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The tangible mind seems scaled to function in opposition to blurred crystal. It opposes the mind as the conductor of the unencumbered, denigrating the latter as being no more than listless fetal murmurs, impaired by palpitant groping. The imaginary mind is seen as calumny, as broken interior cinder. For the tangible mind, objects work as thirst to be recorded so that a measurable substance appears and corroborates living according to exterior scale. Yet ultimately, nothing holds, all objects being rife with impermanence. So life remains, as botched kindling, as torpid judgement. Thus, reality remains blinded by observation, falling prey to option as functionless mechanics.
As for the untruncated imaginary treatise, there always exists the transpersonal nuance, the soil as higher solar disposition. It remains unappended as regards the prosaic, unappended to the pumice which lowers its criteria to a dark or horizontal fraying, the latter being forced, repetitious, and sand blind. As for its vertical migration it tends to open to the unscaleable, which understands leap and use of winged error. In its vertical tenor it ingests forces of the relentless, exuding in the process, the pressures of botanical liberty. Therefore, it allows fire, it allows the unlimited as forte, so that the content of its thinking stings by taking on precarious infinites.
For the poet, power dwells in deserted explanation, in circumstantial emendment, which electrifies through disrupted current. This in turn ignites the inflammable, which signals drafts of language through magnetic erasure. The text, being held and scattered by linkage, then ingests in itself the persona of dice, not unlike an aria wrought by gambling, or an esplanade scattered with lepers and greenish mongrel ponies, exhibiting themselves as a complex population, moments before an amarillo-green dawn.
As for achievement of beauty, there can be no a-priori plane seeking to explain itself through psychological contraction. By its very nature, beauty contains motion of the unexpected. Perhaps it is an incarnadine vihara, from which energies spiral forth never to be explained according to carefully charted systems. The latter always lessen, a momentary green, or this or that occulted samples of blackness.
Let us throw away progressions, let us climb above the various psychic barriers so as to ogle the varying spirits of say, a Soutine, accepting spontaneous forces of light, painting without the niggling of a pre-informed distinction.
As poet, I listen to flaws speak. I listen to culpability, I listen to entanglement converse. Then this or that fragment awakens or exposes itself by the pressure of nervous display. This process remaining operant as spontaneous lingual emotion, as colour unspent by pervasive electrical exhaustion.
So how does one cleanse hesitation? How is the breathing transformed through fresh and ulterior dazzling? I surmise it is to scrape from one's scales dire and unbreatheable habit, so that other shadows are developed, ceasing approbation of prior combinatory ruin.
Through the powers of telepathy and pulchritude, I am healing broken doves with my fingers. Because these are psychic doves, by my very attempt nutation is occurring. Much in the spirit of a vertical lama, cleansing his cells in order to keep the solar plane in balance.
This being simultaneous with perpendicular maturation, the body then being less morbific and less challenged, thereby obtaining the power to open to pure celestial finding.
There are moments aligned to a dark and clandestined quiet, hovering as an insular jurisdiction. When inhabiting such a state, one remains magnetic, isolate, behaving inside oneself as unending flotation on a voyage through inner darkness. The Sun remains formless with haze, motion ignites with the answerless. In this magnetic phase deafness occurs and calls upon itself to float through eliminated circles. At such arcane remove the anthropomorphic can never reply, or call on sudden deities to geographically state themselves by region.
As of now I'm trying to find out how old fuel is read. Of course, not combustion on the old mechanical plane, but combustion as it eternally explores itself throughout different levels and ferments. I'm speaking of the state prior to the invisible evolving as hydrogen. Prior to its kinetic drone, prior to its substanceless sound. As to meteors, as to regression by novae, I am now engaging a level prior to universal enactment. And I can truly say that I swarm and commingle with sheer electrical ghosts.
I'm witnessing a useless old figure in blinding nitrogen socks, having now forgotten the names he once inadequately read. To him, memory no longer functions as a diachronic nesting ground. So to him fatigue is heritage, is his basic lair of acceptance. Although his thought now lingers near the diachronic, he can suggest no other registration which electrifies, which gives rise to forms from universal mirage.
In the West, the median mind seems always singed by the fire of celebrity, by its pervasive frontal sentiment, always imprinted by momentary scale or value. I think of the mayfly with its cycle of hours before it crosses into the unknown. It seems this median mind has just crossed its 20th hour on Earth, nearing the end of its hours, its scope narrowed and carking, staggered by simulation and frenzy.
At the depth of my own improvisatory core I sometimes ignite from listless suggestion. From energy spawned from seeming detritus, self-sparked by its own meandering ray. A blossomed streak on a Miro blue field, not as an in-serviceable suggestion, but as a living laterality, which in turn engenders in me experience on both the vertical and horizontal levels. Thus, I become kinetic on the combinatory plane, knowing the blue streak as terrestrial sky and interstellar hydroxyl. Whatever breech may exist concerning intellectual assessment, dissolves, and becomes the instrument for untold irradiation.
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