for friends work
on happy un
remedial strike out
find work n
hap n remedia
strike out yourself
The truth of a process makes sense to and among those at the end of the
process, where the transcription of thought on the page is a clean mirror
to both writer and readers, writer as s/he writes, reader as s/he reads;
the book unwritten is the look that speaks volumes between and among such.
This so rare that most of us do in the name of more, ever more, vocal and
verbal, dropped out of empathy then yanked back, the lack of us in "you-you"
the vocation of study, time out.
Oscar does not believe that art is being and thought is ugliness. He says so
as in his day was no art and thought. Those who use Freud as if he were
himself as benign and liberational as they do what he did not put sex against
the ban on sex, power against stable.
Such sects! Lift up hearts, prey on. The dream can only create if sleep is
not for the provision of rest, o day for rest and night for study. Bade the
body. The good faith goads the intellect setting the church of our agenda
which, fulfilled, burns. We digest the stone and break into a jog.
Dream breathing. Think, your very heart beating is bleeding and the blood
next to come is bleeding into your heart, the oxygen is bleeding to become
blood, the folks with beating blood are beating the air only. Dream wing.
All every night walk by the venue in their heads where perfect truth of
process plays the energy of creation. All have greater artists than
Shakespeare to meet, but avery eye, don't converse, few attend, few
remember, we are special in knowing we're special not especially.
The perfect dreamer in all, in each, not a speaking to us all. Few go to
sleep with the energy to mingle. I know I'm not alone in this. Shakespeare
the artist in history, fifty of the sixteenth and seventeenth hundreds of
years, everyone is Shakespeare.
The dead can dance. Dreams trot through our excuses, scared to knock such
vital guards. The fear's not explained till the dream's not come back
against twenty such sentries. Step out of the stage and into the tubes.
Stick to your gun till you blow off your head, walk again on your legs no
one else's, carry your seed as she grows in your arms, out of your pain, let
her, away from your pain. Think well of yourself, use your hands, get a grip,
on the non-carnal gun.
So many arms, swinging under the noosed throats, the unspoken carried on so
many legs. Like dream life's accidents, vile, we dream nearer and nearer, the
guard hangs in the air, twitching, tapping. We feel bumped into until, joy,
we are alive.
The ambient never wake up. Like you don't. You begin to ban humour and
alcohol, the mares buck and head for the guards in new hope. Rest is not it,
without truth towards process towards truth.
If you're still reading, no-one's got anything. Some *should* let thoughts
fester in the mind, process the festering. I know mortally the years from
when I was born, each day the unit of measurement cuts history into me-sized
portions, knowing ledges. I dodder to think the art of it.
Sophocles mortal braved Freud, now so less winning. The Freud-led walk through
him, more to hurt that if they'd gone by him, on every shelf in every
flame-stricken library? Mind how you go. Excavate Plato, afraid to go out,
for dream research.
Nothing like life to keep you from dying, the nerves are steel strings, loud
acoustic. Song begins the vibration, words reason the entry, into society,
largely worthy of nothing so clarity!
Be you once, the harsh heart sooner or timely, a slick into two dimensions,
of prose, this nuisance is losing its once fascination, the pattern returns
to its usual dynamic. Think in the two, drink in the third, things they don't
want to reveal indicate why do you say that.
I get it. Draw on planes, repairing the prairie, the gasses from the busses,
the hole us. Destroy two to save three. The hurt behind the face understood
yields to surf on the face again.
The month from a flame that took our collection, from our senses, and
flashed a banner over a dish of a dominant hemisphere, the northern, a cap
with the bill right in front of our eyes. A missable interactive experience,
a miserable sky made it so.
Is cool holodeck sky? I sensed it cambe back to my name, but a short therapist
circuits the patient, tree dimensional. I'll take my "clumsiness", I didn't
dream "it" up, I ride broken in the bumps of a world I ought never to have
believed was mine only thought. Alive-in world.
The process of a sense makes truth to and among those at the head of a
process, where the transcription of truth on the page is a claimed mirror to
both writers and reader, writer as reader as utter; the book unsmitten is
the look that speaks volumes between and among such.