A Lightbulb broken scatters to the universe to briefly strain and by desperate passion be remembered- Poetical Activist

It is likely best to begin with the basics- life is extremist. Life and lusting after it and making love to it are not destructive nor lucrative, it is a sincere worship- it’s expression for those who have been welded to it, a divine vocation that cannot be undertaken paramountly on its own, nor timidly. I have decided in all things, to live the lusty life of one who loves and divinely vocates the bohemia that is a life truly alive before a living God- to love lover, family, friend, enemy, stranger, and creation as the concrete impression of greatest art and to adventure into its most wonderful nuance- the touch and dazzling, though sometimes subtle of find, torch of communication and the communication of all it touches, and emblazons, and engorges with courage – existentially that is the full encompass of all things real, as fiction and myth and fact and mathematics and virtual and literal and palpable promontories, all in their tier, solid, verily, augural, from particular bothered transmitters in windy musty depths, though not yet dank, and teaming with an emerald life, and the sanguine to that glassy green, it’s compliment- a source, and delineation, honest and true not synonymous but co-dependent to form the farthest thing from lies with question speculation and context, and the farthest thing from certainty of fact that of so much more important intuition- the long golden walk into a deep, surging adumbration, existing as a wrinkled, creased, glass gunshot halo angel antler, each one from a human eye, everyday like purely polished pearls, and cold thawing hale- that binds lampyrids and lanterns to the marrow of our bone that is our only soul, forcing us to hold our breath, because we’ve lost it- the cell crying out for the divine in all that we do, the godly striving and the wicked dying, reaching as living arguments for the need of that which breaches and mends and extends it’s nearness to the yearning. To capture this in all its exacting vagueness, its sheer vault of escape that shall always in great size slip free and be burst in liberty by its raging against such bonds, which so rarely find it fenris bound at the surrender of our precious gifts to the stomach of the page. To know that experience requires  matter, it is the matter in the mass that is no cage, because experience is all that matters, as the friend has said all there is is atom and  opinion and their apple crunching wink will burn you to the wall, and melt you down as you try to crawl-  To be laid bare and bowelly flaid by life by shrinking from nothing running only to gain the ground that allows for a thrust, even while you are the oily greasy shit of the finger print and palm of fear, terror, hang over, bad trip with the the devil counting chickens, which is hard because being a hand puppet, muffles his count when he lays hold of them to sort, lounging in a room with the spectrally ensorcelled popcorn butter- and to find this in the curtains that breath as though by a defiant nature – I die painfully slowly and poorly. Surrendering by similar roads and am reborn to the increasing joy of tingling in the painful throes- I am alive and cannot die, for I have lived, and the tree that eats and flips by leaf, shall regurgitate me to your eye, and my hologram shall dance, and my tongue shall coat your hearing wax, and you’ll love or hate, laugh or bite your lip, and you’ll have no complaint there to- we never criticise the emotion created, for it has caught us up in, it is not the high, but the rusty needle that you see the dancer naked- and it is me, rapturously capturing, constraining you to be free!