Time won’t let me

Working on

Something in my creative process itself results, at a certain point, in a grotesque dilapidation of capability for acquaintance in regards to the work.

Poetry on a certain level is too honest for its own good, is not in fact – sly. Levels of depths acquired through association tingle with beautiful urgency. And reveal issues that balance on the absurd as loom and dangle of hothouse flowers.

But a nihilistic sense for humor, slips haphazardly into the morose, and feeds off its own self mockery, which can be viewed as the beginning of the end.

Though, when under attack, say for a sudden revelation of absurdist negativity – the humor comes full circle somehow and for a brief period saves me – poets love crashing crescendoes. That beast of burden, which is indicative of the works ability for transgressive provocation, loves the savage beauty it comes to expose.

But it’s very precarious. And without being able to hold up some “absolute” conviction in the efficacy of the work, things can turn very quickly to hell.

And if love is involved, if true love enters into, I am by its construal, gravely and utterly annihilated.

Honor among traders

Association, initially, in its upswing is most beautiful. And I hang on for quite a while without catastrophe. Impetus and its corresponding afflation is real for me. It is remarkable to me how repercussion of distinguishable inspiration is both sumptuous and rigorous, and that it so broadly effects focal granularity of work. Compare it to playing jazz with the best.

But, eventually, an absurdist gravity will begin to roll, roll down from distance created (and secured), as it were, by heavens, by the reach and increasingly systemic intensity.

Slowly but surely it becomes like a wrecking ball – Or rather a rock of sisyphus. As to say, once the rock lets go from the top, lets go of reality in favor of “the stage,” stage meaning a comprehensive elicitation of transitivity and mentation existing for itself, itself – being the work, once I do that – have never been able to stop the ball from hitting some aspect of the absurd and running foul, over the top – gutter plant.

The urgency to feed the wing and the prayer becomes in and of itself so delicious, so unrelenting, it effectively defiles me.  

What to do?

Work, I work off the downfall. It is an absurdist strategy, not so much on purpose, as devoured by the beauty and the aetiology of its desires.

Sweepers have picked up a reasoning that says to think of it differently: as “a garden laid out in such a way as to afford the fullest scope…, and furnished with thickly grown trees, beneath whose leafy screen a visionary… may conjure…” A garden whose phantom procedures are a “source of contentment.”

Poems are brewing too. Exploding with tendacity. Trying to transfer Negativity of La Chute to ? some yells out stage ops but its different for me. I need end of stage as a “official separation.” Like an actor might.

My joining is contingent on this or else she wont make it out. Thats all. She just wont and this stays here inside the Shield.

But its hibernation in the books. And thats it. Wont come out. Then it goes all feelies and friendzies. Which is deviant but a blast. Cause theres no turning back either. Learned that the hard way.

Present Tense

Will be changing Freindzied. Into a variation. Yeah variation. Whats it really about? Reach. Being challenged and challenging bakc and understanding I am in part ascetic. And a clog of divine brightfuls hidden beneath the absurds as drafters and beauty demand vent.

Rising tides of fiction and pretense and gall go stupid in person because I bear the scarlet letter in that offense. Hawthorned again.

But I am stuck in a seat and beauty Basic is alarmed and reticent. And stupid. Second guessing, not on target, eye being set on the density of silence and folds that around me are spreading, everywhere.

Of course it scares the hell out of me. So much have to establish sections Dirigoble-ology. Its my msunderstanding of performance that I hate.

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