The Shaktic Yonied con-i-cative chronicle
Receptive magical majesty
Why do I insist to refuse the image
Which given to all for a being
I must, I must. but lust for sustenance
Greed gleamed gem, imaginative benefits
Illustrious acceptances held in receptacles
Analogous referrals for smarmy mastication
She: What a Be. The present of this presence
Shaking her out, letting go of these pretense
And obligative fashions
Of latching ons, to momentary ideals
Peeling them down, because permanence is the illusion

The banana tastes better without the Denial
Whittling woodwork
The sawdust agrees
We push, we push forth.. Hesitant to be forceful
Yet sometimes that's the force in it's own manifestation
When's the plan the being, and the being the plan?
Over exhausting contemplative complications
Isn't just a bean plant To eat the seed
And relish in her nourishment
But that want can be that active fault-line
Tectonically rupturing this productive structure
Impatience of the anticipating ambition
Crumbling foundation of her imaged experience

Perception is the adversary of all this malarkey
Projecting the doubt filter on how perceiving this reality
Realization of creation, the constant remembrance to strive
What's the precidence and where's my mind to?

Blind me!   Blind Me!

To forget the exhaustive duty

        Her beauty is so suiting
    Long to fruit.

To be swooned so soothingly

Pachydermal memories, sticky adhesions
Loosening the reigns of thoughtful ride
Outsourced skills seeping the membranes
In an amniotic suspension
The quest lays in retaining
Not to drain, yet keep momentum
As a leak at the bottom of the ocean
The strain refills
Full-filling circulation



The gentleman swims in the crowd
           Of his metropolitan pathways
              Imbibing, desirous affections
             Afflicting self response modes
           I shall surely like to be there
         But the train ceases to brake

Or abide. The subway scatters island thoughts
Motioning exward, refusal to mesh

          Though in mirth we blend
  Against the parent in congress with the goal
        Aligned with their strife
     He watch, the office traffic’s
  Yellow bleeding before all signal
Yet pushes forward pileups
His symptoms pertain; uneasy persisting exquisite

Ponder this well to understand more clearly

       that what we have as life

                is many-hued reflections

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.

Like a collapsing tool
who’s pieces are smaller tools
Making other tools, made of smaller ones
        Spiraling out ad infinum
Spreading out past their nonexistant boundaries
until there becomes a faint orange glow..
                                                          ­      All over.
          And over again.
Until it’s gathered to assignment all presence
Then it turns into a tool of tools, over defined and sparingly malignant.
          Over turning on itself and holding grudges
Striking insets of childish nature
While springs and leaves hold their settings
Meta morphosis exhausting possibilities in a lovely fashion
          Crisp dews and inner faerie gather
A collection of fierce love helping itself to every serving with little consequence

Don’t listen
And not to be contrary
But so that you can really hear
Because when we focus on listening
Drastic distortion
Valour’s whip
The strain confounds aurally
Open up to the forms
Waving in and out
Learn to be and you’ll see , hear , all that
Crisp and tender
In the lower jaw, throatish area
Kind of lysergic, if y’ve been there
But really,
                     really learn to listen
      
          Get blown away

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