Monday, December 21, 2015

Daniel Y Harris & Rupert M Loydell, Excerpts from "Cthanoiahic Fever: Hunting the Holy Erasure"

Excerpts from "Cthanoiahic Fever: Hunting the Holy Erasure"

Daniel Y Harris & Rupert M Loydell

‘For the irony of an ageing mind is that it opens itself brutally and unflinchingly to the hidden depths of its own past as the eye of a snowy owl to the night’s prey.’
     – Karin Altenberg, Breaking Light

'You were a dream. Then a reality. Now a memory.'
   - Ian Thomas, 'The City Rises and Falls'

‘The world is full of abandoned meanings.’
     – Don DeLillo, White Noise

Rebuild in the aggregate—the bulk
for efficient
filling and variety.

Toss in gravel, copper tubes and aspect ratios
for the ones not displayed
and withheld from used.

Among the properly oriented: run.
Traded off in favor of more.
Plate-shaped. Thrown.

The ideal finished piece serves
this role’s upper
limited low.

Red tile mortar’s strong bond to the other
rough, adds what it lacks
in band

or nano plastic—to be treated,
always. Widespread bulk is less extreme
than the sprayed

pyrolysis of laminar faces.
A less rubbery
new glee. 


Do-it-yourself alchemy
is all the rage.

Just before music,
the silence ends;

just before gold,
shit hits the fan.

You have got
to be willing

to lose it all.
The Devil is a liar.

Bundle product—bundle it!
size, increasing scales over units: not equal
with fewer, friction
with more.

Higher defect flux decrease rates,
to switch grades—its fix
to fulfill the great
purchase of short-run curves.
Buy, or.

Or, the square-cube law—last one awake
for a latenight “or” binge
of paydirt. Later, the recovery
back to the same

is sold back
to the converted for less than two. 
Put up the input market.
Put up the ups.
Work the crits.

Back to basics;
back to back.

Backs against the wall.
You have nothing to lose
and nothing to save.

Money may be imaginary
but it buys the real
and surreal.

Wounded triumphs
fall to the ground,
frail and broken.

Free markets?
Bring it on!

We are walking on wire
and ready for war.

Draw us a gauge
as in to refer—voice coils and other
cross-sections from the folded

Seam lines follow anvils, torcs
and fibulae—fall out
of favour,
coded in rope—rebirth of two notched
pokes. They never lived
in Anatolia.

Let’s correct the diameter with a punch
to the kishkas and wake
La sorcière de
Malcombe—she’s decked
in paraffin wax.

She only responds to diodes.
They’re a bit botched. 

Let’s convict
the diameter
with a punch.

One to the nose,
another to
the kidneys.

Let’s connect
bone and skin,
skin and bone.

Human candles
surround us;
beeswax is best.

Earplugs are a must
as the screams
flicker and fade.

We only respond
to fear and pain
here in Anatolia.

Arsenic candles in the Land of Hatti?
A reified Levant?
Not for these born-again Dorians. 
Their homeland
is a faucet
shaped like an aurochs
mixed with a starved gaur. They savor flickers
            from any source, even if flicked
                        from extinct.
Older still
if tagged by a convo of glam feeds.
How many died at the Battle of Manzikert?
Forget the tag in tagmata.
The answer is a blank stare. 

The nowhere child is a shadow
intent upon negative space
and silence.

She may be pulled
toward the light,
but she resists.

For evidence we have
a blurry video of ghosts
and a smudged polaroid.

No light bothers us here
or plagues our eyes.
Bells sound out a blues

as the moon rises
above a sea of longing,
wonk starfall sighs.

Rubble and dead trees
give her shelter,
provide a makeshift hide.

She used to know
how to walk on water,
but now avoids the coast.

Used to be queen,
now she’s the daughter
of not-so-sure days

and tripwire songs:
this and that, this that
and the other.

Semantic bad-trap of bad taste? Sure, Ivan.
How did we become offensive?
Well, Horatio, it all came from sarkasmos.

Why always Greek?
Derision of these ride wits.   

How did they spell ‘which’ is 1597? Whych.
To offend one’s interlocutors—now that’s the last
gaffe of plenty.

My people are verbal.
My people used to be queens.

We are good and hostile.
            not always. Usage

and cortex sobriety of use—this will appease
nothing but sound.
Get the struts Benjamin.
Lenny, I have to, but you?

The acolytes used to sniff airplane glue
without a cue. No one used to lie,
or lie about laying
with the other: influencers.

One of these days
the people will be silenced.

One of these days
we’ll wake up to longing,
our children crawling across the wires
and our parents hammering nails
up their nostrils and into their brains.

One of these days
we’ll wake up to music,
aeolian harps of scaffolding
that cannot hold the city up.

The Greeks knew nothing
of any use to us.

My model airplanes never flew,
my model boats sank without trace.

One of these days
Benjamin will strut no more
and Lenny will do as he is told.

I know nothing of any use
to you.

One of these days
the future will be concluded.
We will wake up to nothing.

Mr. Deað woke from expiry with a pass
to extension—flipping cadavers like realestate
scams. How about a jellyfish slurpee
with that refinance? Lenny Benjamin
concedes that he stole a notable flaw
from Mr. Deað, here among the slow
states of shift. Why were they all wearing
ivory pendants? They have no use in the city,

nor in the neo-cortex of a brain in a jar.
When hypoxia hits, it hits hard. Jar or no jar.
Where are you from again? Legal. I sent
you a box of unborn pears to bring you back
to life. None of this is homeopathic. Bacteria
is an Deað, not Lenny Benjamin, not you, 
our next of kin, buffed with strong genes. 

The Lords and Ladies of Darkness
are scheming in their glass houses.
They are at breaking point.

Who will stop the lookout boy
from falling from the roof,
who decode the colours
of the Kaleidoscope Kid
who spins the wheel of fortune
withough ever asking
if he should?
                       He shouldn’t.
There is enough mystery
and confusion here already,
enough blurred faces
and wallflowers hugging
the past, enough to last
a lifetime, of only we had one
to spare.
                The continuing story
continues apace, it never ends
but we do have constant pauses
for comfort breaks and tea.
One lump or two?
                                Plenty of bruises
to spare, purple is the new black,
grey is a sign of defeat and death
as your skin fades and pale
spectres attend.
cannot hide your demise,
costumes can be stored
for future tales. The script
never seems to change.

The Lords and Ladies of Darkness
are screaming in their glass houses.
They are past the point of reason.

It’s late night at the Parliament of Ganglions
starring the Lords and Ladies of Darkness.
In dark airglow, zodiacal light
converts its space dust

into hot plasma—tesla magnetic dipoles
cubing the distance. In the occupied ecliptic,
their last enfant terrible
mocks the Zodiac Killer.

Why did their enfant terrible write this word?
His Orionid is able to lift a still-wet palm print.
He writes a 340 character cryptogram.
It is never decoded with exozodiacal dust.

All will be revealed
when you decode the dzesorathan.
Riches will be yours… the secrets
of time travel… how to seduce women…
to tell the  future and forget the past.

But try as you must you never will.
This is it, your cold life in rags,
limping from village to village.
Glass people in stone houses
should not throw ideas around.

Favour for a favour? Returns are traded
on one side of agree—the casting couch
of aspirants deemed unfair by an unruly

mob of dzesorathanians. Quickly release
the captives from personal gain, malice
and envy—the agreed upon formulaic

hum of slightly off congruence. Never
before the public nor as visionary quo.
On occasion as archfoe and uber-quid.

What is the estimated value of injury?
Me, I correspond in kind and degrees
of injury as here among the just. Lex

talionis. The just? Here’s a late crime
of living beyond ones peak and severe.
If only this made us felons newsworthy.

If, as if, the tit-for-tat eye of stolen guts
reinvented a new game. Then scamper
by the fixed value, the absolute, clearly

pure and blue and stretching its copper
tubes like wings in an afterworld of red
algorithms. They must land on someone.

I was exactly equal to me. Try wergilds.
Why not? Origin in Hammurabi is very
clearly used. I love for example. You?

We’ll strike against direct retributions.
They live for equity, as early as to grow
and less threatened by the social fabric

of wrongs, feuds and vendettas, serving
no one whose bound to be the sick bond
of the unsaturated least, limiting actions. 

[Insert an oblique reference here to the Porto Cesaro and the Old Gates of the Temple. Perhaps mention the 7000 Islands of Cthanoiah and the story of brave Michel, who visited them all in search of love he never found. He was a pioneer in chromatic studies, the nuances of colour, light and shade, how to camouflage the soul ready for the next life.

Alternatively, offer simple instructions on how to guide the bullet into the train journey of our lives, so that we are not derailed in our holy quest, can walk all the way to Paradise, or at least as far as Tanzikaar.

Maybe it is the place for a map of the finest tea rooms to be found in the sacred mountains? Or the oases in the deserts of Llitfronia? I could share the secrets of spiced tea, the rituals and preparations that turn dust and water into magical embrocations?

Or perhaps not. This is a different sort of adventure. Let us walk away alone.]

They upend mongrels—[belly-pale umpas]—[maggot crustaceans]—[wax swabs]—[mix-breed ticks]—[inserted obliquity to dispel rote]. I see, Louis, playing hard to get. Dispatch a parrot and lay white eggs from which hatch  altricial young. I love the floral nectar of progeny, sentenced to nest boxes in captivity. Barry, I’m not arguing with you. Whose knows about involuntary commitment statutes? Arthur pipes in—[what pet trade?]. We’ve bridged the chrysalis—[been reborn]—[some amniotic, embryonic fluid we are drinkingjust before the giddy illusion of death.] No, no. This is all wrong. The macaw eats a walnut. I thought they were parrots? No, they were red avian dinosaurs.

Who else could they send? Who else could be trusted? Long way for taxonomy? Go to work Michel. Nothing says what the fuck like a frogmouth. Cockatoos? Stop it! Try to imagine that this isn’t madness. Face it, we’re having a relapse,

an episode. The critics are throwing their teak breakfast trays out the window. Please call our panicked associate and start the dictation. [Psittacoidea as well as all members of the Cacatuoidea]—[a gall bladder in skull bones]—[scatters

light in such a way.] We’re consumed by overwhelming sensations or appetites. Our families are genera. Our families are buff-faced pygmies at under 10 g (0.4 oz) in weight and 8 cm (3.1 in) in length. It’s in our faces, our hair like a glaze,

a coating drenched in afterbirth. Please stop the stampede. Remember a please. Remember the downward curves of a full spectrum family. [Keratinized bills as bill-tipped organs]—[seeds or position nuts]—[their large heads]—[claws elongated]—[a high level of dexterity.] Together, we’ve just had two stunning moments of clarity, which can be lowered and raised at will. Have two notable exceptions—[our prominent feather neck frills are raised and lowered at will.]

Such will. Pure will. Warning Will Robinson. We will not live without you/we! These are our portals. They are fast and furious. They are powerful. Our plumes. Our plumage. These beautiful peacocks don’t speak. We come from the asshole

of an organism whose sole function is to excrete a poison, an exfoliant necessary to destroy the miracle of human life. Will we own our patina of shit coating the best part of our lives? Who did the same but gave them low prices? It will take the rest of our lives to undo. [One formerly occurred]. Take two deep cleansing breaths and set that notion aside. We are poorly understood. We are as nomads.We rage widely. Please use your bill to search for grub. Many cases consuming

the home rough the home. Our home, rather than two green seed dispensers. As potent a feeling as this may be, it must stand the test time and the time is now. How often do poisons protect them? When are their apt collaborations

finally a chemical war? We’re not sure what else we can tell you. We’ve told you everything. [Remove seed coats and other fruit parts.] Settle this case on a flight at midnight. The years have passed. [Brush tips to collect this source of food specialized in nectar]—[in perfume of a god]—[a diet made up of an insect.]  Give me something I can print. Are these poems defoliants? A cancer lingers above all else. Why allude to carcinogens? We hear pained narratives.

Wait, we are monogamous breeders. We have mini-me offspring. Our privilege is absolute, but we die every day. We are pending, unresolved. We will never have our day in court. [Parade or stately walk and the eye-blaze.]

I may have carpal tunnel. I wrapped my wrist in gauze. My thumb is numb. My genes are indices, long and radial half of the ring finger. I doubt we care. I doubt pain as simple as a wrist. The true poets kill their poem. Who the hell is the course of normal? The faucet is running. Let’s empty ourselves of whim. Give in Stanley. How about a year without beer? [See a carpometacarpal joint.] It’s good to see you again. I admit it. I bid that job. [Primarily, a numbness and so intense as to wake I/you from sleep.] Pain is electrophysiological. Nobody sleeps.