there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted? No.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be **** to pay,
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
memes 'n' such.
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa
Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)
commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
Those are experience.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.
We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,
"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our ***,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth.
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our *** is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.
Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.
The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to ***** labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by ***.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…
The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.
Any feedback reflecting enjoyment or confusion, please. This is a chapter from my book "Judging Angels" a memoir. Would you read such a book?