Prophecy from 2013

I am the wanderer between the swan’s vapid legs. My quaking tendrils lasso around meteors made of halvenwine. Between my whore walls, shards of celesta vibrate gently. A black panther pads his sharp paws as he licks drowsy chops, staring, waiting. Blue hues wonder about the ecstatic man in the streetlight on 96th street. Angel headed troubadors hit the medieval fan gun with their balding coconut water. Shards hash through the tundra without me. I grab hold of a green vine with my bloodknucked fists, and my khaki leap surges up from the earth’s regrets as I open wide eyes and gasp through my nostrils: “O hoary vater! Yawning foam is yellow with my muddy bliss! Padlocks open in unison as I make my way through the harlequin promenade! Craggy brows are platforms for my engines to shred! Water surges through the sun and bogs it with bloated sands. A walking officer shaves through the JMZ with an LED searchlight wondering where his little child ran off to. Mothers open their legs in order to appease Gilgamesh. My taint is shredded by a punk carrying a wound-up guitar!”

Crisp Golgotha mirrors the paeans of Guillaume de Machaut. At the cathedral, naves multiply like ricket houses. A form appeared to me and then disappeared. An overall plan was bellowed by a big wet mouth! Statues were carved. Animations flung through tones of After Effects as the creative cloud was parted by a Yogi from Akron, Ohio. As I shuddred, I saw the outline of a system of metaphysical thought! There were four hermetic worlds: 01010n, Aesthethica, HRHHLLC and The Unknown Friend. As I envisioned, I saw psychoanalysis join hands with alchemy. I saw critical theory bow down before a maypole. I heard professors whispering with fear, their stinking breath sullying beards and glasses. Tattered hermits wove their dead, green hands upwards through dirt, rocks and roots. Richard Wagner shot a cape of Eros into the sky’s kite. A trumpet was heard: it was the clarion of the American Revolution. Campaigns were waged on behalf of lifestyle solutions. Diets cracked their skulls with ontological miasma. A fundamental system loomed underneath leagues of water, as though it had eyes rimmed with azure irises of daring. Badiou spoke to me in broken English. My home, [redacted] , was illuminated. My cargo van was tagged by someone other than Keith Haring. Shouts made space for an aloneness that only I have ever been able to feel. I, the only one to suffer as I have. I, the conduit of Joseph Beuys’s spirit. My tenure could be visualized on a spectral analysis chart, finally. Women lined up to enter my garden, open their cunts to receive a nasty blow. Hayden was scuffed through across his knickers. Tomorrow I plan to eat Au Bon Pain. After my RSS fills up, I’ll top one off with a Danish of my choice. I could tell I was on the verge of a pink urination: the system couldn’t be far. I lost control of my thoughts. My astral body switched places with my etheric body – both were crushed, anyhow, by my mother, who, in spite of her love for me, wanted to kill me. She trembles with her old witch’s jaw as she thinks about her young time in Dallas, Texas. Julia Cameron came to me and rubbed my sore back. Thanks to her, black pinions sprouted out of my blades, and I hungered to imitate David Tibet. I gave my pussy to Genesis P-Orridge so he’d make me famous. I rolled around with MDMA at an art party. Clinks grew together under an action painting that I myself had commissioned for myself. I decided that this text field was art, and I told someone about it – I forget who. Urine shot out of my belly, through the mouth of my psychotic bitch of a highschool girlfriend. At the Drive-In played their first show in Brooklyn. No one cared, because youth culture had been abandoned. My mommy narrowed her black eyes as I groped through my ninja’s blood, sinews and wounds. I began to whistle using blades of grass that had been discarded by the cattle conglomerate. I began to frack underneath the land of my horrible ancestors. With a dingy raccoon hat, I tapdanced like a prarie across the Indian Ocean, looking for an answer or two. William Blake shook me by the neck and stuck his dick into the gash on my side. Swedenborg opened up a thick tome and told me that I needed to poke my eyes through my little skull and spit them onto the crackling pages. Angels began to breath heavily, fearing proximity to a 19 year old slut from OKCupid who goes to NYU. My tumblr became a vehicle for my astral body. My ether body became a medium for social networking. My hammock grew heavy and sad after I said good by to St. Croix for good. My sheetrock gave notice to my art handler after I graduated from Bard with a degree in Nominal Religious Studies. I started a sex cult with a punk edge. I came in her mouth, and then I came all over her little tits. She wanted to make me orgasm at all costs. All my spate about tantra meant nothing to her. All my kings abandoned me at the moment of action, during which I was alone. My twelve-step sponsor was living his own life in Brazil for two weeks, with an old frienemy with whom he’d reconciled about a year ago. I printed out a copy of Blake’s Illuminated Works and set it on my coffee table. I fluttered my fingers like a mischief bureau so as to Take Care of the Quantity. God takes care of the quality. My artist child wears a turban and flies around Middlesex on a yoga mat. I took my artist on a date to the Bjarne Melgaard show and we admired the pink panther as well as we could.