The All-Telling Tale : Mythic development with intent to distribute

Keeping conscience codified and corruptible.

time_2551_300Self-annhilation couldn't be more communicable. Don't trust the breaks in thought; they are expandable.

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Aside

Words, teeth, lips and tongue…

Were tasteful of what you read.
Try and translate me.

Everything you didn’t want to know

… Was written somewhere and predestined for posterity to fasten to an image still pixelating… Or aiming it’s glance to memetic ally mate me to your memory and discover me as something you were thinking all along.

Fragmenting me into obstacles of eternity over-stretching to seize me aspects of Internet intersecting to measure me in angles as to how my attention draws itself in curves.

Defragmenting the policy of convention v/a the collective chasm

How dark is a quark anyway when subjected to me?

About as confinity as my quantum we’d on speed “collectively”

Maybe THAT’s the question u should ask Simi.

(A Not-So) Standard Cameo

The means to “shipmate”

I appreciated in value, the dusk of rust colored remnants of “so far, not true” and read unto you my registry of repair, and where I “fused the future with technology encompassed by a vacant stare as to where I occurred to enter naught and roamed the tape-stry… As a tree with/9iut roots to redirect my face to the glance if your grace and I suit you now a name to agent me the recovery of all my fill in the blanks thanks for my encouragement.
Now I return to the realm of “real meant” and I scene to dream a drape to tape to a structure that wore me like the taper if a wind could resend my annulment.
Wrapped up in all my modalities, I impair the quartz in your watch to dock me intellectually .

Try me.

What if the sunlight doesn’t bend right,
And my summon of seasons light darkly
If not for the wayward curve of lessons weighted slightly west, the rest of my dim return to reason, all avail the seated slight of paper and a writ to question your Maker, the rule of all words bending to suppress your gait.
So as fate goes to arm you it’s slung guilt, does not the appellate wand wave it’s sparkle to course me all feats of feature formed to fancy me a hapless rift of facticity~ lead me battered and born restless spurning righteousness to the left of things beside the road.
Lift your ignorance to defend me.
I plead perfectly the pose of posterity. Hung. And slave the conscience to draw me the criminal of cost; that I be the nonchalance of Justice as she straightens my crown and I dine on the demons that will me to sufferindemnity to publicity and deem Doubt the opportunity to seize me instrumental provocating a pause in the break between real and fake, if you’re asking.

In all your phases of togetherness, I hold you; indifferent as you are
To meld me
Into the shape that held me yours.

Decipher me indigenous to what came before.0

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Aside

The temper of a bath and the banter of math

Patterns perceive me perfectionless,
with no address to consciously compressed
thoughts I compose to cure me
the hard lead of whence I feed your forethought
with thinks instead
rather I be led by links
and templates that by your structure
suit me.
(computably compressed by a now collapsable eternity and valueless still my endlessness so conditioned to cure me)
Posterity shall have its record of me immutable and miscalculate modernity posthumously.
Let poetry adorn me instead with a puffy head, coquettishly.

Congratulations, Dr. Middleton.
Had I not sle\pt through centuries, elliptical principalities of post-proximity
would make me an anomaly

Just a day

As things were nominal to tick the minutes toward me, you were nothing but pulling me toward pieces of patience, having no will to pin against me, but wile.
And I am waiting the worst of time to seize your sight upon me,
And all my weapons of precocious ferocious sensuality suppress me to stay, awake as I were to address you hopeful to see me casually
As I conduct myself baneful in your captivity.. Here
To have facets of your face pierce into me the querulous quantum of reality.
Have your way with me
Wanting
With no means to fulfill my wantoness.
Stay stationed to cure me the compensation of your caress, as the day suspends me…. Suspect to kiss you.

variables in time-tangled velocity

open angles of objectivity

intercept their axis

proposed to cross the craft of universiality,

mere of words to resurrect potentiality

So I aimed myself angle-less,

and curved myself parenthetically amongst things 

that needed clinging to 

and made myself 

the narrative of a mind

omniscient but dimensionless

and I think aimlessness

plotting me positionless

asking numbers to stake my space.

 

Abeying all Endlessness

There are days that repeat themselves

and instances of eternity are memorized;

perhaps emoticons are actualized into real feeling

and automated misconceiving reelings

of data are detonated and fated,

cross configurated algorithms of information amalgamated;

so that I culminate just so retro-regulated by rules that don’t apply to me,

but adhere to me nevertheless frustrated

at prospects of mathematics where value is related

and redundancy is the currency of conundrum.

Knowledge can be so dumb, but still pro-rated by It’s sum. 

So there. 

The break of interactive intelligence

/Users/rikkiprice/Desktop/Movie on 9-6-13 at 10.54 PM.mov

Allowing observation to accelerate y=voice command prompt krytxdc

Being separate and defining free

As if there were a church to house me
With a ticket to infinity
Not undone by your eye
Watching me sew the seams of Eternity into nothing that fit
And felt not there

With no lament upon the miracle of horror. And you suited like a mere chair, urging me to sit where you found yourself a king among minutes to dwell there.

While the hours minded me, so confuddled in materiality that I watched you don your crown of thorns
And it occurred to me that you may have felt like a king with no place to test your weary head to rest.

absolution obsolete

Somewhere in the world you were wasting me

and turning me into the tapestry of Time.

And you were the wicked wake of every place

I sote myself deliverance from the canvas;

and your agency of alliances to fault me

a forcefield of fear to calculate your clock

wrecking wordchecking sobriety to curse me 

never to be, but to have been 

the compensation of culture to convict me

the character of your church

and my chalice of emptiness always filled 

less fulfilled.

Were there ever a gaze more focused on infinity

that you dilate the sun to suppress my eye

and quarantine my every reason to see you 

and have my soul stretch to seek you

with no lead whence to once I was complete?

 

the calandar reaches for evidence

glory was once a shade lighter, when I read the details, and listened fatefully to Amazing grace instead of a ringtone when I dialed from where heaven went to tell you that I was sorry for having ever lived at all.

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