“I” stop in the midst of the rippling granules of probability.
Inverting The Power of Now.
Intuitively and intellectually, I have always known the world was filled with broken-tongued phantoms only. “Ten thousand talkers whose tongues are all broken” goes Dylan’s “Hard Rain.” Even the Realizers do not escape absurdity. No one escapes absurdity. Finally, after five hundred years of slipping the noose of ordinary temporic spans, the ineluctable truth of my alone-ness is gripping me toe to crown.
Disdain with the stain of flatlandish existence is almost bemusement. The last rolling gourmet of owl sandwiches has left his island and the fascist ants are closing in.
I brood on beauty’s mysterium tremendum.
“The literature of religious experience abounds in references to the pains and terrors overwhelming those who have come, too suddenly, face to face with some manifestation of the mysterium tremendum. In theological language, this fear is due to the in-compatibility between man's egotism and the divine purity, between man's self-aggravated separateness and the infinity of God.” – Aldous Huxley
Shiftless shitbird institutionalists are waiting for me to die again so they can “believe” in me.
So I turn up the V.O.G. volume to 11, since that makes the baboons jibber with a certain glory glint in their eyes and the mummy-wrapped ululating femmes wet in the delta of venus.
V.O.G.’s the Voice o’ God, famed brittle proclamation of Ain’tLam.
Meanwhile, BoldClay’s new liquid trax induce delirium tremens in BaseFuck and SpyMace members, I.D.s strewn to the dead cyberwinds.
Tri-note throat-singing, oblique eardrumming incantatory koans.
Followed by chord-slinging of an inspirational platform nature. Summons wet pussy in the same breath as differentiated amen.
Gravelly gravitas vocally ensues, lone wolf shifting to dyadic eagles tumble-mating in sudden stark ecstatic space.
Words, phrases, lines, sentences.
This blade is a prism of parallel worlds, light split to neon rainbow.
This switchblade running is Mind.
“Knives Out” go Radiohead, oblique obscuranto.
Blade keeps the confrontation personal, focused, efficient, pure. Escalation to bullet poetics eschewed in favor of body heat. Not keen to cut flesh so much as psyche.
This switchblade went laser then force-field theraminic, music carving path through mainstream zombification.
Word carving blood clear azure solace, sojourn, certainty.
Zero point fields of gold.
Purity fronts The Fabulous Stains.
In the original Catch-22, if one pleaded crazy to get out of the U.S. Army during the Korean War, one was caught in the conundrum of being adjudged perfectly sane to want out of the war. The nefarious Catch-22.
In life, it often appears that one needs love in order to succeed, or conversely success to attract love, and so on.
All light and shadow play. Kairos chiaroscuro.
Sunlight through leaves, birds twittering sans texting, a kind of Bergman-on- virtual-espresso mood, Virgin Spring more transgressively lurid – rape-murder, strange tranquility.
The young girl in Virgin Spring becomes the sexy simulacrum in Solaris, Eros-Thanatos convulsing orgasmically back from the death of drinking liquid nitrogen, nipples fetchingly hard beneath her dampened blouse.
Then svelte shudders in a shuttered room.
One of my iron fists in a velvet glove is fucking a wet moaning gusher from beyond time. The other hand is tilting an 8-ball oracle “toy,” mine loaded with arcane answers from inky depths to questions of urgent import:
Q: Does Energy equal Money/Cunt squared?
A: Smack!
Q: Is seamless soul and material solvency within my iron-fist-in-velvet-glove grasp?
A: Your right hand knows what the left one’s doing.
Q: If I maidenhead martryr 99 virgins now, will I receive a fist full of raisins in the afterlife?
A: Sunkist.
Q: Should branding return to burnt flesh emphasis?
A: XOXO
Q: I knew it was only a matter of time before my own oracular 8-ball device would flirt with me. It is the Virtual Age, after all.
My pussy-soaked velvet glove waves toward the window for a lost falcon. I plunge the enamored 8-ball into the convulsing vortex of Shakti-agent’s sex.
Impossible superfission ensues, light-blast implosion.
Voidvertising copy remains. Stained-glass cryptograms.
This sentence is loaded, .45 caliber.
>>>
Meanwhile, some squishy white mashed suit goongrinch and rash lamebog stuck to my casual combat boot romp through time, along with some other unidentified dog shit and a shard of Jason’s hockey mask.
>>>
This desert of the real's red, redolent of red man's red-blooded desire for the queen of golden-indigo heart. Diamond night stars gaze back on eyes transfixed. The brooding firmament hides your craved caress. Star-dots connect to form an outline of your distant darling face. Supine I form an angel in red sand, arms and legs fanning. Galactic pulsations signal your presence to my yearning. Angel heart meets demon desire, wedded as daimon spirit, diamond-ringed. A sudden mist brings your body to my free-standing embrace. Symbiotic miracle enfolds us. Golden spun silk's the sacred heat of your yielding. This fabric of dreams falls, covers the red sand of our ardent desiring. Your glistening eyes whorl black velvet swoons. This spell of purrrfection must never be broken. The world turns on our adamant coupling. The rain of luminous kisses sculpts the touch of tomorrow. The honey-hot vulvic vortex of you is the home I never knew. I pause at this precious portal, hard-throbbing timeless, remaining in light-dawn eternal. Deeeep innntooo youuu evvverrrmorrre's divine. Your smoldercore soaking shiver-sighs are my infinite firebrand grail.
>>>
-- Do you really think sex is a divine portal?
-- If the Word made flesh is the long lost angel of my ardent desiring.
-- What if you’re grasping after a cherished illusion?
-- Then this long daimon dog howl at the moon is my mistress.
>>>
In the shadows of murderous night, knives flash in a lunar glow, finding crimson arteries yielding soft fountains of mortality; various precise calibrations of various pricey readily attainable firearms pump lead in various fleshly incarnations on the fast track to Ghostland; and various casual phrases assault the buried-alive meanings of countless efflorescent semiotic ecstasies, murdered in the prime of potential while all the grinning ghoulish skulls of linguistic corruption scar the airwaves with homicidal banalities, and their soul-concussed constituency blathers on in the fear-based bosom of history’s horrid homilies.
The dynamite charges are placed at the key foundational too-solid holographic vectors: media, church, state, university, meal ticket, family, incarnation.
Murdered-no-more Fire-Light has a relaxed invisible hand on the detonation device.
The chill glow of dawn awaits your Awakening.
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