V4.2 Coming together finally.
Visibility & Collapse
How, in lurching waves of splendor, moony loony lude defiant, and supplicating, got caught in a struggle with death, with distance and blankness –
Caught in a dire form of dread, where present tense seamlessly disappears, insensibly vanishes into perturbances at edges of meaning, muttering for salvation.
If only to be relieved of ludicrous abundant and dissolute ravings of desire. That then through a coming on of madness merges into a sublimely constructed horror.
A cruces that becomes a crux. Uneasy and shill. Melting through to the mystic, croon and squall against body bloody hunger, an anointment akin to holy death.
Heaven and hell are reversible, the great reversal, a ramp destitution that is also a luxury.
Stuck in fascination, astray with shimmering birds, speaking in tree language a wild rain at mouth of cave, sunburst to a thirst and desert, of light and darkness – sweet and warren, ruderal and erupt.
Frees the spirit, in moments that seem to surpass existence. Tandem with falls into hell. Every time hit a top, the bottom blew up.
In freak junky storms of rapture and death.
Darkness wells up against sky, mourns with awe and grief after every wave of thunder disappears into a lull of attacks on impossibility of nature.
Spunk Junk Monk Flunk
I love that word. Junk, everything turning into spunk and junk.
Riding through on a manifesto of horse hells-bells, as a manifesto of love. It befell me as a charm. An emergency. Like running from a ball of thundering hatred rolling at me bearing bursts of bog and ogling gun, as symbol of disposable annihilation, of apocalyptic insubordination, absorbed in time as genis and rheum, dancing up against fires of oblivion.
Burroughs Dirigibles, Rimbaud’s Drunken Boat, Becketts Mud, words themselves as personification for that relish some call: fetish to no end.
Starts with a B
Burroughs didn’t just survive what he wrote about, it lived off of him, in any media –
To put into biblical terms, seemed both to feed his sins and drive his penance.
Kicks, the kick back (Burroughs and Beckett both illumine on this) at dizzying nature of death. Burroughs again and again binging fiercely on freedoms deadlier allures up to that line of something occult, of death and creation twisting fertile egg and death-in-hand with its own disintegration, turning like hell-I-will against the program against the master plan.
Visions akin to medieval hell paintings? burning scrupulous, forlorn, in revolt, into words a rage with desire that merged the glories and scorns of a match of friction with every attention to incursions routines categories.
Lucid imperspicuous contempt trolling with captivation for difference, between meaning and show of meaning.
I sank, when I saw, sank into with crossing exemption, relievo, temporal, venial, cursmudgen, stew and plank.
For all the morbid birds that hawked effervescent at my grave, cut to a core with sorrows fervid sanctimonious rage, a ransom a snare, tantamount to absurdist theatre, crusading yet damned with disbelief.
Real as hell can only be.
A consociational antagonism rising up as if against the void that belittled it, rages between meaning and show. Burns at center to a surge purge mutter and dirge, felled musically, ritually into storms of enchantment, fire blister rigor mayhem & woe.
Pad eyed buzzards unfearing to address without capitulation whatever the defiance, impossibility, horror, fragmentation or ruthless rupture of desire, unbearable loss, etc.
Fate as the fall
Death is a purification, its witness written in ritual, retroactively assigned to religious sacrificial, to cleanse soul of its fondness for eruption. Escape circle of day. U die.
Language did not come naturally. Born with a barnacle in my brain drenched in a dreamy loneliness whose boredom was riotous and surreal. And any moment could relinquish me to its infernal squander and hunger, for something beyond constraints of time, of present tense.
Life was sacrificial, the birth of loss, trundled into battling the empire – prehistoric feudal nightly.
The day so dreary with curious emptiness – my only true pleasure was to escape, from Book of Memory? hearts vulnerable, enfoibled, chained to love, desire eternal infernal benighted and riled in service and expulsion, gesture of ardor & onerous sacrifice.
Stories tend to embody character I call Beauty, after French fables. Beauty rising up against limitations of time. And the ferociousness of her death time and again. Love’s only identity somehow or equality – could be compared to – was death.
Something I did not understand. Was curious to me, as hell.
Somewhere “in there” love had only one force equal to its presence – crossings lines with purity and invention.
Fables burned round and round, blustered to winds of prehistoric ritual dire and wired, impossible and familiar moving through the body of my heart like a conquering worm.
Tantrums vague and horror more and more beguiled, sea-sawed, thru waves of anger, desire – contempt.
And a constant need for more.
A third eye began tracing after every impulse, however suicidal and starved, which eventually, as if on a stage of unbearable longing, burned into a kind of substitution for my death, as only way to relieve the breathless epiphany that shined in his cuff. Part of this is all about The Oppo (opposite sex, additive inverse).
Boys boys boys, always in heart stoning the caucus with love, death, thirst, damnation, beauty, devolving into a submersion with, like some lady of the lake.
Passion that over time, over years really – took hold a thousands times a day, always at risk of another rising cosmological death, as an angel of misfortune, dying in arms of that intrepid emptiness, wild and urgent to be saved by truth from sketchy horde of brandishing conflates, ill lutes, pandemonium recruits, lurches, angry flies. All ferociously fond, destitute and beguiled, lost in a tunnel of love, death shining down on everything – exorbitant hideous stark, and yet desperately murky, contravened with, tossed, on a lark.
Blame in a Name
Blaming somebody else? cause I was walking around shellshocked? caught in a madness basically pulling a rope to safety best I could, somehow somehow like a rope tow on a ski hill in a landslide – seduced by Dante’s Snoot, of Joyce dreaming in crossing pronouns, like Pynchon – whose incantations stung of wing and bird as a poison drunk for courage. Gusts defied in rhyme ran back and forth under cover of heart pounding doom –
But early on, moments of awakening of symmetries mystic verity were my Meta beyond zero, sometimes call The Bulge of Plato. As sword on tomb it was vowed THAT to turn on those whose inspiration looted me recruited, devoured was a sin against the surface – of my love.
This was essence of some puritan blood thing – that neighed at night in the valley of dolls.
Its ascension a shared convention, pact between mystic and death – to not confuse righteousness with appellation. That the body carries the seed in its crock and neck. As chivalry is to cynicism, no matter however bad it got.