mary weather and the turtle oeove who ate thwith the gold spoon of the sphynx from the egyptian martiar mr tyeland truster who was also a band leader in the castle fo vaieries . I cannot stand that mr castleshooter said the yojg man who had jst recieved his badge in honor of fighting the trust war. trust that that seems to be somthing that comes ourt of the clostet a lot these day.s there are the villains, the criminals with brown mstashes and seedy brown yeyes and the whites sheets with the bleached stains of being let too long in the red bucket beneath the sink sinking the wahle beneath the bluye tide of consiousness he comes up to get a breath of eair but oh my! the sharks are too close this time and the baby cokc whatle wahale what do you call it? the baby shore comes close to the underbelly of the great blue thing that sink or swims depending on the climate of the day. But to day no oanother day. a woman in a yellow hat with a yellow canariy at the top shrieks1!!! Oh my god! what is happening to that great big piece of meat. He is being devoured by the orcas who circle and ircle in the geometric shape of tides. they prepare the feast for martyrdom as the baby watches the mother pap? or father mum?protect and discect. this is the reality ofthe world of waters. the water for worlds and the worlds of the elephant. welcome and sit and watch and attempt to be still still still with a lingering note of harmonic sixths that goes for several minutes and queitly disapeers throught the halls that begins with the tiniest of sounds in the throught twhere there are two tiny wet little snail folds that vibrate so silently it almost is invisible. But you canfeel it. You can feel the air when it massages the inner lining of the throat when it is too early in the morning, or too late in the afternoon. There are pepples in the lining of the throat at this time. Drink plenty of water without ice. Don't chew the ice, jst appeal for the absence or sbsince tha absinthe of the ice. And the water will heal . the rocks will discharge into smoke and ash that cough up through the teeth and tounge where they away they go into the air to be taken in again with the lungs another groggy day where the smoke fills the sky pink . Orange they eat it raw and it smells liek orange and grapefruit oil which is beautiful becuase they said they said that this particular whale of an oil flesh brings joy joy joy! of joy illimited where the man watches the crow sing and squeel but really all the gray and darkness that seems to be in the garden of smoky leaves and broken swings are really just the beginning to the imagination where one can see past the wall, if one really focuses hard enougt. I saw it. I saw it when tapping the forehead on the lover sitteing skiwampus away and angular him at his left and I at the right where perpendicular meats the crow. and tapping tapping tapping I told. the ways were too close to image. But close your eyes I say, close the tired eyes and find the loosely gartered ring of repose. there you will travel through the vibrations (ought there to be anohter word for this wave of something)? I wonder. there I say, there you are, amid the cathedrals and dandles resting and bumping on the kneee of consciousness. Rest and look forward where you can imagine the shells of barnacles and the wet juicy triangles going through the tunnerls of the mind and the body becomes so heavy that the arms are carrying the world as well as two purple weights of two pounds each on every inch on every square inch they pull attached to rope that has ben yearned of white haired ladies in the southern states, claiming they have taken threads through old singer manufactured arts where the needle goes up up down down in a balanced rythym of precausiounary tension. They will weave you a fortress. But now allow the colors of the spectrum that you know and do not know pervade you. Forget about the stairs and the noise that goes long before the drop down town history where the boy spins in a feathered boa and the others sip their jingle juice. I am not meant to be as crass as one might say I am. But Peter. Thinnk and do not think. Listen to the tapping of my finger.
She screams! The orcas are contaiminating the water with BLOOD! Stop it oh stop it! she looks around whre there is no one but eyes that watch the scene. Swimming and closing in they bring in the weight of the water which has come from the deepest coral and highest sun. Shining down on stripping pieces of flesh and rubber blubber, where the babe is not safe, for the mother has been swallowed whole. But not really, just piece by piece. When you are save you are not safe, for the orcas are hungry in their tummy tim toms. Cannot they find a little scrap of weed seed smoke? I purpose they connot. Forthe laws of the vial are secret as the graves from which the birth are taken in. And the grasses of brown summer color are not growing but taking in the rays of the suns. Vibrations.
Focus now on the sound or the feeeeeeling your throat is making when you allow the air to penetrate and the lungs pull in pull in push out, let out.
There is the calm. There is the rage. But the colors that you have been taking in since the eyes relieved themselves of the silicone plastic rubber cheese melt, you can count on them now. they may looks like lines or geometric patterns of triangles squares or circles or even the tailfin of the orca. You know that even this looks lie a triangle, my peter. there you wil find, once you have traveled far enough, the mathematics of race, the mathematics, of the sun, and the mathematics of the percy wetty shetty shelly fish. Where the red fern does not grown, but numbers spring to the sky. She screams again!!! Blood Blood Blood in the wake!!! in the wake there is blood, blood there is in the wake!!!! Do not wake, but sleep now, my peter my peter, when there was a time we stood against age old stone that had been crafted from raw hands mayble slave people withtheir skin unprotected by the spfs of the ancient golve glove. and the faces are only protected by the sheen of the rim. and the head is bend over the back facing the god of son, wishing for the sweat to become clean as the peak of everest. The snow will melt into summer. We will drink again, peter. we will taste the snow caps! But now, maybe now it seems she screams because she feels the plight, the sound, the vibrations of terrror because the sea is blood, the sea is blood. But look past and you will sea the horizon peter, and there, where the horizon meats the heaven ward, there the spirit is free, there the body of mum and the body of papa will meet with a great shadow of force and teh web of mathematics will cling to each its own point of connection. See? Where? There. where the skiy is line. The sky is line. Tap Tap Tap Tap softly I tap the forehead where, the softest note of sea travels through the nasopharynx and the bones of the tip of the ice nose berg head. foreshodowing! Foreshodowing what is to come. !!! There may be the blood of the sea, or the ringing of bells. Bells ring through the nose. The rose blooms foreward as the eyes foreword the silence in chaos. What what ? Can you not see the spiraling bells of methematics? See the sheells, the caves beneath leonard that once were rivers beneath the survace of the layers of rock. William Hill I call upone the eithgth lord of caves. Do not find your abandonment, but release the noise, and find teh turning of shells. You, there will my peter be lifted and taken to the shores of horizen. Where there is no end, but end is now. For there is no eternity but that which is the ever present Now. Look peter. Do you see something you have nevr seen before ?What are you doing to me you crazed duck lick goose knob? How could I ever harm you? For all the sitting conversations of the past and teh brilliant future of pink shadow gold dream where the turf meets the surf. Ride them bloody waves! Surge of surf, mind of matter, matter of surge, surf of mind. the tunnel of wake, as the earth beneath the blood waves shuffles, quakes, where the shodows of ablatement turn to dandles. The pocket of the ringles the circular order of the pringle shell turns the widening gyre, the birth can meat agian together. The joints that we thought were borken are no longer separate but repaired in the welding nickel soldeirng steal! She screams the weaves are blood the weaves are blood. But the day has past and teh sun is sleeping. The whale is gone, the baby rests against the paper skin of the sea top without its mom. Still the baby breathes. Water as dust appeals and sprouts as inverse rains toward mother sky. As the sun also rises, the blood, another day shall disappear.
Peter. Are you there?
silence.
but the movement of sound is felt, not heard.
Ah! To sweetly watch Neuschwarnstein, and taste the infinite air of stars in the trees! You and I, together we go.
No comments:
Post a Comment