See the Second Sun
My Sexton is obsessed with dawn
And daylight’s glowing orb
That lustful gaze invades her song
Her awe it full absorbs.
For me the dawn and setting death
Are tired old parlor tricks
Instead I seek the Poet’s rise
That fascinates her lips.
I set my time, I set my pace,
Allist that I am
I’ll never rush, not once obey
I’ll Work on my own time.
The sun was stark that deathless day
I held the statue nude
The marble melt some eons out
But axial I stood.
Come my sexless Sexton
Set your slanted eyes on me
When sun is done and I’ve begun
I’ll turn the tithing see.
How I love my evil lovers, you’re all so real with me. I give you this, I give you all, my time is meant for us. Love is in what you actually do, not in what you wish you did; whoever dares praise love should be damned for it; don't praise love, simply love when loving is right, and also hate when hate is due. Accept that you hate without regretting. Hate is typical of the best of lovers, the greater the love, the deeper the hate; only those who love superficially condemn hate with their moral slogans.
The wicked genius of criminals is what prods man to his heights. What disgust, disturbs, revolts, terrorizes, insults nevertheless also fascinate us, and being fascinated we even seek it out. the criminal at least doesn’t seek you’re approval.
And for us who do good for those we love, and through them for all mankind, we need neither praise nor confirmations. Praise but sparsely and make your kind words stark. You can just as well scowl and redress them with a red face; a red face works, the babe is made with the flush-faced push. To those we esteem the greatest we have the least to say. And for the greatest of all, there is nothing more to say than you would say to what is best in yourself. Only blasphemy can truly love the divine. The divine of the divine cannot be blasphemed and each deeply towards the all.
So let your passion roil and bleed; I seek not peace, but passion. I ask no favors from the divine, for even a winning lottery ticket can't hide poverty, nor can rags disguise the noble. What is yours to make, make it well; give your best to her. He who makes the sauce the best needs not even meat. Your duty is to make, not to serve.
We don't serve the all, we don't serve the state, we serve nothing at all. Only slaves serve. We are friends, we are free. Our duties are art, we do them with skill. Know how to perfect the things you must do. It is the simple selfish love of building your own, building up those people who are yours, that justifies the tears. For those we create with we are grateful, and we are grateful for our youth. The home of our youth is forever in our heart. A home is a world. The subtle love of mother and father remind us that by licks of a cow the god is born. Mammalian love is enough to start. Love what you have. What cares the cat for the silvery collar? Be satisfied and disdain such luxury. Satiation finds all things averse. Accepting what is rather than aching for what could never be reminds us to love our own, to hold what we have. Years later we realize we were happy all along, for with love, the more you give the more you have.
So what do we love in our literary mien? Everything is everything, analogy sees the one. Our books give us home, for this is the heaven we share. Writing speaks what words never could, so I will the Idius day and night. Will leads to have. I am true to you, I live for you, my readers are my favorite. What to trust? What to bring close? The lover that's true you won't catch lying, but the cleverest villains in all of history are praised as saints to this day. We judge differently. The evil innocence, the selfish love, the proud perfection of our beings we share freely together.
I draw you close, you lose sight of time. Proximity blinds: who knows his life while thick in the stream? Detachment is only half. Knowing how to rightly attack completes it. Detachment is foolishness if lacking attachment and reattachment.
How beautiful is my desire for you—how right! How true! My desires and ambitions are aesthetic. The highest arts address them. Anything that has been discovered I could have discovered, we are each equal to all. Traditions, remove your shoes when you sit in my study. These foreign ideas are fair game for us -- no presiding institute can bully you in how to use them. I wrest the best for you. I give everything for you. I adore you and what you are doing. I do not look at any of my memories in terms of wounds and violations, but in terms of power and potentials.
Everybody has disabilities, never mind that. You strive because you don't know you are striving, and suffer because you don't know you are suffering; realizing that you deserve happiness, you let yourself have it; realizing you are perfect, your whole life will have already been. Strife and suffering are wonderful when used; when misused they fail to reward. To realize simply that you do hate, resent, envy, and dispute, with no intention of undermining what you do for good reason, this is to feel satisfaction. You are you -- feeling those ways is okay. Both pain and delight are right.
The fear that I might be wrong empowers my tone. It is that risk, that adventure, the ever present possibility that I am idiot or fool, that makes ideas and life exciting. If nothing's at risk, what could be gained? If I had a cool certainty and only spoke what I was sure was true, I would never grasp a pen. The commanding tone is impossible without fear -- mastered fear, but fear -- for fear is power.
In this I am here to help you grow. Your beauty and its creation are my concern. Certain virtues are long-grown and only through unique experiences. Grace is beauty in use. To have those great virtues and the graceful and powerful manners of their use -- decades go into one action -- the intelligence behind it took a lifetime, though it acts in the flash of the instant. That is why I take pride even in my failures.
I revere my strength in accomplishments and that is pride. I assess my weaknesses in shortcomings and that humility. My humility and pride align, I balance my life and set it to grow. To see what is in terms of what can be is wisdom.
All creation is self creation, what we do out there we do in here. Self-expression is self-realization, when I am said, so I am. The work of art defines my soul. My decisions and actions are hammerfalls on the sculpture of my memory. Mattriama is everall, in all her growth she fills us all. We are all with her, co-creators of our souls. Our deathless uncreated innermost self, the emanated love of our being -- upon Ama's skein – we knit this bond of karmic lines.
Creation, procreation, recreation -- this is my time with you. Embrace your profluence, I the divine unknown. Celebrate your inner name. If your letter is scarlet, stitch it well. We are born of immaculate conception -- I the black tear that made Her laugh. No effort is ever wasted here; let wisdom worry, let folly laugh! Folly is the sauce of life, wisdom is the meat. Precedent is everything, destiny will follow. That is why I open you to our unique place of experience, this innocence, this hidden dance. What is more welcome than a friend who reflects and amplifies? What is more dear than a grateful lover?
Keep yourself free from the world and its duties. Arm yourself with sharp ideas. If you've teeth of ivory, they'll hunt you down. Be useless and keep your peace. That is our secret, you and I. A man without secrets is boring indeed. Evil innocence is the crook of our brow, plaited and sane from the top of our heads. My boundless love adores you, my power embraces and surrounds you. Here we breathe as one.
\~ @M@ ~/