18 July '18 - A
What is Infinite Consciousness? Perhaps it is merely the doppelganger of our random perceptions of reality and the impossibilities of bizarre and strange worlds beyond our comprehension.
The void of silence whispers assurances of benign transfigurations in the ever unfolding desolation of metastasizing entropic manifestations hiding beneath our most sacred hopes and despairs. Let us wait in wonder for the merciful annihilation of the infinite perspectives of all possibilities for redemption and salvation.
Is it the quickened step of the of horse, the hoofs of time surrendering their hastened blow on earthin wine?
Or, could it be the dogs breath of Saturn’s twist, regailing the frost of stolen winters curse? Fast as it might, the slow decent of the tale of the drackonian wordsmiths plight is an incrimination in salluator remonstrance that takes the earthin chalis to the envious Gods of Sargon. The plight of angels fallen, from an earmarked for collapse thimble head of asylum, is the flowers petal.
The the dragonflies contempt is a minor flaw in the falls shadow. As the honeybee, and I am not immortal, as the new blades of grass will wither. But, I am circumvented by the fantasy, the angular line that renounces polarity. There is not a start, a beginning. For there is no end. The parable fortells the date of springs return.
Where shall the saints march during the collapse of reality?
“That ole’ dustbowl was the richest thing that dun’ happened us yet! “
When shall the devils float inward in their totality?
“It shown folks that the only gold werth anything, gits outta bed each mornin’.
If we ain’t warrin, then goddamit we ain’t warrin!”
The spokes on the wheel of lies cease their revolutions and mute.
“Quit all that snorin’ else you make Abner stir, and we ain’t want nutin’ do with that! “
That amber glow humbuzzin from the severs encrypt a language I can’t compute.
“Ain’t no gun smoke nor noose ever gon’ git near this ol’ neck!”
The tremors resurrecting from Mu vibrate into our irises.
Simon, I ain’t eating no more sand no more! You hear me? There gotta’ be sum kinda flesh ouchea somewheres! ”
Complications are the foundation on which Ive built my crumbling house of cards. Extricating the savor of nonchalant criticism of derilict absolution requires ten fold the trial and error assumption that I devote some metaphoric championing of whittled away jargon to temp me to the side of anarchical defiance. A hole in roof to peek at the sun? Ha! A speck of time takes on the jacket of solvency in error of corrupt manipulations of perspective. Dare me to commit to the rifles tongue! The quick maiden hastens to the whiskered cats frolic and redux posh sanguinity and the boiled over kettle is again reduced to a mere bowl of gruel. Stage my contempt for afterthought of resilience to backlash poiniecy. Say no more to the giants tongue lashing for to slay the beast I require but two steps into the devils doorway!
In the unfiltered light of new revelations comes the darkness of inchoate knowledge. The philosopher must stand bound to the mast of the ship of inquiry to prevail against the siren’s call of abject belief in the contemplation of worlds beyond rational harmonies and preconceived destinies.
The Phylodendrum speaks to the ease of the chalice of the monarchy in a sublime retrospect that enhances the rain drops certainty in celebration of a clover treatis. Under cuttings in vases of the informed rationale, those whos senses rely on quips from quotations that resolve institutions rational, a quiver, green nutmeg brown twisting crawling vine of despotic regalia, demure, unchallenged by neglect. A society of reflection disposed of treason to the unyielding foray of butterfly whims and Tucan rhapsodies.
Interregnum of the possibilities of belief is the beginning of transformational concepts. Look at the stars and contemplate the emptiness of space and time.
The Phylodendrum speaks to the ease of the chalice of the monarchy in a sublime retrospect that enhances the rain drops certainty in celebration of a clover treatis. Under cuttings in vases of the informed rationale, those whos senses rely on quips from quotations that resolve institutions rational, a quiver, green nutmeg brown twisting crawling vine of despotic regalia, demure, unchallenged by neglect. A society of reflection disposed of treason to the unyielding foray of butterfly whims and Tucan rhapsodies.-
The queer eyed rabbit stirs in the metal pot of langor amidst trifles in sage brush shadows on his hindered path of rapscalian destiny. Awry is the crooked trail and dense is the misshapen underbrush of thorn and thistle. Quick to the lament of the cockroach spins the hourglass in a dust havoc pyrowetting storm giants claw foot, an angular twist and trap, and hitherto a spry tooth invites darkness to a creature of light, exposing the sudterainian visciuosness of ab initio.
Atonement, as justification for some surreal anti theological dispersion of a self righteous connection to an otherwise ephemeral concept of provocative restraint, not withstanding that bit of coagulation of empathetic nostalgia that leads the heart of conscious men to remedy the plight of discernment of right vs wrong with focused actions that disdain reclamation. I must always be aware of the credulous assimilation of self doubt into the pool of vigilant incrimination such as, is always, the stronger motive, that being, justice left to the lamentations of thieves.
Fear not. I have not crossed the path of the wildabeast. I see the fortune of the Trinity incarnate. Breath I must the dust of a thousand hooves, to swallow the pride of countless transgressions, the haze of winter salutes my marrow, the sun is an arrow that pierces my psyche, I revolt against nothing. I am the Revolver.
Stare into the void of reciprocating sunlight to hear the chimes of manifesting destinies. Then you will know the meaningless beauty of the absurd banality of perceived existence.