Tickled whispers of a Jazz cigarette float and flow. Lips and cloud breath. Cold water bass washes over the ocean room. Rocking waves. Waves of hair, waves in the floor, waves of hands and passing. Arms of chairs that sit right down. Laying in embraces, sweeping dances. Dali surreal, burning giraffes. Burning warmth with breaths from windows, exhaling chimneys, from the still ocean room. Levels from mottled carpet to the plateau of tables with assorted litter. Rhizomes of Jazz machinery. Separate people in each body. Bodies of work being the expression of the Ubermensch. Mad word forges. Glistening ideas with clasped ideals. Laughing at Buddha and Nihilism. Chests of Ego death. Jars of spirits. Instruments of language, guitars of communication. Laughter at the holy. Kerouac sitting outside the shelf. Rolling smoke, Rolling music, Rolling Laughter, Rolling symphony. Rolling conversation. Relaxation.
#Poem #Original #Beat #Slam #Writing #Beatnik
You are kissing, you’ve reached passed the flirting, and now spit, hair, tactile sensation combine. So amazing, so hot, so fantastic, you are pulled away lost. This one tastes so good. You think about their posterior and how touching it will feel like. You run down roads of places and things. Comparisons. Inflections. Reading. Looking for subtext. Analyzing. Working out the body language. You talk to yourself, and decide when to make the next move.
The groping is so fine. So good. You talk paragraphs to yourself. You flinch a few times and discuss nuances – ‘did they like that?’, ‘what do they think about your bits and your face and your smell and your touch’. You chat enough with yourself to inspire. You must move forward. This will be so good when you are fucking. The moment will be tantalizing. The touch will be mind blowing.
Between movements and touches, you think about what sound track you should play next time you are fucking. You’ve already arranged the incense in your head, the candles, everything to add to the mood. It will be so good, it will be perfect next time you fuck. Oh gods, the cigarette after this will be fantastic.
Drawing another breath of smoke, you chat to yourself, your mind is so smug. You know you have almost reached the perfection. Whispers in growls and screams of perfection. A consistent humming burning monologue of perfection. Sucking up sensation, an infinite inhalation. The cuddles after this smoke will be divine, says the voice.
Then it will be perfect. Then You will be happy. Laughs the voice.
The tetragrammaton represents the 4 characters of Jehovah or YHWH as the unpronnouncable name of God and is portrayed by the 4 elements in alchemy with the 5th element as prana or spirit #alchemy #esoteric #occult #sacredgeometry #knowledge #illuminati #elements #masonic #masons #4biddenknowledge #watao #ritual #goldendawn #magic #god #yahweh #jehovah #sacred #spiritual #meditation by conscious_creations_ http://instagram.com/p/pP5yiIJDvI/
I’ve met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, “Why?”
Why did I cause so much pain?
Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?
Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love?
I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God’s got this all wrong.
We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, and what happens just happens.
And God says, “No, that’s not right.”
Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can’t teach God anything.
Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
You draw a circle, your favorite shape. Oh so perfect. Sublime brilliance, tuned to your heart and the vibration of god.
You only see circles, only perfection. You forget every other shape. They are not real. Every thing you read, hear and see is a validation to the circle. Fractals in a golden spiral. You have found the truth of Hermes. The truth of God. The real human Truth