TELL NO LIES

TELL NO LIES

I can feel the cancer growing in me. I imagine it in my body and imagine it like a person who is misunderstood and I welcome it...Memory is a dance with thresholds of relevance, what point is there if we are remembered or forgotten, unsure if there is anything more than the present he writes:

He codifies the mesmerism of abject uncertainty, distilling the concrescence into fusion, and confusion, diffusion and illusion, deep within the quantum of a quill's memory reduced to dust and ambient disintegration, chewing at the template. Harnessing the surveillant obscuratism of unspoken language cast in the twilight of the reliquary.

Encumbant distillations of a mereology cast in shame and idological fragmentatation...in clandestined ubiquity, groaning for debt to coercive force forgotten. His is an ideology of chance...dividing the invocation of persuasion, until in its attributional calculus, he is reduced to dust. He looks at memory now with the wonder of a child and dreams of being forgotten, with neutrality and indifference. His passion is an analog of eventual disentanglements. He falls into the obscure culmination of shared mirages dubbed reality, and he goes back to being God for an instant, time enough to cast judgement on his apathies...feed him to the lions. God is a tyrant to the indifferent. Feed him to the lions.

Umbilical canon of ferment's disavowal, sifting in the vintage of the proximal. Haunting epicrisis of amassed instigation, demonstrative of the theocratic auspiciousness at the helm of ubiquity, guarding the innocent.

Devaluation rendered in the sustainable inclination, terrastrial and tetriculated into the absence of their economies of subservient disentanglement found in the tumult of their philosophical corpus embodied, writ large in the body politic...unifiying the shreds of their occult, occular, oracular armandillo soup crouton salad jingoistic shalley wag.

Hue of subject, disentangled by the comingling of subsistence...harvest of the lightest shadow. My heart is written in the lexicon of futile strivings, born ambient to the concerns of the corrupt few or many who predict its demise, I was meant to die, I shall do it on my terms...only cowards love the expectations of unquestioned pulses, the rhythm inside determines the culprit of inadvertency. Freedom in a heart beat, connection in pulse yearning time long enough to live well and die well.

How soon the aftermath renders the equation of their supplanted inclinations. He festers in the rot of a number, numbers cannot die, he counts his atoms to remember his worth. He is a man of substance, literally internally and transliterally- and the world is in him, his heart is an engine of time itself, and when he breathes the Universe breathes with him.

Forget what I have said, much of it is in a language designed simply to unhinge the mind from enunciation predicated on expectation. Let me die now a little more each day...let me be held by you eternally, forgetting the dreams of dreaming Vishnu, orchestrating the ineffability of a memory.

Perhaps we die a little more each day...in virtue of the hopelessness in the world. Intelligible hapless memory, draw me into the corners of the maps of eternity, somewhere hidden beneath legends and the abstract analog of referential perspecuity. In the proprioception of bearing uncertainty, let me die again and again until every conceivable passion for the aimless and meritful is exhausted, For now let me die a Billion times a Billion infinities. I have nothing else to give but all of my existence. One day my Buddha nature's gonna bling like nobody's business.

Droogs. Inkjet tsunamis tell no lies.