Desire
offers us
a
soft crucifixion of self-reflection.
Desire
may just be a black-sheep parody
of
consciousness,
a
fascile pinhole of expectant light
coming
through the "bag over our head" universe,
or
some nocturnal inspiration,
first
appearing at the back door of our being,
or
an unconscious attempt at a balance-point within us,
where energy and form are
offered plicatively to spirit,
or straight up,
the
release of the tent poles of our life
that
have falsely placed us subjectively superior
to
being ourselves by being caught up in time.
For
somewhere in the neuro-firing liquids of desire,
within the brain-tram,
two
oceans meet,
crosscurrents
collide,
collapse
and folding occurs
as
expansion upon expansion
until
as the mind's protégé,
desire
can no longer keep still
from
the subtle intricacies of muted electric icicles
in
flash back-story meltdowns unto themselves.
In
the entry of desire,
there
are prat-falls
exposing
cascades of snitches and bellows.
Impulse
as audience,
relapses
into a spontaneity,
giving
to the consciousness of being,
both
a shower and a purge.
Desire
is then a break in the fatigue of familiarity.
For
that sliver of a moment,
self,
bathed
in desire,
is
readied to die happy . . .
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