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And welcome to Section 7: The Seventh Scene
Hymn #1: mystical mischief For he who runneth above cold plains May become a Queen. And she who soars below the roots Very well may become a King. Majesty of Mental Mixtures. Speaking the people are. Coming into foreign forest fires of organic rage with seeded in the Great Collection. A collecting of souls to possess the new species. In active exorcism Exorcisms, indeed. In need. Mystical mischief conjures deepest demonology to the surface. Tension within the clock strike of Macabre madness. And in this madness, we are the Matador. Bulls learning patience. Teach me patience gracious God, teach me patience. Waiting on a candle with longitudal drippings to gravitate towards the roof. But if you are hanging upside down And chasing bulls with flags. A careless anger may be thy bullet of ejaculation. Sodden searching of weapons of white flags waving In a waver of illumination. Sodden no more! Dry and fresh are the ways of the new laundry! Hypothetically and hopefully hygienic are we, you and I. In the line of pioneers. The journeymen you speak of. The explorers I seek of. Treading to the edge. Running through the jungles. Teetering on a ledge. Tottering on prairie cliffs. For there are, as the journeymen and explorers believe, cliffs hidden amidst the flatlands Seek and ye shall find. We concur. Oh do we concur. (With aviators and flamboyance) Sister! Brother! Significant other! Let us watch the rulers flee. For they will! Flee like flies as the insects that they are. No chariots or horsemen for you. Our choicest valleys will rise in the land of the barren level. Messiah of grass! (But be careful with those blades my friend) Messiah of the new! Messiah of the Us Not! Usnot, we have summoned. Buddha Mary’d Vishnu in the temple of Mohammad, Christ of Mecca.Giving birth to UsNot. Our milk of the mind. Our sugar of the soul. WE ARE NOT US …but all May it be known from the start. Hailey commeth with great harps. It is our turn to seduce. In attempt to seduce the harlot of codes and bars. And wash his makeup via urination. For he says “I am but a virgin merchant.” Merchant, yes, But virgin he is not. For he says “I am but a provider for your table.” DDDEMON! He is but a liar and a harlot. For we know the true provider of our table. And it is a table of love. Behold the harlot: Consul The Educated Monkey. Mathematics treachery. Although right he is when the primate proclaims “I am you.” (Although wrong is he when he utters, “No one sees me.” For many do. But alas, a bulk of we subjects yet do not smell his graven hue). The monkey swings on your sinew. Hiding in the hunger. More will be whispered of the education and the counsel of Scene Six. Onward with peacock feathers and smooth swirls. Give heed, if you wish, to a latest account of dreams of romance. Which although, if in alternative metaphor, implies wondrous miracles. Of healing in new frontiers. Onward to the account, he said in lament, I have stumbled upon the harvest. Pulling stranded prayers from pregnant wounds. (A losing battle with deafness and overflowing blood pools). Sighing winds ‘round dry lips swarm (in dream). Rolling pale truth in scattered thorns yet drifting tales still bleeding warm. Trying. Tying sheaves of dreams in tattered formation. A crying out. A hanging life of immobility. A longing (reality?) Of holy hearts that seize the sun. A soothing touch of meeting tongues skyward where flirting birds send demons run. Aha, for paradox in action: It’s Home! Welcome back to the new era. These holy hearts are among brothers! Let the flirting be done by Hailey. Stir the flavour so that it may be smooth. Hear Us/I henceforth, It is home.
The Us Knot The Us in peril is unconscienciously asked out
Hymn #2: an open letter to Mr. J Monkey Dear Consul,
Hymn #3: finally some back up... the writers Forcast Five mention BRIX and the dimensions that be I’ve followed your breed as long as I can BRIX: Social club of souls where ladders float in tempo with the balance of angels All layers of consciousness have their domain Energy chemists at work traverse an echo We are within Poles. Wherein lies the Farm Depending on the market Brix is the market – branch of our blossom. Club of the tree trunk kept hopping by the Five Cliques of Angels. The social circle of souls dances the world away. Shaking the tree and warming sap. As our human realm – the Farm – is fed from the waves of their tales, they indulge in the ripe form of our bud: The Fruit of the Solid. A taste for exploring the echoes beyond. Who appoints the roles of souls – Who are the drivers in the Poles of Light? The cliques will never know the true names of their escorts. All that is obvious to Tender, Scavenger, Challanger, Channel, and Harp is a million dancing shapes and shifters from the bottom of countless echos are what ignite the lights of the party Brix. Shapes and shifts of the Light create all in their path and dance on, towards all the relatives: families of sorrow, triumphs of nature… untouchable balance; on the farm, in the slum, in the driver’s seat. As for us: Farm floor via elevator, prairie train, or foot and wire. The clique – it wanted you, it had you. It’s not always home – your angel in splat form. It goes out at night. It goes to club Brix. You’re alone and scared Human ice cubes served Who’s Hailey with now? And tomorrow to be You’re thinking: what happened to me? “Hailey is like an orphaned child of the Light The Light of LandHer tears give us eyes And everything proportionate to that Forget about hair for once The skin can be cut tomorrow Come on in, climb inside her warm rapture She’s served the likes of a billion barns In the hearts of all farm animals Our fur is beautiful but Hailey tickles life to a laughing stitch with a single strand’s only stroke. S.S. Repunzel Women children and men – all who climb, climb aboard Hailey is out there at sea – A ship of organic produce hauling goods of energy. When my iris was moistened by her tearful relief, I saw a glimpse of the plant we tend. She picked the fruit when it turned ripe. And handed it to a Tender I could not see. The shapeless receiver flipped back inside the branch and danced back to the bar. Hailey is a fruitpicker,” said one farm animal. Even to Hailey the club inside the branch is a mystery. She, holy merchant, climbs between the worlds placing her ladder on the knolls of man, reaching the harvest of the fruit of Light. But her golden garden and all the implements of the freed farm offer little creed beyond the comfort of myth and code. She remains innocent and that is her source of contract and our source of love. While indeed all is forgiven… The myths of the Brix float about. There are stories amongst all Five angel splat dancers that caressing the solid in a dance to the poles can make a soul exist as the fruit it feeds on. They get high on Hailey’s harvest of the farm because while the rooms of Brix are the ingredients of all trees making it a multi-echoed organism, it does not posess a circling awareness of the total party vibe. The club has many floors and branches. Every angel would splat dance in every lounge at once if it could. Follow the echos of your eyes and you will taste the ingredients of light. In order to do that, you need to ride a Pole of Light. The solid can make you the solid (the gift of an echo). Leaning into the rays of the light will beam a soul into layers ancestry where it joins conference with our children and unites the parties! Say hello. The Infinite Beams the circle – to become what you eat. Be the fruit that is passed to you. The lights – invite you to be in a beam. And radiant tubes of light will dance through all echos.
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