A Human Movement
My mind is unfortunately not an instrument, but it does get going when it wishes. At this late hour the creativity will be low, yet perhaps the integrity will be intact enough to wrought inner innards mild intermediary even illustration when just as just.
She was a bus, if not a nose. I was on this bus, I never remember to breathe.
There were two buses. One drove into Russia, a snowy slippery traveling way was made, and the signs in odd diplo-linguistics that although were business signs, seemed to be all in English.
Her voice came through a plastic cup. This cannot be emphasized enough. Not ever.
The other ride took me to a mystical theme park that you've considered yourself. A Gothic jungle-gym the size of a rock quarry. When we first arrived we immediately witnessed a mystical beast licking away at some melting glacier. A small-headed, female, moose-like, winged beast slurping the ice drift that when those amongst me noticed, the guide said no.... He had been mocked & Remember this is a dream.
The calendar said 1984, black and white, the technology of water skiing trapped in black and white and I had seen it before. Every absorption was a blood swell, or a muffed breath, stuffed nostril twitch.
Coming back, the bus let off, & it had become obvious that our arrival meant the tour of the Gothic remnants would begin. A stone tour in the high arches, lost twisting sideways, stone naves in hollow apses and I was afraid. Never being claustrophobic before didn't mean that a dream about being trapped in the smallest stone clutches of a church didn't pause my modern sense of pleasantness as if a nervous gut were enough. I was stuck.
I didn't fit. Literally, I was unable to make the second twist into the stone passageways, so squeezing back through the one turn I did fit through, painfully, I gave up and came back to where the bus had parked.
It turned out the guide of this Gothic adventure park was an avid photographer, and had been a friend of a former lover of mine. Actually I hated him and I loved her who he had known before I met her. She was gone, had been for too long and I was on the outside, unable to figure into the tour, her life, I was alone and had lost the girl I loved. He was all the more less queer in this present state. My charm dwindled. He had two cameras.
It ended up that we raced on scooters down a mountain. I don't remember who won, but the scooter I rode had very small wheels and was old fashioned. It was the kind of downhill course I have dreams about very often. The deja vu deja vus are made of. Unlike the gothic twists and gargoyle lockers which had taken my breath a few moments before, which was the first time I had felt that lostness. I can't wait to love someone again.
all gods kill
Here's why gender is wrong: I can look at my arm for 45 minutes straight, I can pass out on beer.
Please spare me the grimey sense. Blah, I've lost. Death, bus rides, Stalingrad. Imagination is a waste of time. The circuits of lust, gymnast stretch.
Plugged in to the mistake, a dreary dream sheet over my head like a ghost costume. A martyr hullabaloo. My pretty words fallen.
take two today, commands and metallurgic imagining
Is it vile to compare people with food? Then what of human's dusted with various delights, human dust on certain sups, the grease of a fine athlete, and those almond eyes. Life's a costume. Flayed fleshed, speared rears, just taking it easy.
Why come along and limit things with some kind of derivatives, keep the sight line clear. Von Steuben's commands were clear, Fire! Half-Cock — Firelock! Handle — Cartridge! Prime! Shut — Pan! Charge with Cartridge! Draw — Rammer! Ram down — Cartridge! Return — Rammer!
Yessir. Sounds to me like a love potion.
Rammer, ram down, Pan, Charge the cartridge, return fire, firelock, half-cock, ramshut the prime shutter, draw the charger charge cocked fire.
The command is clear, the imaginary gesture is unclear. The ease to follow such commands is easy. But the fact that forgetting a step would be a reality is necessary to admitting your humanity. Then the general kicks your mother down a well. You're mad as hell. But generals, oh generals they know.
Metallurgy made things as they are. Whenever you think where am I? What is that? Is there nothing to do? I've got a 3 o'clock appointment... just think about the metallurgist who did everything you do, sat down and made you.
Then forget a command and be blood, dusted. Cannabalized by an inability to focus.
and if there is another dimension to reading, that being a meditional quality, I ask myself to dwell on Vol. 2, Ch. 1: Since the day that modern science gave what may be considered the death-blow to dogmatic theology, by assuming the ground that religion was full of mystery, and mystery is unscientific, the mental state of the educated class has presented a curious aspect. Society seems from that time to have been ever balancing itself upon one leg, on an unseen tight-rope stretched from our visible universe into the invisible one; uncertain whether the end hooked on faith in the latter might not suddenly break, and hurl it into final annihilation.
some problems today, practicing scat
Like it's a game of how much you can keep in your head, together with everything from yesterday and at the same time some broken chronology, vile vowels, I got your poopy cock right here; Blackbird singing in the dead of night to the bowtied bowel broker.
Loredo, Texas is filled with meat. Manitoba Province is filled with fences. The magazine shop is filled with paper. But what I am interested in is all the beds in the world. If I can't have that, then I'll take every bed in some square mile radius. Ain't no bed but my own.
The worst thing a person can do is get excited about someone's else biography, before finding inspiration from a dead tree branch. The worst thing a person can do is think that they are inspired by a tree branch before reading a biography of a dead person. Some human ether form gas-masked smoke-filled vaccum tube, blood sausage kind of thing, needs to sneak up on you. That's called feeling or Being touched by the glass finger.
The participation is either; I am wrong and happy, or I am right but wrong. Silly person emotes the gender on the righteously lost. Headlines read. Magazines fold, are sold. Fingers sell jewels. Don't blame the soul, sleeping. Get glassed.
My plight is the plight of loving that form of ambivalence which is commonly wrought into the form of negatory sidetracking, side stepping and in the process developing an envoloping system of non-systemness, it is the plight of awareness and darkness ripping and rebuilding, loving and ignoring cause whereby yielding cause's cause in a form of expected unawareness. A cousin of no one, listening to events as they percolate in the omniverious ampitheatre of pathetic glee, the body who moves also stands still. The masculine hero, I know is a saddened clump while his clumpness is that which wins over the crowd whose needs to converge comes first and is absolute. We see weakness embodied and touch it as strength, we get strong on ourselves just to be and become a body, a body shared from the beginning and end up seeing only the movement of here and not here. I was here and I am here again, truly I do, know nothing, nothing I do know. The glass is half a glass and the water is half water both allowing their negation to be that which they share in a wholeness. I know there is chaos, wind blowing, isthmuses, sandstorms, orderlies, cannonballs, luxuries, arching harnesses of men's clubs and jokers, funniness really funny which puts the real blatancy of a commonplace banality where it might not usually be, or the holiness between your knees and turns something upside down, and gets held onto, passivity, adoration, and then me.