed
clean off the edge the globe and entered into all imagination, where
we've been historically entrentched since 1492 and all the everything's
a dream. there's nothing inbetween. here's nothing underneath. there's
paper plastered to me teeth and sewn upon my arms and legs, a mystery.
they shad and sat and shaved their legs and all the growing hair that
they could spot, for it was too repugnant to their tastes,
and crawled below the smear. and every day my sexual organs develop
into something other else. i'd wasted on a holy half-content the near
disputed tangled contents of my swarming brain, and slapped the beacon
upside under for a warning crash of clouds on ancient mythological
non-entities. but who'd have thought to know that there were so much
pains in my imagination? all the family gathered round, and uncles
cousin'd aunts with grandmama, and parent figures benching callow
heads, banking ideas on the slopes of linear continued twangs, the
strings of old reality were shaking, such vibrating o'er the ore of
hearts and newest possibility, such craft and vomitting was
never seen as now, and blackness, lightness all around. so climbing
supple backwards, all the souls were hunged and hanging
upside tackled from the world's earth by their feet til caterwaling
lepers called and hooted down to earth again. a miracle, a spontanaiety
of somely minds and chafing intellects, whose little
well-intended tense bourgeoisie embellishments had carved the a pestle
neath the knave of holy famed intelligence, and worried relatives were
scattered scurrying accross the globe of sacred beaurocrats fulfilling
this and that of errant paperwork that they might better rectify the
wrong, reduce the sentence manifold to charm. beluzeth crowded in the
little well like dynamite, and famed the vegetable intelligence from
grotesque plaques about the jungled slopes and sloppy microscopic pains
who scoffed and groaned in pride and jealousy at all the
introversions what could spite, could weep, could shingle off a braying
halleluiah to the fearsome tepid much alluring sky. i thought it was a
bird that flew without my mind, but kneeling on a sandstorm so
apparently the
thought's another thing beside whose smelted sore castration's nothing
but a farce hollow effect, a skin without a core, such shallow as a
skin - that is to say, to
shout, to speak in winding postraphes prophetic near collaboration
labias and spitting on identity that nothing shied away from it, that
all the failures of
never limitless time incorporated angular and rakish misdemeanor in
their trembling fleshy thighs. the feeling such and so like pressure on
a smeared machine that
pushes out and out and wants explosion begs a kindness
chortling animal discretion, while when first man and woman innocent
not ape-like for a switch had
thunk their boundaries once lifted ever universed expansion into ever
ever yon, but cheated by the raw emotion, papers dangling all
around,
they'd had to let it go the hand, release support in threesome faithful
foolishness to only what had been their tool. created now, and ended
then, it all began and shreiked
to realize the archetype. and atoms pouncing misdt the equatorial
confections, shimmered slightly in the untouched rabid bowl of a face,
it clung in wet ecstacy
there, a speck upon the brow. who shows, and with such vanity could
dare to utter pensament its boresome old continuation of an endless
ego'd shoring up
the fragmentary nature of the beast that dwelt so underneath, so
hairy-armed invisible shon forth its shimmer excellence in twelve-mile
minutes by the wayside
of a child's roiling cripple ghostly such tumultuous of embrionic
satisfaction creed. she knew it were a syllable, and felt through mud
for sound, but
sleeping from her dreams inside reality, the rules were changed and not
could eye with ears a beat of rhythmic pound. but bellowed nasty on a
forward sentiment, the
crawling drag, the slippers over gravel on a moony ritual, it's
empty-loaded notwithstanding panes of thrice-thick melted dripping sand
and all the
ink that's spattered bout the spats of male children's visions of
themselves. who thought that they've seen it as a so, or as a causal
entity that drifted
clause-like over hills of feathered unreality like skinny wooden
spinners on the depths of ancient bogged traditionistic fantasy. i
speak? i run? i slip between
the tides of ever-empty life? and all that's everywhere is roundly
squared, is upside under-headed for a swarm of laziness, of shaved and
sundry letters,
dancing over heights of thoroughbred philosophy, undoing and reshaping
all the figures speckled in the mold. and look! the world's changing
every
growth, a long-indentured essay's contradiction, happy in its
fine religious servitude, and slaving for a crown of sunked eyes, of
cheeky shames; and see! the earth is
galloping an awkward transformation, in the crevice shadows on the
cliff are rounded proceses and means to ends, the boulders silent
spilling out their
beneficient gaze and stony creativity abrood with elder impotence of
half-lived dreams, of things that ne'er explored never did chancing to
grow old, always
afloat upon the corners of imaginative sheer mathematics, worlds
chopping worlds out and snipping all what substance on the grain of
wooden hope. behold! the
world, now encanted, 's seething spurts of inconceivability: it's
morphs are rapid unpredictable and spilling each-which way, the stones
and flesh, the
spiracles and waves is offered daily as a new incarnate existant, or
nearly so from failing recognition, bold incredibility infatuate, the
tide had swept new
nuances so all the flux and oscilation's reached a new crescendo nor
plateau, what's ever as uncalculated curvatives, who's 'cceleration's
stopping on a battery of
endlessness, the only volume of availability in hampered sleep that
claws its freedom on a slate to hold for all whose vision's not to
over-loading 'ceive. who
eats? who drinks? who's so behind the times in pleaantries and near
bedazzled interest on the living song from death to spinning numbers in
the storm: it's all
of you and nothing roused the atoms in the emptiness, that called up
harlequins toward the nightly bower of the sun, and mass-producing poor
symbologies had
shattered all the normal coda healty floating on the incandescent lie
of falses or of static malnutritious kinkered simpling conceived. i
shamed my vigor on the
seat of gods, and spun by strands of color into final true
unconsciousness and losing track of what my eyes could see, it wasn't
as a tunnel, but an exoskeletal
and smiling creature, grapling on its own to stay apart and part eh
constant strife of what seventy-billion scribbling fingers wrought upon
the daily hour and
minutescent whole. and wiped it all away. and washed. two felled and
clambring grey cyclonic tides all bathing in the ragged pines were
shamrock messages in roiling
infamy to all the brothers roundabout the singing stew, so singing
lord, ad you e'er thought upon the brimming-over of the fishly black,
but butterflied and washt away, the colorless imagination led itself asstray. in word and
deed we'de thought to've crusht our old desires on the steeples newly
rought, we lazed together in and out of swimming ("i'm nor good nor awfully bad at not
of this or that") ell return. please, prick me/her with all-resounding
sound, and crash the blight into a swimming pond of needles where its twelve-fold hands will
curse and cry amid the darkning day. so pray, so lie and let
imagination velvet self away, and know what all it is to be the other kind, to smell yourself, to
catch a teardrop on the heat of straying lashes through a boldly
singing game. and want we all an everyone, an wish we nothing nor the simple same, an crying out,
we called ourselves to shame. to know you'd seen a kind of her before,
to simple sheen and craft a way of leprachauning out a gentle steel from where
the head's embedded in the soul, to graft and grasp a slipping canvas
truance tween the shuddered fingers of a youthly price: this is not eagerness, but
jealous biting jade. Lemures upon the dregs were speaking tongues to
bats, and crying sacriledge on simpletons in dancing clothes and candied old respectless
glean, they jibbered happily and miserable flew apart from one anunce
to cradle all the babes in mortal inhibition regularity. and trying doing isn't working
it. and working artists aren't receiving celibate untruths. and
slipping pills to bubbles in the ocean cries to old affection let us be. attatch the this to that,
the reference to the mythological - and pride, and pierce, and selfless
handyheadedness. so bold outraging ideologies might drink themselves to death. so old
religious prophets sink into a mire of mud and grueled teeth. so riding
bears the sport was later claimed a fantast. we woke, and found ourselves a hole to dwell,
spelunk, and scratch away the mud. but what seems reasonable now, they
queried on a dying sun, and what so twisted all apart the shattering gage. i love you,
miss you, want you desperately, to kill the flies abuzzing on the lore
unsatisfied and big. just plug it up and drain is all when next the ditch presents.
