While we dream, feral children gnaw at the root
Wee should/Shake/become Real
(when words leave me now, it is as if they could be any words, nondescript, indistinct) So. The ocean outside is imagining what it stands for – what, it is wondering, did God make it to mean? It is frothing, now, bubbling foam against the dark beaches, stroking the world’s coasts like a lover.
It is something to search for a context. And something to search for a way to tangibly escape it...
That every line evokes the metaphoric contour of thought...
If you keep on repeating sarcasms, your tongue will stick in your cheek forever...
I present myself to you: an incompetent.
Spurn me. Tell me off. Abjure me.
my words are the dying grasses of language plains, what breath is left after the kiss has ended; they are small, worthless films never to be staged.
The steppes of the walls rose draped in vines and mosses, a veritable clay redrawing of the ancient wondrous Babylonian Gardens. [by this time the synapses clicking tockwork…the text occasionally making some effort to legitimize itself by aestheticizing its façade – pierce that and you’ve: well] You’d be destroying your self and your best loved family. White me out. Wash my memory away now and return, dreamy to the deep places you’d strutted in afore. [you know I can’t bear transcription. This will take an edit or two. Re-reading; how many times did you think it was worth before you opened fire?]
So from his perch atop the crouching mountain, little Beelzebub sloughed off any gender and self-awareness, reducing his semiotic/linguistic inheritance to a vanishing blip, and squatted, arms erect and tenuous, above the light below. “There was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder.” Music. Jungles rolled out from under the edges of that hill and spread in a roll out as far as the eye could bear, overwhelming horizons. He was woolen, screaming as the splendid metaphoric sun, feeling wholesome/branded/courage in the shudders clamming up beneath the sheet of his skin. [employing the whole array of Russian Futurist Symbolism]
Earlier that morning, he had eaten a cube of butter and stood on his head for twenty minutes while three voluptuous women licked at his privates. The bohemian life was fast becoming banal, nihilistic. [let me present you with a series of images meant to illustrate – forget it]
Eye Cold Bear, roaring and teeming from the whips and shrapnel of too many cultural investments. Overload. Standing in for the archetypical She. Like everything in that swirling lucid mind, the game quickly devolves/becomes into extroverted self-analysis, ironic un-contemplation, petty acknowledgement of inherent contradictions…
“What do you want?” She asked
“It is not that I want to fuck them” it seemed “more to touch, to have total reign, as if possession, though I reject possession” still more “not penetration per say, not in a direct, obvious way, no” going on “but to probe deeply, to plunge through and become one with, this yes, to pull out that deep pleasure, to elicit love…” maybe this is it.
So! & you don’t really want that heavy burdensome context and endless poetry/poverty, do you then? You want the clouds of Home, Fog, Wisps of Sex etc… [warning] Elope. This is to employ a sure vocabulary of (don’t forget to take your penicillin or you strep might relapse into scarlet fever, heart failure, death) rampant revolutionary fervor, uproar, Never subtlety, nuance
Are you still looking for wisdom?
Embroider your fantasies with biography so that one is indistinguishable from the other to many your realities an impossibility; that is to say, when I give advice, it is an attempt to council myself, to describe my attempts. I wanted to know if you, too, felt that deep heaviness in the Whole Opening of your stomach, if you felt the slow sinking enormous pit that rocked you into a touching self-worth [post-etc again] a seeking/yearning to plunge down and shoot out… to grow huge and rolling… I read about it in Toni Morrison: is it that I don’t have the discipline, that I’m ever-losing the necessary devotion for a Story Proper, and Borges has sunk into the deep places of my eyes and soul-analogy? Hungry for a slogan, a clip, a byte… it can all fit, a world in an acorn, as it was… Never Weird Enough. Cultivating the attention deficit. Spaced in and out with the anti-erotic of porn. What could a book be? We’re still looking into it. Will get back.
Most writing is an inside joke between various of the author’s selves, unable to place full trust or really empathize with the Others of the outside world.
To Be Climbing the Huge Hill:
To find myself the body of a poem not the body of a man. And he realized he was the Christ. As much as it is a social imperative to decontextualize, to strip context, to disallow the existence, to present the uncontextualizeable, so it is also with them. As I was walking among them, I could smell that all they wanted was sex, happiness, sweaty candy to hold between the meat of their legs and treasure in the clutches of their mind. She knew/he knew I was no messiah. And the grasses blew in the wind, and the flags fluttered from the parapets, and the little caricature of a diorama farmhouse in the country with its mill rising blades above the picturesque, even that sat still, a captured photograph in the mind of man’s bitter gaze. And though we were getting poorer, we were also getting smarter, and the world eclipsed our carnal needs and passed over our deaths-by-starvation so the T.S. Elliot was robbed of another farce.
I feel it like a great host passing over my organs: Demons, huge chittering bugs. No reality was ever so unlike to this.
This script is like the Shakespearean rantings of a crazy man...A thousand more exotic tropes to come:
1.Through the selva, a bare column staggering, the imps and chittering tribal.
2.Una cierta montana of bichos & demonios. Sabes?
3.worst of all worlds: que salia del especo y te levanto el parte & devoured it.
4.Kakaruk! crying out, spinning synaesthetic; shifting hairs into grasses.
5.A self-aware brain, talking to its self-grown culture.
6.In Yasiam, the men go about on their hands, their wives holding ancles airy.
7.when wicked brutes & worms poured out of imagination y te acostaba anoche.
8.la clave es dadaism in the native land, inhablado, conocido como el mil mono.
9.perentesis – cuidado with the goose’s heart strung about tu cuello bellisima.
10.out, in, cuando el sexo se tranforme in a guerra real.
11.the ojo singular, moviendose. Una diosita mirando the blank offerings, ears.
12.neon, silent rape, swirling giddy in their loincloths.
13.losing every scrap of cloth in trade for my own skins & nails.
14.las cosquillas of culture, preponderance de una sola lengua.
15.contracultural, the same eye paired, despues de haber sido situado in quaternity
As he wandered half-awake through the wastes of underground (his fantasy blending into the pragmatic R.), mario perceived the stalactites descending down, as great teeth from the ceiling of the sky, the limit beyond which woman kind could ne’er surmise. Still, he wondered… and the incessant bleeping began again, derailing his thoughts. His surroundings flashed out, he felt as though he was losing consciousness, and then he began again to hop and scurry about compulsively, losing complete control. 273 seconds later he hit the big moving bar, his mind went dark, and he realized another few moments of mental freedom.
Writing fictions or any extremely external objectifying text is a cowardice to those who are unable to write honestly of themselves, to confront the deep troubles within.
When there is the ability to create a perfect, candid puppet show, whose indulgences rip from Left to Right and the spectrum is tragic, then we can talk of the possibilities at hand, what is at risk. If only I could devote himself to it. Consider self-control as control over others, not as discipline, but as Power
When I was young we used to have a row of little lanterns lighting the driveway down through the forest down to our house but my mom picked them all off one by one the first year backing up so now there are no lights and we drive down in the dark like Merlin.
at first it was an imposition, a writing-over, be unable to kiss, to suggest the blues, drowning; to set the mood, or tell another ahead of time that they were in for a spin -the philosophy of constant performance, constant costuming & posturing, disavowal of the genuine; then that i was low, differently emotional; later, even to un(or anti)-humanize myself, a visual cue, a reminder of the constant performative nature of social life. now washing it is like wiping off my face and a i can scarcely recognize myself in skin.
Neither open nor shut, love is seeping out of me at the root. i cannot build from without. i am unable to climb, my body is a whorehouse, my body is an imprecision, my body is an undone tide, my body is a chided naiveté, my body is the weakness to crave everything but gaze and company - that is, imploding-exploding at the same time, & being buried alive. neither floating, nor. arms spread. cowardly, wasting and effecting that most unworthy. horrified even at becoming a shadow. a military defeat against a childhood that perhaps never was. it's one thing to excape yourself.
This is the Great Joke: that what we’re realizing… the trembling underneath this floor, nascent in its soft vernacular – that the joists, staggered and staccato, open as the miraculous parting waters and our severed selfs present again the lost reflection they had longed for… we that wolflike had lost our interdependence – grouping and unfamilied were to wander alone… attached, bound at the waist, bound at the wrist, bound by the teeth
That we pay the closest heed to one another now.
When externalizing self-loathing becomes anothers hatred for oneself after the inner’s transformation, the transposition of self’s self onto the other.
I have caused myself to be a viscious doglike – Spite & spittle, as if the infinitude of this freedom is up away and overwhelming the possibility it supplies – to hell with it! I (we & she) don’t want any more (extra) or (perenthetical) this – a sham – a dirty thing, long, wasting, delinquent, unchaste. One:add prefixes & suffixes. Tw: make it indescernable. Thri: the layout of your words, phrases, calligraphy of your tonal insertions. Fou4: the cultivation of an indiscrete aesthetic, ripping the parameters, incorporating failures into success – When Existentialism Goes Too Far By Far! Halleluiah they cried, dying i.
My precision wanes – my words err towards the aestheic, away from meaningfulness – how can I bear that romantic relapse? A series of vignettes. & my flesh peels away from its soul
To be pinned like this, drab. One negation after the other.
To speak so is to tell a longing, to unfold a sure story. This doesn’t seem, filmed, playing, discrete, in quite the order it was meant to wind. Maybe that’s ok with you, you’re not picky. You and We, She and Him (and whatever else) were “never creative” in any place. Vital. Beggering. Eventually it just becomes a calm sort of frenzy: a ranting of aesthetic syllables, formless. Be wary of us then, they said.
Think we are a painting.
Think we are wooden dolls.
Think we are a projection.
Have you read all the right texts? Are you sure & squarely on the same leafy page? It will never be. No one is ever enough, and just as we are unwinding now, towards helpless unhealth & dependence –
It is, of course, a delicate balance, an impossible wordplay to achieve this incredible unease with which, slowly, every dance stops. As the end of every note tolls that sudden temporal pallour, where it can go on living, as thought, only in echo, an ever softening reverberation: No. There is nothing hidden or alluded. There is nothing right before eyes. I cannot even transcribe a full thought before its inevitable interruption; that is, to be derailed, the tension broken, by the possibility of fresh life, that each newness abolishes.
In becoming a wolf, I would want nothing but the distant presence of another, watching without beholding. Neither keeping-an-eye nor objective, In reflecting myself on another, I would want negative reciprocation, a forwards mirroring, the permission to collide and shatter.
It is strange to me that so many can wake up and bed down with such continuity of self, able to rise and rest with the same voice, the same gait, the same approximate external mentality daily. I oscillate between a critical confrontation and deliberate interrogation of this (she named it Mercurial) schizophrenia, and a parallel conviction that such a disengagement would be inhibitory, limiting – thinking that personal stability is one of the biggest obstacles to a multiplicity of realizations. I yearn for stability – I yearn for the extremities of being.
they are all durmiendo now. and i listen to this fragrant sound, making quiet lists of what to describe with specific synesthetic adjectives. these eyes are opening dreams. there are no poems in me. cruelty merits kindness, evil merits goodness. Long-literate without *The Text* & Reading It. do i accept that the sun is more powerful than i am? Is it reasonable that planets spin their moons. reverse colonization pills pocket: ex, ib, asp, caf...Realational/unrelational. I would, long unabled, because i also was struggling with myself, because i cannot believe on any revenge, or reciprocity at all. noetic/inflicting age with these eyes, I saw with one eye what I did not with the other. one of my palms is flashing thunder, crying out with malice on the goat-head of all internity, and the rest of what i am is shackled to some ridiculous habbit of being. each move i make i am compelled to write a thousand words. there is another world within.