|Title:||sixty hour discourse|
|Posted On:||2006-06-06 11:43:59|
Slowly, lone wanderer, now a charmed thoughtful process of ever-becoming; the fragments of my inarticulate awakenings leap onto pages incomplete and trickle down the primordial walls of a cave filled with fairytales; in lucid dreams my make-believe is your make-believe is the other’s make-believe where we continue to grow vine-wild, spreading green up the somber grey-blue glass commercial towers of being here, now.Listening To:
Hungry-eyed insects the treasures of another beings trash, together we move together one small star, witness to the wonder of minutia forgotten by the current on the peripheries of vast void expanses, together towards a center oddly angular for first glance organic phenomena but we like it here in our ecstatic state of biomechanical revolution, evolution into six-legged cellular tissue propelled by ephemeral steely suspension, rigged with energy panels absorbing sun light and moon light and black light.
Incomprehensible mutterings from a red-haired angel remind me that my toes are still touching the ground, how much higher I could rise with a shield of love and a sword of neutrality in my pocket, and liquid light in my veins; timeless is the sweetest friendship because it has nothing to explain, beyond the breath of words with heavy histories, can see me when I sway to the trembling wind, and so must not be understood, and so I grow to mutter too.
The trickery of a candle flame reflection, sitting on a blue sofa sea undulating and warm, staring into imagination, and body still vibrating to the thump-thump of summer’s electronic heart; in the presence of the most beautiful muse serenading me with her bittersweet nostalgia, impartiality giving way to awe –part fear, part love, all-powerful-her of fantastic passion exploding my new technology, and rebuilding us together through symbiosis.
A boy I never knew before baring his kindred soul to me through the clicking of cheap metal spoons that feed his creator, he tells me about when he was born; moments of first eyelid flutter stimulating sensory hyperspace and we have history brother, and I sit in your home at home at last, calculating the improbability factor of any moment but mostly these ones, giving up on impossible calculations, and listening to the meandering minds of our collective unconscious.
The muse and my brother are in love in front of my shinning eyes next to a painting depicting the war between plus and minus, plus is winning, all are glowing amber-red, and I am calm and I am whole and I am brimming with serotonin and unconscious entactogenesis because we are one; the muse holds my hand.
A pop-psy-guru told me a life before that it is impossible to grow wings from human DNA, but this pop-psy-guru believed in truth, and DNA, and so do I, and I believe in nothing, and random atoms can spin forever creating the mutable everything- contradictions of existence and coherency of infinity- but now I believe in this, and every name is the name of god.