A golden crawdad, on an urban sidewalk; in the end turn of Autumn. Oh, imaginatives can add such lusters

Sometimes I wonder on the psychosomatic
Reactivity through the imposed implementations
That are constantly being tossed at us
In waking world, despite my skeptic layers
When someone says something they believe
I can find part of me believing with them
Their sincerity drives through many lands
Images, pasteurized truths
Heated by the make believe of our person
Symptoms.. what are they really?
Maybe just adjustments to echo-static pressures
(If such a thing exists)
They cling through the frictions
of separate functioning energies
passing by one another in opposing currents
Procreating gossips, and partial positions
Sounding inclusion marks of humours
or secrets between intimates
Hiding by asham-edness
For the matters that slipped away in an instant
Matter no more, may we propose new
May we propose new?
Would the qualities attributed to that novel
Contagion be seen flowing through the walls of the intended suggestion?
Pleasant would it be
And fickle would it show, at least in measures
of the preference
of the bowl that we incorporate

Useless being, dancing amongst the 10,000 things
      The Fool immersed.

I don't want to be another parking meter
Adding up the charges of a retail favor
Cast a decent look on all the in-sensation

     tell me does it hurt, tell me does it worth?

When does, it but,
                when do happen
and what’s the formal order
I seem to forget frequently
about which Pork comes before which.

              I can’t seem to get this set, I guess

All that I believe is a cease
To be. I’m wrong and roam away
Freeing, in shambles, preambles of stay
Stagnant condition a rabid position

Severity and Mercy are contingents
We barely see the correlations but alas it's there
When I was a child I'd take naps during the day
As I dozed I'd get this feeling of absolute softness
Enveloped entirely in a rock-like substance
I tried so hard to come to an understanding
To figure out what it was
It was my secret feeling, a mystery
Now and then the experience floods me still
Like concrete sponge, oozing, yet, unbearably firm.

Perhaps it's something like that
Perhaps it's the ethereal non material substances forming into thoughts, ideas, actual manifest solidity
The essence of Binah trickling in through the astral
Formating, correlating, confusing
These aspects are tricky and I'm always in danger of forming fact from a theory, idea, notion..

Blessed be the weary for we may just get some rest.

Places you think of sometimes
Like that version of yr childhood house
Blended into yr current residence
That’s kind of yr mom
And kind of you;
Or that corner in the subway
That you often avoid
Because it smells
Like ****, but then
There’s times you go
Over there because
You have to ****;
Or that place that you think of
Where you can feel
The cool you come
Over and just melt or some other soppy,
For me that place is gentle moving, slightly
Transparent, sunlight fractated
Water

Business stains and I’m partially a napkin.
Or is it?. Can’t decide either way.
The moment aren’t too for it anyhow.
The mountain drive is so alive with soggy
Nights of living in a pent up tent.

We reached it on a back road,
      I’d hardly call it bushwhacking
Slave drivers move in and you find
       out it was yr personality
all along

The beach were *****
        Crawling, sinking, lifting foes, the victor.
Speaking of subspecies and kin. As professor has.
         Spells of nausea in the back party
        Sorting through the masters
          Seeing whom is served most devotionally
Bhakti, la-la, la la la!
              Present moment I am all..
I am all
I am all, I am all

Lifting fingers place a spell
And webs form out like destiny
Water serving through the flames
Emboldening, triumphantly exploring understanding.

Lifting fingers, for an empty shelter
‘It was crazy what was said through me, it almost sounded..but it wasn’t.’
And then we  cross it, move things
around a bit, losing yr place
Slightly, cautioning; to feel through the mess

Plenty are, and simply so that I short circuit, Everytime

he was a phantom alive
a ‘scribe of meta- proportions
filling in the lines, free-formed fiend
streaming plenteous tales like a fall
dripping techni colour story boards
that hips the shake, we quake to deny
his bass inhibiting, raucous occasion
a villain, <no playing

a caterpillar expedition leads to
      multiple endeavors
                hanging on threads of connection
           coral beads, dangling

     I am a mantis, prepared like a ninja
               mechanics absurd, like future robotics
          a scene unfolds,
                         monstrous to some
                from stand point opinion
          it’s all a cause
     and problems resolved w/ problems

        hmmm..
           well then
                well them
        what does that well then
             mean to them,
                            my friend?
     what then too, does it got
     to do with you, I’d assume
              you may presume?

       I can’t pretend to have it.
  does the string make a note?
and what temper shakes the vibrate?
I’d start from there
         proceed into it.

Apathy in form
  Gaze at the sleek, predatorial
             physique, splendid in a sense
    forward gliding on
the currents laboring to
          provide an example of excellence
  in the embodiment of antithesis
to the goal of.. sentiments in a sense,
     or perhaps passions mapped out?

I’m not in doubt, more that in plural demeanor
   so any seeded proposal is
any other unfaith-ed exhibition
        suppose it could all end a little bit better
    if we didn’t resume our idolization of
          particulars, like all the functionel
that produces synchronic intricacies
  lathering in messy pictures full
of every meaning to all and ever could
         depict, in that glancing, know talk
  that abrupticates the framework
        of the ‘how ya doin’?’ formalities we
  ever so often sell as the scripture to
the boredism we addict ourselves

Am I a linger or a triggered scope?
Scored abundance of lust expanse



Sort of layered in a pictorial proxy
The substrate, mixed and sustaining.
Plain ‘scapes: the focal pointed sources.

Gruesome clots
of concentrated tantrum
Donated air tubes
who function to ventilate
That can airrigate the condensed spaces

When properly running
Executing the wasteful obstructions
Which aren’t much fun
when freedom’s an outing
All this idling and itchy blood,
festering in a wet sponge,
In an open container,
Where walls hold daggers.
And the guides are all blinded to the path
To make my own path anyway
Just if we could find hold of the string
Which was the pull upon my stride
And my pride’s woundedness proves
A fallen walk upon the obstacles
So it appears, way, must stroll more rhythmically
Dropping the scholastic endeavors
Because it’s all becoming pleasure less routine
Tensions streaming through a dam
And now it’s all recycled
Plagiaristication, even in the present fiasco
Can’t a task be a task? A breath, a breath..

Infinite masks approaching the infernal sacrifice
Transparent as glass or crystal ware
Prepared upon the dinner table
But I forget how to swallow the liquid
And soothes aren’t soothing
For they all appear as deception..

The waste, that I taste. Will increase instead of cease. So I must make to dissolve
                   To a form that will absorb.

We start with the lesser
            Because with everything worthwhile, it’s always kind of a build up.
       And as things melt away, greater aspects unfold
                  Wearing different outfits, depending on preference. Yeah, it really gets silly like this.

So why fight it, and let the Pantheon battle for yr approval.
      As a mosh pit, swim in the melee.

Preaching to a deaf choir with no skin to sense yr presence

All a lumping together, forced to face our separate selves
Though if we forms divised apart
When do we melt or sublimate back?
Off tract by habit-tat-tat-tat-tat
Laughing; the brat upheld her ways
Braying and kicking and making a stink
Staking unholdable, miserable values
Dolls on a glass shelf, and we dust to misinform
Because these ever static statistics
hold our weary waves from wagging
To their novel nature
And I pray to find that state, that place, that thee
The Thou-
Caught by the proud, the sounds they unfold
And the echos distract, and derail off a track
That could never take leave
The olive branch dove of concept
panics from the sound of arms
..she never left
Never will and the wilting flower falls
to clear the way for something new
A bubble, a blob, a splat, a clump
A bloom forms upon making a collective sound
While the bustling pressure denies details
These breaths, these cells
Streams of blood; thinning and clotting
Thoughts and views and spewing momentum
Fulcrum lifting these crates to cohesion

For even though we may favor those of similar
They who denies seeing oneself in those opposed,

               Is a liar.
everyone is made of everyone(-thing really)
And as you gather bits you see in others
                           You wind up with you..
So why keep contorting and condemning?

‘should’ is a fanatical expression

Those who thought it best to
swallow the traces of their roots and
float above so called ‘primitive’ gestures
found that the growth of those fibrous
nerves didn’t end in the guts of their
devourers. Soon enough they would reveal themselves once again as a reminder
and a revealer of what truly is.

Pressure pulled assorted mountains
and it feels like ever never really is
Beside faintly glancing
angles of indefinite presences,
laughing and holding false vigils
for meaning less gods and angels.

The narrow passageway that I define as a soul could be a single cellular unit in a larger -cosm of ‘I’ness.

         Or maybe I’m unknowingly the macro,
Forgetting the idea of creation, abandoning to sordid garbage, rolling in my own demise.

Sludgeballs build up
                       on the edge of a concrete pond..

While artificial intelligences beg for our distractions and I look so as not to neglect.
Speculate on the absolute purified version of that spectacly dynamic experience called love
Pale heroes dance in the shadow of the real
Feelings slowly become a concept,
ceasing to be a process
  
Lowly porridge injected with the image of vitals boiling onto the fire
       That’s what I get for making breakfast at night

She storms and putridates
    
       Before the construction of the idea of the formation of the idea of material thought

  I get weak in the attempt to imagine

We’re all standing in line
                            at the creature harvest
And I guess.
                          This is the best crop.
To digest..this process

We sort of drift on many layered waves moving in opposing directions leaving in the middle occasionally.. get in these grooves that aren’t pleasant, kind of burnish, or temperamental.

I regularly, when looking for a reason, find nothing but a question bouncing around itself. No expansion in a tin cup.

Sometimes in the middle of a dragonfly
   The bunnies know it daily
We exceed its ‘proper’ function
Hoping faintly for a lift
Sifting through the broken pictures
     Chewing morsels indignantly
Living for the ‘how ya doin’?”’s
Caressing notions, moments folding
   Lift me tender, lift me grasping
Give me love of once I was told
Crispy Autumns and the baggage swirls around
And around the corner_

There in the apple eyed store-shops
She passed just ever lightly
Words are symbols, lying ever
Telling nothings, imagery
      To behold is another crossing
Of ever momentouses and cross-haired intricates

Livening, battering, shocking, scolding
      Letting it stick and allowing to go
Go, go. Go through and ask for a bother
               She will do as It Wills.

Return of the theriomorphic rage
The cages rusted down
                        and low upkeep
Due to negligence and apathy
..that they won’t stay locked up forever
Stirrings brew from the deep
And these beasts persist
                 whether acknowledged or not
Crossed forms wearing ties to hide their teeth
Serrated stationary,
           moments of graceful decadence
The Moon still calls
And the sea forms seasonal attitudes
So whether,
Wherever
A call rattles to be answered

I can eat all the moments,
in a moment
       as we’re slipping down the whole
Catch me in the action faulting,
  always wanting
skipping forward in revolt
     Reverse,
expecting always cautious,
           flowing nonsense instead always mixing with the tide.

Everything feels like rain sometimes
Just melting in, life adapting to the moist
Making the planet wonder, itchy
The metal rusts on an old chair
Mineral deposits forming daggers
That poke into the skin, wounded
Pressing lightly to create chills

A Cuckoo lands on the head of the corroded seat
A kin in the parasitic genre;
While the sparrow feeds its young, imagine
Lightly tapping the corrugated root
Myriads rejoice while others shudder
Change sprawls from ponds
Dessert bears no fruit that doesn’t pierce
Organic walls are weary
         and give off warnings


Shifting over and the light glimpses
Spells of lanterns holding
          knowledge in practiced perfection
Loving softness in the gentle coverage
And you have the courage to step out
          But I hear it’s going to rain tomorrow

And you hope it doesn’t
     hinder yr spirit in the matter,
for a trek in the damp
      can prove quite rewarding
            critters step out,
                   breathe in the ozone

I’d like to find a better tomorrow
In the forever, Now
Experience makes me shudder
Just to take the catastrophe like the victories

Because I felt romantic
I wept and swooned
Wallowing in thought puddles
Casting spells of enchantments
With little effort endured
Going too flaky within a whim

Sensations can be such a funny happening
              Extractions expelling
          Sorting and blend with memory
       Distorting to mythological understandings
    In a very broad way

  It was as if he was me
From a time not of this forming
   But theoretically so is everything else
And negation as well, needless to say
Playing around with the scriptures
              Trash piles up
  But it seems cultured enough
       And love it, let you be each-
    We’re all alive
       Crawling around eachother
             Just splendid.

Credited miscreants palpitating my algae
Horror box syphoning on another lost child
Meander ponders to the local guard core
And another soda loses its cool.

Yet again, and its thoughtless intonations
Pressing down on a symbol with no acuteness
We’ll make a present to the lost and wish upon a black hole tumbler
To be dead before you recognize
Is that what’s going on, Sam?

Cats crawling in miserable contempt for the formulas placed upon the plate of their valves. Strongly resisting cryptic soundboards, longing for songs of the origin tunings. Sometimes is the mask of a soothing sort never forming to resolve to cure. Misplaced purity soars in all directions but can’t be detected with these clumsy instruments..

Blood stains dye the carpet in
memory of popped bedbugs
The urge to scratch
lays beyond the vermin
No matter where it’s directed
it’s just out of reach
Some far off recess,
swinging on the monkey bars

       Mocking me

There we go, fell for it once again
Because holograms are so convincing
And I’m a pretense to the predicament
by being a participant
Licking candied sticks that inflame the ailings
The moans are a call to duty
Yet I’m unsure of what to administer
And the guinea pig phase is still in effect
So I should stop buying space on billboards
Until the ethicalities get stituated

Fabrics weaved together
Tightly to form the ropes of time
Landscapes of memory
Holding accustomed affinities, signed
Snorting doubts to infinity’s reign
Who can I blame when I’m the only one
Cursing the numb for I yearn to feel the pain
Sensational pleasure. discomfort’s earning
All is forever
This is forever
Is now a never?