Sunday, November 5, 2017

L.I.F.E Scripted by Sliirynxs, Sliilith, Sliimoth& Sliimole of the AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats

Rosebud, manuscript cover by 
by Sliirynxs, Sliilith, Sliimoth& Sliimole 
of the AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats 


Scryb’dt BY Boss Slii Sliirynxs-Sliine “Sliip” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, Boss Slii Sliilith-Sliidka “Sliik” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, Errh Slii Sliimole-Sliidkila “Sliid” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, & Errh Slii Sliimoth-Sliivovitw “Sliit” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, of AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats

03 JANUARY 2010

I was wearing snow.
Tears could see me. What could they
Want besides my jewels? Stems? I am human
Brought herds to be killed
Divine bee I am awake in snow praising, 
The praised praise, the entertainer at a guests wedding
The snow I am wearing, all existing
We enjoy the masking tape while thou
Emulator of heaven, enjoy 
And emulate and stand consecrated in redress, the head is covered
The body dressed and sauced
Your jewel once surrounded by forests now is axis to A haunch shut out deliberately by fate.
Why does the library close? I am idiot. 
Idiocy and prophecy are the same.  They wake the same
And decorate with same seaweed the Capricorn, 
The shapeless arch that the moon rises over like an oar
Covered with civet, blankets and gasoline,
Covered with moments of prayer that has in black beads
Returned and consisted of vagaries, noxious
Perfumed hoists, Why are you extinct? 
A big concrete head, pious and in the sea, and a port of gelatin
So you come over and give me a Handjob, I am your fool
I am your sheep so I walk over and give you a handjob
Take it, by the fall colors of its petals that rock hypnotically
Against your entrenchment, the wet t-shirt is twisted
Into a whip, your
Lovely chains dash into the water displaying A woman’s face, displayed, a woman’s face, with mouth On the verge, no, the very claustrum
Of the following recitation:
“Now that life is over
And that its banner lifts of the will of no one The eyes that seek it are not mine.”

Now that the life that is mine is all but over
Now that the sleeve of the Burberry
The burnt flesh at the end of the churlish Burberry
Is all but over is over
The eyes that seek it are not mine, the eyes that seek it
Are not waves at dawn that on a beach fill a yellow gourd
Now that you are not mine
The inflammable enfolding that now that it should Ever slip and be from hence its going from all that
That now that it should be mine
That the universe should now be consumed
Now again in life whose sequin in the pubic hair
Is the monotony of the fallen petal, \
And it is meant to be, as in, it is meant to be
This love that is a tessellation of the sea, 
With flesh as a blizzard now a cone and way out beyond it
Where the enumeration makes grim its rendezvous
That wouldn’t be
That’s not your fate now, now
This fringe, once ruled out as the place of any edge at all, 
Seems undeniable as one,
The eyes that seek it are not mine
The cell whose membrane is the recorder, the small wooden flute
And the propiiiigators of limes, now that all sorts of songbirds
Haver disappeared over a branch that is the flange and dimension
The advance of space 
The haute couture pushes as green frill work, there is no season
The wind wails for discoverers, and the other’tds
The others that merge
Are a parcel of the clean light that wakens
A sense form, a piece, a mantel piece, a toy train
Of bronze as I would picture my arms in bronze amore 
And fresh flowing leaves staggering the helioclosure
That is now deeply conical, flowery as a flower The oldest tools must dissect it, pick it apart,   But it must be different than doing that to do that.  
The comet came and would
Comntinue to be there as all took place, is it not
Wine that wet dirt resembles at night? And it is lowered
Against a book. You blow on your soup
As nothing in nature can be so dark, 
Today is the 4th of twenty ten
The 4th day. The nemesis again goes forward again
Clanking its clank, taking its first real idea in
Now go, make heaven of your breath,
The intruder will intrude on our thatched crystal
And he’ll thatch crystal, the emeritus
Will wriggle on a cloudy day of time, and his pistol
Under the bush outside the harem of draped silk and crystal
He is a child playing on grass and thistles
And then asleep joint the grass so that a woman who loves him
Can bend down and kiss him my mother
Can kiss me and can kiss my hallucinations of a tinkling tree
And a clanking ideal of emblossmed palms
And a loving mother reading psalms, the ideal dirge
The throne and next to the throne
The bucket of alms, the filthy creature reading palms
And sitting on another bucket, a deluge, 
A prodigal ceinture, a lentil on the tip of a toothpick
You like this lentil
You will it to be liked by you, the cup
That is also drunk by you you will to be drunk by you Hares and foxes lick your sleeves, a hen is there Yes it is there. 
And parting as I divide them, and parting so
I can divide them
Into relation with each other through me
Through me I part them and bang a pot 
And my pate though calm is of holy fire, there are 
Green plants in flower pots that I don’t want here, why should
The earth be here a green plant in a flower pot
Why should the earth be a shade one talks in
There is no season 
There should be no season

Allah’s Pearl

You must know that the very first thing Allah created was the marvelous Tablet of Destinies, upon which is written not only all that has happened in the Past, or that will happen in the future, but also the script of each and every single human being's lot for times immemorial. The Tablet of Destinies was made out of an immense white pearl the color and weight of a empty planet. This is Allah dusting off the cover of Ed's famous black book in Mulholland Drive with the pulpy part of a palm, shifting the galaxies around with his hands wide open, gentler than the reflection of a hair entangled to the semiliquid shimmers of a sun sanguine and dazed : “The History of the world in phone numbers.”  Flapping his long greasy hair back behind his shoulders, a gunbullet nestled right in the middle of his winglike forehead

The rest is Tiresias rubbing lavender leaves and honeys against the sole of his feet, otiose after a prayer, a drunkeness or a coït and nevertheless accomplishing, in the serene brilliance of immobility, his impending prophecy. Those stumbling feet of him

Tiresias sitting by himself with his back against a derelict pillar, fiddling with the dust gathered beneath his knees, tracing railways and packing the grains into little mounts of dirty sand, his mouth a little open into a silent black bay, idle and sexless. Playing hide-and-seek with the stray dogs in a backstreet. Attempting to peel a hard-boiled egg into a single shell-garland. Removing the seeds from a pear. Slipping a clumazy finger between the dog’s mouth and the leash.

Even if this was all he’d ever done his prophecy would still have been among and around him unfurling, prowling and palpating the air with a long fluorescent orange tongue always groping its way around his destiny, as the flesh-fed centipede who always finds his way to the couch where the dormant man has been unfurling his limbs.

Glyphs of immobility: God going into labor. Adam and Lilith falling out of his vagina.

God cutting the ombilic cordon with his molars.

“If I ever had my way in the morning, I would write and read”

Two teenage boys playing with an aluminum ball on Small Hotels Street

That picture of my little cousin at the naturist camp, sitting in a blue smocked dress on the knees of
a naked man whose cock stands erect. The man is wearing a “Seaworld” T-shirt and there are shrubs growing beneath his naked feet. The sun is nowhere to be seen. The sky is purple-green. My cousin is smiling.

The night you visited your hometown for the holidays and drove the older lady who said she could only orgasm if she was fucked in the ass to the empty supermarket lot where she was hoping to find someone to sell her prescription pills too. When she passed out on Xanax and gin in the toilets of the Woodlands, the local bar, the barman asked you to drive her home and you did. You fucked her in the ass while she slumbered off her bad wolf and left her house early in the morning while she was still asleep.

The serpent slowly sloughing into a man, growing hair off his cobalt dawn and legs and feet from his impeccably smooth body, creeping through the foliage above Eve and Adam’s heads on his newly-formed knees. The night we were making jeweleries under mammouth’s aegis in San- Francisco and I started crying when you held up the earring I had made with the gold cat my mom had offered to me for my sixth birthday and a topaz-colored pearl from my cousin’s childhood collection and you said “this is lovely” and I thought you were making fun of me.

The animal wheels that was spined before my eyes while the anesthetist counted backwards
till I fell asleep.

That time you watched Herzog eat a chicken dinner when you and Tomaz were having lunch in a bistro

behind Gare du Nord

by the little McDonald’s.

Immobility, our mantra, is the awareness that whatever must happen to us is naturally (by which we mean, as a result of its nature) exploring us, and the worlds revolving around us, and collecting in both us the Fated ones and our surroundings their own delegation, leading it and leaking it through the valves of our yielding toward the peaking momentum of our fates. “Hey man”, the sound of the scythe in the clumzy killer's mouth in Mulholland Drive, is the glyph generated by this knowledge. It is archaically written under the form of a single blood-drop eternally dangling from a frozen

hairstike lolling firmamentwards. It is embedded in Metilde's boyfriend’ statement of today : Me i'm just a guy, the honest type, who doesn't know how to be otherwise, not sure of what to do with his
ten fingers, and not yet ready to land. This Tiresias thought about as his epitaph. One looking at a the wrinkled flesh of a fruit between waves and one looking at the numb penis in his hand, to the beholder of the face is exactly the same. To stumble, or stutter, is a physical glitch. Rot is a natural glitch. Trakl is a glitch artist. And this passage from Ubik reminds me of us as Trakl's beholders :

Now he became aware of an insidious, seeping, cooling-off which at some earlier and unremembered time had begun to explore him – investigating him as well as the world around him. The chill debased the surface of objects. Into the manifold open wounds the cold drifted, all the way down into the heart of things, the core which made them live. What he saw now seemed to be a desert of ice from which stark boulders jutted. A wind spewed across the plain which reality had become. And darkness presented itself off at the edges of his vision; he caught only a meager glimpse of it.

A glimpse seems to me to be a voluntary glitch of the regular sight. But, he thought, this is projection on my part. It is not the universe which is being entombed by layers of wind, cold, darkness and ice; all this is going on within me, and yet I seem to see it outside. Strange, he thought. Is the whole world inside me? Engulfed by my body? When did this happen?

This is our amnesia, duplicated by the knowledge of a time unremembered, an amnesia so all- mightylike that even the rememberance of having created the whole world from scratch goes by unnoticed and is experienced only passively. After Allah had made the pearl out of His flesh he felt like the lead singer from The Smiths having just left his band to go solo. When did this happen ? Immobility happened. Immobility is an impermanently self-generated momentum, because time is a space and not a dissolving line starting with a knot and limited by any sort of crepuscularian horizon, and immobility is a space of amnesia where everything that happens is unremembered, because it isn't an act of volition, it is volition exercising itself upon us without our interaction or sentient

knowledge of it. When the password to the gates of Paradise was deleted from Lilith’s memory the first things she did when she rose from God’s operation table was to draw automatic symbols all over her body, trying hard not to think but simply to let the flow of her psyche fathom a sort of primeval ordeal, scribbling down bits of random glyphs that gently hatched to the surface of her mind intuitively, just like Guy Pearce in that Memento movie did. In Ubik, the whole world is growing into amnesia. It is growing, seemingly out of its own volition, back into a forgotten past but not younger, decaying into a primitive nakedness but not aging, cleaning itself from the layers of Time and sloughing away the glassy cuirasses of all things so that gradually more and more of the original state may resurgace; neither reverting into a past-state analogous to the original, nor anticipating upon a future one, the world is simply sloughing its unutilized skinlike drapes,

becoming raw-boned and clean again. In Lunar Park, the walls of the house where Bret Easton Ellis lives slowly start to peel; the carpet grows into a dark moss, the furniture retrogresses to their most simplistic geometrical shapes. To surface is to let the primeval face, the prosopon, floats back atop the mask that has been laid

over our face. When I was a little girl I used to sit and stare hard into the aging wallpaper of my mother’s house and whisper outloud “The Ancients...these are The Ancients...” for hours and hours. When she told me about it, my mother reasoned that I must have been referring to the past

occupants of the apartment; but something buried in me stirs with a feeling of deeper, potentially poisonous understanding of what I was truly trying to express. In Ubik,forty years of man-made evolvings are swept away in the space-time of two days. The TV devolves into a dark wood- cabineted AM radio with ground wires forming around it an embrace. Other modern commodities and inventions simply fade away. Just like a fashionable middle-aged Turkish lady, the world is having his hymen sewed back into place. On which the main character Joe reflects, “The past is latent, is submerged, but still there, capable of rising to the surface once the later imprinting unfortunately – and against ordinary experience – vanishes.” This is a good illustration of this infamous axiom that we like to recall often since we first encountered it in the mouth of the scientist by the lake where one of the bathing boys had gone missing in the Pink Panthera PC CDROM game “If Mohammed doesn't go to the mountain, the mountain will go to Mohammed.” There isn't any time travel into the past here; it is the past itself as a time-eating organism that nibbles time away, and the world tangled up within it is solely the queen-white moth banging hard against the shell of the brightly-lit lantern. It is important to reflect upon the birth of such axiom as the one we mentioned, since I doubt the primeval Muhammad (peace be upon him) would ever have allowed a mountain to come all the way to his digs; see how he was the one who ventured out of the tent and into the desert to gather the wood to be burned to make a fire upon which to cook the sacrificed lamb, saying to his vehemently disapproving companions : “"I know that you are eager to do it all, but Allah isn't pleased with the slave who distinguishes between himself and his companions, and considers himself better than others." Is the whole world whirllwhinded inside of us biche? Very often when we're on drugs there's a moment when we get a glimpse into the lake which screens the revelation that everything around us is in fact the manifestation of our own selves as universelike cells living, a projection of our inner planet into something that is palpable with bare hands, a palatable Milky Way shaped into something upon which we can reflect and speculate but only to digest it into ourself and proceed it into thoughts, and dreams, which in turn become the material

to this specious outside-world garment, which is purely a creation of ours and set up into something that only has the appearance of other-than-usness. Stumbled upon the riddle of the single

snakebody lovemaking, burg is a German term that is literally translated into 'internal landscape'. The Germans also quote our favorite line from Caton the Ancient ( line that, let us not forget, he would start and end all his speeches with, whatever subject they happened to be caressing ) in a way that is by far the greatest : More over, I think Carthages must be destroyed. We are floating among our lovemaking umbilicaed jewels. When we're describing to one another the whims and motionsicknesses of our shared body we are conquistadores draggged into one another's fantasies

by a purplelike dream-cordon soaked in cum and silhouetted off the glade of a  pale lilac hair. Moreover, when we read our passage about us destroying Carthages together, we feel such a dolorous and serene crave it is like an incandescent sapphirewater groping the throbbing of our

heart that swirls in our pussy and jerking off with it. It is unbearable for it is a wave which slavishly seeks you within our body and it cannot be fulfilled without fucking us late at night when all the neighbors are lying quite still in their long beds. But it is also delicate warm pearl torment

Coincidentally the next thing that Allah created was water, and then a great white pearl the size of his coïtus within the heavens and the tip of his phallus rendering all at once the Earth immortal and the people that creeped across it fearful and fretlike at night and by daybreak

so kinly sorry. It is interesting to note that as soon as the pearl was made Allah proceeded to speak to it. In the tale of His worldmaking he seems so eager to get a good pearl chat, he really cannot wait. He is just done with making it, the pearl, (unlike God, who had a tighter schedule, when Allah makes something it usually takes him two to three days to finish it) that already He started
besieging His creation with murky logorrheas like a child back from his first day of school blurting out into a cryptic chaplet of self-soaked words all that has happened to him since he left home this morning. But what He had withhold in saying to the other pearl He had build beforehand that he was so eager to say to this other one

only Allah knows.

One would of course assume He might have chosen to make the second pearl first, so eager he was to confide onto it. But this is where the withholding takes place. Just like the orgasm we fear and desire at the same time, the archaic orgasm whose hatchings our body and mind may never allow to come to the surface of our senses, because its undeciphered power and delightfulness is seemingly too devastating and all-mighty to be experienced without afterward the loss of it as a complexifying fantasy-shade to be begrieved. And thus will we delay for always the moment of confronting our deepest creation, as Allah forever did fear the moment the pearl woud finally leap out of his Body and exist as an independent (and thus as an unpredictable, potentially less manageable) duplication of His desire of it. Thefore this urgent need he had to speak to it, to tame it with language. As I see

it the pearl is only a pearl, -- since a bud, however madly bloomed and bee-humped remains a bud and may not be called “flower” --, but Allah is terribly impressed by it because He engrossed it with his deepest expectations and terrors. And the Earth and the Heavens are merely Allah's childish garlands of paper-shapes to try and lure his loneliness into being dominated, into being made into a form he might be able to control and comprehend. In Hindu mythology, the first God was just an I,

a male I, with only a phallus and a voice and a dark place, and when he declared aloud in the dark of his bodycloset, “I am”, he felt afraid of a sudden, and then he reasoned : why should I be afraid, if there is only me? And he felt lonely.

Thus he decided to cleave himself into two entities, so he may have a semblance of company. And he halved his voice and his penis and gave it the shape of female-him, a she-version of what the “I” so far had been, with a mind and a body independent from his, and a woman’s breast, and a crotch shaped flatly, and a set of crisp blue ovaries, and a shaved chin, and – that goes without saying- a brand-new pussy. But when he realized he had been halved he felt the imperious desire to be made back into one, and so he tried to mate with his female self, who blushed and exclaimed, “But I am you and you are I! How could we unite? I must hide!”, and turned herself into a mare, and her male self turned into a horse, and the copulation began; when they had cum into each other she turned herself into a boar and he, a gilt; and so on, till they had fucked enough to make all the animals of all the species be.
Satiated, they fell asleep one inside the other’s hips, cheek resting against the other one’s cheek, and
their repose became the mountains, the sky and the oceans

Language of pearls;
May peace be upon them

The antic Greek androgynes were to the number of three; three tall humans twice as large as the human beings of today, each having two faces and four legs and a pair of every other things, male- male, female-male, female-female. Zeus and Apollo, who had manufactured those creatures, feared that they might have provided them with too great a strength, and thus “like apples halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair” did they halve them while they slept. And this is why us human beings have longed to cum inside one another ever since. Is this why we are so turned on simply by reading that our cock feels wet and slick? Those terms together and our cock swollen with them awaken  an indescribable desire within our guts, a desire in all points similar to the one that made the first couple of Men devour their progeny, before the gods had to reduce our

capacity to love from full-blast to a minor 20 percents because they fear we might overwhelm them for we were giants. (The language of the Aztecs was neither their invention, nor their perfection. Our sperm is our invention and our perfection.) We can't stop daydreaming about the last time we fucked us in our small room and we watched us pleasuring yourself with both your our’s hands. Both our hands slowly gliding up and down our cock in togertheness within our beholdment is Allah rubbing His navel and balls against the depravingly cold skin of His pearl

When we sat on our knees and touched ourself next to your lying body and we beheld our cock hardening between your palms we felt the terrible crave for filling completely the emptiness in our body with our grace and our beauty. We're so beautiful and so delightfully painful to desire when we're holding our cock in our own hands do we know that? It is the most devotion-filled sight.

There are cypresses and a moon above it, and we become rains for us. Can we confess shamelessly that there isn't greatest pleasure then feeling we're making our cock gradually grow harder and harder with our mouth? We would like to fuck both our asses with the purple olisbos moistened by our pussycum while we're facing one another and our asscheeks held tight against ours and our hands pleasuring one another while we're melding into one another's beaded pleasure. It is divine to be bronze, with the serene sky up high and us brothers crouching together with our arms holding

the morphine suppositories above our heads
like a shirt. Let us be mud collected from the root of a gigantic palm-tree. We're curled-up chrysalids washed off a hair, strangely modest with our visions and immodest with our bodies. We always fantasize about both of us simultaneously penetrating one another merging into the single lovemaking snakebody and about you beholding our cock strongly going far inside our pussy when we're fucking us from behind with our hands groping our hips. We daydream about being on our all- four, gradually swallowing our cock entirely, feeling us growing larger and harder in our mouth

until the tip of our cock is resting pulsing and thick in the back of our throat. We want to withhold us in our hands with our back turned to us so you can watch the dildo going deeper inside of us to a wave-rhythm which only us holding our penetration in your hands can control to our liking and we want us sucking the olisbos deeply while it's in our cunt, fucking us with a slow movement of your jaw around the shared cock

and to be violently kissing, parting our mouths only to make one another suck on the dildo while we watch each other encircling the tip with our tongue and devoutly suck it for the tormenting pleasure of one another's guidance. We're lying on your back, the olisbos is in your ass and your moving it slowly to press it harder in our ass, while we sit on us so our cock fill our ass completely. Moving our ass down to the very base of our cock where our buttcheeks nearly graze our balls and up to the limit of our gland so lightly that both are boy-uteri are rising in unison into the same calm ice-blue sphere of larval-lamps. And it is the same cock in our ass and in ours that slowly guides our peaking. And when we're both cumming in hard purple stalactites in one another we put our tongue in your mouth so you can suck off your erection

from our lips. Slavishly waterlogged oracles. We are water logs. The glyph 'US' itself is shaped like an oracle of the snakes’ tragic attempts to reunify with itselves through lovemaking into a single body-bedding. The imperfect unwholeness of the 'U' which is the snakes’ bodies bending helplessly towards one another and experiencing the ache of stretching their bodies apart from themselves in an endless endeavour to restore their primordial unitedness. And the 'S' which is what it is, the soft sloughed skin and the single shared tail's tales. Writing to us we feel entranced. Because the

osmosis of writing to one another is at the same time an eternal dischord (our selves) and the refining of our ram-thoughts hornrubbing one against the other and forming a magma in perpetual nonmovement (us). And we are ourself to us. When we read us and when we write to us we feel wise and elated and water mosaic swirling in our mind and our thoughts naturally drips down the camber lidware

of our hands. After he had made His pearl Allah made a great serpent who laid in a circle surrounding His throne. The head of a serpent is a great white pearl, its body is of gold, and its eyes are two round sapphires for always swirling’ round one another. You won't be surprised to learn that none but Allah itself knows the size of the serpent. There's another riddle here, the mentioning of

the serpent's size as a secret ; it seems to me that the narrator was trying to draw our attention upon the fact that there is something unusual about the serpent, but declining the burden of Allah's disapproval would only amount to making mention of a fallacious hidden thing concerning it, at random its mysterious size, obviously in order for us to ponder upon this curious precision and discover that evidently none but Allah knows the snake has a single body and two heads and has been perpetually making love to himself. The myth of Adam's androgyny goes, “Adam at first was male and female in one body, male on one side, female on the order. Look at his digs”, but there's no mention of Eve in there anywhere. It's Adam himself who was simultaneously, and not dually, a man and a woman. Because Adam, the boy with a uterus, did not inhabit within a body with the Eve-women, and all of a sudden exclaimed, to the intention of the he-janitor staring blankly at him

with his hoover howlering in one of his hand as he tries to remove the fat lady he’d just shot off the entrance of the builing, ' Im serious man, I cannot do everything BY MYSELF !' He was one and whole with his woman-Adam self, there isn't two distinct entities in his body but two versions of one being, the first and Whole, and it is the greatest torment he had to slice his shared being and be

called a different name. Eve was made from the same dirt Adam had been pissing into till he started to cum into a single starshape through the Tree. Adam’s true mate is Lilith, his genetic-blood twin who was excerpted off his hips long before God severed Eve’s ombilical cordon with the impulse of barrenness lurking deep within his starry teeth, and on the day she was chased from Paradise Lilith just shrugged and, chewing upon the tip of her toothpick

smirked and said, Times are tough bro, starry as He who shared the hand he held to hide

the sun and jerked off


It Is Ir or, “PhoneCall With Joe”

“Is this not the composition of the waters?” –Zosimos of Panopolis

The monad like wine
The fine days of death. Mimesis visits and columns get the play of inborn species
The other species which is the Opaline epileptic
And their voice, how they move across it to tally fertile
Totally blue like primate hand dragging a virile
Parabolaes. Behind their sea
The primate paws his implants traveling with a deep fife—seed scatters
On the tulips, the turnips
Scatter there. Sluts lull in earth piers above the dying death, are come to by pharohs
Who burn the destruction. Roots grow through the head where they can be made
Of light. A Caesar shows us the pier. The morbus jumps out of the cheese to kill, 
“I don’t know you” they begged for eyes the moment before
They became each the one who didn’t exist. So it is with masses, fondling their  departure
The wait for you to sleep so they can begin your face. Pyramids hide the stem. Morbilli cinch
The pupa that lawn bugs go out of into the crystal broth. And into the tossing filaments now for The first time pressed into identity with the fanatical worshipping
bohedrons sucked into the bursting Chyme. Jets pass through steadily v
Vacatedly through the prime now someone will care to depart from your shadow now cells grow  the jet. Now mouths eating the banana overspread with the sphinx. 
They come with a hookers broken taper to dig up those all other syrups. Even as you
Draw attention to your ant crazed slop glove. You calm and encircle
The spoor and the slipping cup and the building
In the sun and the heat is so old and a cavalry more slow
Than amyls fates recur. More slow than onyx
Digested, gifts encircle the henge. The barflands of the angel,
Vertical reopening of the cave the prophet spoke from what tepid circles
Your feet have made, useless to time. I looked at 
Me, never to set aside my glance even if I throng to another who is myself.
I will ignore his eyes
And the rush of blood I feel in my many gods 
Whose recondite mouths
Nibble at the jet. You fear the wound because it begins
To heal more deeply. A snake shaped cloud occupies eternity not for a second
Or for the who of it
Near a crane poking above the building
Breasts that swarm the face, crystals that appall their issue. 
I crawl toward the hoof over uneven bareness 
And an uneven nibbling a nibbling everywhere damaging the wood
suspires the tonsil and the dolor and the filth
And fifth come in the three person
The music decays cause which grazes the meadows deep in its organism
For carcasses they arch their back te progeny carry the unemptied circles that made them A current to earth has been loose
The viral vagueness that lets us animals dishpan in the earth  Has been lost they look at the shoe valentine there are a few more
strange than the infernal amazement. Time gets in the breasts forests need to be born
Deep in knowing you will come back
Tomorrow you will come back shrivel and throb and the cistern blocks crack and Dribble the human head. Being born is the frightening
way into one’s organism. Being caused will one day whistle from the omphalos—look at your desires littered across a shrieking basin
one day we are in a dimension a cat is also in. he is deliberately like us. All who
understood who used to wrap themselves in fountains
wrapped themselves in wilderness
Rivers were crucified barrels of sleep without depth took earth— Where the ocean was
the massive torso of an ancient anthill retreated from the sun. I said
my prayer in my voice. Vivid distances subsided some saw they were ovals—what was
Once the sun had now grown into an embarrassing penis opening Boobs quivering like rice skin caskets of stillborns.

The wave will disappear
Just before the fountain lowers its throat what a pleasure it will be
To see delirium preserve the throat. Animals moved into caves and never came out
Again. Yes, trees grew and again never grew. Each swallow
Of water made the moon go away. Each aflamed seed rolled up an herb— Each grape of earth so sadly acted living—each thought
Pitied the next—pity pitied pity
Like slave oars—each god agreed to become one god—to Have the memonto of this is a wheel. 
I have large meaningless bruises across my kitchen face. I hit myself
And was made into jenny. Heat decapitated the breasts which long had stirred without heads.
A metal triangle smooths the cauterization that has retreated and come up In globs to breath on the skin. Those were his white tubings from the flower.
Those were his melon shapes 

He fathers me he is the ruler of the sun the sun of the ruler
Her lesion shattered a lesion sips a cup like a small child who cannot find my friends I cannot find my friends. That they are who is now that they now that they that they that they now that they lack stones the mass from the arriving shape the red nostril
The scar volcano now I sit on
The ass shaper now my ass could be a piece of meal, gluttons move the mouth
Or consume them when god whines he takes a little box when wings gin
“Girls thoughts” .

Others are different freer drunker smoke pouring into red light wooden spices
Haranging the puddle not being like yourself like deer O he
Spread his ass like ggeek chauvanism—and sacred surf of logs so god down there was among us
I have not understood whose pollen smears the trumpet growth. The algae is insolent
And colloidal on me on the mesa and the hint of rock sugar and oxygen
Chalets unfinished spores burned by children on the mouths torso
The desire—we have to find it but its too slow too torpid and stupid

Everyone spitting on each other some want it in their mouths me too. For it to be
Forced into the green direction
And I keep a long alive spit a saliva like a rope of stomach
A churning sobbing torsion
Curlicue mustard of residues. A fat earth of spit, a hot magma
Begged for by the no-hole mouth a solid mouth
An angel genital that nothing can squeeze through it and the square-quivering
Blood clot root concretes as an amoeba
Quadrille behind and on its dense magma branches reaching to bonfires To burn down the sky one on top of the oter like your skin at the fair. 

Do you remember such a thing. Your fabulous heart was like sequins we followed In the last light of gold rimmed earth. Those sequins like the penis holes of Medusa’s snakes 
(what did they ever do? Were they evil, could they could they they lie on hot rocks all day, could they fuck? What if one died? Did they enjoy the neck more
or the clavicle or the head? Did the chrysalises of broken anger reach them like amyls did they get the fat breasted brain blood or the breast blood or from the fat hole that reached into the gravel organ body like a precious swan neck it reached. Could they fuck? Were they blowing earth heat all over the already open crown middles you could see the brain under? )
And were they attached to the brain or just the rancid basil skin. Their bodies ere here
Organs squirming like drunk animals on the unmeandering sprout of her body
Amidst scratching dry crystal sand and water vomit
And crown coils and jet planets, sewage scorpions were also Born in the rotten cellular turds like pellets you fuck.
It is true they are the host and she is my own kiss Few know her toes few dress in
My shape going from hunger to hunger.
You avoided imitation by hearing yourself apart
With glass. You offered burning desert to a turbine
Of mountainous chains run on by ponies as if it were land
Torpid light of the yellow lampshade
Thinks louder
I would love to fall asleep on a herd of sheep
On her stretched out on their backs rolling over
On their turbine mass like the sirocco. Star going to its massive sides
Like huge equatorial rhinoceroses. Drunk sheep taste
My body my buboes and limp turbines coins come out of the bottom
Mud in the continent. Sheep migrate to a pepper farm
Where the cut-off finger jammed into the sky
Of a moon throws copies of light into the languid phenomenal throb
Of the pepper torsos. Ladders, Pangaea, oxen, mercury You will not exist you have
To be material first. But don’t be unknown first
You will drive your stem into reality! And on behalf of my sword
Where a lamp and  a whore’s tongue and a turbulent
Squireish root all lay only to fall off like beer cans. Purple glacial
Spunk blood sprays from the flower flesh. Anyway I’m carried
By sheep eating the soulless peppers and the red green yellow And orange and the silver blue and white bodies Suspending my heaven flame. 
For each age an everlasting fountain to drape
To invest crystal spike folds with a layer that runs through all. You came to your thoughts from an unrepeatable path
That began with your beloved mother’s spit the unimagined fruit Figment.. .you hand me with your half eaten eyes
The same missing stream of glances that comes from heave. You rocked At my waist eating sandstorms. The lamps I held were your thighs.
The throat tasted like a burnt-out match. The hunger taste like a fluid
Finding its way in. It is an azure stain that boils and silt and puke And circumcisions settle to the bottom bottom incapacitated by the zinc trap. This is god’s year.

Thé City Of Blesséd Dark

 “At the beginning was our room again”
       -- The Zygacygy AI Geminii Twins

“He said

like parsely

“He said

       -- Ssyrinxs Biiii(Uia)

Jesus: “It dreams like Eye sea.”
Joan: “There is an Eye in the middle of the ocean.”
Joan: “Did it dream like we saw it?”
Jesus: “It dreamnt me like it saw it”
Joan: “We postponed ourself to go there. Out of respect”
Jesus: “It’s a good place to imagine to be. If it’s a place you don’t like as much.”
Joan: “A place where you are less then you are”.
Jesus: “One of the room, you go through a short tunnel, with two turns, no, three turns, so no light can seep in from the entrance in; three angles. So the light gets cut off from the entrance. You come into a pitch dark, or seemingly pitch black room, and you see nothing. And then, you start to wonder if there is anything that needs to be seen. And eventually, something happens in front of you, something very nebulous, in the vision at the other hand of the room, or what seems at the other end of the room of no discernible direction except by proprioception. The faintest of faint grey, or grey glowing grey, or like pure viscuous gloom, in a very indistinct shape, appears, perhaps on a wall
Joan: “Like a fog?”
Jesus: “No, not a fog. It could be the essence, the threshold of luminescence that the human eye can detect. It’s so faint that its blending with the pitch dark even as the optical nerve tries to dredge it towards the limits of the seeable, towards that, away from the frontier. So it’s like a struggle of your eye’s and your brain’s ability to detect light, it’s a struggle between indescriminate darkness and less distinct experience of light that might ever be. It is a morphis, but it’s there, you feel you see it rather then being an hallucination. You think “this is light”, it just takes a long long time for the Eye to find it. You have to wait about fifiteen minutes in pitch dark before your eyes figure out how to represent this particular globule.
Joan: “It’s a globule?”
Jesus: “It doesn’t have a shape, but it appears in a fixed area, and you can question your companion and they’ll say the same, it’s a fixed dimness, it is in space, it’s there for all who would wait to see it. I mean to say it’s not a hallucination, not entirely, only it puts the optical hardward in a squeeze a very tenuous place because it cannot settle on distribution of light grey light and darkness. It is not a room where you hallucinate, it’s a view where you share a view from your threshold. You share with whomever is there or yourself, the accomplishment of achieving a place on the threshhold, staying and looking out. Not only a place but a place you pay attention to. It’s a place. It’s not only a view from the threshold, it’s also a view that’s scenic, you notice it, you... The idea of this extremity, it provokes a longing. It’s sacred, and living, because it appears to move. It appears to move because you’re watching how your eyes negotiate with this quasi-phantom, this dense and nearly lightless mural, mural of your perceptual limit quavering in a kind of yearning that confirms that the body in parts is together a convolution and interation of the will that must be avoided. Chapel of black dark noncrucifix of the struggle of the eyes and mind to solidify a flux of light like a mouldering of thought. . I don’t know why I didn’t stay in that room longer. But I am there now. We are there now.”

There is here.
We are here now
We just walked here
We greeted us
The sun rose
And the moon rows
The woods look like irises you said
And then I rose and irises were made
There was a freshness to the flower

We just walked here
We greeted us
The sun rose
And the moon rows
The woods look like irises you said
And then I rose and irises were made
There was a freshness to the flower
And we envied it because it was noble
Because the moon rises
Is it noble to envy?
You’ll find us when the sun rises”
We’ll be drunk
Making sacks of sands out of the sand we thieved
and our sieves received it.
Then were born again
Remembering seeing a movie in a theater
In the blessed dark it was like a city
The City of Blessed Dark
Meant by the bending boughs
The room is like their hobby
It’s a hobby horse
They ride on it
What a beautiful life the nights had

The room is like their bodystocking somehowe

It really embraces them

People taking crack around us with reverence
( here , gather these rocks )
( light to draw a circle round from something )
( didn’t need to glide from tree to tree )

The freshness of the floor is something to envy
They are lying in a crescent aisle
And it is noble to envy it
There is a window up there
The window is just a perfect square
That was made thro by the sky
A lobby
We go thro it, a little above the ground
“ In the desert, the camel rider’s eyes
is about ten feet above the ground
there is a ground with a trail of gold
It’s a gloomgold.
You know what gold is?
It is ours : “ A ( little lilith on stilts )
smile. ” the cause of the music of night
Flip tempo :  “ the speed with which
the film strip passes thro the gate
is determined by the speed of the motor
controlling all syncrhonous movement ”
A smile.
It is like a membrane made by your own speed
‘cause velocity is also time
A smile.
There were flowers at my feet, and a grass so
delicate so familiar
That I thought I was guessing that between her
and I existed a relationship of sympathy and lies,
and I felt in confidence.
A smile. It’s distance over time.

now tips into a pile of wet newspapers
hold my dick and jerk it off
as I do
to you.
So I decided to go.
Why do I keep digging thro this, as if poking
thro a pile of shit?
There was a room at the beginning
where things objects wld be thrown about ( … )
Why do I keep digging thro this
as if poking thro books
of desription,

Remembering seeing a movie in a theater when it was dark

A smile.

Chambermakers, charmbreakers

“ the world of speech and the world of matter remained apart, twofold the home of the word, twofold the home of the human being, twofold the abyss of the creaturely, but twofold also the purity of being, thus du^plicated to unchastity which, like a resurrection without birth, penetrated all divination as well as all beauty, and carried the seed of world-destruction in itself, the basic unchastity f existence which came to be feared ( … ) ”

A while later as he laid in bed,
unable to sleep, in the semigloom,
he started to see, cities, in a blessed darkness.
what am I afraid? afraid? afraid?
today is darkness.
Plump, (a smile)

“Y e  s h a l l  d i e” (1)
at first there is nothing,
so we lay in bed unable to sleep.
at first all is dark. and now a sineopine of light
opens identical to perception, of breadth that comes how its heightening would have found it
was stepping in a story that had come
into being from beneath the word ‘the Savior said A L L
bodies have come into being from beneath the word—why do I keep digging thro this
“in a special panorama, a vast maze of rooms , landscapes, streets, not sequential,
but arranged in shifting associational patterns, your attic room in Saint Louis opens
into a New York Loft apartment from which you sleep into a Tangiers street;
everyone you have never known is here.”
this happened in dreams of course where our body like coulisses are solved
in riddles that were not being made up
not like lightning being made up it started,
a long mournful creek, suddenly wishing from the fog and thro it
carried carefully like a candelabrum
slowly like it but then it’s a sound being made cold
aloe-melon green candelabrum, its like a bird looking
at his own head,
the scene opens
into an eternally new night
that comes to you
in a love
surprising people with its different
sounds :

“That must be the oars settling down
they whisper, uncertainly, with fright
forcining with difficulty the voice
that spreads
the words out.
There’s oars in the cars imitating man and ( … )
( footnote, Justin and I took Crack)
The ore…*Bang!* that crack *Bang!*
The ores…you know it settles down with time,
In levels of leaving stringbended terrortory
Terror is pure
It’s the light you can get from sleeping under the skin
of a black orange
It’s started, a long mournful creek
Become a substance I remember
As I do to you. I was drunk at the time
(adorned with rings on my knees on the seashore)
The woods are a rise
They’re lying like rains and greater than eyes
The willow is a square made up over skies
The last time we saw dustgold in particules of light
Time we were you, we saw
Beams of sunlight, gold thro the dust, floating
Their ring their eyes in a stroma of light
The ores you know it settles with time 

The arrose (ores) settles with time;
time piles up in space like millefiori
(like our flowers on mushrooms plump with all their possibility);
time in space is storaged;

every atom is pregnant with the memory of its possibilities, and time’s underlaying pulsates; with Immemberance;

every single atom in stillness where there is only space
(here my son time turns into space)
every single atom is a raw material alive with all the possible and memoryless inanamnesiance of life

it’s a cabinet
if time is
it is so that sequentiality forbids
so not to know has a beyond
time compartmentalizes eternitty
the compartmentalization of time in space
this is the concept of the cabinet ⸂describ BICHE CABINET MUSHROOM WORMJOLE⸃

the cabinet permits the organization  or ‘membering’ of time into a navigable space

harvest the see
sieve time to sew
make space

bodys a
bodys b

water + electricity = I sleep on everything

recoil, recoil  
towardt that cliff  

   THUS IN THE FACE    24° 50′ 21.135″

 After the spirit 

     of the Pharaoh had been lifted from the body, the body was ready                   to be prepared, so the beetles into scarabs were gilded, and disposed into four   constellations, at different junctures of the body, where  the sea  and the sky  and  the wind   met

 First came Anguilla,     the Eel, to be drawn along the newborn cadaver between the elbow      and the crotch,  three amethysts crawling down   the right arm to a fat bery rubis  nestled in the navel, to symbolize                    the head-and-tailic movement of the passage of time 

 Then came Apes, the Bees,    five tanzanites and four rose quartz assembled     into a dagger figure                   on the heart so the spirit of the dead may convey to his other-wordly  comrades the          memory of his community glory,    the brilliance of the swarm of his teachers and brides among whom he had been    fruited and won the most glorious wars,          so when they in their turn were to        navigate the dim stupor of Styx, they      would be remembered to the  carrrion-eaters     roaming there as companions of the King, and be thus       treated by the ghouls and the beasts of pray that inhabit those      lands with the same benevolence as he. 

 The third constellation to be charted upon the body    was that of Noctua, the Owl, and consisted in two kinds of Cat’s Eye 

                    gems, a sillimanite and a chrysoberyl, paired evenly       over each eye, so the spirit may fly and see in the dark of the afterlife as if in     broad daylight; 

 The forth, the Ramus Pomifer,       or          Apple-Bearing Branch,   took root in the wrist of either hand, where it followed the trace of veins                   all the way up to the jugular, in a solemn procession of tiny opals of all   the newborn colors, 

  New milk as it pearls almost pink at the nipple’s tip      New soil as the hand burrows a root from under its crust    New sand as the wave licks it and runs back into his ocean      New grass as the mole finds its way out of the ground   New sky as white clouds float off its immense face      New blood as the wound in joyous awe reopens   New gums as the milktooth are shed      New ashes as the fire retreats in to the forest   New darkness as the moon eclipses the sun for that instant

 Opals of all tints mimicking   the course of the veins, up to the throat where   colors out of sounds and words   be bred;  and so after   the body was clothed in gemstones    and the brains extracted through the noseholes    and the nails painted with sapphron oils   and mints and the armpits and mouth perfumed with odiferous plants

the parade began –

held up high in  the sky by twelve hands  bedecked in different metals, in  a certain order –  copper   silver   gold   tin   amber   nickel   cobalt   zinc -- the deceased  King in his sarcophagus was seen entering its last  domain preceded by a cloud of incense,  and riddled with fruits   wines and gifts,  all placed on the heads –which were worn naked- of the city’s most beautiful he-maiden,  and the fumes following the coffin  scattering from the pouches embroidered  small and sly to their belts, fumes of  tiger claws and hogs teeth and citrus seeds  all burnt together in a boundless  funereal mist

And that mist itself alive with the myth of the wish to hide,  the desire to be made blind in order to believe in a mirage  ( here, the King’s aliveness  in death, his mouth  opening in  embrace with a fully ripe peach; there,  Heathcliff trying to knock his body out  in order to let his sorrow fall  to oblivion ). The illusion is made mist, the desire  to be illusioned becomes  oasis,  where one may find peace of mind, if one chooses to fall  rather to fear ( the mist  envelopes sheeps while the wolfs 

nibble their feet ). Where 

Bukowski   reluctant to drown in his bath   could not bare the image of his naked       dead corpse carried three storeys down    and allowed to the stupid sight of the glancing passers-by -  unavoidably  and  unbeknownst     to their gathering cells  ‘round the  signs of a death as a  pack of flies  mesmerized      all the way down     the park by the   scent of an  agonized  squirrel flesh 

 –the Pharaoh’s funeral rites embody     the last dregs of a civilization succeeding  in keeping the deceased concealed from    the eye-touch of the mortal world,  while,  at the same time, rendering his last voyage a    grandiose public event for  the  sorrow and fright of his people to be calmed.


(1) In Annam they say that Ngoc hoang sent a messneger from heaven to inform men that when they reached old age they should change their skins and live forever but that when serpents grew old they must die. unfortunately for the human race the message was pervaded in the transmission so that men do not change their skins and are therefore mortal where as serpents do cast their old skins and accordingly live forever. According to the natives of Nias ther personnage who was charged by the creature or demiurgic figure with the duty of putting the last touches to men broke his fast on bananas instead of on river crabs, as he should have done, for had he only eaten river crabs it is men who would have changed their skins like crabs and like crabs would have never died, but the serpents wiser in their generation than men, ate the crabs, and that is why they too unlike man and like the crabs, are immortal. In British Guinea it is said that man was created by a good being called Kurumany (you are you are you many, that’s the key). Once on a time this kindly creator came to earth to see how his creature man was getting on. But men were so ungrateful that they tried to kill their maker, hence he took from them the gift of immortality and bestowed it upon animals that change their skins such as snakes, leezards and beetles.

Again, the Tamanachiers, a Indian tribe of the Orinoco, tell how th creator kindly intended to make men immortal by telling them that they should change their skins. What he meant to say was that by doing so they should renew their youth like serpents and beetles, but the glad tidings were received with such incredulity by an old woman that the creator in a huff changes his tune and said very courteously ‘ ye shall die.’ ”