productive procrastination in pugnacious prognosticators

by practicalspactical

R’n’t all itches to act twinned with equalanapposite counterclocksome itches that push the itch outside of temporal reality into contingent uncertain futures which may or may not come to pass, leaving in its setplace alternative excursions that point down side hallways, crack open doorblocks, and abandon us amidst the clutter of other rooms?

In my father’s house are many mansions, says he

of ten rods given, nine are loaned, and we bloody gutsack men are born in, live in, stay in mud with only scattered starthoughts of other higher beautiful

and procastination, to plan for crastine-day, is it not the beautiful and the hopeful — except not — just another dreamlie to sooth our sourows sores — I am tired today, I say right now, and my thoughts are stews of blackish bile — no sleep, but my lover comes to see me and tell me what my name is —

up, pug, teeth sharpened over two millenia of millenia of left-us women and leave-us love — see the young amoeba heartsad at its failed division — and now we divided make faulty glues of oxygen and hydrogen with schoolboy chemylabs, calf-legs and doe-eyes falling all over each other until banging against bonewalls, biographies shiver and refract, and tongues bruise each other making different shapes, and language drifts and towers to heaven are left undonelike due to miscommunications — in the middle of the word hides an unbreached wall —

share, make common, accept — no wonders that the tower fails. Babble, babble — ancient ziggur zag up to godplace — and it took us four bigears to put Ol’ Humps back together (even harder since we had no boxfront to look at, I will admit some puzzle pieces were forced) and fly up clinging to Sungod’s tearducts into inky darkness.

where does it go from here? chronos emasculated is a one way highway, the journals of journeys all end the same — and foreknowledge of foregones are like pyschic eggshell swaddlingblankets that scare and sooth us into fitful sleep

art, deprecated verb form of the predicate, dropped all together in general semantics which pseudoknowers say make brains run quicker. wind the clocks and drop the predicates, being is a foregone, and unknowable, and the map is not the territory and never nevereverwillbe and dreams and deeds live in separate houses and this brainmush harmonium laying sentences upon the waters like the voidbreaths of allgod create a world but not this one.

Go. Get on with it, you lazy fool, nullity of the major arcana. Take my card and divide by it and watch the universe reveal itself.