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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required “The External World of the Internal” when the Internal finally woke up, it was like all the words in that book, flew at It like flaming arrows, an external barage, a tale, of trading 10 for 50, a poetic hot mess of words it was a rude awakening from the comfort of that internal place, where once it slept, sharp shards flew at It pricking and piercing It, until, like a chrysallis, It split - Open; the soft invisible, genteely ensconsed other side of the page, overcome by the complex codes dumbstruck, is waking up, and the Internal emerges with the many Other words like people and their faces hiding in trees, slithering seductively down branches to root systems that never leave - hmm, one big happy dysfunctional family looking for new words, new fruit, the old stories burning, too many unread for fear of scorching - the breath of life offers more fuel to the fire, it eagerly turns the pages, we continue, to burn - in the beginning there was one word, and from one, the many words arrived, but not as one, did they grow - for what relevance, that one word? Its purpose? it is as if the singular would be the One before all Other words, but, before the better of it all, the external world must needs be first, re-programmed to crack and come undone to truly tempt the reader, and all the Other words with faces, to be singularly possessed, enough to walk across a page, as if to walk across a Body like water, their tongues all speaking babel outstretched for adderall, hungry for that manna on request, now fed to the One World gone all adhd narcolept’ the language, peculiar, foreign and unexpected, eventually lands amongst us all; written automatically through the hands walking with the legs of Man, tracing curves in the road taken by way of Trees, the woods go very deep here - at that table, witness the seated now all lost, their last suppers scattered competitive and warring like rabid hounds - of course, this is not entirely alien - this Lot have been tearing each other to shreds for ages, drinking blood and breaking bread, but it’s all more - lab rat territorial now at that family tree the marking, of minds eating chips RFID its once strong Oaken legs, now rapidly being chewed away - the apples, which were good, all consumed long ago, the rotten decomposing - the core of All, just pure lies on the floor, the politics of a wormwood world; let us start from the top of the “T”ree Trouble with a capital “T”, where the best apples are found, a vestal woman plucked and bound, the rib of man inside her, like sister made from the dust of a brother what produce from that ripe harvest rolls down and out that bone of baculum into the world of Eden? out through the gates of Eden, We, all the excommunicated roll, like rabbits, “I’m late, I’m late”, running out of time, we all take our time (usually 9 months) to ruminate, but we are on much different time now the internal, excommunicated are cast out into the incestuous world like the many sorry words in a bad story and there we are - rudely re-awakened to confront the lessons that our esteemed teacher set out for us de Sade like - drawn and quartered, we are thrown out into that lost future world others’ bones are thrown out for us to eat like words the phropetic place set and the stories of an ancient Word and its fledglings, just old chapters now, lost in the burnoff, largely unread by many unconsidered the invisible internal in the external world considers, We are dancing around like wild eyed Nebhi’im We are all undressed like loose tongues at the frightening Table of Nations; “This is their Lot” the prophets project to those in missionary, “when witchery is at hand, afoot, beating time with the bone of Man” Candide Diderot. ‘24 “And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.” (Gen 2: 22-24) “Pull you in before you fall, Not as sweet as it appears Someone tell me why I'm here” (Slipknot/Adderall) “In doubt to deem himself a god or beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much; Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself, abused or disabused; Created half to rise and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all, Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled; The glory, jest and riddle of the world. (Alexander Pope, 1734/Poet) “What is Man that you are mindful of him, and the son of Man that you visit him?” (Psalm 8:4)
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