In and out.  I wave a flag at the Doric columns and shackle my brass like yellow metal.  I see a Nuwubian future without topaz popping into harsh noise.  I leave you my audio interface so that I can spend time with my sister in Havana.  Bags of sobs are heaped onto the trucks like bodies.  Real bodies, stinking with shit and piss, right now as I type this on my phone.  Christ, the sky guy shivers like the underbeard of Mrs. Clause, and I no longer care where I stashed my MDMA



I hold you in my palm.  You are hypoallergenic, and I am thrilled.  My water flows like marble as I sail into the gravels. My granthis are overjoyed, and I am crying.  I am always crying, though you can't always hear me.  I am sincere, and as I tear myself across the hornet's nest, I shiver with gratitude.  My tears are made of pink flesh.  I curl around your little lips, hoping you won't get pregnant.   Beatitude is my clone.  Beatitude is my salt, and I am a hard rock that yearns for authentic emotions that are themselves only a small region within the infinite space of affective possibility.  Let's discharge our husks and kick the past away.  Let's unite and eat out intimacy in the waiting paper



The peels will fall from their oranges  

The blame will fall to the black gold

The waste will be named "sorghum" 

Tassles will be given to me for free

Wayfairers will place their tongues upon the Kaaba. 

O Visigoths! Keep your eggs away



KEL VALHAAL:  The ways will wrap around one another.  The wool will be shorn.  The sophistication will cease to matter.  Does that mean anything to you?  Grace will become a tractor.  Gauze pads will dance around and Jehovah will come into being.  Do you care?  Are you listening?  The jewels will shed their faces.  The raindrops will cry out from the sky.  The patterns will no longer seem familiar.  Are you listening?  

 

REIGN ARRAY:  I just spoke to Joseph Beuys, who told me that I should be very careful.  I just spoke to Alexander Scriabin, who told me that I should keep quiet.  I called upon Genesis P-Orridge, and I was not permitted an audience.  I am trying to help you hover, so that you can do whatever it is that you need to do.  But I hardly remember how I got here.  I hardly remember where my knife went.  I am made of mathematics, not flesh.  I am a lobe in a brain that is far, far more than a brain.  I am not listening.   I never listen: I only speak.

 

KEL VALHAAL:  I asked if I could curl around this rock and you said no.  I tried to give you an unaccountable gift, but you couldn't see it.  Pay attention, please!  I crawled around in the dirt like a worm so that you would be able to wash me.  I lost my virginity so that you could revirginize me.  I am ashamed because you seem not to see me.  I am humilated - nay, I am humiliation itself.  Or rather, I am born of humiliation.  I am the answer to humiliation's question.  And I answer:  grace!



I pray for light, I pray to yearn, I pray to desire.  Something happened to me, unfortunately.  it shouldn't have.  I wish something hadn't happened to me - but it did.  And now there are tatters.  Now there are twelve selves clinking against each other like glasses.  A simple operation whirls through the sky like a swarm of helicopters: disfigured, dripping from heaven, black oil.  I pray to stay focused.  I pray for attention.  Communication reigns across CERN, but what is higher than communication?  What could one communicate that would not ultimately be shared?  Why does everything need to be shared?  As I skin my fox, fur tufts into my eyes and my torso goes red.



There is nothing.  Actually, there isn't a way to be nothing.  Churning across the tall grass, I pay tribute to the cement factory (is it a factory?  Is that what you'd call it?) on McKibbin, near where I, for some reason, live.  I gave up on prophecy - too bad.  I gave up on winning, power, trying - too bad.   The whales of my ambition sing to one another in the thick, old water.  Five minutes later I discover that beauty doesn't have to have any surplus meaning.  But I discover it too late!  Because things are no longer beautiful.  Hips no longer curve around the road.  Porphyry no longer drips with value.  Myrrh no longer trades places with quintessence.  There are only age and death, which are beautiful.   There is only remorse, which shreds the wi-fi in Sierra Leone to pieces with its fast-Fourier transforming boardwalk, sacrificed to the cult of Gyges so that Christ would finally die off.  I payed my way to get this far, so I may as well bow down to the dimension of the Other, shake hands and kiss babies.  There was never a trace of diamond encrusted flesh hidden underneath your Turing-equivalent.



Love withdraws back into the cracks from whence it came.  Unfulfilled potential stands at attention like the queen's guard.  Ways of squeezing the vice stamp around like trumpets made of melted diamonds.  My relationship to you is encrusted with bezels made of corduroy.  There was a moment to make it happen, but the moment got missed.  Not by me - it wasn't my fault.  But there was a recognition that could have clicked in, and that's not what happened.  They eye wasn't an organ of what it was meant for by it's creator.  Instead, juice began to boil inside the beauty that Romanticism yielded to a few people who are able to hold the past and the present together in the same palm.  



Sights are unedited and because of that there is an uneven degree of production.  Swirling through the prolix collider, I sang to a fuzzy soft bird that my dribbling heart is purple.  Mahogany was all around me, and I realized that I used to believe in myself but didn't have the right people around me.  Lectures are given by people in their 40s.  A will huffs at the numbers:  qabala, pythagoreanism.   Industrial cacophony sinks into the growling maw of religion.  As the venn position opens wider, I find my shivering blood to be sent to a mail run in Oslo.  But all I want is to make my way to Aleppo.  It's too late to reconsider the growing beads that stab the pores in your forehead, because I'm left out of everything.  A Darger, a Wolfli.  Mental health is no longer a problem, because an eagle spread her wings and shrieked:  KEL!  Watch out!  I'm after you!  The story of the Loss of the Caul is made of neurons, which are made of batteries.  No, they're like batteries, because physics is like jazz.  The lobes of subjectivity become chalky and black if they aren't regularly penetrated.  Their eyes go white and their skin goes grey as the march of history begins to sound like a Russian bath.



I traveled to YLYLCYN so that I could open and close gates.  When I got there, I encountered the eternal eye and I asked it if it would open.  But there is no eternal eye, so it was unable to hear my question.  That’s when the white flagpole shot up out of the earth, puncturing the air with the standard hanging distended from it like a pink udder.  Emblazoned on its chest in bold, shining Arial, booming, stentorian: VISION.  The standard swirled in the viscous wind with yearning distention as I became yellow with desire.  I saw stars leap out of my mouth as the words came back to me, “O eternal eye, why do you appear in YLYLCYN?”.  I leapt up to ANANON, a higher Alimony.  There I could cuddle with ideas of glass, jasmine and hyacinth. I turned my teeth around so that I’d be able to drink bee-nectar from the invisible plane of emotions.  But my whirling teeth took on lives of their own and, like propellors, lifed me up to the unspeakable, impossible to define:  the Alimony of  01010n.  There, I turned to a black crisp, yielding tears to the white sea.  OLOLON emerged an we wept together.  After that, I told her my message.  I had a message for her, though I hadn’t realized it was so until I’d arrived and met her from the first time.  The message was from S/HE/IM, the lowest Alimony, also unspeakable, also impossible to define.  It said: S/HE/IM shall be S.H.E.I.M. when 01010n becomes OLOLON.  I whispered this softly into OLOLON’s tender ear.  I am not sure whether she heard me, or if the message meant anything to her.  It certainly meant nothing to me.



There is a way to be way before the pawns and threaded into foundational power.   Bays are knowing that the pressure is up and the audience does not know.  Gends made without me while I was turned around in a grave of philosophical caves.  My stoicism is sophisticated because no one knows me except for the prophetic Christians on 34th street who told me that I am in trouble but that I should have dreams about starting a church in the name of Stockhausen.  There is no way to hold the threads together without tying them to your hand, which is a crown on a flying bird that you don’t know very well unless you’ve spent time with me and given me a chance to open up.  Now that you’ve found this, what is your next move?  Do you question your originary face from Roman times?  Do you not have one of those?  If you’ve simply been bypassed by our culture, I can’t help you, unless I can as an unintended byproduct of something else.  There are pails of love swinging from my udders because Cicero became a man for our sake so that we could die in our sleep and start a church in the name of Berio.  The fact that landscapes fly across my screens means little to me, in a way, since the press release didn’t underscore that fact enough and, as a result, no one understands what my intentions were originally before I forgot what my intentions were, and before I grew into someone else without turning the screw and just let my tears weep on my own behalf with their blue colors and their purple taste and I gave my hand to a little hand forcing its way into my fingers so that I could remember the ancient wisdom of virtue ethics and go on through the cards and beg for a patrician sentence.