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To externalize that which  is
and was always, world   without end
meant to be internalized,  but, yet
instead becomes, in the most vile
of affrontries; externalized
to the point as to where  no part
whatsoever is to be worn..
When the world,  as a whole
takes on this form of non-life,  and
if,  in and through deception's crafty-art;
attempts to pass it off,  as life..

It becomes, there and then
the communal-advent,  if you will
the rusted-hinge, gate opening,

                                      if you will
of concealed-chaos's invitation  
to the one--

Well-versed in counterfeit, fabrication
brought up  and wet-nursed  among the  many
spindly threads,  woven in to
the exceedingly-intricate conflagration  of
the illustriously-nefarious  "world",   of the
world.  wide.  web..
Well-honed,  to the bone;  within deception's
well-laid form the image..  

                                                          And forever,

oh mighty god,  will be established,  your throne--

A forever-world;  built upon,   nothing.
absolutely, nothing

"‘Meaningless! Meaningless!’
    says the Teacher.
‘Utterly meaningless!
    Everything is meaningless.’

"What do people gain from all their labors
    at which they toil under the sun?
Generations come and generations go,
    but the earth remains for ever.
The sun rises and the sun sets,
    and hurries back to where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
    and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
    ever returning on its course.

"All streams flow into the sea,
    yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
    there they return again.
All things are wearisome,
    more than one can say.
The eye never has enough of seeing,
    nor the ear its fill of hearing.
What has been will be again,

    what has been done will be done again;
    there is nothing new under the sun.

"Is there anything of which one can say,
    ‘Look! This is something new’?
It was here already, long ago;
    it was here before our time.
No one remembers the former generations,
    and even those yet to come
will not be remembered
    by those who follow them...

...what is crooked cannot be straightened;
    what is lacking cannot be counted."

~Dave and that gorgeous, Bath's kid
He writes songs to the world like letters in the post,
He mails them by bird and they stay in the sky for winds to carry, delivered on a doorstep
It landed in my harddrive
I download it to my mainware and nothing but the emptiness of throat can save
For more, he commands I write back to omniscience of a third-person view,
A second-hand first-person perspective of how your words tingle with the tip
Of the imagined blue veil that only comes across this white page when I look away
(Getting closer to black when I turn away, fading from view as I create myself when seen)
When I look away, my peripheral, an indirect source
Filter it through beads, a field you are, the field beyond our reach, reaching everywhere
The field for me to push through and spin through and move through
No flipping, spinning, consistent flux of illusion
I breathe these hymns into the blue candle and my eyes
Will be dedicated to the fairness of The light
Close our curtains to feel the wings, the much subtler wings
That flap and sail us on through milky gaseous molasses to unending potential
My blue candle awaits your confirmation, awaits your acceptance
Because the flame represents the mystery behind your drowned eyes
And foggy speech as the smoke draws up into the sphere above me, never evaporating
And I hear to feel your lucidities, your technicalities,
And it is math to me, and models to you

And like models to you, mold me like clay, Potter
Draw me out in lines and in numbers and in other things from the foreseeable Now
You can create me out of anything
Of the sound, to think of the ‘were’ and the ‘when’
But never the present-future to be substantial enough
To break away my devotion to a gray area
The continuation from black to blue to white
Meeting in the middle
Stuck in the middle
Where you are I see, where you are I follow
Stretched by the prongs of time to stream like rivers and it
Ripples like a paradise that I could imagine still
Oscillating toward the pearls you harnessed
Out of me comes nothing but in me everything goes
Bleakness surrounds and now I am wrong for being on my knees
To pray and to beg and to show you my life
And I am swimming the wrong way, opposite and backward each limb flies
Into a different stream
I go nowhere to be nowhere

No need for flashy love and like the water
To bead and drip and to become sloshed together
Like a mistake for creation
My transformation forces two bodies into one soul victim of splicing
I see this all and weep because what is it? Why do I write this way?
Pitiful and pathetic my mind assumes and I make up for it by showing off
The newer ways my soul reaches out of my skin,
The new protruding mountain peak and the new depth of a valley
Bluer waters to float you and cooler sips of wind to take
This is how she shows me the illusions that take hold
She forms them with her motions she seizes them with her sound
She shows me levitation and how they stand so tall
Another one, *****, another one! *****, show me all!

A close friendship--
so close,  that  we could;
we could touch the undersides of our
forearms together ,

One skin-- one opening up  to the other--
the blood from you, flowing in to me,
and mine into you..  but within me :

Your blood would remain complete,  whole..
as would mine,  inside of you .

And at the end of our long moment  of
coming together
as close friends that way,  your blood
would return back to you--   whole, and complete..

Your very DNA imprint:  fully intact,  
as would mine, also..  your skin, fully
closing back up..   but still,  always remembering..

A closeness, so pure,  that there is
never a loss of who it is that you are..
  only gain.    

  Yes..  that is what I want.

If I gave you everything that I owned
and asked for nothing in return
would you do the same for me
as I would for you..
or take me for a ride, and strip me of everything
including my pride.

But spirit is something that no one destroys
and the sound that I'm hearing is only the sound

of the low spark  of high-heeled boys.
It's like the thunder is right there
Outside my Window
On the cloud that is adjacent to the view of me
Getting the perfect angle into peering into my demiurge Window
And knocking
Trying to come inside
I imagine the cloud man squatted, arms resting on his knees
Eyes are clouds rolling forward in an endless spin cycle swatching me
Lightning for hair and silver lining for lips
He mumbles to me with rumbles
His language body parts chemistry feelings thought being all of thunder
All of air slapping and light clapping
He peals that I open the Window for him to come inside and toy with me
To say hi to me -- he knows I’ll cave in and open the Window,
I always do
And I always will
As soon as I open it, he swooshes and slides away
I close and he is back -- “Leave this Door open always for me, and only for me. You will not close this door on me. Do not let this happen again.”
I obey, and he gives me an approving nod and I bow my head submissively
It has to be
a lack of sleep..

Insomniacal thought-police,
could only dream this up

Delivered from
a rolled-up note,
that bug-eyed trope
of one-skin buzz,
runs ugly through
the neighborhood.
Some duggery of skull-top
lynching underground
resistance, thinking
every shot, a tracer
bearing names.

They are
out there, now
in no-man's-land,
that orange hell
of pictograms
and all of them
No one should suffer and die at the hands of a ******* the way he did. But ****'yall classic hiders for where you took it all after that.

Candace says **** y'all too. Hate me if you want, IDGAF..
but look at the light in this young beautiful's eyes

and then tell me once again  what really matters.

Y'all got yourself a truthteller right here--

Ah.. Candace Owens,  baby I dig your fire <3
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