In the absence of this whole root the demiurge will take hold and the boundaries will move in. It’s all number now, all content. There is a point of civilisation, orders and hierarchies. But what’s happening. A spurning. A powerful bolt of the horned and blasted rejected son. The figure of force and King of the wilderness. The Myth maker and the cutter of living wood. Earlier her mythology was natural and tense, the story of every woman. It is a historical marvel for she is a living thing at last. Naked and with full vision and condition. I mumble and complain, for she has a wisdom I do not. It is not clear any more. We have withheld our own knowledge and the tension is palpable and Angels sit tight to the doors with flaming swords. We have shifted and feel soft skin on our hands and the Angel is symbol and the world dries up and all is gone.
Resource Masters and the Kingdom of remnants. Hot coffee burns the lips, we tangle our hands and wonder why we are the way we are. Nature and the revolving of the true pure sight. Abomination masters. Addicted and intoxicated with scent and touch, addicted to substance and our behaviour is rampant and is lust in physical form. A dramatic crisis and the information is fixed within us and we are bonded.
We look for the Law and even the subtle fingertip of Heroin and its ideology shows us paths ahead and the landscape becomes us, every curve of your breast and hip are not lost to me. For within the wilderness are the people who hold such , our birth right, what he have always held and created, always safe. We are foetal and held mystery within us. We have understood that we will crawl to forbidden masters and relent to its judgement at last. Will we understand? Somethings are just there to be appreciated and loved.
The process calls us to evolution of our love and to make it at last timeless and we can at last let the world fucking burn. Chained to everything we are and nothing explains better than the patterns of my bite marks on your breast. Most things we admire about Man is the divine and the edge of the abyss on which he dangles his toes. Everything is on track. Everything will get worse and this is no surprise for sure. I cant see it any differently, people have stopped thinking for themselves. There are no notions to understanding any more unless it is your equations and math. You must work it out as I have given myself to the tide of understanding. We arrive alone and we dance alone so we should learn to be the best of company and to make ourselves transformed. I am convinced this is a purgatory and things are getting tighter and faster.
Be open to it and drink it in. Take the information all in. Her flesh is information. The architecture of her has liberated me and inside her the Goddess and the light. She is a transmitter and it’s simply ‘what goes on’. She is visible and fifty million words is not enough and now the abstract is the only thing that makes sense and will be said, in the end.
In the room air like tapioca the birds outside sing and perch and the stones are unturned baked by hot summer sun. We float on idle waters and seem to drift through temporal skins and girls laugh in the street and the hedge waves amplifies the sounds. Sudden scream of brakes and the sodden tears of men lost. Eyeglass blues the observational grace of seeing and listening. Dead in this town and alive dreaming of ways away with love and bitten skin.
Aspiring actors. Street theatre and chasing escaping dreams. blood on the knife. Blood red on the stones and stars are a distance away. The dried grass at your feet and gentle tones of home that get tangled in the branches. I would write a song, but it would be a cacophony.