Them

It was ever and only a conversation with the Creator of All Things, which did a handy dandy ourobouros dance in the strictest sense of such inner space theory, and was ever and only one's self.

A lonely subjectivity perhaps, but Occam's Razor dictates as the sharpest beam, and God knows it would be best if done quickly (less pain, so we're told),so with the assumption of "if it looks like drinking bleach makes you clean inside, it probably does" spirit of our Educated Men who publish drivel; heresoforth rightly:

Refusing to step into the mirror house of responsibility for another asshole hat placing ego battle with some dark reality, some lost assed toejam flotsam ; even eschewing the necessity of respondability (if there is no such word, let it be now invoked with contextural meaning).This is a necessary foundational point. Stay the course. Never the less, ahem.

Instead of the moving separateness of the snake, I'd much prefer to center and be still, perhaps the one eye of the One I will allow me to see the truth swirling in the green silence preceeding and whirling in the surround sound biosphere of the drama queen hurricanes occuring, and lacking staying power, like an old man who farts trying to keep it hard in your mouth with sincerest apologies.

Here there is an inward sweet breath of satisfaction to be had within the non verifiable truth, also known as the only verifiable truth, breathless, in the wonder of thought, vision and senses intermingling, with not some small amount of pure thrill. In this place, rendered with no group consensus, no belonging to the small dog packs preoccupied with nothing more than a lifetime of neurotic heel nipping to protest their lack of chances to fail at a task they aren't worthy of. There is no reason to test and retest and reset and retest, or to prove what is beyond one's own perception. No one belongs, vs a scope of infinite variations, and the winner is an obvious one. We are all, everyone, indigenous here: rightfully born to the absolute sovereignty of being the Eternal Nobility to the empire of our own inner choice. You want the truth? Nobody can handle the truth beyond their own senses, beyond the neural pathways comprising kingdoms of every private hell and all of the other elsewheres. The mob mentality is a cancer that consumes itself, your normality ass shoved for perfect placement in the compost pile of an endlessly hungry garden, blooming Beauty by the microsecond in vastly regenerating and unstoppable manner far beyond numbers.

Our verbal tower of Babble, it leans like crooked Pisa slices, riptorn clown mouths with bleeding yellow teeth and tornado wreckage. Despite the definitive attempts ad nauseum, ad infinitum, the pen's point is dulled to a flaccid blade of it's former glory. An inane paperfactory of theory, lost in the greasy sweat and foetid wind of impressions without subjective meaning, naught but the whirl of obsolete laws from the asswind howls of the scholars turned Professional Teachers pretending knowledge of the verb 'to live' by memorizing it's correct conjugations and holding judgement on misspellings. Wrapped like a rotten gift, this professing in that profession, promoting success via degree at an extraordinary cost well beyond the monetary: the caged energy of intellect, to be used in the service of the money con, as if worth were truly defined by such regurgitation of trivial test facts and acceptable parameters of what's cool with the scene. Academia, oh the humanity. This is really an impossibility based on an invalidity, tragically bound to failure ultimately. Our education built upwards from the foundations of edifizios cornerstoned by mysogyny. The connection between education, our holy churches and pedophilia already a known fact for centuries, and allowed, certainly. This feat of belonging to the crowd of degreed intellectuals deserving a better quality of existence based on the aforementioned skillset is not done without puking in your own lap. Congratulations, Soylent, you're looking a little green around the gills, like the corpse of Jimmy Saville, powdered and dressed, with nails painted beautifully on pale swelling hands. It would have helped more to know the ingredients of high magic spells, in order to avoid being the sacrifice to one. But for freedom, we would all be lost.

The source of these sounds- our heartbeat, exclamations and expressions, is our humanity song. The cerulean canvas and it's endless inimitable (or really, a secret truth revealed: as we are) sky sized paintings continuously flowing sunrise and sunset colors without repetition, ever: the ultimate inexactitude. This may be more important art than the all of the museums filled with chaff of the dead skins of destruction and manipulation of naturally occuring materials. To be clear, they are mutually inclusive, all of them, the piece of shadow but a contrast for purpose: a sacrifice to the blessed lives unsought but given to humble us deeply.

Socialized Creativity, the Institutions of Art, with it's shackles and wrongness, an interpretive Ape porno with party dolls, while Creation remains unseen outside of curtained Motel windows smelling of generic cigarettes and hot polyester dust. The asphalt and oil rank of the parking lot blowing in through the cooler vents on high. At best, the educated artists envince a vicarious voyeuristic self expression humping impotently with always acceptable shockingness among exclusive emperors wearing no clothes. Art now is the preoccupation of an invalid obsession with being seen and heard, as if that was the object, or really even a true possibility one could trust as adequate, if not worthy approbation or recompense. A hollow reward at the end of a lamely run race to be had in the symbolist circus in front of a roaring crowd of zombies.

It is the force of emotion, raw grief and insane love wounds bleeding fire dripping into staring eyes that gently sing the lullabye of silences; deep dreaming stoking the engine of continuance onto tracks blending the blue sky nothingness into the distance. On the side of a mountain, passing a town called There (or Their, or They're), made of many roads and homes. There are ghosts of angels and children. There, wretched ennui runs into sewers that water a dark forest surrounded by creeping glaciers. There, a train pulls it's whistle shrilly and screams a thousand banshees past the station, pouring benediction clouds of steam, billowing wonder, all colors fading and windblown, erased and erasing.