Post by limebirdwriters on Jan 6, 2012 10:44:53 GMT
Hi all,
I can't work out how to move over Cain's section from his novel 'The Dance of Eternity', so I'm just going to re-post here. I hope this is OK. Here we go. This is from Cain Pinto ( Kinaesthetic) :
"One of the baroque sections in my novel. Hope you enjoy it, even if marginally:
An Excerpt from "The Dance of Eternity"
But Umberto would persist, “Oh that my grieving were weighed in metric measure, and my misfortune mantled on the measuring scales! My words wallow in rip tides and crushed lie the balances under the blatant, monstrous weight of the sands of all seas. Omnipotent arrows assigned almighty poisons are blossoming within my cockles; pierced by the cosmic snowman’s icy, whose chills drink my spirit and send me in disarray from terror. An ass wants only grass, the ox moronically lowers into fodder bags; they bray or moo not for much else but these straws. May salt be eschewed in morose morsels? What ineffable taste is the white of an egg? These meaty sores are less morbid that the moribundance of the soul that suffers!
One wish I wish, hoping against hope, on my page beyond psalm, to be delivered to the caprice of one remedy that all poets dreams of, singers sing of, prophesy as in the Hebrew Talmud or the Buddhist book of Koans: DEATH! The way for the wanderer, the house sought by all, the redemption from wilderness; black handkerchief washed clean by weeping… that strange spectral thought has stayed its phantom… How pleasure hewed will He be, in hewing me off his wholly holy hand. What comfort will come upon me then, yeah, I will inure myself against visceral jabs of sorrow: may he spare me not; for I have seen the inscriptions of the Propergandalf branded on my brow.
What strengths must I exert and be spent to what end? What phenomenological machine will take me to the ever holy eschatological crenellations of ethereal walls that contain the Master and spout praises from mineral mouths? Is my solidity the strong, sterile repose of stones? Or, is my flesh ferric? Is not my help in my ferrous fervor? And is wisdom driven like rusty nails into the pliant wood? To the afflicted should affects of pity be ascribed by his acolytes; but he forsakes the fear of the Omnipotentate. My siblings have flown deceitfully as a brook by vales and mounts, and as though independent, through tributaries they pass away into circuitous obscurity; which are black by reason of the swamp slush, and wherein the cold snow of snobbish pride is hid: what nth time they wax warm of venerable vocations, as they vamoose: when it is flustering hot, they are consumed by the retrograde flame, licked out by luminous tongues from their places of hiding. Onwards to nothing, and moustaches and long hair in the grave, their paths commingle with poison ivy blooms and narcissus blossoms in the guttural grounds that contain their humus-formed world. The troops of the Alexander looked, the companies of Harshavardhana waited for them. They were confounded in their hoping; they came asunder, and were abashed. All forever lauding lordly laurels and then languishing in the vacuous and vapid void.
Now reduced to nothing before my being, crest fallen and implacably immobile, you are shitting bricks, and swallowing words, and spittle, like manic semiophagists who have lost the plot. Did I beseech your bounty brought forth for my betterment, or, subtract from you your salutary substance? Or, plead deliverance from nefarious hands? Or, redemption from the clobbering of the almighty? If you show me how I will silence my tongue, show me the errors of my erratic ways. How forcible are hieratic inscriptions, but what does your querulous timbre forgive for fuck’s sake? Are you arrogantly humored enough to believe the foul vapors of campy odors you loquaciously exude, flatulent and fawning in form and substance, are worthy repartee to the questions of a grieving man? You ravagers of orphan orifices and gravediggers of friends, be content now with your contention of my impossible perfidy. Return, I beseech, into the rectal cave where from you emerged, lest I be led to undertake aenema and diarrheal stimulants to efface regret on your venerable features, and veritable gestures of contrivance. Keep me to rot in my ramshackle good form. Is there a limp insensitivity in my wielding of my tongue? Can’t my gustatory apparatus discern shit from shiitake?
Are not men’s days numbered and cordoned into efficient segments of productivity? Is not he a serf then? Like a maid desiring shadows and mercenaries looking for spoils, so I conjugate my monthly, weekly, daily maiden of oblivion, on wearisome nights, nictating and nails furrowing my pustulant flesh. Prostrated I expostulate the inquiry of my wake, in the heavy wait of that blackness of void, I toss in tumult and torment; that a yawning dawn break my bleak being’s verity in the fierce jaws of its waking life. Flesh worm-wreaked wreck and mud clad, my skin! xerodermic and excrecable. Faster than the thrusts of pistons in engines, all spume and fume issuing amidst the departure of my hopes. Life is aethereal, we couldn’t find it in sight, even if we strained and suffered in longing; still no good. What comes also departs, forever. The beholders shall be held to the witchery of the cursed and calumnied other’s gaze, blind then they will forever be. Like nominal nephelidia vanishing into the evanescent nimbus of past times recollected, the dead will see no new tomorrow. Return he will, to a prodigal home; and the streets will be overbearingly oppressive. My tongue will scourge the abscess of my spirit and I will complain of the morbidity of its taste; rolling, recoiling, remorseful tongue cloaked in the dark, damned, disconsolate mouth. Sea or whale could merit your vigil; but I am that I am, even if hidden from your gaze.
Couches beckon and comfortable beds; but His dreams terrify my timorous soul with tremendous trances of augury: so I’d rather be hung than hang on hopefully. I despise this; my existence is vain, be gone from my sight you expostulators of eschatological enumerations. People equal shit; magnified they will appear infested by Bacteroides, Salmonella, Shigella, Yersinia, Campylobacter, Aeromonas, Candida, E. coli O157, Cryptosporidium and Entamoeba Hystolytica, in abundant amity. Your heart is not worth this pile of shit. Will you visit to try his persistent, quotidian resilience? My spittle bubbles into a spiteful javelin poised for offense, if your presences don’t evanesce presently! Transgressor I am against Properighty; oh holy Propergandalf, by the love of the properighters I inquire why I am your marked marauder and choice sufferer? Are you incapable of forgiving even the forgivable, taking the antinomy for granted, for I amble in dirt and will not rise to the beckoning of your gaze.
Then Harry Humperdinck hurried to humble the suffering, garrulous man. “The verbal storms of your making are the vanities of vanities; stay them with a calm resolve. Does the Master pervert justice or judgment? If your children have been up to Sodomite shenanigans or Gomhorrean gestures; if you supplicate the savior saliently; if you were immaculate and your rectitude exemplar; surely He will wake you from your nightmare, and cohabit your arboreal arteries. Small beginnings may yet expand enormously in the end. Discern the fruits that were once ripe, and seeded you, in the genealogical geriatrics of your yore: they may counsel you, we are still wet behind ears, of yesterday’s ligature only shadows and ravings remain. Their cochlear suasions unto your heart may prove salutary and absolute. How will these grow, do pray tell me; rush without mire, flag without water, and men without pain? But in its verdant verity the herb still withers wondrously without wait; like the puerile perish or the hypocrites’ hopes are ho hummed. All of this, and more, for those who stray from the narrow path to this pilgrimage to crosses legion in the void; those whose longings are like spider’s webs, quick to the flame, cut off from their yearning yarns. Solid dwellings will reduce to detritus by his leaning; his reinforcements will be outdone, like him by his miserable lot. Chlorophyll filled he will shoot stalks serenely in his well tended gardens, roots wrapped on rubble of civilizations’ wake. Condoms, pots, douche bags, cock cigars and wheelbarrow cunts will preclude his successive sprouting with tenacious temerity under sodden and manured earth constricting the cavorting, rhizomatic roots. If he withers and wallows, they will deny him and refuse to even tacitly acknowledge him.
Joy to His caprices and caveats for there will still be abundant sunshine for other horticultural beings of favored features. Perfection shall be sought and pestiferous persons will verily perish till your mouth’s ejaculating peals of laughter and labial festivities, as you persist in these to your heart’s rejoicing. Shame’s sartorial sequins will secure their person, and their dwellings will be dealt deadly darts of doom.”
Umberto was manically mad, and out poured his jousting jabber, against the jejune justifications of his now feverish friend. “Yes, truths are like that, but men just before the Master?! His contentious bone is holder of no marrow before the three thousand, three hundred and thirty three talons of His almighty truth. No mineral harder than His mental mantle; metallic metaphors don’t subsume His Mohs hardness markings even nearly, nay nothing may root Him or engender any inclusions. Hearty wise and strident strong is that towering sovereign. Turning mountains into molehills: He! the juggernaut that jitters in rage when jilted; consuming towers and defecating rubble. Jerking the earth in the cup of His palm; blotting the sun with cataracting abysses and shadowing the shiny exuberance of the stars with His dark intentions even as they suffuse the seas and skies in their effervescent vanishing. Anointing Arcturus, Orion and Pleiades as the chambers of the south and doing a gazillion other mighty wonderful things, yea, ad infinitum is His glory.
Passing by me like anthrax spores in the mist, I see Him not but He is there and has come to take me. Do you dare deter the determination of all quiddities? He does what He will do, or won’t; naught, but only the deadly damned, would do such a dastardly thing as to question that delinquency. Against his aggression’s ascent even brawny backs are broken badly. No more pertinent could I be before Him, more incontinent I’d be rendered by his blessed benediction that will bid my bladder’s becoming. No answers, only supplications will I suggest obliquely while bent back or on all fours contemplating the division of body and soul. Only abject disbelief in the possible attention of His response will be haloed enough to grace His holy exigencies. Tempestuous traceries with jagged knives will overrun me at the gesture He will only absentmindedly foist; my wounds will hurt because of this great gift of His, this handmade body without reproach or grimace. Death He will not make a present of, but the torpor of toxins in the blood stream will issue freely from His wishful and able bounty. My path to perfection is pathological in its paving; my boasts and declamations mere raving. He is the force of the signifier that indicates strength; my pleading is chronemically displaced as it approaches His day-less eternities. My awesomeness is abysmally pitted with superegotic injunctions; despise and derision are roused by its dawn on my dreams. The indiscriminate monocle of might and magnanimity, destroyer of the fine and the crude; perfect and defective; bum and angel!
The trials of the innocent amuse Him and their flaying is His frivolous fantasy. The land is defiled by deplorable dullards; he covers the judging faces in blinding, suffocating cloaks. Speedier than the push of protons to electrons, in the chaosmos of the atom, are my days, whose hours scatter freely like spores or pollen, riding the winds. Swift as space ships scrambling: agile like the attack of eagles on prey. If my problems fail my memory, and my heaviness is shed toward much comfort, I still gasp at the great judgment that awaits my putative innocence. My sorrow is guilty and worth severe reprehension. When wickedness wallows wantonly all asinine attempts aren’t at all adequate. Snow water washes my hands off no grime; in the pitch laden ditch where you put me even my clothes mutineer against my flesh. He will not level with His willfully wrought handmaiden, over cups of coffee or heuristic judgments. No arbitrator can assess His assailing ascriptions to my being, without wanton winnowing of almighty wrath. His rod has spoilt this child for nice now, let not his teaching’s timorous timbre trouble those teeming with tribulations and toil. My torpor would be tied up if He were but a listener. My weary soul will brook no regrets; the dams are broken and furious floods of fully articulated silence will melt my solid sorrow’s groaning. My sores are the thousand gaping mouths that grumble in supplicant protestations.
Would I demand: to know where I may have faltered and not be fucked over and whether He wallows in watching His creation wrecked by worrisome witcheries. I shall inquire into His aesthetic inclinations, invoke inherent indexical identities, in His form and mine! Cavorting with the corpulent and blessing the bastard cocks-men of chaos; why must His humble handmade come undone like licentious garters on ugly women. Does He see like men do; optometric perception et al.? Are his days like men’s lives, does he live like men daily, that He inquires into insinuations of erstwhile inequity? Isn’t it insanely idiosyncratic? He knows of my innocent ways but evades my inquiring imaginations innocuously and will not let me off His holy hand. His hands that fashioned me, making cuts and incisions ever original, with a signature of sores and a stern, strange serenity do not will any dalliance with the debilitating distrust of more recent doldrums of dolor. From pot to clay, from hash to ash will you unmake me evermore? Have you not poured me out like milk; and with lactic acids you curdle me into yoghurt again? Has your hand not handed me clothes for my flesh, and bones as scaffolding for my bodily edifice with sinewy crenellations? Fervor from your bounty fired my loins, and from feverish fatigues has your presence extricated my spirit. Concealed in your cardiac chambers these secret subtleties are a mere curtain between you, the almighty, and me the confessor of confidences and caveats. No acquittal from your admonishments, evasions from your evaluations or dismissal from your declamation’s demands hold for me in hope. Beaten for badness and grated for goodness I see the heathen hell raisers harrumph in their heinous hauteur, blessed for benignity and reprieved from remorse’s call of rueful rancor. Confusion is in me and about me, over and beyond the grasp of my pathetic, persecuted pate.
Like a soul gnawing lion and nepotistic nurturer bound by natal affinities, in turns you dazzle my dolorous dreams. Instigating the instincts of insinuators, and bestowing blatant blows, toward the form of my vileness; you make me lament my jettisoning from that womb of sorrow, not as a still born tragedy but a living farce! No shame would shear my serene composure, unformed with malignant matter to be subject to sightings by vicarious eyeballs then. From womb to grave in an instant, factual futility forsaken to embrace immanence, being then would have been as could ever become but didn’t. The few days I have, I must. For comfort could call congenial changes on this my cadaver of contrition. Beyond lies no return for me and the pilgrimage to thence is certain, in those terrains of total darkness and the blackened blot of death’s destitute shadow growing tumorous and abject. Where light is a heavy darkness, and the dark is the disseminator of all deadly darknesses, only darker still.
Then Dick the drunken, transcendental aesthete said, “Whether your vast volley of verbiage should be answered, and your veritable vestiges be verified for veracity is a question that is the vanity of vanities. Your slander you think will seduce sedition, and with your mockery you seek to make men incite your shame. Your declaration of the venerable virtue of your doctrinal dirge cleans you detergent like, in our eyes? If the Master only mumbled your motley misdeeds from memory; He would expose before your face the loins of the manifold hermaphrodite of wisdom, that autoerotic conjugal companion to its consciousness that is legion immanence. Splitting, into myriad multiplicities, of manic possibilities all unaccounted for now in your numinous enumerations; should He desire rigor His reprehension will recognize no more restraint, His recalcitrance and regal rectitude is your refuge and reprieve. Is your search for that sovereign then soaked in quicksand bogs, no perfection do you find in properighty? So high you can’t get above it, so wide you can’t get around it, no? Deeper than basement hells in Mariana trenches are the vales beyond your unknown horizons. What could you know? Longer than earth breadth and broader than sea width is His glory, for He cut these topological triumphs from His trick bag when you weren’t here to look, do you dare dream to distress His deeds, dunderhead? Vain men like you He has seen and also their wickedness which he will duly consider, no hurry from eternal stations where time had never been worthy for the Master’s might. Men may be born like suckling pigs if vain men were ever wise. Prepare you heart and stretch out you hand towards His; wash clean all trace iniquities before from both hands and tabernacles. Your spotless visage, steadfast and valorous; will rise like heady wine and like urinous flows will your misery ebb. Age like noonday sun, shining you will be like that lantern of morning skies.
Serenity and security from severe spells of sinister happenings will be your lot for there is still hope; yeah, you shall dig barracks of divine strength and rest there undisputed. No one will frighten you while you are prostrate, many will follow your suit. The beastly will be blinded, no escape for the errant, as the ghost is released from the bag of the body so shall their hope be spent."
Editor's Note - I have just separated the paragraphs so it's more visible. Beth
I can't work out how to move over Cain's section from his novel 'The Dance of Eternity', so I'm just going to re-post here. I hope this is OK. Here we go. This is from Cain Pinto ( Kinaesthetic) :
"One of the baroque sections in my novel. Hope you enjoy it, even if marginally:
An Excerpt from "The Dance of Eternity"
But Umberto would persist, “Oh that my grieving were weighed in metric measure, and my misfortune mantled on the measuring scales! My words wallow in rip tides and crushed lie the balances under the blatant, monstrous weight of the sands of all seas. Omnipotent arrows assigned almighty poisons are blossoming within my cockles; pierced by the cosmic snowman’s icy, whose chills drink my spirit and send me in disarray from terror. An ass wants only grass, the ox moronically lowers into fodder bags; they bray or moo not for much else but these straws. May salt be eschewed in morose morsels? What ineffable taste is the white of an egg? These meaty sores are less morbid that the moribundance of the soul that suffers!
One wish I wish, hoping against hope, on my page beyond psalm, to be delivered to the caprice of one remedy that all poets dreams of, singers sing of, prophesy as in the Hebrew Talmud or the Buddhist book of Koans: DEATH! The way for the wanderer, the house sought by all, the redemption from wilderness; black handkerchief washed clean by weeping… that strange spectral thought has stayed its phantom… How pleasure hewed will He be, in hewing me off his wholly holy hand. What comfort will come upon me then, yeah, I will inure myself against visceral jabs of sorrow: may he spare me not; for I have seen the inscriptions of the Propergandalf branded on my brow.
What strengths must I exert and be spent to what end? What phenomenological machine will take me to the ever holy eschatological crenellations of ethereal walls that contain the Master and spout praises from mineral mouths? Is my solidity the strong, sterile repose of stones? Or, is my flesh ferric? Is not my help in my ferrous fervor? And is wisdom driven like rusty nails into the pliant wood? To the afflicted should affects of pity be ascribed by his acolytes; but he forsakes the fear of the Omnipotentate. My siblings have flown deceitfully as a brook by vales and mounts, and as though independent, through tributaries they pass away into circuitous obscurity; which are black by reason of the swamp slush, and wherein the cold snow of snobbish pride is hid: what nth time they wax warm of venerable vocations, as they vamoose: when it is flustering hot, they are consumed by the retrograde flame, licked out by luminous tongues from their places of hiding. Onwards to nothing, and moustaches and long hair in the grave, their paths commingle with poison ivy blooms and narcissus blossoms in the guttural grounds that contain their humus-formed world. The troops of the Alexander looked, the companies of Harshavardhana waited for them. They were confounded in their hoping; they came asunder, and were abashed. All forever lauding lordly laurels and then languishing in the vacuous and vapid void.
Now reduced to nothing before my being, crest fallen and implacably immobile, you are shitting bricks, and swallowing words, and spittle, like manic semiophagists who have lost the plot. Did I beseech your bounty brought forth for my betterment, or, subtract from you your salutary substance? Or, plead deliverance from nefarious hands? Or, redemption from the clobbering of the almighty? If you show me how I will silence my tongue, show me the errors of my erratic ways. How forcible are hieratic inscriptions, but what does your querulous timbre forgive for fuck’s sake? Are you arrogantly humored enough to believe the foul vapors of campy odors you loquaciously exude, flatulent and fawning in form and substance, are worthy repartee to the questions of a grieving man? You ravagers of orphan orifices and gravediggers of friends, be content now with your contention of my impossible perfidy. Return, I beseech, into the rectal cave where from you emerged, lest I be led to undertake aenema and diarrheal stimulants to efface regret on your venerable features, and veritable gestures of contrivance. Keep me to rot in my ramshackle good form. Is there a limp insensitivity in my wielding of my tongue? Can’t my gustatory apparatus discern shit from shiitake?
Are not men’s days numbered and cordoned into efficient segments of productivity? Is not he a serf then? Like a maid desiring shadows and mercenaries looking for spoils, so I conjugate my monthly, weekly, daily maiden of oblivion, on wearisome nights, nictating and nails furrowing my pustulant flesh. Prostrated I expostulate the inquiry of my wake, in the heavy wait of that blackness of void, I toss in tumult and torment; that a yawning dawn break my bleak being’s verity in the fierce jaws of its waking life. Flesh worm-wreaked wreck and mud clad, my skin! xerodermic and excrecable. Faster than the thrusts of pistons in engines, all spume and fume issuing amidst the departure of my hopes. Life is aethereal, we couldn’t find it in sight, even if we strained and suffered in longing; still no good. What comes also departs, forever. The beholders shall be held to the witchery of the cursed and calumnied other’s gaze, blind then they will forever be. Like nominal nephelidia vanishing into the evanescent nimbus of past times recollected, the dead will see no new tomorrow. Return he will, to a prodigal home; and the streets will be overbearingly oppressive. My tongue will scourge the abscess of my spirit and I will complain of the morbidity of its taste; rolling, recoiling, remorseful tongue cloaked in the dark, damned, disconsolate mouth. Sea or whale could merit your vigil; but I am that I am, even if hidden from your gaze.
Couches beckon and comfortable beds; but His dreams terrify my timorous soul with tremendous trances of augury: so I’d rather be hung than hang on hopefully. I despise this; my existence is vain, be gone from my sight you expostulators of eschatological enumerations. People equal shit; magnified they will appear infested by Bacteroides, Salmonella, Shigella, Yersinia, Campylobacter, Aeromonas, Candida, E. coli O157, Cryptosporidium and Entamoeba Hystolytica, in abundant amity. Your heart is not worth this pile of shit. Will you visit to try his persistent, quotidian resilience? My spittle bubbles into a spiteful javelin poised for offense, if your presences don’t evanesce presently! Transgressor I am against Properighty; oh holy Propergandalf, by the love of the properighters I inquire why I am your marked marauder and choice sufferer? Are you incapable of forgiving even the forgivable, taking the antinomy for granted, for I amble in dirt and will not rise to the beckoning of your gaze.
Then Harry Humperdinck hurried to humble the suffering, garrulous man. “The verbal storms of your making are the vanities of vanities; stay them with a calm resolve. Does the Master pervert justice or judgment? If your children have been up to Sodomite shenanigans or Gomhorrean gestures; if you supplicate the savior saliently; if you were immaculate and your rectitude exemplar; surely He will wake you from your nightmare, and cohabit your arboreal arteries. Small beginnings may yet expand enormously in the end. Discern the fruits that were once ripe, and seeded you, in the genealogical geriatrics of your yore: they may counsel you, we are still wet behind ears, of yesterday’s ligature only shadows and ravings remain. Their cochlear suasions unto your heart may prove salutary and absolute. How will these grow, do pray tell me; rush without mire, flag without water, and men without pain? But in its verdant verity the herb still withers wondrously without wait; like the puerile perish or the hypocrites’ hopes are ho hummed. All of this, and more, for those who stray from the narrow path to this pilgrimage to crosses legion in the void; those whose longings are like spider’s webs, quick to the flame, cut off from their yearning yarns. Solid dwellings will reduce to detritus by his leaning; his reinforcements will be outdone, like him by his miserable lot. Chlorophyll filled he will shoot stalks serenely in his well tended gardens, roots wrapped on rubble of civilizations’ wake. Condoms, pots, douche bags, cock cigars and wheelbarrow cunts will preclude his successive sprouting with tenacious temerity under sodden and manured earth constricting the cavorting, rhizomatic roots. If he withers and wallows, they will deny him and refuse to even tacitly acknowledge him.
Joy to His caprices and caveats for there will still be abundant sunshine for other horticultural beings of favored features. Perfection shall be sought and pestiferous persons will verily perish till your mouth’s ejaculating peals of laughter and labial festivities, as you persist in these to your heart’s rejoicing. Shame’s sartorial sequins will secure their person, and their dwellings will be dealt deadly darts of doom.”
Umberto was manically mad, and out poured his jousting jabber, against the jejune justifications of his now feverish friend. “Yes, truths are like that, but men just before the Master?! His contentious bone is holder of no marrow before the three thousand, three hundred and thirty three talons of His almighty truth. No mineral harder than His mental mantle; metallic metaphors don’t subsume His Mohs hardness markings even nearly, nay nothing may root Him or engender any inclusions. Hearty wise and strident strong is that towering sovereign. Turning mountains into molehills: He! the juggernaut that jitters in rage when jilted; consuming towers and defecating rubble. Jerking the earth in the cup of His palm; blotting the sun with cataracting abysses and shadowing the shiny exuberance of the stars with His dark intentions even as they suffuse the seas and skies in their effervescent vanishing. Anointing Arcturus, Orion and Pleiades as the chambers of the south and doing a gazillion other mighty wonderful things, yea, ad infinitum is His glory.
Passing by me like anthrax spores in the mist, I see Him not but He is there and has come to take me. Do you dare deter the determination of all quiddities? He does what He will do, or won’t; naught, but only the deadly damned, would do such a dastardly thing as to question that delinquency. Against his aggression’s ascent even brawny backs are broken badly. No more pertinent could I be before Him, more incontinent I’d be rendered by his blessed benediction that will bid my bladder’s becoming. No answers, only supplications will I suggest obliquely while bent back or on all fours contemplating the division of body and soul. Only abject disbelief in the possible attention of His response will be haloed enough to grace His holy exigencies. Tempestuous traceries with jagged knives will overrun me at the gesture He will only absentmindedly foist; my wounds will hurt because of this great gift of His, this handmade body without reproach or grimace. Death He will not make a present of, but the torpor of toxins in the blood stream will issue freely from His wishful and able bounty. My path to perfection is pathological in its paving; my boasts and declamations mere raving. He is the force of the signifier that indicates strength; my pleading is chronemically displaced as it approaches His day-less eternities. My awesomeness is abysmally pitted with superegotic injunctions; despise and derision are roused by its dawn on my dreams. The indiscriminate monocle of might and magnanimity, destroyer of the fine and the crude; perfect and defective; bum and angel!
The trials of the innocent amuse Him and their flaying is His frivolous fantasy. The land is defiled by deplorable dullards; he covers the judging faces in blinding, suffocating cloaks. Speedier than the push of protons to electrons, in the chaosmos of the atom, are my days, whose hours scatter freely like spores or pollen, riding the winds. Swift as space ships scrambling: agile like the attack of eagles on prey. If my problems fail my memory, and my heaviness is shed toward much comfort, I still gasp at the great judgment that awaits my putative innocence. My sorrow is guilty and worth severe reprehension. When wickedness wallows wantonly all asinine attempts aren’t at all adequate. Snow water washes my hands off no grime; in the pitch laden ditch where you put me even my clothes mutineer against my flesh. He will not level with His willfully wrought handmaiden, over cups of coffee or heuristic judgments. No arbitrator can assess His assailing ascriptions to my being, without wanton winnowing of almighty wrath. His rod has spoilt this child for nice now, let not his teaching’s timorous timbre trouble those teeming with tribulations and toil. My torpor would be tied up if He were but a listener. My weary soul will brook no regrets; the dams are broken and furious floods of fully articulated silence will melt my solid sorrow’s groaning. My sores are the thousand gaping mouths that grumble in supplicant protestations.
Would I demand: to know where I may have faltered and not be fucked over and whether He wallows in watching His creation wrecked by worrisome witcheries. I shall inquire into His aesthetic inclinations, invoke inherent indexical identities, in His form and mine! Cavorting with the corpulent and blessing the bastard cocks-men of chaos; why must His humble handmade come undone like licentious garters on ugly women. Does He see like men do; optometric perception et al.? Are his days like men’s lives, does he live like men daily, that He inquires into insinuations of erstwhile inequity? Isn’t it insanely idiosyncratic? He knows of my innocent ways but evades my inquiring imaginations innocuously and will not let me off His holy hand. His hands that fashioned me, making cuts and incisions ever original, with a signature of sores and a stern, strange serenity do not will any dalliance with the debilitating distrust of more recent doldrums of dolor. From pot to clay, from hash to ash will you unmake me evermore? Have you not poured me out like milk; and with lactic acids you curdle me into yoghurt again? Has your hand not handed me clothes for my flesh, and bones as scaffolding for my bodily edifice with sinewy crenellations? Fervor from your bounty fired my loins, and from feverish fatigues has your presence extricated my spirit. Concealed in your cardiac chambers these secret subtleties are a mere curtain between you, the almighty, and me the confessor of confidences and caveats. No acquittal from your admonishments, evasions from your evaluations or dismissal from your declamation’s demands hold for me in hope. Beaten for badness and grated for goodness I see the heathen hell raisers harrumph in their heinous hauteur, blessed for benignity and reprieved from remorse’s call of rueful rancor. Confusion is in me and about me, over and beyond the grasp of my pathetic, persecuted pate.
Like a soul gnawing lion and nepotistic nurturer bound by natal affinities, in turns you dazzle my dolorous dreams. Instigating the instincts of insinuators, and bestowing blatant blows, toward the form of my vileness; you make me lament my jettisoning from that womb of sorrow, not as a still born tragedy but a living farce! No shame would shear my serene composure, unformed with malignant matter to be subject to sightings by vicarious eyeballs then. From womb to grave in an instant, factual futility forsaken to embrace immanence, being then would have been as could ever become but didn’t. The few days I have, I must. For comfort could call congenial changes on this my cadaver of contrition. Beyond lies no return for me and the pilgrimage to thence is certain, in those terrains of total darkness and the blackened blot of death’s destitute shadow growing tumorous and abject. Where light is a heavy darkness, and the dark is the disseminator of all deadly darknesses, only darker still.
Then Dick the drunken, transcendental aesthete said, “Whether your vast volley of verbiage should be answered, and your veritable vestiges be verified for veracity is a question that is the vanity of vanities. Your slander you think will seduce sedition, and with your mockery you seek to make men incite your shame. Your declaration of the venerable virtue of your doctrinal dirge cleans you detergent like, in our eyes? If the Master only mumbled your motley misdeeds from memory; He would expose before your face the loins of the manifold hermaphrodite of wisdom, that autoerotic conjugal companion to its consciousness that is legion immanence. Splitting, into myriad multiplicities, of manic possibilities all unaccounted for now in your numinous enumerations; should He desire rigor His reprehension will recognize no more restraint, His recalcitrance and regal rectitude is your refuge and reprieve. Is your search for that sovereign then soaked in quicksand bogs, no perfection do you find in properighty? So high you can’t get above it, so wide you can’t get around it, no? Deeper than basement hells in Mariana trenches are the vales beyond your unknown horizons. What could you know? Longer than earth breadth and broader than sea width is His glory, for He cut these topological triumphs from His trick bag when you weren’t here to look, do you dare dream to distress His deeds, dunderhead? Vain men like you He has seen and also their wickedness which he will duly consider, no hurry from eternal stations where time had never been worthy for the Master’s might. Men may be born like suckling pigs if vain men were ever wise. Prepare you heart and stretch out you hand towards His; wash clean all trace iniquities before from both hands and tabernacles. Your spotless visage, steadfast and valorous; will rise like heady wine and like urinous flows will your misery ebb. Age like noonday sun, shining you will be like that lantern of morning skies.
Serenity and security from severe spells of sinister happenings will be your lot for there is still hope; yeah, you shall dig barracks of divine strength and rest there undisputed. No one will frighten you while you are prostrate, many will follow your suit. The beastly will be blinded, no escape for the errant, as the ghost is released from the bag of the body so shall their hope be spent."
Editor's Note - I have just separated the paragraphs so it's more visible. Beth
