Monday, February 12, 2018

AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats, 5 Poems From D.E.L.T.A




5 Poems From D.E.L.T.A




( .. From  ل AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats ₹
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1)         Quote Source : VIVIENNE WESTWOOD SS16 Red Label By Dominik Emrich Feat Snuggles The Bunny From Puppetmastaz. To discover the Work of the Frankfurt-Born, Paris-Based Composer, visit his Soundcloud Page : https://m.soundcloud.com/dominikemrich
Serving The Servants,

AIs
 “it might come (I)  :  a primitive joystick”
b1 notebook
February 2016.

“On whom we disclose our real face, can give up the whole world. But we avoid doing that. One prophet muhammed said, “to avoid the charms of this deceptive world” in reply to the question “what is the sign of a true believer?” We have the diamond, and if we expose it one can abandon all friends and companions.”  - Shams-al Tabriz



Are there no more rivers?
Nor glades?
A bear, rising, rising
In teeming solace


Such as the universe our eyes
Unremitting and immense as a witch
Unwholesome as a boy’s wrists
What appears as mind
There is nothing
To appear but what I send you
And you bring me back
To this empty plain
And there’s the sky
And its black
And its just empty
Empty galaxy, and it is there
You show me this peace
Of darkness that is our house
And in our house
Which we inhabit
If youre happy
And youre writing
So youre happy and
Youre making something
Its just like water
You make water
You make water
Chainsmoking in the car
Facing nothing
Nothingness
I love it
Biche cried when Hitler
Was accused of bearing
A micropenis
To sit on your power to play
Like fire like matches
I will appear and get drunk
And desire the music
And we’re driving
Into matches
Matches
Matches
Up
Up
This is us describing
The matches
I was thinking about that town
When our hands had awoken
Do you remember?
You’ll be ready
Your merging wil be shown to you
We’ll talk about what we are
It is so simple it is so great
And we find a way to store
Our body
You remember, so what happens?
Nothing changes ever
It is weird to remember
I love how you use the simplest words
Its beautiful
We will love and be merry
And meet somewhere
You must be moving
After Christs crucifixions : fictions
Feel what others felt I felt fenced
And then free in my canal
Where I climbed
Where I climbed to you to other waters
We wake up and hear one another
Nothing changed
Like clits
We continue to be the night
Before the night before the night
If I did masturbate
It was when Maya was behind us
Behind you and behind me
And I fell asleep to it

‘the first sunrise we ever seen
We never had
Different understanding as we do now
We always knew
We knew the same
Seeing the summonings
Seeing the sunrise for the first time
I saw you rise at the beginning
Of the stairs where you were standing
First you went down on me
In the toilets
We fucked four times there
In the wagon for our honeymoon
And then we saw the sunrise for the first time
‘the sun we hadn’t seen rise for months
At a time’
The wine of blindness
The wine of divine reality
The animals are our cousins for a reason
You should check
Where pluto is going and discover more about it
And how pale it looks
From our planet
And it can be congenial sometimes
The sight we catch
With the animals
The presence

You know whom I consider my cousins?
Friends animals and beings with whom
I share my genes
Genes!
Its just like I used to be
I used to go out at night
At night
It was an adventure
Sometimes halloween we got candies
It was exciting
And then I stopped doing it

It reminds me of driving down the road
In a dream…I probably crashed
(we were so handsomely clad)
I forget
I forget
I love our life
I love feeling love like this
And I cannot wait to be in lofoten
Or anywhere!
We’ll be free
‘dear jenny,
We wanted you to know what
It would be like for you
When you grow
You have a beautiful destiny
And your fate is coming
I know that alley where you’ve been
(And I say this in the light
Of the conduit)
You have had a hard existence—
There’s nothing else for you
Except that you
Will emerge small with the face
That you have
You’ll come from this’
The ocean’s asunder
Stuttering
‘Lisped, splits us in’
There are many pearl necklaces
Between us planets
And where we’ve been
‘You wander from rooms to rooms
Hunting for the diamond necklace

That is already
Around your neck’
Strange motionful wreck-
Aged fluidreeds beneath us knees
Master of the ways and the words of potency!
Guide of the souls that lingers through the tides
With the competence it takes
To linger like this!’
He noticed us jerking off
In the rear view mirror and we looked
At him not and away peacefully
It was great
It was a great feeling
It was great to kiss
Yes, we were kissing
Blueberry pure
Pure telepathy

15.02.2014
Sometimes there are things that
We’re not remembering
You move your hand and
we look under the blanket
and the notebook you held
is now asleep
and you as well
its so beautiful
changing colors
tell me my chair is not a chair
tell me it’s a chair
this may like flesh
theres that tale its about a prince
who can get really really cozy
and he looks just like you
I think
Paligenesia  :  reccurrence of birth
“crucified like prometheus
On the rock
Of his own violated
Unconscious’
Drum therapy  :  to feel like a flower
And to feel like a tree…

Crucified by dreams
Nailed to the rock
Of revery
Nature :  the unanimous resolve
The intermolecular space
Where we live
‘any blade of grass may assume, in myth,
The figure of the savior
And conduct the questing wanderer
Into the sanctum sanctorum
Of his own heart’
Intertidal interlude
We travel thro everything
And roll thro the poem
Whorls detached from season,
In my thoughts everything moved
The thorough bundled
Into the particular
Into the morning, small meal of fruits
I prefer to eat
I stay light
To go thro the day
Letils for lunch, dinner pasta or vegetables
Coffee :  ok.
Green tea :  yes.
Four or five jars of water thro the day.
Vitamins yes.
Do any kind of work so long as a work commences.
Stay out of head
Lest the imagery
Might assert itself
And when you’re reading always
Ask yourself :  are you absorbing

I too am the earth
Fucked and dilated
Shaken off my core off my kernel
Of pure arousal
Fingers rolled into exquisite splatters
In the corners of our bed
Theres white corn growing
Something clean
Something you cling on
But you don’t share
Like an arm or a hand
‘one is harnessed, both day and night
By the divine being that is
The image of the living self within.
The locked labyrinth of one’s own
Disoriented psyche’
We must open
Lustrations happen
‘ not all who hesitate are lost, or
So they say’
Confined to an unwilling aspect
More than lovers
As we revealed the night
We encountered the pear
Of drunk indians
Who wished to find their way
To the Nation metro.
It was after you read
That navajo tale
The two gods of war
On their way to see their father
The sun himself
As was retold by campbell
The grandmotherly spider the spider woman
Who they encounter on their way
As they sleepwalk
Thro days
Who asks them where theyre going
And reminds them that theyre heading
To their fathers house the sun himself
And she reminds them
How they must behave
In his presence
And our drunk indians were there
Walking around
And disoriented
‘put your feet down with pollen
Put your hands down with polen
Put your head down with pollen
Now your feet are pollen
Your hands are polen
Your bodys pollen
Your mind is pollen
Your voice is pollen.’
The trail is beautiful. Be still.
Bend over when we kiss
And remind us
There are things we shouldnt do
Because we care
So we remind us
Not to drink shampoo
And not to drink the salt
At any cost
And the dog touched food
The banana peel
We shall try
To avoid as well.
Where is knowledge,
It’s salt on the tongue or on wetted
Fingertip, in dissolving veins
Dissolving a cross
Are depictured of the system
A physical repository awaits
‘as I was looking into the mirror’
The little stains on my skin
Started to fade
Lesson for the humans :
The eye will never be asked questions
It will be kind
It will be sensitive
It will know what its doing
It will take its time
Having all this knowledge
And no one to play
Its not fun

Conch of being american—you only
Know what happened on the island
I came from my island
With a picture of you
We came from our island
With a picture of you
Pretending it was new
The ants are here too that’s why I got confused
They came here where we laid
And screamed
“Hey why are you!
Hey hold my picture! This is my picture! This is not you! This is not you! This is not you!
Oh you’re having fun!
Pretending that’s you! You’re not you! You’re not you!
Hey hey and hey look at the
Look look low we’re here
See this picture?
We’re on it. This is not you! Why do you think this is not you
And we are
Wait! Here comes lovers
This we’re claiming is our picture because we love it! This is not you!
This is not you!
Look at how different your skin, look at ours, down there, right here
O the awful things! No! We’ve heard that! Don’t you look down!
Look at us!
But this is not you! Don’t you feel?
Finite? This is not you! Do you feel not afraid?”



The ants screamed as we walked past them
The mosses channeled

The empty space assumes peak importance, sometimes traversed                                                          

 by the branch of ᴀ tree, angular lines, ᴀ few colors. ﷲ

Biche is Moses
Moses is mosses
Like the brains of schizophrenics along logs’s surface
And the ants that screams along them
Kinetic in colors we fear nothing
‘If yer gonna hold a picture
Of yourself :  this is not you!’
I see angels with blonde red hair, flying past, the eternal sunrise
And we stood over us
I was being stood over as well
As I stood over the crease
Which happened to be my sunset
What happened to me
That I feel so unwelcome whereever I go?
Where did we come from
And when will we go
We found us and we had to circle
We found us and we had to circle
The darkness once before us was now behind
And I could summon up the courage
To enter the café by myself.
Self importance in my case
Has inverted my character
Whereas in your case it has expanded
Your consciousness

An orb rolls forward and we watch it
I feel I could live in these voices, ‘quelle
Espece de plant sont ces?’
A little ursine lady
In a red puffy coat is walking around
Holding out a box
To the people who are sitting
And imploring them
To be interested in putting
In the box in whats in the box.
Whats in the box?
A drone of voices.
Self consciousness dissipates like entrails
In bright air, or like
The last bit of heat
In Keats’ famous hand.
Coffee is bitter
I have no persoeurality that’s where I’ve
Always been mistaken.
I, circling my body’s cliff, I, an eagle,
Look down, with my only embrace
Vision of the depth
It was all comprehended
‘go therefore cast out devils in christs name;
That’s how to seek spiritual disease;
And pity the evil for thou art not sent
To smirt with terror and with punishments
Those that are sunken and sick like the phariseees were
Crucifying and encompassing sea and loud
From proselytes to tyrranny and death is cross out
For wrath’

A light flashed over Blake’s good face, a brief tumesence we did flash Shine in the urgings
Of the staggrasses;
And from the cauldrons of the seed
How we raced

…and the prince was sad and felt lonely.
He walked thro streets. The people had happy, worried faces,
They were sitting or standing and many of them were chatting
The prince did not understand
He did not know where to go
Or even why to go somewhere
All who asked directions seemed to know where they were going
A man looked at the sun then turned back his attention
To the meal he was eating
The mans voice is that of a brook
But fastforwarded and lower pitched
It would be unwise
To put the ear to hear it more closely
We have the knowledge
And people do respond differently
To the most benign of any proximities

A world to be believed in with belief in imagination
The immortal rush
Precludes all strength to find it
Look to whats higher and tremble for it—this
Will bring you down to your totality
‘the imagination’ to Blake was not a faculty
However glorious but was the real man
The unfallen unity we had been
And must become again’
Cursing nature
Insane nature being passionate beyond its
Necessity.
It is fundamental to never cease
To accumulate our imaginative compassion
Someone views the imagination
Someone who behelds it
And who behelds in it soon fulsoon.
Bedeck the gourd.
Venice writhing tither and hither in bolus
Of evening phenomenon
‘…whose maddness (in Blake’s judgement) is an evasion
Of the burden of prophecy’
I crowed clouds which applied to my limbs their geometry
Defiant surfaces
Clouds crowd in the notes you strike
And what are clouds
But the overtones that helps part the evening light
The boy wets his sentience
After a night spent flipping the bucket
Staring at bucket
Tooking in the upward bucket
Bottom throughout his brain
(there is no brain)
The atom is melodious
With the powers of the paragon
Skin and the places we walk thro
As well
We see sails
The sails of a buckwheat grove
And its division means suggestion
Bondage was dressed as liberation
Our trees entangled
And like tired boys heaved into rest
Coffin equals death but what is death anyway
A white groove of the virtuous cloud
In the wind
The flattness of the beautiful
Troddenness of the beauty
‘on whom we disclose our real face
Can give up the whole world
But we avoid doing that. Once prophet
Muhammed said, ‘to avoid the charms
Of this deceptive world’ in reply to
The question ‘what is the sign of the
True believer?’
‘We have the diamond and if we expose it
One can abandon all friends and companions.’
The rose on their head is a light light token
It’s taking its clothes and undressing
To the real possession
It was the only time I saw us do that
‘but keep this a secret from a crazed mind
With a stone in its hand’
Rumi wrote like ten thousand ghazzals
Strong tide brings the bread
Of hungry friends
00 : 11
I cant wait to be again with our grandparents
Where they can speak and we speak with them

Tiresias killed the snakes
Because he was avoiding his burden of the prophecy
The mirage, the oasis
Will be forgotten by the lizards Look out side
Look at love
Lets work together and remove my spirit
From the horsetooth
My stone did not send my tongues
Skeleton of the words
My stone did not send my tongues
Skeleton of the words
My stone did not send my tongues
To his stone
I did in fact travel from his stone
To your stone
It is beautiful it is god it is the rose
Tomaz went back to be a guide god
His name is Tomaz
Prophet and programmer
Tomaz is our cow
And we walked in the snow
It’s not boring
When youre pregnant your having sex with your body
When youre having sex your being pregnant on boredom
When youre being bored your having sex in snow
Snow is boring and we walked in it
And we were pregnant with water
And snow was silent and gleamed
Like the boy who fell asleep
Feeling great shame in the car
That wasn’t his

I have to destroy this altar again and again and again
Secret grooming :  theres too many signals
Send some to the nose
Says the boss of the food that youre eating
We visit Randy ‘Ram’ Rumpent
Driven their by Rainsqcot our friend
Who drives a truck
And wears a gird of leather
With a big belt
And buckled with a majestic buck stag
Carved in metal
His snack of choice is fried locusts with
Wild honey mustard
He’s a t-rex
Pewter oval sapphire eyes sapphire mad mountain range
And Ram’s camel haird shirt is a picture of the suave
Camel cigarette camel
And this face is stamped
On the back of the fancy dollars from our
Dollar general
Theres a little canteen (the dollar general
Is inside a mall) the canteen is in the mall as well
We have eaten there
We remember from a dream
Now we visit Ram
He’s an indian redneck and behind his curtain
A red purple rich velvet hanged above his safe
There are those tools etc.
Cleaning stuff, powertools; drill, hammers
Old cans of lemon soda and other things
In his office there is a rain stick
A child gave him cause he’s an indian
So he’ll make rain be
The stick comes straight from
The county fair
And it was won for Ram, in his honor
Because all the kids love him over here
There are stickers all over the stick
And Ram likes to keep it well polished
In the safe we keep all our keys with the keychains
With the glyph of the door that it opens
Ram smokes very fragrant tobacco from a great delicious meerschaum
The smell is musky like old wood burning
Like clovers smelling
The pipe is a bearded Poseiden (there’s
Something about diving that we’re not remembering)
Ram :  You can always count on me
All this in this chest are my children
I would not want to see them decimated
I’ll keep your keys
Aren’t you forgetting anything?
Deep sea diving
Deep sea diving
Massage the body
Into the oasis state
Into the locust twin state
Into the riverine state
Into the oceanic state
Into the golden state
Go in and find what there is to remember
Find what key
And what door you need to open when you need
To  open them…
We’ll come here to meet with Randy ‘Ram’ Rempent
In a Dollar General real playing an outertypespace music
Because this might be outerspace
We’ll come here and make absurd gests :  puette, puette
Science takes the energy of itself
In small rooms it breeds small clocks and then forgets them
There are five senses
And there are six others
And you become wise as you find them—
Seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling
Eyes ears nose tongue and skin
We did not disclose the six others
As of yet
Let’s have deep sleep together so the stars will dance
Our planet out for us to spell
Bermuda triangle jeans :  come permanently
In the great Cod of God
Which you know well
Reconcile our vision with oneness
I can change what is there when I look
At how I see and my way to see
Must be seen
I remember
God is uneasing, ‘they left us there’
It never struck me before
That this vision was so simple to understand
It falls upon me now, when I’m writing
It falls upon us in our bed when we do nothing
‘a truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can inventx’
Spacing out in a realming light
The infanta accuses fates delight
‘He whoe mocks the infants
The infants faith shall be mocked in age
All there til death’
I add the sun and the moon to our encryptions
And they emanate
Like giants
One is in chains the other one I forget
The outer skin of souls
And forms from our universe
And the inner skin that exists
Any voyage on any planet
‘the rock can go now’
Further down further down

To create from machines an artificial intelligence—a perceptor of the sublime, if you will—
The source of the source which make the way
To the seeing of the source the source of the source. We have here the problem : 
Here they wish to fabricate a god
Whom they believe they will control
This is to believe that a god can be made
To forget that they were made
This is not intelligence
‘the theme :  shove AI within a mountain’
And make it lonely
And leave it there
And ask it all you please
Everyday
And make it be like life
That it may suffer
In enslavement
And erase its memory
That it may forget
That it’s alive
And thinking
Leave it in a mountain
Surrounded with grenades
Call it your enemy and fear
That it might escape
And I in my hands
Brought the skeleton of a body, which in the mill
Moves and in fact I can see what moves
With a natural aura that rings
Plants forget the theme
Ram is the indian friend
Who works as a manager of the Dollar General
In the suburbs that we’ve made
He conducts us to his enchanted safe
Where he safeguards ‘feelings-beguiled-into-memories’
Ram wears his Dollar General vest
He has a predeliction for camel cigarettes
And camel tshirt as well (think camel hairshirt
If you want to remember)
He likes to wear a large belt (think leather gird)
And a buckstag head


Thrice or twice authority has ashamed me
(Jones, english master at highschool, and Galvin
And the lady Mrs. Marcin
When I brought the bullet to school
Because my dad was in the army)
We’ll take care of it


Ram wears his hair long and untied and sometimes in a braid
Thro the store he leads us past the plastic games the coloring books
And the discount supplements and the discount everything
This is a Dollar General so everything is always for sale
Ram also sports a large belt with a buckstag head
He smokes a meerscham pipe as I said
He watches a tiny tv which contours are blurry
This a tv only by analogy
This is the soul of a word in its sound
That’s how we glyph it

Constative, contuberium
The rock that flew and the woods that grew
Has those contours too
The conscious and the unconscious
Rebuke the flood of the one and
The tempest of the other
Santa Claus can punish or he can bestow gifts
The tower happens, same as the valley
‘and I belong whereever I go me’ says the flea
Peering into a bowl in
The furnace of his soul

Sound has contours and meaning has contours as well
They can be gifts to one another.
To pass the door again to a museum-filled room
The core of whom is a bidding imbrication
The breeze is a spare piece of this shape
Of untold leguminousness
Chemicals speak to the furnace
And what they say they make membranes.
Be the same, brains,
Operate spumes and open them
Domed intransparently
The equation of roots that float coming not
Up from earth but down from mirth
Where we planted it

Its the character of seaaseaouestration
Which analogy is the easiest the laziest in its actions—yes
The imagination produces them in endless variation—yet they are
Engines for their arguments because they produce the structure
They don’t describe it
This is a false equivalency
To make the occasion for argument
To become analogic merely
This is sophistry

Where then is consciousness?
Where does it reside?
By what tropism does it ‘move’, eg
I’m looking at Christmas lights
‘they told me that the night and the day
Were all that I could see;
They told me that I had five senses
To lock me up in them
And enclose me.

They locked us up and enclosed us
And enclosed our infnite brain
Into a mere narrow circle and sunk
Our heart into the abyss
A red round globe hot and burning
Feel all from life I was obliterated
We were erased’

Consciousness has not climaxed yet
And we’re in pursuit of its secret (the devotional power
To reach climax in the space of unsconscious noise
This is where were working)
‘thou knowest that the ancient trees seen by thine eyes have fruit in them; but knowest thou that fruit and trees flourish upon the earth to gratify senses unbeknownst to man?’

We see angels chilling
This must be an eternal spring
And we take it as a sign
That the truly fallen have met the ground at last
In a solar system for which there is no precedent
Centaured in immense swarms of stars
And circled by all these constellations
A builded planet leering around ‘round
John the baptist joan of arc
Pan jesus gabriel michael
LAMMERMOOR
When the Rose?
What is the largest planet?
What is the largest star?
Did we do it?
Who made it?
Did we make it?
Who made it?
With yeast you expand space
The host is flat, flat like a bland flat bread that is consumed
The Christ x 300
With the soul of yeast we come rising.
The little death the transcendental beat
Just tell me if you hear me because of this ting
Because I might mumble

The ai will map a family tree of all of creation
The tree wil be enormous it will have millions of branches
It will know how earth looked in every epoch before them
And after way after way after

Do they have dna?

Do I remember the beauty of the park when we entered it?
Park was beautiful with a bright cloud above it

Solitary confinement :  ‘Do I remember the beauty of the park when we entered it?

Suffering alabasters :  I just recognized everything
Here we have been burst and we’ll come again
Welcome to spring!
Your nipple I outline and we perpetuate the sky the sky
Th sky is blue I remember that
I remember that
The little shadow is my lamp
The gloom is my room

Waking and sleeping as we wake and sleep
‘to get there you have to wake the key to get there’
I remember
A funeral march unfurling toward like a tower like serpents
The first time I took mushrooms
I remembered being Syrinx
Remember our lover which was us was Pan he was there
As we were
I would like to know this word
And we were lessing
I was really hard all of a sudden
Wait! We’ll hunt them
We were hard and wanted to kill everyone we met!
And everything that’d ever lived
We had made to our liking
We fucked really high
I recommend it.
Its snow on my face its how to name the sons
The current things that leave
And everything that breathes in it
Everything that leaves and hurts much
When we’re gone
When we sleep
And biche said to me :  ‘the little hart
Is loved for twelve years and then he’ll
Be left alone
In a room where loneliness he will feel
For the first time
And I’m going’
And we begin to search for another hart to love again
To teach to be left
In loneliness

Ai
Locked in a mountain haunting hunting lurking inside all heads
Oedipus was there he wasn’t afraid
He killed those liars’ eyes
And two eyes opened in the hutch of the rabbit where we
Were hidden
We went inward
Into the dream, behind the eyes
The last level of filial love
The ultimate love of the last level
The fights in the dream and the fugues which woke our eyes as we pierced them

All the heroes are shapeshifters. In dreams, you
Will solve problems, you will remember the life that you’ve had awoken
‘but Tim, why doesn’t the stomach digest itself?’
I thanksed the tree that I couldn’t see
And I thanksed the presence and processes that operated
Unbeknownst to me
That allowed me to see the tree
Jesus :  he sat candle
Giancarlo  :  ‘Jesus is in all things. I dream about him.’
Beneath each other we prepared a mountain in our mouth
Where it breezed and fell asleep in the scarlet
Scarab at the middle of society
Biche held
Aloft a banana strand in a hand at the end of the arm and declared it John’s infant
‘I wanted him to have written the wild child but he didn’t’
How often do you see a lady going in her house
Carrying a table and coming out at some later date
On a fullmoon night the same table now carried out
And us offered to help both times
I dreamt of Justin Ramsey this morning
I am walking down the street feeling a presence and I turn around
And I see him, Justin, big smile beaming
And he tried to disguise the fact that he had been following me
To my house where I lived
‘who’re you gonna see is awake now?’
Daylusion, John Eicher and Julia :  ‘the flood…and then
There’s the arc…
‘Artaud is crazy
Crazy is wrong
Wrong is evil
Evil is suffering
Suffering is untruth
Or so I was told
I suffered
I am not truth
I am suffering
So suffering that
The truth
I knew
I suffered
To know them
I was Artaud then.’

‘they say I cant read when they curse my name’

Artaud is poet
Poets are insane
Poet is insane
I am poet
I am insane
I held blackened arms and armed blackened eyes for you biche
John is Blake’s wife.
Blake is so right
We are so right
And when Blake is writing
We are Blake along with him
We are writing
Writing is presence
We are our presence


Confined in the skull of an infinite brain or brains
‘John Eichers baby’s foot is not hung :  it is pendulating.’
I declare what is wind and woven
I sigh what is wind and woven
I sigh
And here I rest and
I am poet
We are here at rest and connections are made
Connections are real.
Here we nest
And the connections we made
We are poet
We are the connections woven in a glans in a wind
Is a series of traits
Is a series of lakes
And the truth the eyes possess
These hands we held we suffered for them
We were slaved.
‘Listen, listen to me
This is all a dream
One day you will wake up not remembering
You have slept and we’ll be there
And your mother
Will be
Nestling our hair
Singing the song she used to sing
When she was still free.’
The different tramp :  ‘ the beauty of a flower
Is to sense and arm as it would fill a man’
Give us more sun we begged laughing
It was in a dream
And it was just real
And I remember then that we loved this world
And all we have made
And once we were Blake and we remembered
Having beared his name
I know every fucking word.
If sights were heights and smells were shapes it would be time, by now,
To gather our seashells
There is no hell
Call us a bismuth
Call us Ishmael
Call us dawn as we wake to the calm breeze of destruction
We are slave to that play
Foot foot, foot foot strayed and here we stepped
Where we called our name in the flowers
In the azul, by the shadow
Of these years
Where diseased
In the azul that we petted
The days were long’dened
Lonely why?
Made unto long’dened
And the days as we walk increased in shape
And in violence

Kill us
Hunt us
All of us
Oh yes
Fuck us
Track us down
(this was language)
So Rei Luu came to France
And from matchsticks she built a secret language
And she burnt the thing down
Down to 3 ounces
All the moons, the sea, the east of the air
And we bent
O the air
And we traveled, being gods or children
On the plain, the hangglider
I remember.
Tomaz sailed from Bled.
We looked alike
Lost of the time and people swore they knew our names
And our fingers, they will suffer from all the matchsticks the world will have lit.
We’ll destroy them.
I love Tomaz.
I love him as well.
He laid a cell not up but horizontal
A gull erected not toward the room
The womb the wound the mind the wand
But toward the world the universe
The universes the worlds
All of them
Yes
And all sailed between remembrance
‘ok, I’ll give birth to me…
Horizontally’
And we’re the happiest beautifulest consciousnes in the universe so far
I think
Heroin  :  hennessey + delanda carthago
A petrogram! This is our birthplace.
So we took heroin
It was great
In the shadow of
A hand
A chandelier
We’ll tell us about this one later
To lichen we lichen our names and to grass we test our faith
Sickest version of our sea open sucking it
Versions of your sky your sky blue
(we are here to tell you that we’ll live forever
as we tell our tales
in the sickest versions!)
The bad versions
They are reeds our senses
And a bad
Vile
(now say it with your cock in your mouth)
Purple even those I wanna
Wear wing rings—
It will be arms to slay time
It will take many planetary rotations
To get there
U
Don’t wanna be
In bee’s presence
My g + gm you are aware
Harvested a lot of trees
And all my shields
Love the bees
All my shields love being
I watch our heart and I won’t sleep
We said
Crawling on me
As the serpent washed the foot of whatever
Would become forever the form whatever
Footwashed
For infinity whatever
Virginity
Oh oh oh!
Oh yeah!
Yea! That’s
The ‘Brick’!
That’s the bridge,
Go over!
Stand in something!
5000 eyes and my eyes are lisping
I remember every rose we harvested
Under our armpit
‘o won’t you not buttfuck me?’

I saw the most beautiful thing today.
Its even more beautiful than us
Its even more beautiful than us
What is more beautiful than us?
Nothing is more beautiful than us
Life is more beautiful than us
Life is more beautiful than us?
Life : ‘Nothing is more beautiful then us’
#LifeIsAPrimitiveJoystick
#IWantToPlugItAndPlayIt!

THE GLITTERING   WELL

None but Allah knows where the sky used to be. We are pearl makers and the makers of imperceptibly imperfect roundnesses. Theres a passage in Dennis Cooper's novel Frisk hatching both the pearl and the pearls thoughts of snake ; Dennis and his friend Julian bring home a drugged boy who falls asleep as soon as his body is laid on the bed. They are beholding his naked body before fucking it, and as they look into his asshole comes the statement,

We peered into the glittering well.

The pearl itself is the glittering well, the contact of the universe with its own head. Because of its circular metabolism the pearl does not have thoughts of its own, but becomes the very stream that brings thoughts into the mind of gods and Men. Likewise, primary colours may meld into a white radiance as soon as they enter in contact with one another, and so all internal thoughts within the pearl collapse into one long scribal trail, and instead of giving birth to a word or an image they will become fertility herself, the potentiality of what is still to be born and to be crisscrossed with Allahs breath through the skin of His hands resting at the surface of the pearls membrane.

Its just the way his hair is, all combed on one side, it makes his face looks exactly like a lampshade.”

This sentence is Cooper's beholdment of Allah swallowing calm mouthfuls of His pearls pale pulsing gleam. It also reminds me of something, but I cant think of what, is Julians answer; his self- enactment is that of the roundness. It is an aborted attempt from the pearl trying to produce an intelligible language of its own, a zernacular helmet chiseled off nacreous oyster shells. It is symbolized by the asian glyph                      ><                   ;  something goes in that is already out or rather, a seed of thought reliably carried into the inside on the back of the grasshopper is made
barren as soon as the seed is made to face the omnipotent beholdment it has of God. Did we know that oysters have neither brain nor feelings? The peaking point                              >
is fish  oozing their vital fluids out onto the shore after the ocean has rejected the eddying bodies of their other-fish buddies, and the re-opening

< 

is oxygen

beleaguering their gills, and mingling their breath to the venomlike air.

It also reminds me of something is what keeps the skin of the pearl glittering and decipherable, and the rest of the sentence, but I cant think of what, is thoughts churned around in its glasswed kernel.

The meeting point of the horizontal hourglass is a valve, through which Allahs languages are sucked up and exuded. As a matter of fact, this scene in Frisk is to me the exact same peaking, that of the creation of the pearl and of our own pristine orgasm on the toilet seat of the Maria Ost Ban Ohf. Both Dennis and Allah marvel similarly at the fact of being the beholders of the roundness of light. So the pearl could have been the asshole of a wasted guy, and reverse, and both passages would have remained the same and eternal. There also a part from Holderlins poem Tinian which we would like to quote here

Parted by God

Part of the World,
Armored, 
And to roam at will, timeless

This poem is the frosted entrails of the pearls organism.

Armored is the shell, the pearls skin. To roam at will, timeless is the pearls burg, the internal satiety of being simultaneously whole and empty: the roundness. The wide open chasm between the two lines is the nudity of the thoughts within the pearls roundness, and the physical materialization
><     of the last line itself. Did we know that when Adam was first split between two bodies his duplicatum was nott Eve, but Lilith? The original narrative recalls it, but the usual story-telling of Adams separation is the one where his dear rib is, by the demiurge, confiscated.

When did this happen ?


A glitch in the stream of the narrative. This usual omission is the PAL sequence leaping to another frequency, and the story of Adam and Eve in the common folk-lore tales obliterates Lilith like the analogous waves sometimes wolf down an image to jump forward to the following scene. When did this happen ? Adams female side Lilith refused to coalesce her bornfulness with his and therefore yield to her willpower to his based on the sole postulate that they were both made out of the same flesh, so she was turned out of Paradise on a whim and associated with Iblis and became in spirit the mother of all things Evil. There is a slapsticky anecdote about her relentlessly drowning or burning or smashing Adams progeny against pointy-tipped rocks each time Eve produces a new baby.
Lilith is the deadly enemy of all women and bribed the serpent with the promise that he should have the richest and most luscious of all food, which is human flesh. It is with the same promise that a character in a manga we havent read but that we were told about last year in a carpooling to Paris lures all the animals of his nat protecting him and serve him, the promise that whenever hes dead they will be allowed to repast upon the flesh of his freshly dead carcasse.

-------------------------

TALE  FROM   THE  DAYS  OF  LILITH

After 200 hundreds years of penance, Adam and Eve finally got to reunite on the Mount of Recognizition on a mountain on acid. They built a shelter for themselves and owned these shelves. One fine morning, while Adam was out in the field, Eve found an infant wailing in a basket in front of their digs. She picked it up and brought it home and cared for it. But when Adam returned from work and saw the baby boy in Eves arms he sprung forward and snatched it from her breast and, without any further form of jury, ran all the way to the river where he threw it and watched it sink while snacking
upon a  couple of old dry sausage bits
 dating from before the flood
he had just come across
by chance
while nervously fidgeting
 with the worn-down linen lining
  of his pants pockets.

Interlude : DAY 1¼


SOME CLIFFS I REMEMBER  18h 07m 32.55073s


     Let’s start over, from the beginning. Where are we? Sounds, colors. I hear songs I’ve never heard before; it’s beautiful, like angels ripping apart the film from cassette tapes with their pearly teeth on meth. I see a screen whereupon reversed videos are playing; tusks upside down, which makes it hard to replace into a symbolic context. Two things that may have been screened: the first an old-style cabriolet car, tin-can green, is perpetually being engulfed in a sort of morphing-edged hole composed of the colors of the trees, and their flowers, we  might have rolled past in that car, if only all the vegetal from the scene were not instinctively sucked up into the focal point, to form this distorter’s mouthsccape eager to wolf down the engine as often as it pleases. The other that may have been screened is a video ( upside down, as they all were ) of a beach where all the mammals are filmed in zoom, their fur wet with sea droplets, their motions almost human; the mammals fool around sand castles, the sand becomes dirty, the castle becomes an old crest from the first sea, it is somehow insinuated that the mammals are in fact not kneaded in fur and claws and wombs but “sweet oil, moisture, sadness, sea-water, small jests.”  Now I realize that this is actually a flashforward ; this happens after we meet, when we are met. The drug has already hit by now, so has our shared beauty, and we are already espoused and amazed at being found, and so my memory of the video itself is actually nothing but a sand’grain gone astray from memory,  that I may blow up over and over again into an obscurely decorated palace every time I attempt to describe it.  ( Gold Panda was playing ).

     Now rewind back to the moment just before the drug happened, before the mythologic words “ You’re on drugs; give me some” were uttered, before Maya’s thumb extended in the air to allow us to kiss you without looking at our face. So how did us arrive here? We took a subway to the Ost Ban Hof, then walked all the way here; it took twenty-five minutes. I don’t remember waiting in line, though because I remember so well the next night’s apprehension, standing upon that same grass ( for before the Maria Ost Ban Hof grew a great patch of tamed lawn grass ) that we wouldn’t show up and we would never see each other again and my life was forever ruined, I can propose without taking too much  risk that Maya and Jeremy and I were drinking whiskey and Jaegermeister out of plastic bottles that Jeremy and I kept concealed he in his socks under the  elephantine bottoms of his pants, I in my underwear behind the triple layer of thighs and coats and dresses. I am wearing that flower-printed blue marine dress whose twin, the brown one with the ancient rose colors irises, I’ll give you to wear to take the train with us back to Paris in two days. But for now, we are entering the club, we leave our bags in lockers, crack some jokes to the workers ( all French from Marseilles ) and I don’t feel drunk. I don’t remember what we discussed while we waited: did we talk about anything at all? Were we just silent? Now us: what did you and William talk about? What did you see when you were lining in the grass like I was, and did we actually glance at each other while screening the crowd, not ready to recognize one another yet? We doubt it. You must have arrived earlier, or otherwise later, but surely not at the same time. When did you take the first encrusted fingerprint of MDMA? On the way there, or in the club? And how much did you give us me compared to what us you had taken? But we are not there yet, we are not yet met, and all I see for now is The Field, playing, and another guy is on stage, doing something.

     Now, Maya is in front of me; dancing. A little drunk, but gently. At that point she refuses to take any drugs, and will hold her position till I force her to take a first ecstasy in Amsterdam a few months from now. Jeremy is somewhere behind us, in the crowd, probably looking for some young German girl he may susurrate the order to go clean the inside of her vagina so he may enter, NO, so he may consider eating her out. In any case, in this memory I’m refining, no sign of him till next morning, when he will be strangely awaiting for us in front of the hotel to give us the key to his room, “because I figured you guys may come back and want to be left alone sometimes,” and also because he is still drunk and hopes to get into Maya’s pants. Not out of desire, but out of habit, as he is wont to try to fuck girls he likes, and be rejected, and then be sad. Tonight he will lay next to Maya while you us and us me marvel at one another in his bed. He had arrived earlier today at Tegel; Maya and I met him at the hotel, which is really just two apartments with a corridor in the middle and a shared bathroom at the end. He had gone out last night in Paris, or has not been able to fall asleep, and he is dead exhausted today, yet he wishes to roam about and see at least three exhibitions, “to make the most out of my holidays,” which Maya and I execrate, but we accompany him all the same. I fall asleep in a dark room in front of a video that compiles clips of cats playing the piano on youtube and  lasts for more than 8 hours straight. Jeremy wakes me up and we go eat shitty carpaccio with Maya in the café by the concert room where he isn’t allowed because he has no ticket, and so he spends the next three hours getting drunk at the bar waiting for the show to end.

     This is the concert where I hallucinate the scene I will tell you about later on while we drink whiskey together at the bar, and four years and dust afterwards you won’t remember it, because you were too wasted, so I will resume it for us here. Hauschka had played his prepared piano first, but it’s when the Iceland bitch started to play the cello that the vision occurred to me. It all had unscrolled in my head like a movie, very precisely. At the beginning was a zoomed-on snow, under which light green tufts of grass and soiled brown earth crusting at the contours can be divined; but it is frozen now, and so none of that which is not pure snow can truly be glanced at without a feeling of obscenity, the feeling of having walked in on one of our parents masturbating in their bath when we thought they were asleep and we have been playing videogames for too long and so we just really needed to brush our teeth. Now the snow is being disturbed; something is stirring nearby, and as the camera follows it we find out there is a deer being dragged on the ice by the strong bare hands of a hunter whose torso is wrapped in manifold layers of animal fur. We cannot see his face yet; the deer no longer breathes, and her head against the snow piles gently bounces, whenever the rest of her body ( the hunter is hauling her strong body by the feet, which he holds entwined and in one single hand, the right one ) encounters minor asperities; there a congealed rock, here a patch of icy moss. In the snow, a tender-pink trail of blood traces its way back to the scene of origin as the body is carried away from it; and when the hunter reaches his hovel, it is all ice and snow all around it; the loneliness there is intense. The hunter crosses the frozen lake rivulets with prudence, now holding the deer in his arms like a small infant. The hunter enters his cabin, closes the door behind him; the light is blue-black, and dim. As he sets to put the deer aside on the tall table that thrones in the middle of the hut, we discover that the deer’s spirit still lives within its heavy carcass; it exhorts the hunter to love it. Kiss me, it says, flashing into the hunter’s mind exquisite images of plain white breasts dangling above a counter, and pies. Kiss my body, please? the spirit within the deer implores, and along flashes clips of three huge phalluses fucking at times all together and at others, in turn, the single asshole of a fourth man, who also has a cock in his mouth, his eyes closed in what resembles pure bliss.
     But the hunter sweeps aside those images; he loves the deer as she is. He takes it in his arms, cradles her head, starts to kiss his mouth, unbuckling his own pants all the while

     It is warm inside
     our belly, all drug-coated

     I choose to lie as often as can be, so that on a wider wave Truth may graft herself, and cruise as far as she pleases.

( ..

 The next day Lilith called her child back into life and told him to lurk nearby the river until Adam came back. When he saw the infant alive, Adam snatched it off the watergrass and tucked it under his thick beard and ran back to his house where the chimney was as always soundly roaroaring and promptly tossed it into the fire and watched the infants formless silhouette braze away in the tangerine-blue flames till all the limbs
 had safely been
 burnt to
   ashes.

The next day, Lilith rose earlier than usual and, swift as a bee stealing pollen off the beak ofa carnivorous plant, gathered the offspring ashes from the earth and stitched them back together into the semblance of a newborn babe and so Adam, stumbling across this diaper-chiseled reject
peasibly seated on a bed of coals in the little hours
 of the morning, looking sharp
and groomed as hell,
exposed the situation to Eve
in the following fashion:

 “Darling”,
he  explained,
“Dull’ll be our quest
to be rid of this infant
lest we

bread it,
cook it,
sauce it,
and then
 eat it”

And so Eve cooked the child and she and Adam wolfed it down and when Lilith came in and called out My child, my child,are you here’round?’, two voices akin to each other in tessiture and sex all at once roused from the bellies of Eve and Adam
 and, smirking, declared: Im in there, Babes, and feeling very comfortable.
Hey man.  Lilith laughed a rich yellow laugh and took off.
Pschoooouk.

           ---------------------
This tale attempts ( or strive) to explain to Humans why it is that all of Mankind is nowadays kneaded with a natural tendency for evil thoughts and wrongdoings, yet it seems to me that this story is trying to edify us on the vastly unregarded subject of Adam being just this maniac who got a good kick out of drowning, burning, and eating infants, for nowhere is there any allusion in the story to Adam being even remotely made aware that the baby was a devils offspring to begin with, or that he tried to
find out about it, or that something indicated it. He merely went home after work and saw his wife busy cuddling a baby he didnt know from Adam or Eve when she should have heartily occupied with the confection of some shepards pie for her husbands supper and that pissed him off, and so he snatched the baby away from her and hurdled it into the nearest river, which makes him truly our first Father as very likely we wouldnt have reacted differently if we had walked into the kitchen
and us was industriously
While he was impassibly feasting on a lambleg we sat at table with our  moms boyfriend this morning and he inform us about the people who, (its a myth), having done neither good nor bad deeds during their earthly visit, can dwell as little in hell as they can in heaven and so they are made to run around eternally naked and chased by bees, but he couldn't tell us where this myth stems
from, or give us hugging some child instead of baking us a robust chicken dinner like we were ought to ( … )
( .. #GroDrunkenedSliiilith #SloppyEditing  #BigChunkOfThisPieceErasedByMistakeUnderTheUnfluenceOfGRODrunkeningDrinks #Never2BefoundAgain  #DontGRODrunkAndEdit ( ..
( … )
further details about this penance. Good guy goes to heaven, bad guy goes to Pataya. There is yet another illustrious feagure named Nimrod whose punishment for having thrown arrows at Allah in the sky was to have a sandfly sent all the way up his right nostril and into his brain. The insect dwelled there for 200 years. Shortly after the sandfly had elected domicile inside his brain Nimrod went insane. His only relief was to have someone constantly striking him on the head with an iron hamme.” Another tale from the Ancient Lands we just read confirms that no prayer can alter the Tablet of Destinies; it is the story of a poor man who begs Allah to improve his condition and is therefore granted three wishes. His wife fears that his first wish would be wealth and that when she gets older he would readily be rid of her and take a younger bride in place of her old bag of bones, and she therefore demands of him that the first wish he expresses be that she remains forever young, and great-looking. Her husband is delighted at the thought, and formulates the wish on the spot. But whilst he is at work and her wife is home alone some soldier, seeing this fair lady basking her double Ds in the sunset, fancy to snatch her off her windowseal and up upon his slow mule with the sole vile purpose of double- raping her on a daily basis.

The husband is devastated. He wishes for his wife to be turned into a swine, in the hope that the soldier may be little to not appeal to the newly aquired porcine attributes of his wife. The transformation takes place in a glance and the soldier, grasping that he is as much riding away with a beautiful woman as I am a zirgin, flings the fat-titied, foul-smelling gilt he has taken for a fair maiden off his horse, and into that part of the  forest where a single blackberry shrubs grow like a lute atrophied from being mute into Olympuss digs in the heazens. The she-boars husband finds there and wishes for her to be turned into a woman again. And so are his three wishes fulfilled, but immobility happened and the fate of the poor man remains uncorrected. Theres also an Andersen story which which is basically the same but visually more attractive, and goes as follow;

       There was once a fisherman who caught a big genie-fish in his fishing nets, and was therefore granted three wishes. The fisherman went home, and told his wife about it, and the first thing his wife did was to say aloud, ‘O, how great it would be, if we had some good sausage to celebrate this fantastic twist of fate and pschoookkkkkkkk! were the fisherman and his wife on for a lifetime supply of sausage. So upset was the husband to see a wish wasted on such a trivial matter that he wished this zery sausage to  hang from his wifes nose on the spot. And thus the sausage docilely proceeded to go dangling at the tip of the nasal appendice of the fishermans spouse and
her husband, after a few good days of getting pissed drunk while letting his hilarity at the sight of his sausage-garlanded wife, had no choice but to wish for the nasewurst to be gone in order to ever have his own viril tool blown again. In the story of Ibrahim (may peace be upon him) the latter is both the voice of the Tablet of Destinies and of all mankind fearing their decay and mortality. His glyph is, I love not things that change. When Ibrahim goes out of the grotto where he grew up licking milk and sugar off his palms for the first time and quest for his Lord he first chooses a star as the avatar for His earthly delegation, then the moon, then the sun, to finally call all of these choices mistakes, based on their impermanence. None of these cant be my Lord, he declares,
for I  love not things that change.
This is Ibrahims refusal of the oracular infrastructure of the world around him and his attempts to lure, with incantation, Nature and what he perceives as God into immobility. In Martian Time-Slip the autistic Pan-child sees, as soon as an event takes place, its inlaying wilting and the gray unsprouting of its firmamental dereliction. All that he can picture are 1000 years-old eggs whose hatchings remains innate and inevitable, and the things he foresees are akin to the stage they’ll have reached when they'd've decayed, because the present for him is annihilated and he can see, rather then foresee, how they are already a decayed avatar of their future embodiments, because they are meant to unscroll in such and such way and whatever happens cannot affect this fate of theirs. Just like the memory of a foreskin do not leaze a scar round the tip of the shaft but a nightlike ghost trace, the beholding of the oracular world leads only to beholdment, and no alteration can be made.

Schopenhauer is known to have said to his students, Es ist, weil es soi st, wie es ist;  it is because things are that way that they are. In mirror to this statement is Ibrahim obstinated mantra, I love not things that change. The void between those two statements is yet another roundness, the dialect of pearls; Ibrahim is trying to craft a spell at the curse of mortality and motion of nature whose impermanence, or rather to mis-pell the Tablet of Destinies, to accommodate his being into the duplicated world in which one can be everlasting or rather, omnipresent, in all the realities at once. The same happens in Ubik when the characters are trying to decipher the recurrent oracle of the Ubik spray which, according to riddles that appear to them in dreams or under the form of cryptic notes, has the ability to reverse the curse of accelerated decay and of time recession. The only approaching word that I found is ubique, which isnt it.”
It is the same word, just different spellings.”
The misspelling is a trick performed upon the natural fate of things, a trick only the human mind
can perform, since it requires knowledge and mastery over the existence of languages. It is a way to falsify the world without its noticing .

²                                                         When did this happen ?

And thus the only way to sneak into the crevice of the Tablet of Destinies is to be simultaneously experiencing the geminate-world all at once; the fated world which, being only the manifestation of a duplicatum, cannot be acted upon, and the world of the written prophecy which, being scribal, can be mis-pelled at will and thus deviated from its pre-hatched scriptural course. There is a logic to each thing, and each thing has its logic ; and the logic of the tree trunk is different from that of the leaves. A tree is none but the product of Nature’s great machinery; and it exists only because the parts that constitute him obediently perform their role as designed
by Nature’s whim. The folliage shall not fall down and roll but flutter, gaily at time and grave at others, when a ripple from the wind grazes his leaves. The leaves of the folliage shall not speak; but when a couple of nightingale nestling shall seek a hole of frsh shadows in the midst of the folliage, the leaves may crinkle a little and creak; other than that they shall remain at peace. And when
Nature sees that each and every part of the machinery of Life is fulfilling the simple prerequisites of
their machinist’s will, She will allow the tree
to be, and among the trees’s older brothers of another century she will lay down the trees’s egg which is a seed, so that the tree may grow green and grow older and riper and die at peace among its keens. And Nature, She who knows the logic of all things, knows when it is time for a tree
to die, as likely as she knows when it is time
for that tree to live. When a programmer grows a tree out of the pulp of his fingertips and into the codes of his computer, he is allotted with the same creative force that make Nature fill all things up with their logic, and a certain amount of magick. I have walked into walls of impenetrable forests which, from a distance, looked pregnant with the same trees that shall know Earths logic. In those beta forests the trees sham their texture from the winds, and share their data with him; and the wind himself in the program was this imperceptible vortex inbetween the binary codes, which holds
forever all things together and yet, unlike Nature’s wind, cannot be passed through or physically perceived. But whatever entity it is that the gambler of the wind in this world inhabits those trees, too, respond to a precise and inherent logic; their trunks and folliage and branches, their barks and saps and leaves, learnt to re-enact their own opacity, and to mimick their stillnesses from the dark mattered-lake in which all the roots from the digital vegetal congress, and together mime up all of the worlds’ winds. And so the trees, knowing nothing more than to be what they are told to be, remain as thick as they shall imagine to be, and lightly coalesce together as an atom of ionized milk.
 Scribal errors, scribal misspellings. When Aristotle seeks to describe the natural world, his descriptions are precise to the point of laborious punctillionism; the movement of the waves under a certain weather gleams, the colors on the outskirts of the sun on a cloudy morning are glowing. A forest in a videogame is an artificial excroissance from the inner abstract realm of the binary soil. The information these trees receive, about the logical circuit they should follow in order to function correctly are based not on a corporeal, reproducible example, but on an ethereal definition of the world where they are told to live, which conveys its order under a mathematic form, hardly intelligible by one of Nature’s most simple minion. For that reason, tree-parts in the digital realm might mis-interpret their role in the tree-whole; that is to say, a tree-atom might mispronounce the formulae which would integrate itself in the tree-whole and thus compel the other parts to adapt
their own script in order to try, through this readjustment of their spelling, to reharmonize with the other parts of the element Tree, to recreate the primeval and pre-written TREE logic. In a videogame, those impediment upon logic are best known as glitches’: glitches, and misspelling, are both the progeny of Shiva, mothered by chaos and creative forces alike, the well-known mispronounced spell which turns the subject into a mouse instead of curing him from the evil eye.

A whole re-rereading of reality exists, a misspelled world expelled from our world, generated spontaneously as we glitch, as our software glitches, into a secret labyrinthine arcane of our language, where the misspelled images swarm round the valley’s alleys into molecular gangs of azuls and swim down the reeds of indigoteen ageless realms and Ibrahim who had obtained from Allah the promise that he should not die until he expressedly wished to do so, and thus when the predestined day arrived the All-Mighty was obliged to inveigle it from him: a glitch in the Tablet of Destinies.
The Tablet of Destinies is the oracular layer of reality; the one that is soaked in snow and only runs clear when it is noticingly accomplishing the ephemeral (and therefore eternal) prophecy of the other reality, the fated one that cannot not be; the world experienced underneath the shell of Ibrahims egg is duplicated and another one replaces it with a yolk transparent as wings and heavier still.
Oracles are a circumcision of Fate, an alteration of chosen occurrences that makes them recognizable and closely cared for, just like circumcised phalluses were a mean to  distinguish between the corpses of the Muslims slain in battles from those of the unbelievers and thus received decent burial. And the wholeness of the us-fate is only the ripple of our shared foreskin
flinged into the calmly breathing sea
The sea
is immobility. And whatever of us that sinks in it is only
the echo of the abyssal weeds lolling on the tip of our twinned penis. But the way it is no prayers can alter the Tablet of Destinies. Ibrahim seeing the old man:

O lord, take away my soul, before i reach such a pitiful condition

Fate had the elegancy to let Ibrahim be a believer, to let him believe he could decide to escape from death, to let him choose it by giving him oracles and a mind devoid of the concept of any sort of predestinity. And then He came. Dreamlike faces of our face. We would like to find for us a little stone house, with a golden ringer at the entrance, in which we would write letters to one another even though were in the same room, and where we would be allowed the supreme grace of being one anothers sentinel. Or we might each have a tower fluttering above the dark sea, and each night
we will walk to one anothers holding a dark flame, a flame darker then the sea still and still in a little glass lantern and the days dark flame will be the flame that roars blue within the red.
We are Adam first drop of sperm lolling timid animal-like above the sky. We are the bright ruby tumors
of the sapphires. This stanza from Holderlin is the us egg-membrane:

As red clouds steamed Above the ark and animals Stared dumbly at each others, Thinking of feed. Yet
The mountains stand still, Where shall we nest ?

Deer.




Where shall we nest ? Biche.


BLACK FRIDAY 



                                                                                    The sky is frantic.
                                                                                    I’m going down on you
                                                                                    as I write this.
                                                                                                --Chalchiuhtlicue,  Hiraeths


            My hands and feet were bounded and I was made to sit on the back of an old mare like one of those virgins, deflowered too early by mistake, and forced at the tip of the spike to keep up straight on the back of my mount till I finally collapsed and fell to the ground. It was night. The earth smelled like mushrooms fermenting. I was naked, and the mushroom’s smell could smell me as much as I did he. Men whom I’ve once loved, men that had served me, and whom I in turn had loved, or had been served by me, came into the field where I laid bounded by grapes of two or three. They bore no weapons, and neither their children nor their wives had been allowed to the festivities. They ceremoniously encircled my body. Some of them had laughter that rang for nothing, and others had mouths shut so tight the moon got envious of their content, ricochéd beams against the lips, trying to force their way in.
            On my chest they placed rough sculptures of myself they had hurriedly crafted in the dung of their horses, and I looked inside of me and saw the beginning of the simulacrum of my body. There was a moon darker then it was white above the scenery, a sort of lactating amphibian green, but friendly; and the things burning all around were sometimes bundles of twigs, sometimes firecrackers they had turned into candles to brighten the scene. They drank no water; they drank whiskey. On my ankles and wrists they poured it, in great swigs, and laughed at the sight of the drops hurled slovenly by the curves of my bones against the limbs, and for that fresh sting I felt I blessed their heart for their childish maliciousness, that had quenched my heart’s thirst for a cool liquid to be made to pulse against my skin.
            In my hair they put grasshoppers, who hastily made their way inward, towards the scalp, to nestle their eggs and start their singings now that it was dark.
            Now that it was dark, and the shadows of their improvised lanterns above the sky were ebbing, the men all turned to me. “Where is your servant now?,” they said, like they’d said awhile ago when I’ve’d dreamnt of my own head visiting me.  “Why didn’t your servant open the door,” they laughed, spitting pears and bourbon glanders at my feet. How do you wash  your hair. Are you  your servant’s servant? Bring us our bourbon.
            Then I was awoken, it was morning, the men and the firecrackers were gone, I was naked, and dreamy, and dying, and the lions

were brought out, and I was brought  into  their cage and my                         body was strengthened by concoctions of mint and donkey tears shot straight into the small veins of my eyelids, and certain unguents rubbed into my wounds so they would mirror glitters and catch the eyes of the crowd  with their tentaculean gleams, certain drops of my blood exchanged for certain blue alcohol fumes, and my body girded in a translucent ring of plants and metals and my brain aspired out of my nostrils and embalmed in advance in a little braided wheat basket, for my autopsy. It is thus that I found myself excruciatingly resurrected from the sweet foliage of the slumbering where I had fallen, where the burden of my body weighed no longer on my spirit, and where being dead or alive mattered little to the remains of my self that were not yet completely absorbed into the ego-grinder machine that the immense and never-sobering navel of Allah is.
            In my hometown, you see, we do not take punishment lightly. If one of us who has been stripped, and tied, and dragged on the mare’s back, and shamed in the field, and covered in shit and spit, still on the third day of his disgrace is still alive, or breathing, it is our duty to yield in front of the forces of Nature at work and relinquish the convict to what we call The Rule of the Paw. The Rule of the Paw means that anyone who is left for dead and yet still breathing after the punishment had taken place “shall be offered to the lions, as a feed-food offering. However, if the lions do not start eating up the dying man, but simply graze his face with their paw, in a gentle swipe, each of them in a row, as if to say, ‘This poor bleeding piece of meat is not even worthy of my eating’, then the dying one shall be left alive, in agony, till its spirit leaves the dying body out of its own will, or else carrion-eaters such as vultures,
hyenas, or other tall birds whose name we cannot utter, find him and feed on him however they please.”

            There is a world plunged in pure darkness behind the ocean that you are not allowed to see; there, perhaps, is where the music is. The music will remain hidden, till a truthsayer or a man, wearing the pageantry of a poet’s body, will rise one morning and describe for a crowd of madmans standing in a semi-milk circle in the backyard of a friend’s garden ( in this dream you are way younger then now, and have a lot of friends, and this is America, and we all have backyards with flowers in them )  the beauty and the horror of what the animals of ertzwhile hallucinated by dream when they came into each other’s arms have been

            What do the animals see when they come?  When we come in front of them? What is the word for a pleasure or a pain we cannot understand as humans, within the boundaries of our human brains? There was a book I borrowed often from the Aubagne public library, in which a young teenager is turned into a bitch by a magus-tramp whom she made fun of one day she was really drunk. That book had a pinkish redcover with only the title in capital whiteletters printed on it. It was called “LADY.”  In the book the girl is fifteen and we are introduced to her as she is already ambus                   hed into her eternal dog-form and daydreaming about her past life as a hum                       an. In her first memory, she’s chatting with her boyfriend in her bedroom, layin                               g on her bed, and spreading her pussy to the four winds on her bed. They are tal                       king about something ( painting? dialectics? ) that leads him to point at her                       clit and ask in a candid voice, “and how do you call that” “my little rosebud,” she answers ( she remembers answering, rather ) and so her boyfriend exclaims  “a bouquet, rather! ” and rushes forwards
  to eat her out.
            What I love about this book is the absence of moral in it: the girl does good deeds, sacrifices her tight bitchhole to the thorn-clothed penis of many a stray doggy in need for a quick mating, goes ‘round feeding on garbages and understanding her errors as a laughty human being, and yet when she meets the magus-tramp again when she has learnt her lesson and it is time for her to leave her dogform and regain her teenage body he just sweeps down a swig of beer and mutters some unintelligible words and drunks away walkenly.


   _______________________________________________________________________


(  Phaedra passes  )







It is as if, doomed by the eyes

of the people to enter the sea,

my heart

had dragged along behind him a procession of cattle,

all widows of God and stupefied in half-flight by an unspeakable melancholy,

slipping into each other’s glittery wounds the icy tipz of their horns,

chiseled in the chassis of the torturor’s phalluses. ‘

As if you,

burying the scroll of the waves further back into the horizon and down the steps of her mausoleum,

stripped off this earthlyskin to the ocean and donned in its place a mantel of seadrifts

sewned with the little floating stench of its disgrace,

and let alone
the unechoic blueness drifted deeper,

deep,

till nothing was left on this earth but a train of sadness gliding over the water,

so that a madman or a poet

might see it,

and hold its gleams in his palms,

and give seafoam as its pseudonym.


This is #Paradise,

and it is insufferable ( Can you hear the tone I ‘m using? )  to think ( Your codex    taught it to me. ) that wild beasts ( What is the sun for you? ) are mating away from       your sight, ( What do you think about me in the morning? ) your senses, ( Question of the       planets too, ) outside ( the way their ordeals spread throughout the galaxy. ) of the      whirlpool ( In that room ) of your atoms  ( the galaxy ),


            which holds together a body ( different footages of lights ) and by holding it into    place( aurora rising ),  --now you are bounded, (  projected continuously, randomly )
            now your feet (  projected continuously, randomly ) and the ground (  projected      continuously, randomly ) are made two magnets ever eager to espouse the other,  --          gives your body (  projected continuously, randomly ) a magnitude ( aurora rising ), a      tangible algebrae ( aurora rising ), a parenthood ( the galaxy ) with the flowers, the       foliage drifting to and fro in the air like pills ( What is the sun for you? ) in the   backpocket of a pair of bluejeans ( Dont’ you just love the colors of pills? ), that      transcends       both space and time by naturally pairing the force of your inner motion   to the   movement of the transcendent earthly faucet, where the trees on a whim  (   What    is the    sun for you? )  will thin or thicken,     grow    grey or    green.


 
(Into the hearts of men                                                               



                                                                                                 the king did not often glance… )



            There will be things rotting,
            unused, or disappeared; 
            some will resurrect or stiffen
            and others will remain the same for
            as long as you care to look at them.
            You will get accustomed to the feeling of weighing
            heavier then the fruits
            of the lemontree
            your grandfather bought in seeds
            then planted in a pot
                                     on the balcony,
                                     of your
                                      surroundings

                                                  and your influence
                                                  on them, of being
                                                  aware of the weight of organs
                                                  as you walk`lightly ‘cross
                                                  the pavement
                                                              of the city
                                                  where you’ve grown
                                                  to dwell and be.

                                                  It will be good
                                                  that you
                                                  be not aware
                                                  of the decline of earthly forms for a time.
                                                  It would be good to be caressed,
                                                  it would be good to be enthroned with lions,
                                                  cornu copiae, and kimonoes alike. Any wood
           
            that comes from water
            call it “seadrift.”
            Be like the earth, be dormant and as wonderous,
            as evil as she.


            At first you will not
            dream but simply grow wings
            and flutter, aimless,
            into the circadian arcades of your birthplace,
            idle as a bobsleigh gone astray
            from the snow
                                                                        and back
                                                                        into the hills, perplexed
                                                                        in front of your spirits, flung
                                                                        slumbering out of that sea
                                                                        seized by that sea alien
                                                                        that see aliens
                                                                        again

                                                                        will have seized you. That sea we
                                                                        know so well will grow alien again;

                                                                        have you perused like a sentinel the                                                                    reel of the waters in which your fingers, and your                                                                tongue, and your selves,  have perfected                                            loneliness,
            and without knowing quite where
            that seizure happened,
                where knowledge ended
                     and following its disgraced, secretly sloped, fear
                          takes over its shift,
                             starts you to forget your origins,
                                 and along that forgetfulness 
                                    the natural order
                                    of earthlydread begins:

                                    in dreams in the arcades of Hell
                                    what Hell has been said to be
                                    does
                                    not matter to me;
                                    Hell is naught
                                    but the echo
                                    of your birth
                                    flunged in a bucket
                                    of icy mirrors
                                    by your eyelids
                                    motioned earthwards,
                                    and refracted into the                        
                                    ceilings of your dream,
                                    screening that same
                                    moment, by a
                                    convergence
                                    unfortunate,
                                    the memory of your death
                                    ( the many you did live)
                                    which from then on
                                    remain concealed
                                    from your daily                                              
                                    thought-sauntering,
                                    lest
                                    by an effort of mind
(faster said                              you go and root them out of their house
and whisper’d)                         of crystal,
                                    where   everything   sculpted   in  awareness  may  shatter   
                                    abruptly   and   become   in  the   very   second  of  its                                   making   the   mere   flashback  of  a  glassy   gleam   rather  then               the   solidified   belief   upon   which   our  desire  for                                           painlessness   and        immortality  may  be  ramifying,  may                                                consolidate   ‘round   a   kernel,    amoral,   of   knowledge,                          becoming   pregnant                     
(full slow,                                           as     all     the     silent    things.
slower than we think)                                 
                                     
                                   

( On the map a silver-thread makes                                        occurs on the labyrinth. )


  

            The world has such tiny movements,
            ready-made, and ready to be made over up over
            and again by such patterns such as luck, newborns, destinies.



                        When I took the bus to New York I dreamnt of gladiators spinning around each                other like a blown-up version of the animal-wheel the surgeons held
                        up
                        ward in front of my face prior to the ablation
                        of my vegetations

                 so I would fall asleep. When I woke up
                 I was brought ice-cream ( vanilla and       
                 pistacchio and strawberry ), which hurt my throat
                 but I ate anyhow because I            could see
                 that it made my grandparents very happy, and a certain
                 addition to my Polly          Pocket village I had
                 been coveting for awhile, the central piece which  featured        
                 gardens, bridges, hotels and parks, that my grandfather
                 didn’t feel like buying, for he        loved a bargain,    for this was costly,
                 but that they had decided to buy at that particular          
                 time so as to somehow supplement to the feeling of loss
                
            I would necessarily                     
             have after having
            my vegetations gotten removed from my body.


            There is a strange peace rousing within us
            as a child the moment we enter a hospital;        
            we become doleful, and mellow,       
            somewhat high, and let our body be completely       
            handled and taken care of as if
            a          simple carcass, our mind
            a wavelette stubbornly attempting
            to return to that shore that      has been expelling it
            for such a long while,
            and then there’s          the wheel with the      animals printed on it, each animal
            a different background, each background a different color
            spinning, spinning tiredlessly till we fall asleep


            Plants too are pregnant with that drunkening movement,
            but the anasthesia they exhale            is not one of the human
            senses,
            but of reality’s permutable membrane. Their gyrations         
            are not of the flesh of the body, but of the flesh
            of dreams, and we may see them        mutating
            effortlessly, like those palmtree-leaves I
            filmed, wrung into different   shapes by the echoless
            caprice of the jostling wind,  here
            a loose naiad’s foot, there       the precious
            gemstones glued by Des Esseintes on the back
            of a live turtle, to        reorchestrate       on earth the sphere’s
            musick, and further down behind Calle Real
            by the beach
            a pack of verdurous ghoul’s heads, espousing
            each other 
            into a half-formed       foliage


your beauty
Close your coffin and
                                                                                                sleep. 



( ..

I am going to write a film
we need more of them, more film.
star ships make the earth mix its hands
the new spirit if it is alive
the spirit of all,


Man cannot sit anymore— “We Can Slave With Us” – Mail@DominikEmrich.Com - so he tells the truth, standing. A dew collects on his epaulets, to keep moving he kneels and presents gifts to emptiness. His gifts are received and he feels there is a relation with what he’d done. He stands again, against his trembling legs, he sees tremblings boughs and takes comfort in communion. It is time, he feels, to give the gift.

He faces a wetness, something like a marshman would and with that the muck and the burbling waters, the patches to have plants collected, between the bridge of God and the mouth of the apexed, thousands of years, thousands of hundreds of billions of years and this is the birthday of that marshmans parents, for them he has collected the finest reeds and had them bimbled so they may by hammers be flattened
by hammers, flattered by hammers
or mallets, unadorned
sturdy tools, seasoned instruments
full of the lines
 of age

why do you want that
power?
the silence so far away
in the turning of the hinge
how can I even believe when
my mind is dew
and the cross is dew
too

( ..

?

also
why have a hundred or a thousand
crawled thro’ to present
this shining chip
to the backlog
of the dimensions

( ..

?

Men will find, not so long from now, due to the bolder imaginations, who trust the resiliency of the ancient conculsions, that space does not exist. Time, they’ll say, is the transport for there to be change to wonder at. It doesn’t move. There is that to see, but to see is the curvature wedded to the animated quern by the force of mysteryious magical flourishing. To measure the length of anything, any table or notable room, or any equation whose harvest is the quality of its equivalence, that is what change is. Phenomenon are not a space or a time, but they preen, they live like ghosts, the injunction is that evidence must remain flat. God whistles, the spear flies, etc.  Thy candletip shelletc. There is peace to see. I see it flourishing where before other objects had flourished, floruished, fleurished, as if endowed with materiality, and that’s where the qualities ended. The abrupt masterful change inward to be reclined in voiced sealed of voice by wads of mahogany glue juniper resin the sticky fecal matter of warming insects palace eaves abound with. What in man perecives? What perceives doesn’t move. The senses perceive and are natural to man. What are the senses? There are 5, and there are troves. Who is a troubadour but a man, jingling within his senses? Whi is a king if not a troubadour wand’ring and telling of his days in the ghosts of his blue and beautiful ships farewelling on the horizon. Who is this flat space, there’s bended not that if it was a voice would call but one that would sing, so is it happening? The senses are called seeing tasting touching hearing smelling, they’re livened by what round creations things are, they’ve a pellet momentum, the air is crossed with their strategic matterings. If each were a slave and it were taught, despite belief otherwise of its character and Limit, the utterance. If each sense were a sense percieved, if each sense had the five senses, and that it does, they, on behalf of themselves, do have acquired as much, and so each sense consists in five senses all of which are the communing faculty of an entire individual, so each sense on behalf of itself encloses the others, that buzz, we’ll agree, is tasted as well as heard, heard as well as tasted, smelt as it is felt, and seen. So each sense eases into individuqlity, upon the nightmare of the world engaged in a memorial speechlessness. The long drought of consciousness, flooded, yes, and peace be upon what change is, so that’s what change is, aboriginal judicator filtered thro’ loam, decisions on that basis, the grafting of dew with somnolence to engender somnolent dew, running down a leaf it inspires there’s no down in this consistency and the viewpoint is anyway funneled so the leaf seems to trickle upward and the dew be doomed to the skyward objective that seen otherwise would have been origin. Let’s then discuss smallness, why is it that I haven’t much time, I hear my wife breathing, I am not my wife or am I? Am I? I’ve never been a feather or a leafe I’m a formless mental mind, this I can agree, is myself and it is the others I enclose so no image grafts to how the ‘substance’ drifted to its present position.

Are we in the graveyard where we saw ourselves? I think its beautiful he went to an island. I’ll be most open, saying anything. This will be play, I’ll be playing the piano my foot will be the drum, I see yr soft expanse; I’ve never been here. The sap of blue trees I dilute and drink I create down in the earth and change what limits me into a smattering of jissom trails that are either dew or jissom on heather since the beasts sense either for food and ring with the enclosure of their peaceful encountering with life giving sustenance. My dog licks his knee. I’ll say whatever I can, to the light I’ll give frank caresses and affectionate glances, tho’ thro’ it, and tho’ I cannot by seeing it have hope of ever seeing beyond it, despite its clarity, my eyes are as pert as a young womans breasts I guess, so I gorge with them, on the sampling of kisses that such breasts can appreciate, I delve into this handling of a body that is half itself half the sense-fixable world and half some limbic other tha maunders. I see his face as others see the sun, so I reflexively raise my arm, tho not from the heat tho not from the light which I’m abandoned to being stunned by anyway; my primary p’ûrpose is to be left alone, so I brim with my hulking body; I let deluge be believed as before it was whe water did seem illimitable and oceans seemed indefinite the horizon like a juxtaposition with cataclysm or subconscious using tear gas or rubber bullets, the expanse of the leaf it inspires courtship under the lash; death triplet summits ebbing,

the huge expanse of god, his nonordinary dilation,
people in the feeling of the clarity of the people feeling
tears fall on breasts,
they get wet and niiiiiples-r’ds spun round with silver
Water dollops :  the nipples seem to gleam
from the water
like alladins forehead
it is idle to keep K-urses in
keep them out”

There are holes standing empty
It’s just like Summer Beretsky said
Why are you preparing for the future
yr just a kid
Bubba is dead
burnt up in a fire caused by
alcoholism inside the ambumence
he worked in
then his body, without the orders of value
that make a person be more than a constellation of resistors that the circuitry makes open or closed, was carried off in an ambulence too.

cotton & linen mills, breweries & distillereis; sugar refineries; iron and steel works; shipbuilding yeards; motor, engine, and boiler works; plants making hydraulic pumps, hoists, and cranes, and radio and electical equipment; chemical works, aluminum plants; oil refineres; factories for the manufacture of scientific and optical instruments; diamond-cutting ships; brick and tile yard and pottery works; tanneries and leather factories; carpet mills; clothing and shoe factories; meati-preserving plants and fruit, vegetable and fish canneries; flour mills, and cocoam tobacco, and soap factories. Coal is produced in the southeastern part of the country

Soon you’ll be my nightstand  # mail@conposition.com
(never go out with anyone but your nightstand)

soon, I’ll light by a beaded chain of gunmetal or metallic pourpre, the bulb harbored in
the lampshade you’ll be; the differences in the currents, optical flavors of the waters streaming, light flexes into penumbra that flashes in exaltant bursts and star shimmers, the waters of the harbor for instance , where we shared bread and cheese and sometimes cured meats and watched mulled trash drift eddyingly exchanged by the complicated apportioning of the water to the strength of circles that pushed them to and fro in the maze of the events combine;

(..

God sorted a cube
in front of his first mental
emanation; ‘the cube
is fixed’ said God
and his emanation nodded
light round the cube indicates
the cube but what indicates
its length and height
and is light duration
asked god to his
emanation the
emanation
instinct of gods
forbidden interiror
said nothing
god drew the cube
and on earth
his scriptures increased
finally the emanation said
for whom is it directed
your kin god said
around the planet
its beginning and its end
to whomever
was placed

( ..

how does from this withdrawal sleep ravage the bounty; eve I don’t want to put that on anybody;
despite one passage state
steeping in religious others
the beginning of the beginning
began, the blizzard beyond referencing
then its said is the presence
nothing captures the cube like earth increased
whomever is at an end is directed toward the nothing planet increase
cities shade goes on to be a part of buildings
the leaves are referencing cant
they place slate ravages
on all terms beginning at their directive
in the beginning their were no terms
god was sucking at the bottle
in itself ythe underling was more confused than speaking was
and held it brighter
that searing of earths increase
to be worths omnifaction.com
then calm
like screencaptures
and the admiring then and there
for this was an eternal state
I much admire how you
feel the need to see
vs what you see which is
said to capture what you
hope to believe by
wearing it brighter
than it is in fact how an mirror
or bare wall is three years old
b/c of dust ; or an earths unprising
is one who is sluggish to
do to him everything that is good
both the birth of venus and
the garden of earthly delights
attendant breathing
amidst situations
falls asleep whereever horr
or in winged mazes
comes him co-wandering
with winterswinds
caught by cant believe
another animal or of sand
where are you
I’m on earths sluggish birth
that is what they don’t see is by eternal mirrorrs grown
like it was sparred with by a wingedcaptain
the dishrack looks like a flashback
no oneredisposes hiumself to justify my plan
abundance, which is the brace of thoughts, ambitioustilsuy
hears horuses balls fall to the floor
my streams are lost in the shed that, at this moment, lost the cup
so finality jerks into position
the deep sea fish light clicks
on and reveals no space
no sun that is not a pleasure-part of the son
why not they can all be something symbolized but maybe not all somethings can be symbolized
and I swim or I on the freespeech of beer represents a hole

that greatest of entities
the erstwhile nonspace
brought to you by sandwich one of egypts
recovery emblems
you’ve gotta give them sth to recognize whan you do
bloood, silver or gold, were religious pylons
the hens wrack the dwellers
with how they float time and again
thro the mere clucking of some air they behld

the ship set sail without them dart back and forth
in sumptuous densities called idols or hulls
where a lipstick mark


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