1. This is for the poor. The rich. And all the suckers under the sky. Black when I craned my spondylotic neck upwards. Bloody infinite the inverted hopeless cone of night. God only knows where it meets its limit or what hole eats it up. And expand big-banging if it does, worse still then. How endlessly is it expanding despair when imagined thus? Devil, deep sea, frying pan, fire. Better the cone disappearing into Hawking's hole. The wretchedness of the world apocalypting itself at the ultimate and a parallel world beyond where hell lives. But who, anyway, faithfully cared for hell? It was for/of/by here that we chickenshitted and loved and feared the chickenshit more than death, Houris and the angels. C'mon Prophet, light it up! Light either this or that up. It is dark here, there and all over. Is our night this hour. Asleep is the Master. Is our Master tonight.
2. Have you seen a drop of ink sliding its crooked trajectory down a rough painting-board? So is the path of man along the Earth Road. Crooked and staining the virgin whiteness of the paved marble-tiles of the Earth Road. Virgin and sinful she is. The upturned mother-whore ripe for plowing. Come stoop and kiss her and say goodbye to the marching procession of creatures on her belly and in your skull. Which one the more chimerical is a question lost in the dance of their onward nowhere march. My epiphanic goodbye to all that swirling in the waltz of homo sapien insanity and human death.
3. My step falls heavy, light, awkward or elegant, insensible of the dirt, dirt laden ground that catches it howsoever it falls. But the rambler says the ground is insensate. Blind are the limbs of the tight rope walker for she knows not how the rope is balancing her unpaused, moment by moment. So self-aware are the objects around us that they fail not in their nature. It is only human free-will that is committed in a total ignorance of itself. Free and unseeing. The world is constantly balancing our fragile movements. Then one day we stumble and become dirt to balance the same free human will. C'mon now, tell us Prophet how high is our pedestal and how close to Him are we flapping our wings?
4. I am beggared and buggered by all that happens around me. The scales over my eyes have created a prism of magic. So perfidious are our acts that fidelity itself is jealous. Waves, strings, muons, vaporous rings. All is vanity. Treacherous vanity. Can this thread be elongated? Words dancing in darkness.Catch and arrange them as they play the artful dodger in the elusive night. Impossible of comprehension. Natural order is a chimera. All is a dream sequence- life, its stories and their rambling longings. I have hit the limits of this act of thought.It was sustained by the enveloping darkness and now - adieu.
4. I am in a quandary. Trapped by an aporia. Our lies and infidelities are made possible by the mute fidellity of the universe. I play with words without gratitude and humility. For they have always been playing but in my hallucination I have dispossessed them of their playfulness. How pitiful is my poverty, disabled my dream and chimerical my life? But the invisible crutches extract their due when in a beautiful conjuring of temporal aesthetics they suddenly vanish and I fall out of existence. We are dancing in a space of aporia. Never see through an opaque object in your field. Or they will one day stop seeing through you. It all, after all, depends on the rope not snapping under the balanced weight of the tight rope walker. Be eternally and perpetually grateful for the fine balance of forces permitting your walk on hard ground. Soggy, it is awkward and slippery. Bushy, it is forbidding. Scorching, it hurts. Gapping, it swallows. But firm, it is what we stand on.
5.
2. Have you seen a drop of ink sliding its crooked trajectory down a rough painting-board? So is the path of man along the Earth Road. Crooked and staining the virgin whiteness of the paved marble-tiles of the Earth Road. Virgin and sinful she is. The upturned mother-whore ripe for plowing. Come stoop and kiss her and say goodbye to the marching procession of creatures on her belly and in your skull. Which one the more chimerical is a question lost in the dance of their onward nowhere march. My epiphanic goodbye to all that swirling in the waltz of homo sapien insanity and human death.
3. My step falls heavy, light, awkward or elegant, insensible of the dirt, dirt laden ground that catches it howsoever it falls. But the rambler says the ground is insensate. Blind are the limbs of the tight rope walker for she knows not how the rope is balancing her unpaused, moment by moment. So self-aware are the objects around us that they fail not in their nature. It is only human free-will that is committed in a total ignorance of itself. Free and unseeing. The world is constantly balancing our fragile movements. Then one day we stumble and become dirt to balance the same free human will. C'mon now, tell us Prophet how high is our pedestal and how close to Him are we flapping our wings?
4. I am beggared and buggered by all that happens around me. The scales over my eyes have created a prism of magic. So perfidious are our acts that fidelity itself is jealous. Waves, strings, muons, vaporous rings. All is vanity. Treacherous vanity. Can this thread be elongated? Words dancing in darkness.Catch and arrange them as they play the artful dodger in the elusive night. Impossible of comprehension. Natural order is a chimera. All is a dream sequence- life, its stories and their rambling longings. I have hit the limits of this act of thought.It was sustained by the enveloping darkness and now - adieu.
4. I am in a quandary. Trapped by an aporia. Our lies and infidelities are made possible by the mute fidellity of the universe. I play with words without gratitude and humility. For they have always been playing but in my hallucination I have dispossessed them of their playfulness. How pitiful is my poverty, disabled my dream and chimerical my life? But the invisible crutches extract their due when in a beautiful conjuring of temporal aesthetics they suddenly vanish and I fall out of existence. We are dancing in a space of aporia. Never see through an opaque object in your field. Or they will one day stop seeing through you. It all, after all, depends on the rope not snapping under the balanced weight of the tight rope walker. Be eternally and perpetually grateful for the fine balance of forces permitting your walk on hard ground. Soggy, it is awkward and slippery. Bushy, it is forbidding. Scorching, it hurts. Gapping, it swallows. But firm, it is what we stand on.
5.
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