Between the fire of light (as a god who works out her origins in a star—that star’s shine is thus) is revealed to those blind the light of night and the light doused in those asleep who conceal the first light of a star (for when awake, this self-same dark is where embryos dwell) is not the death of light, a night entirely empty of gods but rather the way between—this “blindness” of seeing that seems as if the dead should dwell, when in fact they can not.
the endeavor to plenish is how being alive repels what it seeks (it is only eternity that seeks its dis-re-membering) look how even desire between beings brings the distance that separates no further than seed—this brace of divinity
nothing to receive, cannot give
for even Nothing gives and receives
what is flowering but a hole?
a grave, not an embryo?
can "spring dead" be
without ovaries? if
to a hole hollowing is a gift
is not death the seed who receives?
if time is temperature than all this “chatter” that keeps even god alive
might as well be what strikes at the heart of it—for what is it (Pascal's wretchedness?) but this scandal of atoms that seek the benefit of fire?
not by the dark alone is a universe constrained by law
complicit with a lawgiver whose sight is the very light used to expel the god
is a universe blind to it’s own—a marriage of all & nothing as if truth somewhere must be interred to answer the curse pregnant
in the "well-reasoned" life love can bestow
what does strife look like? like the ground desire arouses
from out of nothing—a wretchedness conjured and its wantonness what sex in this wicked sleep god intends: to wake a root & send Strife pregnant
into “the look”. what every cell sustained by a sun in ruin becomes
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" is the preponderance of tragic innocence