Grotesque .pdf

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Fickle black spots, elusive darkness
When suffering pulses a blood red,
Horror like lightning dithers,
I glanced the white spot and extended the analogy
Through web I ascended, crossroad sustained me
When frame was hunching, content was launching
Wholeness, not so holy, I see where it was.
Love, like webs spun upon frames of words, leaves a
trail echoless.
It's way too soon to believe too fast.
-"You and I are living organisms. Experience comes
forth, stays for a little bit, and leaves--comes f
rom somewhere and goes somewhere. To say something
, repeating it until exhaustion.. to stir the igno
red to the surface, to leave nothing out of contex
t, to see actuality instead of wishful thinking, t
o understand.
In corners and side-views -- when echo defeats, sh
adow repeats. As slumber encumbers diagonal voices
, I stand and default on bewildering choices. In c
ube I'm suspended, a crisscross delusion, I cannot
amuse a boring confusion. It's simple, it's near,
it's subtle and clear. Invite and respite, son of
the Flight."
-"There was no poetic spin,
A loose tongue spits curved analogies -"I", said he, and in sweep collected
His body now poised, his vision reflected
Through mirror and splinters, through corners and w
A cold spot annoys, a side view contorts.
Central less fickle, yet somehow I bicker
Through central run wires, through zig-zags and spi
In middle we crossed, a house now espoused... "

-At which point I realized,
"What in where, of how to when?"
"Why in all, to end is start?"
To fullness and blackness, momentum slither.
I am peripheral, and hence I wither.
To God we sober, ascending no nobler
When vision deludes, anchor alludes.
-He deceives, so that deceivers can understand.
He fabricates, spins lies around those willing to b
e fooled.
To the pure ones he said, "The box, the loop, and t
he spin."
Colors spinning on the loom, so vibrant, a robe is
nothing but a cover. I am human.
The rest are still sitting and thinking. They want
tricks. Decadents unfulfilled.
Mental nudity, singled-out and alone, stitch it in
to your brain. To deprave is to deprive. Thieves d
read the Watcher. The Watcher grins with joy. The
hunt is on.
God withhold your mercy, trembling blood I hear, f
ools in mazes hiding, what is there to fear?
Vulture God I deem you, worthy of this breath, fly
forth unrequited, feast on foolish flesh.
Blind cells suffer greatly, redemption is at hand,
stretch forth fingers slightly, cover sickened la
Hell-hounds I beseech you, sniff out all the trail
s, stride on subtle echoes, listen for their nails
Pull the demons by the brow, test their flinching
gaze, children on the darkness, as honey you I gla

God will not make amends for what you are. You insu
lt God by thinking that way.
Good news, the Vulture shall rip the corrupted fle
sh off your bones. String by string. The sooner yo
u make your love of corruption loose, the less pai
nful will be your hell.
Concepts of deep horror. Our truest abode, kindest
hiding place.
Colors spinning on the loom, so vibrant, a robe is
nothing but a cover.
-"Is where always was. On a chair, but not quite sit
Stabbing myself in my own eyes -- yet seeking visio
n, guidance, and truth.
Choking and suppressing my own heart -- yet wonder
ing why don't I feel anything substantial.
Madly in love with my self-image, producing unwarr
anted righteousness -- I feel that I am right and
the world is wrong.
Judging and evaluating what is before me -- I dull
my mind by tilting the scales -- manipulating obs
ervation in my favor. I refuse to see that which i
s unpleasant.
I cloud the lenses, filter the senses -- and I bas
k in confusion, a cut-and-paste, hard-edited, poli
shed-up reality -- stitch-work.
I weave fancy dreams -- exhausting mental energy,
wearing myself out -- building castles in the sky
-- a blink and it's all gone -- and I fall straigh
t down into my seat.
This sheer wastage of energy yields no deep satisf
action -- hurting myself, yet playing the victim.
Is this reality?
Inside an hourglass, I sit thinking, dreaming -- g
rains of sand falling gently around me, forming th
e messenger of Mercy -- the envoy to the God of D

Tick tock, people dying -- all dying. Emerging fro
m what seems like nothing, to live, and to ultimat
ely be pulled back into what seems like nothing.
Just slowly burning away.. where do they go? The h
orror, the pain -- this madness, it's unbearable..
Weaving, weaving beautiful dreams, escaping tempora
Every passing day, waking up -- but not awakening
-- more of the same -- identification is the womb
of slumber -- a call, a beckoning to familiar soun
ds, colors, tastes, fragrances, pressures. My habi
ts amuse me. Submerging myself in my mind -- my te
rritory and possession -- I re-trace my steps..Loo
sening the grip -- not identifying with content -yields a vast sea of uncertainty.
I hold in my hands a face forged in the Furnace of
this world. I'm not quite convinced that this fac
e is truly my essence.
I, a morph nested on a pedestal -- sediments, sedi
ments, nothing but a cluster of dust -- the times
change and I wither away.
I, the enigma enfleshed, am not any of this -- not
the name, not the face, not the memories, associa
tions, relations, identifications, not the likes n
or dislikes..
All this is debris spinning around my awareness -and tentacles protrude from my heart towards all
these. Withdraw. Settle.
Doubts flirt with me, but they have no real sway - for I -- the electromagnetic obelisk, towering i
nto the sky -- am a vessel of Earth's grace, glory
, and peace..
Growing weary of self-inducing my own flavor of ma
dness -- I emit a groan, listen to the echo.. and
then I behold the piercing silence -- exposing a h
ollow, silent center amidst a ravaging whirlwind o
f noise and content.
From the sky flows my genetic pattern, transmittin
g -- witness the dance of energy within. Embody an

d become living radiance.
A light unto myself -- purging falsity with the fl
ame of vigorous witnessing, attention, awareness.
These mortal eyes lodged in the fabric of the univ
erse -- are the eyes of conscious energy staring t
hrough this skull.
I close my eyes and see what I call darkness -- bu
t it's not dark -- it's more like the unknown -- c
onsort to Mystery, concealing from me what truly r
esonates with the vortex of my spirit.
My spirit awaits me -- speaking to me through the
subtle pulsing, the throbbing, the life in progres
s -- I was always too gentle for my hardened heart
to feel.Once I melt -- body, mind and spirit once
again re-align.
I breathe in, and I feel a gap, I breathe out, and
feel that gap again -- that silence and stillness
. I can almost feel the universe inter-penetrating
my being in that gap.
"Is where always was. On a chair, but not quite si

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