There is a number that knows itself
Logic has predicted its numberness at most
but logic does not know to what it matches
Within its coordinateless space
beyond the mind
the number has formed itself
at the expense of fixing
a masterpiece about a lover
made of the shape of one’s desire
becoming that one pure desire
of and to and for All
or simply invisible
known to none
matterless
formless
filling
temporary silhouettes
until
silhouettes collapse
unknowingly
about their
barbapapaic nature
to the unknowing
so
what you call
‘grand’
‘poetry’
the combination of chosen words
made of letters
presenting duality
between me and me
made of the sound of the form of one’s
ever changing body in one’s mind
Vibrates
in such frequency that
when one reads
one connects one to one
*( like in maths –
and a bit more complex than that
considering sensual feedbacks etc :))*
and transforms
almost vectorial to
some resulting frequency
of an irreversible altered state
and a doses of future changes
but such occurrence cannot take place
when once known
OOPS!
such occurrence takes place
if it is irrevocable of the finite shells
of time
a true joker
has a pure skin as such
through a veil of pores
nothingness floats
towards its knowing
keeps oneself as is
unknown to all the separateness there is
Thus the program forgets
(:D = thankfully)
or runs infinitely at a place :
‘this could be heaven and this could be hell’
as in Hotel California
so
you should know for yourself
if you wanna make it love
because
If you not
It’s then someone else
because
It is always someone
as reasoning goes
it is a manifestation of the self
a contextualization of a narrative
as story requires
as story unfolds
I always remind myself to
keep up to one reason just
which eventually are no words
but sound or silence of
a reflection on an expanding
surface of a bubble in pure
unfixable color
Oh
words of preconditioned unoriginals
manifestations of self adorations
what is there to be said or heard or grasped?
when All stories are the same?
Shaped extensions of one source
sticking out repeatedly to tell one thing just
expanding the bubble
within the bubble and the bubble
just
to be heard
once
as big as a
Hum
en route exit as scriptures call it
but am I gonna be able to hear it?
(or you or us … )
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
There is a number that knows itself
Logic has predicted its numberness at most
but logic does not know to what it matches
Within its coordinateless space
beyond the mind
the number has formed itself
at the expense of fixing
a masterpiece about a lover
made of the shape of one’s desire
becoming that one pure desire
of and to and for All
or simply invisible
known to none
matterless
formless
filling
temporary silhouettes
until
silhouettes collapse
unknowingly
about their
barbapapaic nature
to the unknowing
so
what you call
‘grand’
‘poetry’
the combination of chosen words
made of letters
presenting duality
between me and me
made of the sound of the form of one’s
ever changing body in one’s mind
Vibrates
in such frequency that
when one reads
one connects one to one
*( like in maths –
and a bit more complex than that
considering sensual feedbacks etc :))*
and transforms
almost vectorial to
some resulting frequency
of an irreversible altered state
and a doses of future changes
but such occurrence cannot take place
when once known
OOPS!
such occurrence takes place
if it is irrevocable of the finite shells
of time
a true joker
has a pure skin as such
through a veil of pores
nothingness floats
towards its knowing
keeps oneself as is
unknown to all the separateness there is
Thus the program forgets
(:D = thankfully)
or runs infinitely at a place :
‘this could be heaven and this could be hell’
as in Hotel California
so
you should know for yourself
if you wanna make it love
because
If you not
It’s then someone else
because
It is always someone
as reasoning goes
it is a manifestation of the self
a contextualization of a narrative
as story requires
as story unfolds
I always remind myself to
keep up to one reason just
which eventually are no words
but sound or silence of
a reflection on an expanding
surface of a bubble in pure
unfixable color
Oh
words of preconditioned unoriginals
manifestations of self adorations
what is there to be said or heard or grasped?
when All stories are the same?
Shaped extensions of one source
sticking out repeatedly to tell one thing just
expanding the bubble
within the bubble and the bubble
just
to be heard
once
as big as a
Hum
en route exit as scriptures call it
but am I gonna be able to hear it?
(or you or us … )
