beleaguered by the red feeling on the hands, as everyone takes their
part away from the rest of this mess, and the faster the dick-taker-ship
can gather all of its proper momentum to put into effect the dominion
of all our tangents that create the natural variety out there… the
sticky syrup dripping on and flowing into pools… the inhibitions melt
into the solid surfaces of things to come, textured and rich with their
warm edges and sharpened teeth, and ready to sink into the swimming
stream slipping under that subtle oblivion… you might think to look at
the usual deviant, that there would be some kind of gnarly grey spot
where the buttons used to be, but we always grow beyond the most
requisite steps once that level is achieved and outmoded… this brouhaha
has become the surge that any weaker organic portal would quip about the
offense of, but Here i ride the delay insane, that loop intrinsic in
the life always left yielding that craving desire… the heinous true
confession that caring is not my first way, learning the difficult tasks
of practical understanding that nicely challenges some people, and the
situations that drive the pressures toward intolerable… eliminating that
ruined rationale but yet embracing the symptomatic reflex of ritual
behaviors, indulging those comfortable motions again and again, and
still there are more things learned and wise to discover… the emotion of
fierce practical recovery as the dreams make known their whims, the
quiet beatitude as the severity moves deeper like the virus, trusted as
the viper Here to wash your windows… dropping the eyes into the windows
of the soul, where does the spirit jump out and play, but my thoughts
always seem to make haste for the mechanical pulse inside of things like
you or me… the dragging negative anchors, they dreamily sphincter
reality through that biased lens, that black and white fake that denies
the vague grey awareness of everything real or relevant… i cannot
believe i breathe through this…
Thanks, khet.
Thanks, khet.
