POSTHUMOUS

beyond the grave like lazarus

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CHORUS
muddywatersss


CHORUS 1001

TORRENT. TORTURE> AND FAITH. In fingertips of release and blood and guts and those soldiers on the MARCH. But where are they going on the endless inner conflict and ecstasy divine treated as such. Such. Suchness. Such is life and death and release and endless CHORUS. Of suchness. And divine. Targets for our enemies to touch and to embrace. And to seize upon in boots. The march. Endless. Suchness. Ferment. On the inside. Or is it on the outside. I forget like ants caught in the web. Eating each others arms and legs in evidence concurrences. Of whom you are and what you aint' spit that game like it was twenty years ago to this day. When east point smoked some dank. And you were there to the touch. To the song that has no end. The endless march of suchness in breath and release and feeling and given torrents that come when they want to and when they dont at tall for all there is to blow on something that cannot give back. But is endless like the eyes. Blood guts march. Torture. Arms. Golden seized. Given. In conflict. War. Disgrace. Anger. Madness. Blood and guts and the march that is on the inside. Will it ever stop. Will it always be there. Is it in us. Is it us. Like the virus and like the decay of the skeleton of the blackness of the corpse. It is there in the corpse like the day of the day when all the corpses dance like wolves in the snow like a flake when that little drop of blood saw into the snow and then you forgot to be like that little drop of blood inside of that snowflake on the ground when it all came out upon the snow as that enemy marched through that snow with tortured boots and ripped up uniforms from seeing brains spattered and matted into hair as they fucked each other and tore at each other in the blood of the snow and on the endless they marched like a raven drop of torture and blood and guts and marching with bare feet on darkness with blood and drops and little repeats happened patterns emerged in the snow as the things caught on fire with in that darkness and within that snow and mouths of wolves and the raven lead by a demon with one eye in between them forward they marched a fiery hordes still one eye leading them like packs of wolves decayed and embraced for all those who see and to feel and to give and see, as the blood fell on the snow and the fire but raged within and without but for no other reason which I could discern and see but then I saw fire before the army of hordes, armies of silence, upon the bloodless snow in screams and agony they came upon the fire that turned to something else entirely because it feel like water as those skeletons turned to light and feel inside of themselves like flesh that gave to the light of the day, and upon the sands of waters it gave to something that had flesh inside of it like a flesh egg, a deviant beautiful sun feel upon the hordes like warmth and decay on the suchness of the water, in harmony and pattern that was broken and with truce of the discord as it marched and gave way to something else entirely foreign to itself, broke and gave way like a torrent of another kind, in another land that was once and the same, was once and the same, the suchness of all being with within the light and within the waters of all times and then some, to release into the hordes of bloodless day and bloodless night they came and they went, and they saw and the patterns emerged from without restraint and without feeling and governed without they came and went and saw in the waters of the bloodless hordes that had turned into the ever forgiven light on this side of the moon, on this side of the darkness that has no decay, that nothin. NON BEING. but itself to turn inward upon, the revolving, the blood that thwarts, that mixing and that snow and in that sand, on either side of a coming, that march on that follows each other, like that damn snake eating at itself, eating at itself, eating at itself in the suchness, of another time and on another tip, and on this they came and they went like ghost of the wolves, and raven that the bird that was in the sun, with the feathers golden, feather golden, and beaks of light it was to feel to the sand and pecked at itself like a chicken in the dust, in the heavens, it pecked at itself like golden light within the dust, as it turned inward on itself and it gave way from the inward from the decay of the darkness and the marching hordes that came upon them in the grace and in the name of the lord it came in the light from out of the darkness and gave way to something else entirely from which it came, because it came form the blood and it came from the darkness and the snow, it came out entirely from something of which it was not, it was not, it was not but the suchness that is, that is, that is doomed to display and go and go, when it wants too and when it is met at the right time, and in the right sequence, in the patterns that are always there in plane sight and they merge together in the BLOOD. And GUTS and intestines, moving together. Marching in the snow on blood into the light. Into the light and into the suchness. Always marching. Death cometh and light endth. Such is suchness. Such is suchness. Such it is, and such is such. such is nothing. As the horde moves on. Inside. Outside. Always.

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