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what?

it’s these hair-trigger fluctuations of soul that hammer in my head, the by-product of too-much carelessness in the cruel worldview, the viral viciousness that creates the twirling spin of the fascinated liars bared with fangs prepared… venom-less but spitting some vitreous and staining hues from the lips nonetheless, those bizarre quips and qliphothic stings that only make more painful the blisters left behind by this, the bite hollow and strange that rips through the sinews and rend single hung thread… wonder this why with peak forgiving lie, but baring sweet that soft cheat fated fit flung discarded remedy, disease that swiftly centers doubt with stiff penetration… me, the aim of it all, and the gift of retreat that gives me feet through the burning dessert… the code is crude to make better work of the simple forces Here, spinning the silicone thread bare with the electric pulse waylay-ed, and downtrodden the work of men making beds the better for the liars-in-wait to rest their heads… being the human machine does not immediately allow one to access splendors beyond dream, but what does occur is the willingness of the universe to give humans a choice to move or stagnate, the electricity humming out of this tension is that same electricity that evokes the spirits to gyrate and jumble the ghost of the world… I scream and wonder if I had even screamed at all, the violence is silent, and the killer is stalking us all… the homeless wretch I am comes crawling from the sewers on a chariot made of rusted metal, the fierce explanation to years of misuse at the hands of chemical abrasions, lucid from the pain wiping away all chances of finding a trust-worthy partner in the life-long game of chess… it is always a back-and-forth tirade that holds the winner’s nose into the mess left aside… the graphic and the poetic come together in one exalted rite that evokes spring from the air, as the static becomes palpable in the humid wind whipping about our breasts and out of our feats, and we feel nothing if not more human with all the jealous strains and strands darting about our minds in their breadth… what lures one away from irresponsibility when there is nothing but the wretched contempt of the others there to fill that void? what were those times spent lost in thought, or the imaginal realm where everything seems real? what are those fancy images that creep into the conscious mind, that destroy any semblance of the practical yearnings of a reality cut-off from its respective god, and what is our mindset at the explosion of the new age? will we weep for our old ways, or will we think only about the next waves as they writhe up to us through the particle masses? reaching. what is the fascination with those hollow works fetching on the surface? what is that difference between you and me? what is the very reasoning for treating others with such contempt that I cannot see? what feeds the negative martyr, that craves this intention, and what is that force which associates the positive with rewards? that lures so sweetly the very thoughts of love in romantic kindness… with sexual appetites attached at the hip, swinging about the waist like a whip, and stretched beyond bounds this most petrified gift… what are we Here for? what am I that escapes those defined terms? i feel lost like this… saving up for an expulsion into the abyss… loveless, disgraced trip to falling… what can I give?… errant in divine, a fool’s proper wisdom of conceptual content, and nothing you would be interested in by the end… the reflective god, perhaps, but only as the default to thinking there is something to all this…

Thanks, khet.