#outdated notions

[edgescience]

Compsognathus was introduced to the public with the premiere of Jurassic Park: The Lost World, and it has stayed looking the same ever since. Or has it?

[castlehead]

:epistle to culture-shadows,

The idea of our humanity says to each, in time Each one will soak it in, "If I can make a dime, I am not thee depleted or thee run,

I am thee infinite." Now see, all culture-shadows dun Wither with no fathering being etching it against the sun-

-Anymore that cast it to ground. A shadow with no owner after All, cripples the argument of anything being there, it is laughter

At that invalidating nothing: like the nothingness were a paternoster Said at the foot of the bed till it lose all meaning, and we decide To fall asleep without a christening that mocks us; now, we deride

It: as an inorganic monotony we thought to cap necessary organic monotony. The persistence of the shadow took our place, till out of fear we found it funny.

Through its routine we found the words competed with an instinct. Any language will bleed dry, no matter the prayer, or how succinct. Flesh is one to us, we thought, so word made so must too make us.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .

A tall but limited thing maybe stood upright once, enough flesh for word to fuss The proof stop griping, be proof. Proof was hesitant: to beguile us with its larger Nature, to convince us the seed of most things can be found in our flimsiest

Cognition, because we harbor like a soul that same high detachment. Resist, In giving speech to the remotest quadrants and hidey-holes of basic wisdom, That we are what lieth material there, in those corridors, reticent and dumb.

If anything a further attachment is this of shadow and its lanky notion. Alone, What is true already has been from the start; a disgusting game of telephone Is the rest. Clarity, being a player in the search for proof, is not disgusting

But to clarify is. How could such standards for leaning nowhere ever not harm People, captives of subjectivity; its high order to glorify our primitive alarm

At new unfinished business for morals and reason to clear up: the kerosene Of proof, fed with the dialectic centerfold of the whole dang nudie magazine

Used for kindling, later, when a bonfire of our shame must be, of all the rites We hallowed once; lit up to burn clean our slate of its repressed delights Words can want flesh of being. The shadow wants substance link it to material So it can be equivalent to the reality of its master, which makes of the ethereal A religion or didacticism if unpopular enough, that or if it does not manipulate Likewise the source of power, use the linkage to make its bearer capitulate

To its muttered lull of sacred religion, or whatever leech or ghost call itself proof, Long enough to forget that proof anyway is a shadow made of words, aloof

Like a stuffy expatriate explaining why they left the states. Something foregoes The next part of the life of any dictum. Something to solve and puzzle

Over the dictum didn’t. Never allow words be more than being, it says; muzzle  Not what's evidenced complete. All contention is a shadow, though it compete

With times next, leave what is is, till the improving addendum defeat The wildest dreams of that towering shadow of cant,

Leaving it without that flesh of source that made the rant, And the sun, omnipotence of which all Earth is sponge Again resumes its lurch to cleanse and so expunge

That space stayed in by darkness and rife dogma Which by then had impaired appraisal of the enigma,

Or original thing to solve. Well: fix the relic in time, some yore Notion that had been thought upon as gospel truth, So easily, though slow, by generation, spoiled uncouth.

Wracked by holes in what it argued, once, With despotic command. The misguided dunce Keeps still it with him, some security blanketing

All of their time as null cog in the rank bidding After some supposed topmost rank, a metaphor

Synonymous with a personal fallacy Unable to escape the core of lazy Character, attempting, this notion,

To be a marytr without the death in motion Needed for the case of a complete rest

At the hands of some unfair jibe from fate, a test We all can wish we had, yet few have had.

This notion of these hypocrites makes me mad. The notion itself, that it even is, is sad.

The notion: rank is thoroughly determined By things that we are born with, not to rescind Even if its ripples do not end,

And all of ignorance in any direction Goes across an endless surface, frightening, without friction.

[tha-htwnbelle]

Lance Gross’ Jan 7 IG post

*facepalm*