thepivotingseagull:

[For it is time to figure out what we believe.

As it happens when I am awake at length, in these primal, delusive states, beyond the point of being tired. This is what crosses my mind.

I wander away even from the need to rest my head. I wander away to the point beyond ever having needed sleep to begin with and it seems inscrutable to me.

And of course I would need to sleep, eventually. But for now I am infinite, I think, in these extended, circular moments; for now I am more than longitude, I am latitude, I am upwards, more grace than human grace, better.

And how we lie to ourselves about the necessity of sleep is an exact replica of the human psychosis. For we live unrested, until we are defeated: by the natural processes of fatigue, we unwittingly make our way through our infinities, and die as human.

By the final unbearable wound. We get damaged. We are chipped away by doubts and ridicule.

Then we fade out. For all the times when a person had retaliated just in time to curb death, that person in turn would lose days to stress or languor.

So awhile goes by and the same things matter. There are platitudes we know are disguises, masks; we are enlightened; there is the subtle encroaching feeling that one is not only alone but as loyal to fate as puppets to the master. We reflect our fate by simply being. Every day.

Nobody can control being alive. It is our fate. And it is my personal scope of beauty to imagine all us as being upon this planet for a time, this planet only as well for a time, and forever afterwards a dauntless blankness, an eternal, breathless tomb: sans memory, sans any subject of reflection because, of course, the mirror stares out into sightless darkness.

I am the mirror in the closet. Or I like to think we all are mere reflection which has been put away. Or perhaps machines that bounce back and forth and thrive especially when bouncing along a current of many discernible things and objects, objects that by their external nature seem to prove the internal nature of the mirror when in fact we are really speaking of a mirror, which can only reflect as much poise as the gazer permits to see in himself.

What is lost in this is not necessary a subject to reflect on but the energy to do it. One in darkness reaches for darkness and then reaches no more. We live and know and map out the faculties of this being-alive, but without the schematics; rather, by the virtues of others’ discernibility, which makes sense as there would not be possible faculties without a place for those faculties.

And if being-alive itself is the place than one might as well discount the rest of those on this unconscious, watery marble, itself nearly impudent in my eyes, a thing sickened more by more care towards its opinion-less opinion.

So I think of this without sleep. So I grow hemmed in.

What is true void, indifference, or what I might call the pathos of the neutral. It is grass. It is the echoing of slipped leaves, many, at once, sounding a reservoir yet each in itself, nay but most times, a commercial habit of thinking, or a thought-gratis, or thoughts misrepresented that one might infuse upon reading.

And yes they would carry it around with them, spreading the lie thought to be truth. but anyway, this is one hell of a massive blind, blue, and rocky platform: the which will always have its perspectives by refusing it to begin with.

And upon entrance already to that final dying-time of all us. No apocalypse. No rupture of the moon. Who do I speak of, or for ??

I speak of course of what amounts to a future of people whom drones now would find liable to see as dispassionate.

At the moment people may think, it is allowed; but when we do we are sleepless until we either untie the knot so to speak or succumb to the divisive will of the body, meanwhile thinking ourselves outside the realm of others, beyond, better.

But the most dangerous moment is that which advertises certainty like an oasis reached by those without water, burnt by sun and wind, led desperately through the desperate miles of sand and whorled, dry tree.

The retaliation is ceased and so is the life, simply in hankering for water. A dying body is no longer a mind. It will happen and this maybe is due not only to death itself but a general analytical blindness, much like what any and all philosophers mention somewhere, that humanity is led astray by indifference, ignorance, lack of perspective, et al.]

: some other thing

great to just have to get the beating fools who want to fight it
out apart for one second again: I had a dream about my death:
I was waiting to go under the knife: I was in a hospital:  the two

of them were fighting within: their side of the story: trust their side
of the story, I told my doom: as for me, it works, empathy: a good uh
example is, they wish to mine more to figure out what I suffer for:
well it all leads up to the same delta: from the pain-vein hit, I ached it
more able, I saw, for feeding it: I became it: hungry for it, for feelings:
they all of them want to share what the other does: but that’s what
I don’t want to see: the other doesn’t want that for them, either, most
likely all myself—but separated.—this tragic clutter makes u gag on
too properly attractive feelings: it is too much : one who knows, uh,
enough about the eater to find much meat to munch here wld. but cld
I just, remember the other they say; cld I recollect what my ego-mind
chooseth, and cld that be who I am; who I was, rashly destroyed,
cld that just, yeah, be no ghost but prodigal: of that sphere-soul
I return, just this one time: well: make it more times: carry the very uh
hexameter! before being set in amber. there is
a fly, a me-mindless in that gold,
eternally in the damn sap, a
     drone. final status
           of me-mindless. suddenly
                        I am peckish, I
               get no longer to
                       be fed to the belly
          too soon, just right,
                      anyway. more of
             this is better than
                        none: more of
               the large petal
                      some imagination
           conjures for some
                     useless reason.
        it is going dead in
                 my hands. it is,
       along with the rest
                   of the lineage, a
         blot, a spot, a sexy
                  insignificance. it is
              existing here and
                      now, but I suppose
            just as easily cld
                      be resisting, or
         dead: oh: I mean,
                     common, an
               age for all of
                     time, begotten to
                 mean some
                         other thing.

: broken river

           I for to summon to the promontory laughing, pick
Wedged food out of teeth, smell armpit, tamp down cummerbund.
Skin grit against face. Ugh. I’m old. Yet for to describe the vacuous flood
Of blood, it must be so. Each to each a psalter and a bent , well: AHEM:

Butt. We face towards themselves alone, they trickling into departments
Way down into the Basement Of Meaninglessness. We go crying
In rooms for them, as a solid streak outside peals through shitty blinds:
Then thunder thunders thunderous across an age as some jive
Gets lost with the next: we as the old equip the wrong ways to young
Birds. Minority and majority help themselves at the same table
        Of the accursed, the unifying factor is the poetry in

Being doomed, caught domed all around by pollution and bad
Music, sirens going off, taking PROZAC: and hearing pops in the brain
Like it were some new snappy extremity to life. Well, all is majority,
All is this river’s fractious movement, dead and yet with a way,
          A belting of motion so strong as to imply intent, as if

Water thought things, felt them when you screamed at a droplet
Of water, felt thoughts when you crooned to the same drop,
Perhaps. Natty as nature is it gets solid, like a relic, bakes
Into penitent ground, removes itself to the heartiest mildew,
Gets into, conjures away all else, into, a FOSSIL. It is we who
Are all along in our movement of death, the true aesthetic,
Mumbling bluely and whitely in breakers trembling their way,

Running as the as-intentional wind, wide and invisible
And felling the unfed ground with oxygen and revealing

The grand, gradual system of the fresh, bright-orange roots of
The trees: and o ample web, web of roots and ‘decisive factors’
And obligation, ream of boss, boo of ghost, stranger’s heckle: o:
What should: what should go, what will be what EZRA POUND
Lovest, which well remained: when’s the fossil coming

Round these parts: pardoner: ragging a stupendous bell he
Says sorry for his own bones’ quivering: me: ‘internal strife’:
Get within the scream, get so within, it gets along with pain’s
Restive gang till they turn on you with bats: ribs crack against
        The Pound Of The Bats: you die. Folly and folly, folly,
Folly. BLerg. So what is it to wrangle needles

From BD afterwards: WALLGREENS, a conniving card grinning
At the store: escaping eagle-eyed manager, the fat clerk
Leads dead man to the bundles in the back: she likes
          Him and tending to go on treating pills to

Those trodden-on, beaten-on—those with burs like scales across back,
Catches flack later from boss, “Damnit Hoss,

                  Distribute the price before you
Go and give shit to rail, straight into The Zone.”
Vacancy. I preach and preach to empty seats
Daily like Schopenhauer during Hegel’s Speeches

In the other auditorium. Black as can be the man gets
Pulled over for it. What in hell is the problem
With reaching for you license ?? Apparently

             Enough to shoot a gun. Cigars, Candy Bars, these
Are dangerous weapons. [Sarcasm, for the sacrament
Is dead, you sacrifice expensive poodles for nada.

The voice is great and resounds. I leave the promontory. Erham.
               The voice is letting me talk about stuff that matters,
        For now; don’t worry. I’ll get back to useless abstraction.]

manufactoriel:

Untitled (1981), by Jean-Michel Basquiat 

(via iamadamstanley)

spects:

nightmare

I wanna make a video of a grown man pantsless in a stained wifebeater openly scratching his nuts and yelling at his mom for things between bites of cap’n crunch and have funky music play in the background and call it ‘Sad Motherfucker’ and just follow this schmuck around with a camera watching him do sad things

you don’t try to decipher finnegans wake finnegans wake tries to decipher you

well when I’m down, I usually like to take a shotgun to everybody and bath in the blood of the innocent. hope that helps; sorry, gowsh, I’m so bad at giving advice *kicks ground, abashed*

elektrik667:

Robert Fludd, Utriusque Cosmi, 1617-1621.

(via petalsofblazon)