It's due. This is my rejuvenation period. This is my Year 9.
And these are the Kings of Era, the words, the stirrings.
Their provokings are reckless, are louder than usual,
though not any more significant.
The last pattern that saw me go frenzy
was the desert.
Mmmm, aye.
A grand sum.
I'm on the plateau of feeling completely uprooted. I just moved away
from MY world that was home. I was moved moved moved there and
moved outta there to see my manifestation manifested onto She.
I can't pinpoint the sensation of jealousy. I can't identify it even
when I am standing next to Beauty and invisible.
I'd always rather be me.
Me? I'm easily embarrassed but never ashamed.
I'm hyper-aware to the subtleties but can't read the whole picture.
And currently, hypo-inflated off all the rotten details.
So then, these are the kinks. This is what the protocol is during
these mighty waves of change and of the pull of life and of life itself
and of work and play and probably lust, and probably always seeming crazy-
now that I am lying calmly in recline, observing my behaviors of the day.
I certainly do not consider beforehand or censor many of the things
that exit my person. I follow my fool through to the end. I am
loyal to my fool most of all. I laugh about that cockney fuck often.
I laugh about everybody's bad habits, and how they all want the crown
for my novice of such things. For my novice in the church of waste.
I laugh about the things I'll real-eyes soon.
Soon is a flirt with red eyes.
Fuck the future, and fuck the past though I live for it.
I can live for something I fuck.
And I fall into place. To be in place, you mustn't be contemplating it.
And I adore the thump the psyche makes when it hits the floor of this beast.
And I love the creative bullshit that gargles upward and foams at the lipstick.
And I love the cramps in my gut when I'm more womanly than you know.
That sensation in the chest when you've clawed your own flesh off of the bones.
This is the self seeking escapism thriving off the mountain I just fell off of.
I just... threw myself
off of.
AND,
this whole MOVE. (I fucking love that word)
AND,
this whole season!
So then, these are the crunches, the underground tremors that
shake so hard the body looses orbit, the body shaken between the
inner and the outer and itself inflicts the collapse of a pathetic ending
to a charming feeling.
I don't care why I'm scratching, I don't care why or who is itching.
It's BECAUSE. It's THAT I AM.
The part of my being without sympathy, without compassion even
and probably mostly with myself, is laughing. Is so happy: She's
starting to tare! This is going to be so spiritually provoking when
it's time to detox. When it's time to begin observing whatever it is.
That part of my being does this to my whole being. Uses her
emotional livelihood and emotional temperance and emotional
intelligence and emotional chaos just for the currency of her pleasure:
Words.
I believe words move me the most though I feel and though I paint
because language shouldn't be this powerful. Language shouldn't
be capable of leading one to believe an expression. It's our invention.
Some formula that correlates enough versions of the spectrum of
consciousness to in order to assign meanings to concept and form.
Some ancient idea that got humped out and moaned out and ended up
exterminating psychic thought for the tyranny of collection.
The tyranny of desire.
The tyranny of loss.
The tyranny of the millions and millions and million more things
I cannot conceive to you because I am not permitted.
Are you sure language wasn't a curse?
It rejects 99% dark matter of thought.
All that.
And,
It's gorgeous.
It's gorgeous when it moves you.
It's gorgeous when it's actually painting a picture, or translating
an authentic thought or feeling or fucked up sadistic impulse
that you know you have in there.
I know I have in here.
I have climbed this mountain for this whole mighty era and
I have let the world cast spells on me and I have believed
my every insecurity and I have hated the intensity of the spells
and I have hated that they have only made me stronger so that
the next curse or spell or joke has to be tougher and brighter
So I can light up again.
So I can loose control again.
So I can write down shit and call it poetry.
