The struggle to be forced, at the final hour – to announce the dread messiah, the second-hand dealer The healer without a soul, who cheated death and betrayed the beast, c’est moi, le deluge, la chose
The horizon closed ,He speaks of the last veil falling - after that, the devil, whose excremental remains animates the corpse and forgets bliss, beautified in its rotting being… the secret being, the breath exhaled, still persisting in the remainder, memory decomposing, devoted to the world–the soul, cancelled in remaining, is captive, only by violence in love’s vitals, the essence rotten. The hollow zone out of which grows something new, a new species, being death, out of the season, the ground is cheated, love sown in the violent parody of the risen invasive being, incommensurable with survival. Love as if you always knew, was found in the solace of retrospect decomposition, the forced choice of remaining. The re-invention in the rot of love’s error of being is all, but never all that there is. When you see through the deluge, the illusion is the mask that tells of the true. The gas the magic the chant the god riding the man, the bet, wager never back to a nature, no more than the pain of success at the expense of, expelled from, the bad, the defeated in opposing them, that is loin the child of the man, death is the father, into the cold environment of self-defeat, love, being unfinished, is an initiate.
There’s two ships sailing out of sight, life and death, no colour in their reflexive tilt of goodness in the stale twilight and putrid air, creaking, still finds calm and luxury in the murk of the metaphor, the story, the beginning, the end, the ‘et cetera’, is precisely ‘love’, ‘greater than thee’ and so forth. I say my prayers every night, like an idiot in repeated acts of self-love, an empty shell suspending disbelief in ‘belief,’ executing the heroic belief as non believer, blasphemer, totem, like a high priest at the trial every night the same dream articulating that evil - ethical surrender to the unknowable intention to spit the flame from the All, the great almighty head excepting the diminished body, the flame without the candle…say a prayer then for the mindless human-desecrated animal, the animal dressed up in madness, who tells the truth every night to itself, It, and the other unnameable one, [She] the mind again in drag, the Body, the excremental supplement, all in sleep, voided is the moment of waking, the endless moronic work of waking to be completed, the dread struggle of the soul in the mess of the world’s idiot antagonism, the amazement of existing like this, the feminine destroyed by its own gender, by an inescapable idiocy. One plus one without supplement, rest in peace the world that has no supplement, that is all hail to gravity, there, in the head, without gender, without remorse, without woman, an injunction, bashed in, sucking the soul of the world out of its rabbit like ears, negating the negation, a bell tolling from inside the worldly twitching body, sounding the earth and all that goes with it, as yet unseeded, the nightly toil of the bed, to the lost sound of it – the great desire for the sounding bell, whose soiled silence seeking its pallid note in the air, is wordless, reassures the tragic soul, still tolling, the duty to end.
To take a stand against what? Now? That is in ‘difference’. The scale descends, like a staircase into a heartless void. Worldless we yet constituted within a world. With this difference all is lost, we are yet all is the same, the same that we are not. It speaks of the same, the other, the not-we, before the darkness as always already we wait in the other, as not something, when nothing is as yet to be, to be-come, compromised in light, yet even less as the sun is beating down. Time dies here in the light. The promise of being, the Being, that spirit returning the day after the brilliance of an event, missing the crowded ‘now’, left as excremental dream, we are, and we will finally never be other than a sublime mist, a dispersal, a re-iteration in the waking term, half-remembered yet returning always full of destinies, without instance, that is, an end, the end, in fact, the end of all fact. Having failed so, and so forth foiled, the gas of life. The child inside the mirror [without chance, ill-fated] that can’t do anything but grieve. No, stutter. That immense pain -found but lost in the finding out, in the fatal act of finding, from a search that speaks of its own source without declaring where, or how it is ever to be free, is a carelessly expressed utterance. A scratch in language that infects the whole. The every which way from the viewpoint waiting from that forever line of a distance desired is but never achievable… other than in death and in the great utterance of the Bardo, when the soul gets lost, but yet is found instantiated by others, deficit [a soul] that can only be released this way, by being pitifully mortal. If the you and I is touchstone left in the quicksand of the other unspeakable space, the ‘known’, the soul that is without life, is abstract, inside the knowable, but which touches the outside, without touching the heart of the matter, itself, the object. The suicide thinking itself inside that rotted half-thrown away, dreams only of perfection in desolation to have been finally defeated and mourned. If only the ground could speak of the ‘me and you’, without tears splashing like rain from the far above, in mid summer’s endless blue, yet so close to hear that echo in the brain no longer owned by the ‘me and you’. Never owning up, as if it were real. Remaining, the redeemed non-the- less, in the excremental excess. How can that excrement be the ‘me and you’? How can nakedness never have been? I ask you from the grave, pleading for second reprieve, do you know of the ‘me’ and ‘you’? Keeping far enough away. THE REAL. The fear of not being there…eating the stars, from afar a wolf is howling at the horizon, a mesh of dim light coming afar, apart, as our guarded freedom is too, withdrawing, withdrawn. No masters other than the ones empowered to be out of sight, we continue to deny sight. The dream [which is it?] you say didn’t ever happen to anyone but you and you are the nowhere to be found inside it, the dreamer, free to be ruled [out]. I don’t know what happened, he said. I heard him say, you wrote it, written down it was then, that it was said many times like that, as an excuse, to protect the secreted privilege. I saw the mirror image move his face from mine in the other direction, yet upon mine, it was familiar, this mirror. My face, the mirror, yours, the mirror. It shows time upon it, dead, or at least divided from the present, a small part of it remaining in the specular glint of an eyeball, reflecting an endless image of universes of cities peopled by familiar disgust. A stream of zigzags – lightning in water reflected in the shattered skin of the ripples upon a quivering self, the image, the I, coveted. My own face. The passing away of sorrow and foolishness, the hollow heart, in flight, rescued by the birds of paradise BARBARIC pity. The birds of a paradise only in the reflected water beneath…are constant, out of sight. Its good is equalled by the goodness of the word that suddenly appears at its exact falling upon the cherished future. I don’t know, he said, whom you wish to address, me or the other one, the idiot? I cant pretend, I know only that the edge is closely related to the tender movement that takes away, the thinking of you beyond my death, a road’s indirectness, the essence of which is too much, a scent of the free, bursting, bleeding, receding from the hateful fear of the on high. The edge of this or the edge of that meets without the edge of their separation, in blood and bile…rather their pretending of an edge was gathered, shared all together, freeing, bleeding, in hatred of it, sharing, finding the truth better expressed in the idiocy, the subject isolated from its own internal violence. Free at last free in blood, bleeding, free, bursting forth, bleeding profusely, not dying. At last, like a waking dream half remembered, and recalled before I am dead. Like the dead sea I want to know of the free, these last thoughts, their treasure, the gas, the magic, the contours of the wave, the sound like the endless beating wave, like the cadaver fire, which still burns on Patmos, upon the bitter sea that battles and feeds upon itself magnetic, gravitational, like fire from water, never to be extinguished in science. But I don’t know where I am led, here or there, in the fight, or in the half-lit afternoon of reason. Or in the bliss of night I am the lead in the lead. I am full of hate, before me, I stand, accused and accrued full of Hatred. The great beast, inside. Darkness, I suppose – and I apologise for that lust. I am truly contrite in this dark night like a Christ. Why is it that these unworthy connections are any less, than like a high speed train, poetic, and yet not to be flattered, anything but banal, like Christ, or Buddha, who laughs out loud, traitors to humanity? Beware the All. That all ends in a mess, the bleeding heart, the edge, and the end. The end of the journey, safe without freedom, continuing, routinely expecting. At that moment…. without charge, and without any word coming to mind, he changed, and the will dispersed.