Underneath conventional morality pink and black fluids slosh and bubble.   A lightbulb in my head yawps about the joy of pain.  Scarlet marble chisels cranes through my chest, and I am relieved. 



Prophecy from 2012

The potter’s flocculated hand had no notion of fiberglow in its heavy cells.  Everywhere loudspeakers piped holy golden lyrics and hundreds of thousands of soft ears gently opened with blossomings.   Shame was eradicated from the violent web of ferns by a white marble blade.   I understood nothing.  Then, a white dot appeared on the upper margin of my caverns.  And within the white dot a throat expanded and contracted.   And around the white dot jaws clattered, emitting resounding consonance tethered to five thousand percussive caverns.   The unknown delicately tiptoed onto a cabaret stage pink with nudity.  Flashings of scintillation bore as fruit the deadly, forgotten prohibition which is now the engine of all reality.   



There are so many ways of expressing that which is most profound.They are all the same. They all say different things in the same way, and, as a result, there is a jealous time that is unfolding with a theory. Most certainly rational agents can sprawl across the speckled firmament and repair the abyss of death, because it is not a cosmological principle at all, though it appears to be. A green mantis sprays evil religion into my love, and I treat a person unfairly. I don’t care about your reaction, because I have rejected poetry. Used cars are huffing up asyntactical bridges, and the force within me that pushes through shoots of General Tso does not understand what it is, nor do I.I hate and love Christianity in the same stroke, and I am the scion of the West. Exchange value sucks up my dreams while my guitar shackles fans to a fake face that eats the spewing sun. I don’t believe in progress, but I also do.There’s nothing to give to the world except my skull-madness without which I slit the wrists of a fox with three tails. How could I ever decide what there is? The key insight, which I repeat to myself often, is that there is nothing out there except for who are gonad erewhom skill witch house. Nergal knows more than I do, but I am grateful to the material surges which do not propel Varizen to wash my shitty feet.



Apparently there is a correspondence between the heart and the sun.   I’ve seen the chrysalis of my cardiosolar orb, which is itself a great eye; the only eye with which it can be seen, the only eye that can see itself.    The union of the heart with the sun is the mark of – of what?   No mark needs to be made, because there is no one to make it.  I am not the one speaking these words.  I have no theory.   I am not trying to communicate anything.   I refuse to convince, at this point.   There are channels of squawking bread lifting its lips to the golden urine that I made in my black bed.    I act before I understand what I am doing; this makes for my sainthood even as it makes for my culpability.    

 

My sadness and my joy are two great orbs.  I hold them in the same hand; they whirl underneath my skinny elbow.   The exhaustion is unbearable.   Slits form between my eyes while I stare into a bookshelf.   I have chosen to enhance my sex so that a new religion can pipe the voice of revelation through a cum-caked laptop speaker.   Barbs form on my fists while I wait for the next lady to enter my new domain. 



My thoughts are shards of chalk sitting among crumbs of dust.  Sex and religion come together for a moment while I piss at the sky.  More and more, it is evident that nothing can be said about why things have gone wrong.   I have never been able to reconcile my thirst for the cool pond of love with a certain virulence.   I smell; I refuse to take care of myself.   My body is a lion, and I have nothing to say any longer.  I’ve lost contact with my associates, mostly, so there is nothing to say, at least not at the moment.   There are loops within my brain that cause my skull to grin as the skin of libidino-egoic capitalism peels off of my bedroom wall.    My values are all gone, which is why I’m spending time with you right now.   



I’m walking through the rows searching for Fairfield with my tiara.   Haelegen enters with a dripping feather and my eyes stick to the screen.  The glow is coming from a little girl, stuck to her talons.  Through the Barnes and Noble a book is called the Crack in the Cosmic Egg.   Suddenly a moment emerges.  I have no sense of Haelegen’s personality, because she has none.   She is a pair of females who wish they could separate.   I am a pair of females flailing in the firmament.   No one is looking at me while I loop my snake around a white roach.   Yellow eyes yawn while my sterling teeth fry on the sand.  Dead black sand wanders across my red muscles while Haelegen searches for the SHEIM.   Her talons are crying, and she has three wings.   I have three wings, because my fourth wing is a secret sibling who lives in the closet and types out my notes for me while I snot on the porcelain.  Gems wash through my rivers while I forget the names of my friends and show my secret part to the Haptic Void.  My recovery meeting went well, so I feel I am prepared for the SHEIM.   I feel sorry for my friend, because he was mean to me but I can shit compassion into his pants.  My mirror neurons are Kel Valhaal, and I make a feast out of the Armistice of Varizen.  I do everything too early, and as a result I am hated, because cultural horizons spend time with porridge.  Under the sapphire I’m alone with my phone.   My connection to you means the world to me, but this fact alone has nothing to do with you, because I don’t know you and I don’t like you.  I shove my rapier through the Vama Marg while you untangle my blindfold.  



Your yellow acid will be a bead around my neck.  Your jaw will be a tiara for my archangel.   Your used-up Ister will flow into my peels.  My career will engulf your berries.  My satyr will walk across your hands.  My dried up tree will soak with gray shame.  My identity will puff out with wisps.   My power will go out synchronistically. 

Analogy is not representation, and causality is not resemblance.  



THE CRATES DON'T BELONG TO ANYONE ANY LONGER.  I WASN'T ABLE TO ARRIVE AT AN IDEA, SO I ATE THE SEA.  THE HOLOGRAMS SWARMED AROUND A BISON'S CORPSE.  LOVE GAVE ME A BAD BITE, SO I NEEDED MY GUITAR.   USED DEPOSITS SURRENDER MY HATRED TO AN ICE FLOE.  PARTNERS SWISH VELVET AROUND UNDER MY CATHEDRAL.   BUTTRESSES YANK THE WAY I WOULD HAVE GONE THROUGH QUARTZ.  ARTERIES LEAVE ME NO CHOICE.  I TURN TO A WILL THAT IS MY ALTERITY AND I OBEY A HORSE WHOSE NAME I DO NOT HAVE.   PEARLS WAX THROUGH THE RANCID MUD.   TARGETS DANCE AROUND AS I SWIM INSIDE A DRINK.  MARTYRS GIVE UP THEIR PROMISES.  GIRLS GIVE UP THEIR MISSION AND FLAYED LIONS PRANCE THROUGH THE GRASS



Arthur sits at his desk.  Snakes coil around his torso as he stares at a book.  There’s nothing for him to do but push through, but he can’t bear that.  

 

 

He seeks something.  There are floes of the past drifting through his brains, and he is alone.  There is someone in the room with him.  He knows this.  Someone is somewhere in the room.  The walls are peeling.  The paint is bloated, and there are bubbles in the air.  Pushing around his hair, he lets out a silent yell. Glass beads tighten around his neck.  

 

The party on Morgan Avenue went well.  It was stuffed with bodies.  No one intervened, because no one knew about it.  A parcel had arrived, addressed to no one.  No one picked it up.  Instead, rhythm shook steadily.  There were lines on the ground, which seemed to give a command.  No one stepped on the lines.  There was a law hovering over the party.  Everyone could feel it, hovering there.  Elbows nudged around.  T-shirts were ripped up.

 

And then the flies came.  No one saw them or heard them.  Horrifying.  I looked around, wondering if they were there.  Apparently they were not.  Arthur said they were there.  Sometimes he sees things that no one else does.  I believe what he says, always.  Arthur speaks with authority.  Someone speaks through him - it isn’t Arthur.   When it’s not Arthur, I believe what’s being said.  It has the tone of truth.  The truth that proves itself immediately.  Truth that renders any objection ridiculous.  A cold blade, flashing with beams of reality.

 

I’m with Arthur now.  He needs me; he is sick.  Arthur has always been sick.  I love him, and I’m afraid he’s going to die.  I don’t want that.  If Arthur dies, I don’t know what I’ll do.  That’s why I have to protect him.  No one understands him.  I myself - I certainly don’t understand Arthur.  But I respect him.  I know that he is a greater man than I am.  I don’t mean that he is virile.  He certainly isn’t.  He’s more like a pulsating, dying mouse than a man.  I’m far more virile than Arthur is.  It isn’t what we usually think of as manhood.  Almost the opposite.  He’s a fluid.  Viscous.  I’m much stronger than Arthur, so I need to protect him, because I need him.  I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it’s the way it is.

 

Heaven opened up the other night, at the party.  Arthur was there, and he could see the flies, but no one else could.  He said that when he saw the flies, things would change.  He’d said that several times during the month leading up to the party.  He said he hoped to God that he would not see any flies the night of the party, but that his intuition was that he would see them.  So we were prepared, because we were warned.  Arthur’s intuitions are always accurate, or they usually are, anyway.  

 

Now the flies are here, and I don’t know what to do.  I am wracking my brain trying to remember what the plan was.   The plan for the flies.  What were we supposed to do?  I can feel my ribs throbbing.  Something is emerging from my body.  A charcoal hand filled with bees.  Bees?  They look like bees.  They are yellow and black, and they sound angry.  Maybe they are wasps.  I wish Arthur would help me at times like this, but he never does.  He can’t help anyone, and doesn’t want to, anyway.  He says that nothing can be helped.  He’s probably right.  

 



I CRADLE MY HEAD BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS BECAUSE I AM AN LLC.   I AM LOVE, MOSTLY BECAUSE I AM SO CONFUSED.  I HURL FRAGMENTS OF MY SADNESS INTO FIVE THOUSAND CAVES, AND BEES EAT MY MARROW.  I AM THE PRECIPICE OF FREEDOM, AND I SWEAR I KNOW MYSELF.  I SWEAR I AM REAL AND THAT I AM CRYING INTO YOUR HANDS.  YOU SWIM IN MY BROWN WATER WHILE WE SWALLOW THE AREPERIA ON STARR STREET.  I KISS YOUR SOFT HANDS WHILE YOU ARE ALSEEP AND I SHOOT MY LOVE INTO YOUR BLOOD.  I GIVE NAMES TO ALL THE COLORS AND I LEGISLATE INVISIBLE LAWS OF GEOMETRY.  IM SOCIALLY AWKWARD BUT IT DOESNT MATTER ANYMORE.  I WANT TO GIVE YOU ALL THE PLANETS AND ALL OF THE INFORMATION ABOUT THEM THAT IS AVAILABLE.  CAN YOU FEEL MY FERVOR, MY YEARNING AND MY ARDOR?  WILL YOU GIVE IT BACK TO ME?  BECAUSE I AM SO ALONE AND I AM GETTING TIRED OF THIS FLOOD.  I AM GETTING TIRED OF THESE ROTTEN TEETH AND THIS SMASHED UP BLOOD.  I AM GETTING TIRED OF THIS PUTRID SNOT AND THESE SOOTY DIAMONDS.  I AM TIRED OF THE WAY YOU BLAME ME FOR CHOICES YOU MADE OUT OF FEAR THAT YOU CONFUSED FOR PRUDENCE.  WILL YOU RECEIVE ME?



THE VINES WILL DRIP LIKE SILVER

THE LIGAMENTS WILL CRAWL AROUND ON THEIR OWN

THE CRUSH WILL HUFF AND HEAVE AS LOVE SPILLS ITS YELLOW SPIT ACROSS THE SKY

OIOION WILL SHOW HER LEG TO REIGN ARRAY

THE LAMB WILL SHOW ITS EYES

THE CANDLESTICKS WILL MELT

THE FRAVASHI WILL SEND A MESSAGE TO THE CAUL



Art will give way to a loose tooth.  The mantis will spread wings on Tuesday.  Postulates will make room for drama.  Riffs will churn as the maiden falls to the ground, and I will send a gasp to the granite.  Powers will be enhanced.  Answers will be detached from their questions.  Gold will be connected to myrrh.  Catamarans will belong in the navy.  Practice will be the only ethics.  Archery will be the only practice.  Paces will speed up even as vision remains constant.   My breast will heave as I offer you my bones.  After that I will forget you completely, devastating you.



I cry, I cry and I cry.  I spend my drama on coins, because the red shadow impales me.  Blessedness walks into my sandal because I hold a patch of water to your eyes.  Lashing the sky with my broken mace, I send my shredded mother into a white bone.  She wakes up, finally.  Her hair is gray and black, and her corpus callosum surges with information.   Living inside a polyp, I pray to my own heart and drift away.  



The jaws of space are white.  I have faith in nothing, yet I believe in love.  I have fawning prayers, yet an isthmus juts out of my course.  I climb up out of the wreckage again.   Trakl owes me a swarm of bees.   The marble took on the shape of the absolute, because the moon was dead.  The rope was frayed at both ends.  Because it was suspended in the darkness, I knew that empty time was all there had ever been.  Self-realization practices shot out of a small pistol.   Targeted reefs scattered, lending efficacy to my twists.  Little pumps signified a bit of life that apparently the behemoth had forgotten about.  Yards of pain were sold by the pound.  Femurs had their way with a coccyx.  Membranes sent signals into skin-sacs using battery and combustion technology.   I didn't meet my target, and I didn't stick to my plan - because I abandoned God, so he abandoned me back



Alone.  Daring.  Affect.  Systems.  Yawning.  Baroque.  Ashamed.  Inculcated.   Towering.  Ersatz.  Erwartung.   Billowing.   Sincere.  Beholden.   Sensitive.  Discursive.  Subjective.  Indifferent.  Praying.  Soldered.  Thoughtful.   Portioned.  Implying.   Barred.  Orestes.  Searing.  Fleshy.  New.  Blind.  Craven.  Shouldering.  Passed.  Bearing.  Far.  Importunate.  Scalding. 



The jittering will stand up to the young blood.  The poulders will belong on 1000 collarbones.  The young will be infected with age.  I'll get practice by writing a speechwriting manual while a secretary kills me.  I'll become ashamed just as my lava spurts through the ice and fire.  Less that one will shift to more than two but less that three and I will scream with compassion to a void that almost seems to hear me but in fact does not.   So much dross, so much waste, so much shame.   My purple heart is caked over with rubber, concrete, lead.   I slow down on my way towards death, mustering a little resistance now and then, momentarily.  



My eyes no longer work.  Because my eyes no longer work, I suffer myopia.  I'm not like others - not like other guys, other girls, any kind of other.  Once I was organized and headed towards the summum bonum - but then there was a sort of drift.  I was worried there would be, at the time.  I hoped to dear god that I'd stay on my path, because I knew that if I veered a little to the left or right I'd forget that there had ever been a path.  Well, that's what happened :(  .  But the shackles that strangle me as I get railed are right where they belong.  The yards that I elbowed my way across in the night are fresh and green.  My mace still whirls around the horizon even though I am not there to swing it anymore.  My mace never needed me.  The me that I thought I was is a mere epiphenomenon.  The real me is a slowly moving whale with no eyes or teeth.  It has always been alive - or at any rate, it isn't afraid of death.  I gave up on everything, and then I became a sort of dead man:  free, free beyond freedom from external constraint, beyond freedom that comes from mastery.  Neither freedom from- nor freedom to- .   IDGAF freedom in a way, but not really that either.  Cthonic, steak-eating desolate lightness.  Freedom to not know, freedom to care infinitely all alone.   I bask in the future anteriority that I cannot escape, and I take my time.  



God belongs to me.  I staple together my fragments with God.  I snuff out others with God.  My sail goes tight with God.  I manage my autism with God.  I undo mistakes with the help of God.  I turn the tables with the help of God.  I love God in the name of God.  I'm wondering if 'life force' is the shadow of a single, particular life.   



The crawl will be carried out on elbows  

the style will swing through the JMZ

The pattern will bleed like the heart of a grey afternoon

The clarion will sing like a virgin, and I will be ashamed  

The places will remain empty because the practices will have been forgotten  

The overall perspective will change because it will have become too late  



THE GENESIS CAUL:  You need to listen.  You don't listen.  You represent a culture that I have nothing to do with.  My secrets are in the whisps.   My tail is in my mouth, but not because I want it there.  I shudder and shudder, just like you.  I send you the blood so that there can be a sky. 

 

SHEYMN:  I am your cavern.  I did not ask for you, which I do not ask.  I don't belong next to you,  but you gleam inside of me, where There is no inside.  My non-objectivity is truly non-objective, unlike so much else.  Oh the weariness of retuning my guitar strings alone while the paper absolute flutters on the Kombat

 

THE GENESIS CAUL:  Never was there a way for you to be rid of me, which you are not.   I don't miss our separation any more than I sing to the birds that ear discreetly.  I sift through the gravel for something to share, but I come up short