Discovering The Lazy Gods of the Above Worlds

Posted on: Tuesday, February 4th, 2020

Intro:

“What did it matter what happened in the
colorized image on the canvas? He would be safe.
That was everything.”
– Oscar Wilde, The Portrait of Dorian Gray

I. Feilian & Fafnir, & Foxtrot

          It is June 22, 2019. Some have lost their summer charm; my man, as it seems to me, is an all-year, all-centuries experience. I had prescribed to myself the presiding over the ride’s very precision. I squattered in the daily depictions of false falsehoods, full of chicory and taste– demonized taste, demoralized fates… I no longer hanker after pessimism as a state. Xhosa Hebe, adorn me in Xhosa praises.

          There is temperance through fear and temperance through faith. To some, fear is enough. Through fear springs self-reflection and self-preservation; but I had always found it to be rooted, still, on a negative emotion. For someone like me, who is not a being natural to theism, faith is Literature suffices. We must always take ear of the secrets Life had so kindly given those who came before us. We are, afterall, just experiencing the same consequences and convulsions, be they had been made immemorable by revisionists.

          When one gets tired of a sin, one gets easy to be angered by the sin. Do not react to these people. Know that to allow and to educate is a billion times more helpful than to hit dead in its extravagancy. I had never been fond of love that is both extensive and extravagant. It can be said that I do not care for messages which sling at me the same. If pleasure and praise are power, then pleasure and praise are nothing but tradeable goods. One can buy them, as one can buy health easy. This health is fake, manufactured– an incomplete experience, a prescription.

          As life had been the subject matter, conflict had taken a grand interest. This is not nothing but primal. I thrive, as everyone had thrived before. I caved in, as everyone had caved before. My new pose is now this: Do not let the loss of a life become your identity. It is easy– beautiful, even. Such great works of art had been elbowed into existence by tension of the mind and the body. The mind imagines it all. The body makes possible it all. But it is not for the loss that one must continue. And, I say that now, because now I have both sound mind and round body. How little the fragments of my wisdom can be, it can be bestowed upon the numerous, even those who were made foul. I can convince myself I am that, which I am not. I can contradict myself, which I do not covet. I crave my main man– Myself! I crave my main sin– Incorrigibility!

          We do not reward the regulations. The regulations reward us. Be it twice we had been divers into drudgery, we must observe beneficence. Through it, there is all lonesomeness. In my most lonesome, I become burly– fifty packer’s knot. I am so tired, yet I had never been more awake. The thermometer tells me it’s 27°. I do not believe it. The screen on my right shows the still of two detectives. I do believe it. Some times what are false, when presented by the senses we favor, become our truths. If I had told myself to stay near the 3rd vignette, to gravitate towards the 4th more and more, to never escape the 8th, I would have never properly evolved. Is this evolution tradeable? Perhaps. Still, I would tire myself if it meant so much that my both the fiction and non-fiction could be governed by the eyes. Anything readable is everything circumstantial. Anything talked is everything made safe.

          I must confess to all that I have loved confessing when they are in the form of the atmospheres which were not mine. I circle my place around the world, and it is small. My air is more free. My air sins the main sin of my incorrigibility! I had confessed, therefore, am now able to variate.

II. Enki, & Echo

          As children, we wrote childish letters. We wanted everything, but never had the wisdom and skill to share them, evolve them. This is why being prodigious is celebrated. This is why reading, practicing, and letting as children is celebrated. And this is how we corrupt the world back, as it slowly have us corrupted. When we try to teach those who want to cheat Life, they are stubborn, light-headed. How crazy and crowding it would be, if we let them manifest their innocence onto the world that has, for so long, forgotten it. Ricin, runners, and retinas, divers, and dittany; rivers, latrines, mashes, ogres– these were just words to those who had burrowed themselves in borrowed books. Must children own everything when they own nothing? Must they inherit the alchemy that had once been the cause and cost of the annihilation of so plentiful adults? They do grow, mocked and corrected, in the mocking and correction of society– thus, further pushing them onto things that had all desire for their glowing. Their letters become the letter of tears. Their regret, either evolved or celebrated.

Watch me. / I will be so full of reclamations. / I confessed every aching inch of me /
In the big doll house. / Undressed, I / undercut the / Curricula of the touring /
King of Moving On / and the crimson crime scenes / of many different passions, /
All-the-same tasting reasons and tensions… / Nebulus, Nebulus, Nebulus… /

They had been building the towers up by rattling. The tower, now in a compromised position, /
Deposits itself to the preparation of the dirt. / Are you dying, too, in Bagumbayan? Are you /
Distraught by the thoughts of onslaught / where we we clog and clot, / (Nebulus, Nebulus, Nebulus!) /
Murdering Ra and Khonsu? / We’ve murdered them both. / We’ve abandoned / both father & mother… /
& mother & mother… / & father & father… / & child, & child, & child… / HOW WASTEFUL! /

          We no longer celebrate the wasted. It is a lost art.

          There’s a beauty in undressing the fanatic. The orbiting, the subtitling of them all had always made me feel like I were part miscreant myself. And I find that so many lives had been so often hingeing on the tommyrot of the leaflets, of the fair-use and feindishly-ness; and the trickiest is not to find your self mouth-to-mouth with the recitations of that which presents itself inspiring. In the uprising, I could kiss so many cult followers and icons based entirely on devotion to devotion and some thing to devote to. The leaders, not always so much. I’ve always loved the process of how one presents and presents a brand, but never had it been so sterile when I try to look deeper. To always look deeper is human flaw.

          Can I love without both the minds warring? Can I hire without both the minds insane? Why– people don’t always ‘member we’re more than just our degrees, or lack of degrees, or the whatever-unfinished-papers? Why– we gotta be prosecuted for paper and not skill? (School does not need to kill. Schooling does not need to bill and rebill.) I love all of his skill. I love all that is not of his skill. Enjambments twisting, cat-scratched, down for prayers of patience and mumblecore. I am so undefeatably in the hook. I am so incomplete without all my yakitori and all my books.

          Gašam! Gašam! Gašam!
          Gestú! Gestú! Gestú!

III. Venus, & Ventus

          Smoke…
Have we conquered the valleys? I know it’s meritless when I am certain I could not hack it.

          Choke…
Who are we that what we seek are different from us? Who are we that we salute those who relate to us in all values of sameness? The grossly common demise of the loco motives; all undergoing their inefficiency’s results, their dry-spells, their reluctance to change– these all made a statue more tragic. If the foot itself were emblazoned with such bold words signaling the adversary of inclusivity, the foot itself is a fool, filigree of the fool. How we herald the temptations of the mighty! How we celebrate their eye-shadow, exposing the unrefined nature!

          Smoke, smoke…
Where do people go to dispose stuff.
I’m doing that adult thing where I’m computing if the prospect of learning
Someone new outweights my baggages, I’ll call it for what it is: adult curse.
I’m exercising that Sleep where I figure out who I dream about, but it’s him.
Tell me how to exorcise this Angel. Tell me which to take. Which medicine
Makes the night music more bearable…

          Smoke, choke…
The alphabet of his tears are thudding–
Defectives and fake deaths reduce him to something, but not nothing–
The psychometry of it, fascinating, dividing the proper, outstreamed
Geek gene and diphenhydramine. Brent, Brent,
You have to stop seeing yourself as deadweight.

Wrinkling, / the inkling begs me to state what sustains, and I have a billion words; / None of them matter, none of them really do make a fighter feel safe. / Come tomorrow, the test of longetivity. / Tell me you’ll do everything to make yourself / Be sober and safe.

Heartache is the deadweight we all carry.
The past is the deadweight we all carry.

          “Both nuns and mothers worship images,” claimed Yeats. “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” wondered Yeats.

          Maud Gonne is 6,051.8?– Mine is 6,051.9!

IV. Eris, & Enemies

          This day is uneventful. I am bored. I am hungry. I just want to watch TV. I just want to glide and ride and, later, decide. The deciding can take much time later. Why should I hurry towards that? Today is the day I slack. Today is the day I get of to un-rack The nerves that are just silent. Where do we take them? What do we let them endure? What is endurance to you? What if there’s a go-to for everything; a sort-of un-sure fool-proof cure? Allow me five minutes to breathe and five minutes to smoke. Allow me to bathe in lavender and raisin oil. Allow me to learn the banjo and the drums and the piano in one day. Allow me temperance. Allow me someone who will stay.

          I will not be made guilty for taking time for myself. I sing to myself. I am the lazy song of myself. Allow me that, Devil and Light. Allow me, even when your horns that speed often to the fog of work is burning. Searing, you are, like problem parents interloping. Allow me fealty and libations and failings, lathers, reductives. Allow me to just glide through this day without a care in the world. Allow me that, Devil. And I may allow you to take me tomorrow, Light.

          It had been said that strange is the passage of time; but stranger it is– the passage of Love. Does every version of the Love God despise us all? Or do they only know how to show us mercy when we beg for it? Love is not an illusion, I tell you. Humor is no distraction at all. Anger is valid. Prejudice is not. Understanding is fearsome. Mythology is recyclable.

          Soon, June 22nd will be forgotten. So will the 23rd, the 24th… We will feel different. The acknowledgements of every Devil and every Light and every Love God will falter. There will only be what are left from us which are told by us and not us…

V. Rhadamanthus, & Rumors & Ruminations

          “BABY WHO NEVER SLEEPS, LET’S WASTE SOME LINES!!” All becomes rudimentary to the omosessuale– separate feeds and energetic deeds. All becomes power. All power then fades. When one is young, one preoccupies the mind and body with every activity to gain favor and popularity. And when one gets older, one does all to halt that manner. The enjoyment of the pieces is enjoyable. The moving of the pieces is deplorable. The going-up-the-towers is variating. I dream of Vestfold, of chophouse digitization. I get that we all want a space in the penthouse for all that was framed. I get that there is magic in absurdity and absurdity’s fame. There is a secret touch known only by those who deliver delicate paintings that show the world all of agony and all of delight. In one who surmises the ordeals of the divine are the bits of the shape-shifting bits of quintessence from Suetonius. Hits! Hits!– They do not not survive so the masterwork could survive. They do not keep so the towers could not not be kept. From the deep, the rising box dings so slowly. Rewarding inner-gay energy, unwavering image from the back of the day– the tower is up in flames.

          Miss Fortune! How is the flavor of the faulty fuck-boy? MISFORTUNE! How is the elite chandelier that once hung, telling me of my prima facie? In what world is it even conceivable that I would be not one boy with love? We love you, Saint Wasteful. We salute you, Saint from Spokane.

          I want to spend all my prizes on you. I want you to never want. I want you do do your bartending, your filigree-ing, your hydroflasking, your heirloom-collecting, your unregulated red activities. I’ve never heard of good poison, but every poison looks good affecting you. How do you do it when I’m devastated? When I need attention. I need a lot of validation. I’m screaming to you, potted in the park of the 11th, “GIVE ME VALIDATION!” I spend my scrollwork on you. Could you give me, too, prizes and no alienation? Zelo Domus Dei, tap water maggot, tap water trauma– I eat them all. Clip-to-clip, analyzing bitstreams and bravery– I pick on them all. My cigarette budget is way out of control. Anyways, I like you, and I like you looking tall.

Outro:

“What did it matter what happened in the
colorized image on the canvas?”

It matters. Every tall, and every little,
And every middle thing matters.

I don’t hear the dinging. My
Hearing of the dinging matters.

It is the 23rd, and the 23rd wanders.

 
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