There is no farther from there unless be no point
And holds as
Superglue,
Transcending all by its power,.
The power of which will you, the point,
Grabs you,
Which can not
Be,
Willed.
Be,cause,will,
Cause,will,be,
Will be cause.
Enough!
4 a
Shadow
World
2
Be. (Need shade, for those excruciating black sun days, scorching, unforgiving.)
It’s mere kindness for suddenly, to bloom.
Igor is never transcended, he will always be merely Igor, but, within himself, that Igor, to see himself as his true nature dictates:
And not denied in all of his acts, repartees, selves, not dreamlike, big acquired over the ages, for ageless
he is, bound through the voraciousness, voluptuousness of his being in all conceivable permutations. Denial in this age is easy, 2 be (4 )for whom matters more.
You have got to be mad, simply, undeniably against this the simplicity of the unverient , appalling 1, dimensionality of the upper crust, mediated by blitzkriegs of suggestion. If this be akin dog inner sanctum of prophetic-self indulged anger, at least the metaphore’s final irreducible mirror-image, well so be it. Did not Wagner divide the plan after familiarity of the difference of reliance between marxand feuerbach?
The dare of looking through that eye ‘I’ of singularity?
When push comes to shove, you have to choose, between hope and despair, and it’s on You.
The weight of was lies heavy on his brow, who would think is and will be.
Igor awakens from his 'dogmatic slumber" and screams. “I am what I am!”
Within same dream, he is being who he is
The scream muffled, by nagging question,
How does it work, should he convince himself, before he can convince others for whom one look, usually the first impression counts
Heavy,
It is night , thinking to go back into slumbered, for if not for the worse tomorrow,
Or, if not his thought of the matter,
The spontaneity of his actions, may counter that look,
Or that thought.
Igor, oh Igor, will you forever at the most deepest part of night,
Think of that soul, and why supposing,
Somethin developed, something to set apart,
Or is there no fine line separating the conical circular upward downward motion of that circle,
That ring of power, whereby the beginning so subtly
Into the end in blends,
Even if separation implicit in this mathematical formulation,
Like film fast enough succeeding one still, into another the effect of movement and unity
Perceived as such commensurate with the swifter development, of conscious awareness?
Igor wants to keep that still, the murmuring trees only, visage of the enclosure of the quick of the heart,
For if not so he thinks,
Heraclitus would for ever stump Parmenedies, no rest then my friend,
No reality could thus offer respite,
But of a self deluded attempt to stop all movement
The eternal sought after rest, too,
Just another brushstroke,
Into eternities unmeasurable chaos.
He resigns to return into the slumber,
Of the cover of the night, whereby time
And truth reign,
Even for a very briefest of the minutest
Sliver of passing.
Igor, you are just passing,
By, as the part of the breeze, the swallows rest their tired wings.
By.
Two old spinsters wheel and woe, gather on their porch to sew.
Yarn in hand and lint, using their whiskers to adore their own beauty full of wrinkly hope.
Gossiping the world away they look but do not dare speak above a whisper and vague vengeance
for the missing grandchildren they never had, so sad
Beautiful dolls they create, filling them with straw and grey hairs, little pieces of their chairs
Who shall get rib of the monster within when the stars don’t help and handsome men fail to carry the weight?
Old hags full of fear, shying away from what can hurt
Dreaming of hopeful times when they were young and full of thyme
Igor sleeps, but his I does not close. He dreams was, is, will be.
Igor’s spinsters join and meet, spindle and cloth and inner heat
weaving sweaters to cover the ugly monster’s form
spinning yarn with old hag whiskers, pulled from their wrinkles
Two plus tooth equals thrice to be rejected, pushed afar
in old hand maiden’s jar
biting at the heel as they kneel before the idol to conceal
not looking up to meet the gaze above
afraid to speak and be heard
from the bell-tower a shower
two old hags enjoy the toy they conspire
burn beneath the moon
and soon hope will spring in June
There he is
The god without with-in
crazy hags are alighted by his image, by his ugliness
spinsters spinning in their beds, weaving happy sweaters in their heads
using thread and spinning crazy because they are so old and lazy
Who will save their spinster souls, rooted in their cracked soles
they lick his feet and hope to taste
a bit of that bitter paste
dripping from his engorged balls
sugar in the malls
his belly fat, his face contorted,
not like when they were consorted and so
young any priest came a-calling, with candy boldly strolling
how they sucked on his heavenly promise
little girls seeking a harness
bright futures in church halls Igor ringing its bells he calls
old hags to come a-knocking, time clocking, tik-tok
shocking
mocking
words and words
one piled upon the other
little threads in their prety weaves tio keepo ancient bones safe from the cold
to cover what heaves unrequited
begging for round mound, masculine shperes they never had
too bad
In his moments of clarity, Igor realizes he is the rock to which he is tied and the vultures that peck away at his entrails. Does the punishment fit the crime?
He gave the world a look into his inner Self, to the fire that engenders religions and philosophies.
Igor shrugs.
Despite the bugs
And squirms of their devouring worms,
Despite the vultures of his
Incessant yearning, There is no turning
From who and what he is–
One who went inside.
Igor squirms as he realizes the price to pay is the pre condition to his existence, and surely he would not ask it, that to be or not is still the question?
It is of necessity that the whole thing be recognized for what it is, for minus recognition, his existence would still harbor in a jungle of apes, yearning for enlightenment.
That the price is dear, of suffering creation of his being , is worth it, because the most exquisite of future fixes is predetermined in the gene pool, hence a requirement of igor’s value.
He is predetermined to pay the price because he is only a link in an infallible chain.
Igor’s protestations are laughable.
Fi phi Fo fun…
Igor wants them on the run
he smell the scent of a wo-man
When he hunts it is for the cunts
They pull out more words, from dark places
To cast a curse and hide their faces
pot boiling with a secret potion
drive away the monsters with lotion
Bat wings and unicorn semen words like spirit to hide from the demon
Spinsters spin their yarns
webs of string to fling
In their minds Igor bleeds but only in their needs
what monster would be like that
asks the withering old bat
When it’s she who could not bear
to stare into the abyss, so they hiss
nearing death they want to hope
any pot and dope
will do
for a shrew
Wrinkly but bold, she displays her ugly mug
as if she were a beaut
but some dispute
and laughs at the ugly in her mind
afraid of time
she feels sublime
big words from small minds
another she lets go from her behind
words words, like smells to mask
their smells the story tells
What of my soul she cries? hoping it will suffice
laugh laugh sista, the other responds
fishing in stagnate ponds
use the word and say no more,
what a tired sickly old bore
a talisman a magic token
words from whisker lips are spoken
and they must do for the shrew
so dumb she dreams it will have to do
Bride of Dracula asking for it but perchance she does not get the true meaning of venom, whereby,
She feigns a mean less by ate us hey feels most, although all advanced, herself nuanced,
Remembered some strange phantom a-haunting ,
Close to her bosom a-plenty,
Akin to bewildering for it top suckle,
Mistaken the Gewurtztraminer for babie’s milk,
Where it drops from her paramour’s dingy,
And yet Igor chuckles with a hidden yet forlorn
Sadnes, how poor draculal may with jealous rage
In his coffin turn, as the bride,
So wilfful, yet so. Pure and so very young
As the dewdrops of spring
turn it into the fall, the winter
Of our dis-continence.
Sister beware, Lest your wish of wicked parlance
Toward you would turn.
Exciting babe of blood raised on the milk fed jackals
Boring into the heinous flesh of such pitiful innocents.
Be ware, Igor loves and understands your vile needs.
Brother Maldoror, cousin Sade, hell’s spoken roughly
By your welfare.
From her engorged heinous anus she doth deploy
the magic of her poison ploy
Igor she hurts and rejoices
having made her spinster choices
A hag with
a bag
thesaurus and dictionary her spell-book
works she repeats in her empty cavern of a mind
destroying gods and monster with her explosive behind
used as mind in these times when organs can have any utility
what futility
ugly she feels and think it he
who is what has made her be
stupid she feel and thinks it is he
sad an desperate she feels and thinks it’s he
giving him the power she lack she attacks with words she cannot defend or define without her dictionary and thesaurus spell caster’s book of script
to pick and choose from the talisman to save her arse
what a gas…storm
More words pretty and long
an erection is what she longed
Craven mind all god gave her was an orifice
to avenge herself with
words she used to find hope and vengeance
thesaurus to pretend she’s bright
dictionary to get it right
pretty pretty words like soul and hope and love and humanity
feeling pretty in her simple deformity
She who possesses the fein
Of pain,knows him,
Enjoy the marked
InVerted, bled heart,
Less she knew not what,
And in kind,
Return, as well
So to part,
Pain, the brew gulped,
As in one ,
Bottoms up,
Yeah,
For olde’s time
,no time better, done as now.
Done. Cheers!
Run, run
now that Igor’s on the prowl and howl in vain in the rain not out of pain
when he hunts for cunts, and dullard runts
see the old hag cower and hide?
was she not bold and brazen when the monster was far, and away, beyond the fences, wenches?
when Igor comes calling
were they not asking for him to see, to be, with them…
Were they not begging like sluts with distended butts
for Igor to smell their pheromones
dry and squalid smelling of rot and death\no word like “soul” protect
a defect
fuming with odoriferous solicitousness
they called, casting spells that they imagined hurt the beast,
at least
made him reconsider, or shy and weak
so to speak
Sad old hag happy in their twosome not ready for a three-some
hugging and kissing each other
Victory in their squalor
one plus one equals tooth.biting on the heal
as they kneel
Happy to use word to win from afar
never dreaming the monster would stir
not being too demure
For sure
old spinster hags how sad
no bag can save you
no words
no spells
The sadness in the others mind you smelled was your own, finding yourself momentarily within it
admit it
The bitterness and fear yours alone
when you imagined one who would think such thought
the weakness and cowardice your own
all those petty pretty words, yours, as well
No more than a spinster’s spell, spun on spinner’s wheel,
fabric to cover an old weathered heart
from a world it knows not
though ti be old and wrinkled
invested in decades of petty pretty words
learned at the feet of her elders
Those past pretenders
An inheritance to be ashamed of
In deed,
Such a case be,supple as only years spent
Pushing iron,
Must see it,
To believe, as words immortal,
With those, to share, in the immensity,
Ask you possible ancients?
Such hidden in castle faire,
Darkness and mustery there dwell,
Soul of bereavement, above time and place,
The forlorn one dwells, in your dark of heartless,
Your bewildering majesty, always love known best, whom do only,
Love, obedience
Hold not the seducing power
Of slimy words,
Hung as paraphets 'fore
The battle, for
Our hearts, thinks knew YOU.
NCEO FAREWELL HERE BETWIXT US,
But hope no refrain so challenging
To disappoint, so high a venture!
Pray,oh so much resolved one, no to waste
A drop of unrequited measure
To weigh that which beyond me,
to describe.
Igor has shared pages of word to pick from
and here you rest in your spinster dress
using prose to escape being recognize as the old hag you know and despise
using ambiguity to reserve an open backdoor open
an escape before you are trapped and undressed from your best
of what an old bag knows not
silence ought to be her reply
an ear to listen
a hand to touch
not much
but all she needs before her end
let those who are beyond you deal with things that are above you
start with a simple task
defining the words you use as a mask
then move on to connecting each to a world that rests outside an old-hags cowardly breast
or, at least shut your mouth
before you lose the last tooth
and a gummy witch you become
foul and fowl mouthed
an ol bitch witch who threw words, hoping the monster did not com to cum.
and as, once again, wrong
Oh, well done i commend you
And everyone shall I’ the …
And non about the cauldron sing,
Live elves and fairies in a ring
Enchanting all that you put in.
Oh sweet spinster
you use your own motive
as your directing crystal
it is you who needs the audience
because without it you have nothing but words with no reference and no motives
it is not world you wish to connect to and clarify but to humanity and their emotions
finding there respite, relief, a way out of your misery
words, for you, are methods of seducing and creating a shell of mindless zombies all around you
a flesh shell, a living shield
a herd, a school
a flock, trying to confuse the enemy without
you do not wish to see but to turn a blind half-eye
the other having been lost
covered with a patch, over the cavernous rotting hole
exposing an empty skull behind
to Igor’s words you attack Igor’s hypothetical motives and his ugliness and his deformities
But never the ideas therein.
a coward and a hypocrite, you be
and I see
all you have are allusions, poetry
RAP verbosity
animosity
all you have is innuendo
ambiguity so that your simple mind is not exposed
how crude…how rude
a rube