Pressure

Sometimes all it takes is a little arm twisting, a few spanks, or applied mental teasing. A little bit of stress to bend the machine into working a bit faster, a way that moves more smoothly, more unexpectedly than the pseudo-intellectual frontal cortex.
In the front, the intellect rests in a silver throne and red satin pillows, relishing its command over all organs, cells, and movement. But it is truly a blind king, with only half witted subjects duped into its madness. The real king is the force and energy that stems from the back, from the unencumbered place of deeper, quicker, more intuitive knowledge. This is the domain of clarity. The movement here is quicker, faster than the pompous king can comprehend. It moves faster than doubts and rationalizations. So fast that the pseudo-intellect can have no hope of catching up.
And it comes from pressure. From need and urgency. The Urgency that exists in the dominion of chaos, where everything flows, where creation leaks like golden life sprung from slimy cracks in ancient stone.
In our endless sleeping state, all we see are comfortable beds and leisurely walks. Slow cooked dinners and hammocks in the sun. Every minute that makes its rounds around the endless wheel…a measure of movement. They are all lost…an endless march towards all and none.
A march in place, a march to the left, to the right, moving to the center and disappearing. Going to the dimensions of mathematicians and shamans, tasters of fruit and fungus. Dwell here, within this space of shifting lands.
The space without words.
There are no second thoughts. There are no worries about syntax and ego. It comes. It spills with urgency and purpose. Need. Black rivers and red skies. Laughter thunders in the distance, rattling clouds of moving sunshine.
Captured in a bottle, my love forever stays upon your shelf. Take me with you to the other side, where your secretive dreams are recorded an dissected. On nights covered in black and moist air, you searched for water within rooms of neon and beer. Stale everywhere, but within your red sphere. The moment had begun. With quiet. With the hush of observed holidays and empty streets, we began.
I began.
You opened the door, holding it like a gentleman…into the garden of kingdoms and blue glory…I went with eyes half open and holding your soft hand, poised to catch me falling. A forceful tug pushes me back to center. To the razors edge I walk without finesse. Marked hands and feet dirty the path.
Although it is laid with fine powdered gold, I constantly spit on it, a testament to my zoo-like tendencies. Like a monkey in a cage, I scream and fuss, waiting to be noticed and ogled. A little push, a forceful yank. A bit of metal pain to get it started.