The Voice out o' the Whirlwind says we meat puppets are cramps on infinity, which is mad love.
Since the voice is an amped prophetic rumble out of a jet engine sound, my reply is silent in my skull. I hang on to my hair follicles. The ones exiled to the fringe.
I'm thinking then the bent psychobilly Cramps band were prophets, the contraction inside the Meat Puppets band.
They'd explode in this maelstrom mind. Bands are the last outpost before the shattering.
Vertiginous unraveling seldom survives unto bliss.
Then God's the fiercest gangsta o' love imaginable. Not some Jehovah tribal bully-boy though', ever smiting the infidel and suchlike. Nobody gets out of this storm mythically intact.
Rumble, scour, whirl, and breath, Love is ob_liv_i_on, the wide-eyes of death, anagram of hated, or date h, or eat hd. Edible hi-def. Market magic.
Everybody's Job, obliged to forget their contracted suffering, which results in a vast clearing, where the default term "God" arises, where ob_liv_i_on is a strange remembrance – remembrance of Source, forgetting self-contraction.
>>>
Once I had carnal knowledge of an itinerant Moroccan beauty, beloved daughter of an imam, Moslem cleric. In another celluloid life, she was a choreographed mud-caked crazy, strong sexy thighs stretching, sweet ass gleaming, desperately clawing the robe of a stoic alternative Hollywood Jesus. Truly. A bit part in The Last Temptation of Christ.
In the life I knew her, sand-hued silken thighs parted like the gates of heaven. It was a timeless velvet twilight. She spoke Arabic and French and her body was a youthful purrrfection of slim, voluptuous, strong-sinewed dancer. Though in her middle-years, and mother of adult children, you wouldn't know it. She had been blessed by the Dalai Lama with eternal youth, and it absolutely showed.
When we sat in the grass above the cliff by the seaside, sun a radiant life core in the clear blue sky of overmind, our souls were one eternal instant of light-bliss. It was a suddenly found blast of love's ob_liv_i_on to the searching struggle. Lit by mystery, where before and after the bulb of being was simply dimmed, filaments yearning for incandescence.
Yet this was kind of an archetypal highlight, as she had never belonged to any man. Despite her warm maternal embrace of now adult children, and her temple courtesan sexpertise, she was of a free nature, her kind immortalized even, in the poetry of Nizar Qabbani.
I would find mystic-erotic fire in her undulant embrace, but not the quiet comfort of hearth and home. Though in truth I seek no_thing.
She would sing snatches of the songs I wrote during our erotic romantic interlude of three months: . . ."Anima healing/Syzygy Feeling/take me home shining roads" would mirror-tinkle in her exquisite Arabic-French accented tones, those notes of the plaintive troubadour. Another marvelous world, same planet. The psi side of the quotidian, neglected.
A torch is passed nonetheless, gift given, un-carried.
And she had her thousand poems of praise from this extemporaneous swain.
>>>>>
Meanwhile, the whirling dervish embraces the vortical core of godgrind. Rumi surfs the burn through.
Job gets a whirlwind tour of fractal-mania so there is no Job, who's job it is to get over himself.
OB:inverse_LIV_I_ON. Job inverted is the voice out of the whirlwind, the Rumi dervish, the inverse of deadbeat acculturations.
Borges put Shakespeare in Job's place with the Voice out of the Whirlwind averring the Everything and Nothing of the Tao, in essence.
>>>
O_B met Liv_ion on Thighsday. Her cunt muscles handled a calligraphic brush expertly, emblazoning lost scripture in Dada Esperanto Braille.
O_B was impressed, invisible as he was, virtual-soul searching, enamored of anima acrobatics. He longed to be the ink in her splendid vulva daubs on vice paper.
He would settle for being the Braille bas-reliefs of her wisdom. Her wisdom is knowing he is freedom itself.
>>>
The song “Oblivion (Love)” arises in their blood myth meditation:
Make no more fractured conclusions/zero falderal/I am a way through illusions/hero's journey tall/A thousand miles on a hi wire/keeps a man awake/Go step by step in the true fire/all for goodness' sake/No flock, no block, no fatuous grins Oblivion (Love)/Oblivion/You miss the mark if you believe/more than seeing through/You're better off with some tea leaves/than old priestly coups/God's not some stick in the dead sky/graybeard daddy-o/It is the source of your plum pie: psychic body flow/No flock, no block. . ./You're wise to deal with your Shadow/sabotaging grace/It's not a threat just a bad sow/unawakened face/Ain’t no recalcitrant demon/just your woolly head/So get a clue, get a beam on/shift your sight instead/No flock, no block, no fatuous grins/Oblivion (Love)/Oblivion/No stock, no crock, no ignorant sin/Oblivion (Love)/Oblivion
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