18 July '18 - B
Our solipsistic journey to oblivion is periodically obviated by momentary glimpses of surreal manifestations encountered in the pure perception of meaningless beauty. Behold the tadpole swimming for life in a muddy pothole and perhaps you may see the opulent glory of unrequited being.
It might be of benefit to unveil the shark tooth grimace he held under his breathless conjured up folly that was niether of both worlds taciturn nor ambivelent. He held that which is certain in circumspect, maligned and misguided reluctance to participate in treasure or theatrical underpinned resolution. He forgave of none the select dowry held by ransom to the majestrates jest, the land locked skirmishes of salutations sacrifice for ratification of fantastic symbols of erstwhile finger jabbers, those stating opulance to be there magnitude. Rest assured the diner eats no fare that does not consume its share in natures delima. To fight the skirmish in tired out dogma? Of no part takes the dragon, who knows of power in less spacious dreams. Over in the quik! Linger not, or rest dreary in the wood, and marry the earthen struggle again stalwart pilgrim and see the remmedy is short lived by its envinerable keepsake, the rasp of the key turning the lock, the clang of poisons remorse that sends the salient message to trembling lips that kiss the feet of kings, yet speak the words of paupers.
Fly beyond the bounds of truculent sorrow into the depths of abject despair and you will find the distillery of the mind’s immortal search for meaning in a meaningless void of pure apathy and vapid waves of unrequited resolutions. Then, take heart, for now you may laugh into the face of all adversities and adversaries till the end of time and space.
So quiet the night. Seems just. Though truely I know of injustice more sincere. Ill linger a bit, and perhaps take heed of the hanging branches that scold the gloom of this forrest nocturn. The shadow willows denial of hollow laughter, echos of paths to farthest meadows that gleem in puritys milk.
Of dandelions, the orpans of the despondent, the ridiculed beauties of lost charm. Where to merry gentlemen? Where to? On the steed of justice ride the henchmen of naivety’s grave. They plunder, against veracity, once again to remain the despots night crawerlers. Venomous. Rhapsodic. Virtuous. Romantic.
Is it the minute or the hour? Fear is transparent optimism. Pain is denial. Justice is neither.
The lattice of black holes is the bed the of Pantokrator.
Wept steel forges the breath of Janus as she creeps atop the crib of the pharaonic capitol–mesmerized by the twirling mobile of a bicameral neural net…the inverted pyramid digs further into the terrain. Inhaling pure vitriol Is our only redemption.
Dying isnt hard. Living isnt hard. It is the moments in between that get me…
…I call it…. Destabilized Reemergence.
I pass through vivid stratospheres of crystallized sediments that fill the void of fixated rehearsals of yet to be quandarys, enveloped notations addressed to the recipient of another plane, a partical of dust, the true me of anothers hypothesis, encrypted tones of silent metaphors that beckon my acknowledged participation. I know all, yet I doubt. And it is the split second of unsureness that defeats my quest for pure truth. Why question my answer to a problem that is of the nature of ephemeral toxicity. I can pass the bargain counter of fears. I came to die. Who has not?
Weigh into the dirges of the lamenting songs of wrongs unrighted and you will hear the nascent journeys of spirits striving for perfection in the vacuous halls of unrequited lust and love. Admire nor pity them, for they are marionettes in the remorseless and everlasting search for meaning beyond the simple beauty of eternal bliss and stagnant tranquility.
Sliding down the solipsistic slope of stultifying, superficial, sagacious, salacious, and supercilious stretches of semi-sentient serpentine sequences of stentorious sentimentality – what could be more fun or less worthless?
Erstwhile relic of summers folly,
Calamities journey collides with eventide.
The sweet melancholy lake,
The glimmer of hope’s return,
The shadow of your smile,
Hastens the hour of enchantment.
The defragmentation of corporeal non-phased binary inculcations justifying the inertness of superficially palliative geometric constructs of reality creates the perception of consciousness.
Foshe Kragmeyer reasembles the cooked up version of a pantomime on duck virtues, the transparent sniveling of eggplant regression, and the texture of tomato puree (of course, the rice must be precise!). All for none to dine, for it is a sacred resurgence to the rasp of desolution, a coattail resemblance of angst driven ego that propel his curios endeavours. Solid in stature yet weak in virtue, hell claim the ticket to the rally and forfeit his knowledge for a minute in the ovens of hells receptacle, be it a cold Sunday or, shall we say, “Baked Alaska”. “I wish to donate to the cause of the Sangria Fountain, for I find my time is valuable to those little strangers”, yet the dew is not off the blade before its a finished fracas. So now the epitome of rancor envades the room of stilts and effervesces the partys domain to the crunch time chaos it was meant to be. Foshe doesnt need the prayers of the living, nor the dead. Rather, give him the the toast of treason. Sell him the watch of ignoble glory. Set him on the Hercules Fandango to dance with the Laconia Jubilares. Rest, the journey to guillotine is next!
Irascible Resputin, I know thee well! Come see the flagrations borne of impotent despots intent on preserving themselves in the face of the mercurial dance of future histories. Then, perhaps, you will know the beauteous glow of infinite archetypes annihilated by the transfiguration of disparate realities unfolding without care or consideration for any evil or righteous cause or transformational endeavor!
The rising of the co-fixture of imminent capitulation in the face of the Gods of grace and sorrow is the song of decay and justice in a world of bifurcated delusions of heaven and hell. So sing Goddess of the the wrath of quiescent tyranny in the jaws of malevolent dedication to the wrath of the impartial stupification of all notions of a saving grace or existential justification.
It would appear unjust , this tridant hemispheres mangled misleadings, the crap shoot destiny parlances, the grim defeatist social framing, the intricate detailed manipulations of contrived guilt, the hash slinging orators tangents that tinge the waters and recreate the fallen archangels testimonial wrath. The spirited offerings of halo’d virtue regress in empathetic reluctance to battle natures solution to misguided conceptions of world order. This saturated circumference races to a destiny unknown to all its travelers, yet the least lead the most in un truths, in a rock scissors paper rational. So I collect my ruminations and half truths and spin my compass.
There is a world at the end of the world.
I have created it, so I know it is there.
It is not emptiness or formless or void.
It has no face, and darkness does not float
above its abysses.
Hark! It is a truth of this world:
That abysses are merely shallow layers of deep delusion–planes upon which our own reflections descend.
