what does strife look like? it “looks” like the ground desire arouses from out of nothing where death is conjured and its wantonness what sex intends—in this sleep wakes the root & sends it pregnant into “the look”
love has burned a way look at the scarred ground!
that’s all it takes not one in the ash to give life back
not even the dream spring can die again. why? because a soul
is a seed & a seed is only a promise—what strife would leave
in the wake of fire
dying is done
the rain that ravishes a hole is what light does to a sun
into its life, not into the past we die—a future of wash & seep
that keep seas alive—o grain of sand! testament to all this effort—ceaselessly
o restless tide of night!
what is sex without death? Divine & not unlike a god with life sex is love
& love is fatal & the enflamed essence of this is a Root every Hole in the unknowable universe has to endeavor for without this it's nothing. without this
it's just eternity
there are few opportunities for condolences when it comes to sight. we see too much of the dark—turn away, in truth, to see the sun & we become blind. with death the dark gets illuminated & in that light lies the fate of eternal life—but what lies in the loss that defies sight?
it is not because of a hole in the ground (where nothing is life)
that this is as us seek the advantage of being—but without
voids (infinite or not) the advantage is only a seeming
if the truth be told, it is a wild absence not constrained even by its presence
if that is
it is not because of the future when nothing is life that this nothing of life becomes the advantage of being in love—but without this nothing the advantage is nothing & being, like truth, the comic result—the commingling where no plug gets known; the union only careless genitals claim to own
but there is a future?
there is a love?
—if not, than the advantage the past gains with every intercourse is nullified as is the dark careless with each spark of fire—it is not because of life, where nothing is death that a bright universe depends—but being without, well that is the preponderance of tragic innocence
we wake when the death of light
is to be resurrected we, the “farm hands”
that hand-net the young gods
out from the dark leaves Being needs
as its “distinguishment”
there, where there is no light
without this scheme—the advantage being
for without this there is no ground to “handle”
the smell of a soul is the fire of soil; the “stink”
stars vital in waste stain the dark (due its brilliance)
putrescence: a sun’s forbearance every cell of light
light forbears: these exhalation of holes a Will to Power
marvels at its struggle to keep from a grave
the dead & buried
at the bottom of every hole (the top of every soul) is an “ought"
this "not" (standing up in time) behaves as if a god wanted nothing more
than a tin-shack full of books beneath young redwoods in a place
like “California” where "nothing more" is the demand of the hole:
Grow Old & Die!
what stands at the door
June 29, 2014 | Permalink
without an “earth” heaven is like grass without a wind & for the wind
there is nothing without these voids & their superfluities—they argue “the dead” provoke thee to take up the hard work of seeds, who, by these same holes, are to join in soil the without this grass & wind is not earth, not heaven & not any deity we know
the willful foot that encourages the shovel
to resist the willful dirt because a being at work
is nothing like the being earth—that work is undone
only when being, by labor no life can endure
becomes a being eternal—there where the foot
is no longer a force.
a chorus of divine weeds
May 15, 2014 | Permalink