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  

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.