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When one looks into the world, or as far as my illusions reach, dimensional sphere of another, one is staring once one consciously becomes aware that they are doing it. Staring is accomplished with the motivation of two instances. These instances stem from mortal curiosities and needs. At first, staring becomes realized when one desires to learn something nouveau. The will to learn shall be seperated from the will to feel. The unknown is involved in the learned stare while often that object of attention creates a feeling of satisfaction of even repulsion. There is no socially constructed bias in what one should care to feel when staring to obtain new information. Since humans are affected by the external sights of what they lack as beings, they are often magnetized to the aforementioned event. At once, humans will interpret their oddities in two ways. They will either be humble in their appreciation for a powerful and alienated beauty, or they will remain threatened by a fair portrait of the bounty of their own personal maladies, or more accurately, insecurities. These physical realizations, which exploit one's meniality, can be inversely viewed as shamefully as sins. This law does apply to staring at one's reflection in a mirror. Further yet not forevermore, one does stare in order to elicit a response whether it be the attention of another human or an antiquated form of communication, as existed before the dropping of our species vocal tract thus enabling us to speak. This is a bonfire of will against will, however, not a spoil of free will as human nature does not allow for the ability to choose whether or not to succumb to staring. Staring may parallel tropes of primacy such as eating, scratching an itch, and the simulation of re-population. We can not help but stare.
Hallelujah!
I am conscious as to why you, sir, are staring at me, and I am staring at you, save when the pen hath "glean'd my teeming brain."
Alas! I am humbled by this instance in so forth I must flee.
Do you hear that?
My unborn children are singing!
She, the landscape of man's physical hour
Wantonly drifts through time
In a miraculous corridor, as if
Pushing silken curtains aside.
And that miracle, falls unremittingly
Into an idyllic sea.
She sinks not to cease, but
To be preserved, for the continuity
Of life depends on God's attempts to recreate
This still life and still death
Purific, soft, and wild
Envy of another which desires
To skin her delicately, like
The freshly hunted, just to die
Inside her body like a Pharaoh's Tomb.
And he, the basest of all horizon
Is unfit for trying eyes.
As she begins to move, her
Equatic curves commence to crack
And creep thatches into Man's psyche
Sickened with presentiment
And a multiplus keen.
He, whom shall commit sins of carnality
Ill-fed with vast murmur and
Wretched blush at the cheek,
Will become engaged with a
Daemotic sophism of bloodless
Vessels in the palm;
The heart of touch, the emptiest empty,
The Lucifer rose.
He endeavors Paradise upon
The tops of a cliff and sees
The sky mimics the earth and
Is no less full of creatures undiscovered-
Daemons pull at his eyelids
And capture him in slumber.
The glorious She, sings in his dreams
Her voice, unreachable like salient air
Whispering from his ears a suicidal song
Song of lust and burning contention
Beyond all mortal stigma,
Beyond all human strength.
So, poor souls
Will live another day, a sacrilege
Kneeling for the wrong God,
While the peccant She
Laps water from the fountain.
When the air dries itself out on the line
And the olive trees turn pale in their mossed graves,
When the poignance of an Eastern Harem withers
With the rains of yesterday, or the memory of
Sweet wet drudging over pores, pure unlike
The cloudy sweat of living herds,
Children like jackals prowl in these packs
Through tin alleys moving Gaza
Because their elders can not.
And their bellies moan like flies caught indoors
Between vertigo and a distant illusion of Nirvana.
Glorious maker, the suffering puts you on high ground
And the hands, the hellish intention of hands
Shape shifts into a fragile house of cards.
This question is gospel-
Will you let your offspring fly like ghosts
Into an army of shadows underneath
A reoccurring sun?
At once, we believe that humans do not have teeth.
Together now, we will remain bitten.
The Young Bloods sing their figmented blues
On the streets that lay like made beds
And their voices blow like a gale
Reaping the flowers of Space and new territory -beyond.
It opes hollow hearts and parts lips anew gossamer.
Look at these children,
Open wide and screaming throat smiles,
Millions of misfortune, bantam Americans
Dream in the day while their bodies
Mourn dead energy.
There is more to a tree
Than the dark grains of wood.
There is a dark age of rings
Hiding foliage in the womb.
And sand, little lustering opiates
Of the desert groan and howl
Building false monuments
Like angels without an altar.
Another day becomes night in the Opium den.
There goes the sun- drunk
I've seen it rise and fall
From lethargy to life,
and back again.
Tis' but a black light buzzing my skin
into the most sodden pallor.
And on the tabaret, une bouteille de vin
Sinks into my muscles
How gently they sleep on the bone now, weaklings.
I have heard that under my breast
Lay hard roses in full bloom
And a tyrian haze at the cheek.
And when the vin soaks in,
Sardonic chasms teem my brain.
For I braid the voices of a dulcimer
Into the sky, a ministry made of sunbeams
Shaking the lustful harp like hands of savages
And stones, opal stones remove themselves from nature
to be the bridge for the crossing Gods in you.
Earth be still enough to hear thine heart
skip slick like a stone upon a spring.
Observe the frightful imbalance
of ones own personal fever.
In days of snowfall atop a high den,
one can not even hear its' cold flakes
knead into the ground- invisible yeast.
Take mercy from the constant buzz that holds
like a cloak calming the night, with velvet shoulders.
Until street lamps like halos ring...
Tis' a clarion bright and blown
revealing the secrets of Sages
sitting between the corridors.
What do they reveal through high minds?
Ave Maria!
Not of female form, but of a divine sphere
and the lamda of all that was,
and remains as is.
Moronic Madre,
Mary of Maroetic Lake, revive!
We will find time in your resurrection.
We've quenched our bones with blood yet
we are still going deaf, we are going blind.
There will soon come a time when
the mana of my verse
will derobe even the God Al mightiest
and trail like the ivory screams of elephants
entrancing the White Hun.
