29 September ’16 – Sinz + Esinz

29 September '16

Suns set and suns rise. We live by light and darkness. Why then are we surprised by the balance of good and evil? Suffer evil, and endure, and, if you survive, you will soon be enveloped by the good. Luxuriating in success and affirmation? – then prepare for damnation.

I dont fear. I respect.
I dont understand. I know
I quiet the crisp leaves on the path, never a step, I am beckoned to my call. The enemys of light stall their end with prejudice. I am all aroud their camp. I am their keeper.

The fortune of opportunity relishes consternation of pretense, the friction analysis principal applies to a sense of extricate awareness. I am but a hologram, an instant camera shutter glitch. Searching for indemnity in a soul scorched word, a turned sentence of calamity is fate. All that I am is through a amalgam of redistribution of strangle hold judgments that pierce my flimsy armor,. But to quiet the outrage of nearsighted fusion of indignant disharmony, I welcome the profusion of instability , and what seems, becomes a mandate, and what is real rakes the embers of yesterdays fire aside, and radiant solace entices my crooked glance, invites my austerity to consider the breath I take as more than exact furtiveness, but omnivorously absolute magnificence.

Alsyno the Leopold hat faster that tastes little crumbs of tangerine tidbits whilst wothwile smock bearers mock his artifice domain of backtown cement and iron castibles, high risen formally decadent modern edifice escapements, now relay swich domiciles of derision, fog strewn ledge monster’s archives, now tresses lounge chairs on sequin voyagers of serpantine sleds.

I wonder if he got his mark of glory in this Haven of Durst. So be it! Not I, of Trilogans Hammer, though! I caught the tail end of the cameo cutain call and assailed for new lands. Always of before and nambient of pre dawn, awakening to still the whistle kettle only. Not of quest, or earnest. Of invested calamity of interests that tat tat tat on tin roof time. And that is the beckoning to a fire angels eclipse.

Merry mentors of angst, be wrangled of sardines, tiny bastards of impass oily flesh, slime gotten pilfered pungent predators of pecunity. The cat of mice lears my shadows way, and I canopen my fate, the red fire bottle awaits to douse my trumpets halo of sea bone and flesh. Absolved? Of what treason? Sardine me to Satan’s Locke. Mad I may become, sad I once was, horrific in tiny guts glory I am! A saltine with vinager trembles at my erie eye, the sum of time to consummate the two. Wrangle that pedantic philosophy merry cork twisters and resolve to digest the ingestion.

A lake in a forrest, an amusing spectrum of absurd, pronacios osculation, is prevalent dosage for this tangled vine’s eyes of sorrow. Raspy throats chirruping languid in hollow vacancies of pushed down heaven’s truffles. Masked marauders of centurions depth triangle squeeze the dark overture into nocturn lanterns that flicker buried immortals tangents of tribulations. The rocks of shallow creeks hide their wisdom from the dawn, protecting the blood trudged amphitheater of destiny. Say to me, to a nuance of insight, that I reel in the effused paradigm, and quote me in books of iniquim’s chalice, but the finder is not the wisp of the hand of isonic diffusion. No, the nightcrawler circumvents my grand ovation, the emptiness of my intrigue is absolution.

Discretionary politics. The order of the day is to meander through the concieved “usefull varients”, including and discarding as needed. Im guilty of this effervesce of moral indiscretion. Being aware of my involution though, keeps me keen to the wind, and the course not set by hand.

On relative matters that concern not even the porch hounds dreams of incoherent cultivations of tempest’s diatribes on inculcate trespassers of the grass rooted in the surounds of manifest Eden, that noble pretense of futile accomplishment coveted as success in societies delirium of thought process, I must excuse my absolute neglect in opening the gate to the leoperd’s paw of distracted intent. Do I instruct the turtle to come up for air? Ha! I know the books of children’s rhymes, friends of this chosen palate, the guise I volute to sneak under the water’s mist. Give me the Tristan’s fist of sand, the orator of ambrosia. I say but little chimes. To Isobar I speak my indolence, my omnimnity. I am not bewildered, but fascinated by my inept repitude of karmic fortune for not having the slightest earlhly clue as to the intricacy of “who done it, and why”.

If you believe that you see the Truth, it is not the Truth, it is rather a mere apparition of the apparent. The Truth is in what cannot be superficially perceived through vision or desire. It is hidden in the faraway, banal, and placid shores of deceit and duplicity. There one can gaze without focus into the reflection of the glistening waves and and observe the wonder of what has never been and never will be.

On radius sanctions of sincerity, fortifitous Asmyres cuts through to indemnify the rebel of redemptive ambivalence. To care to “real time”, Asmyre’s opulence is indeed a perspective drawn near, then exhaled in gasps, whimpering futile ingots of Sartremonial trivia. I command none of my thrown away gestations of vernacular vestates. It is the liar that brings the feast to my sordid table. I see merry weather in constraint of lashing the mask off regents of inoculate petty thieves of virtue. Were I to be in such high remonstrance that I cultivate and transpire all guilty verdicts to the platitudes of self acclaimed knowers, the opportune versifiers, that which I portune with insoluble vigor myself, would that chip the fatal blow to the jargon rock of dissolute inference of that “I must know”. I am hier to the throne of all, all that is inspired, all that reaches enmity, all forever, the question unresolved is my salutar avarte’.