Obscurity is a method by which things can travel underneath and be spry. How many battles can one be privy to before things of nefariousness have been satiated. Sometimes the driving cadences and elliptical tongues of “landed” another dimensional warriors look like the culprits, but they are travelers sous sol carefully carrying torches for us. These entities below are omnipresently convening and when needed reach up and place a fire in the resistant’s’ hand, like a relay, so that the adept can go forth with the force, the needed fraction of omniscience. We can forget these secret agents are on our side, but they don’t forget us.
“I Am An Instrument”
“The Next Day”
“Gegen (I Want To Move)”
Where to fell the Rocket Dad… your pink profile of glitter and descending scales. Prog with a child’s glee. Trees that stand tall, properly, stature in a certain “no motion”. Awake with a vision, your sunrise looks a constant dawn of another terrain. From here we meet in a similar vision, a secret shine on your lumps of sweet mean pastures, red haloed, corniced bevies of saturnalia. There there are many shrouded portals, etched and narrowing… a very small opening lies far at the other side but can only be reached through entering that certain thatched darkness, the hovering in an exalted in-between.
“All Trees Stand Tall”
The Greg Foat Group
In a starship a dialogue is taking place. The random conjurings within certain lofty absence-spaces. “Not yet”, says several figures at dawn that which carry great elixirs tucked in their pockets. Beauty in the disconnect. In this time-lapse manifestation there arrives sweet-coldness-comes brightness-all illustrious. A shadow then luminescent cinema where rhythms collide and the trajectory of them goes smoothly outward on a warmed glacial pool. Reflets dans l’eau. A transitory trajectory, here fiercely still continental = beyond the far. A fine line has been left as determiner of the past. The issuing of these allusions and preludes are the marks of soothsayers, cascading alms onto passerby’s.
This precipice, shards of a certain sky with faith-beveled edges, a terrain of the craggy wondrous. Jagged rock strewn terrain through which arrives at a chasm or portal to the beauteous, to an aspiration, to a hope-ellipsis. This lone wanderer knows of a trespassing that has one arrive through splinters of light, a chasm achieved illumination. One hand lowers and grasps your delicate wrist…the entity says keep your feet firmly below on this crawled earth and I will direct you to its splintered lit porous ceiling illuminated as sky. Just as one recognizes the thread-consciousness, it is upon itself and unknown again.
Ed Scissor and Lamplighter
“The Pink Sun”