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. There’s a passage in Dennis Cooper's novel Frisk hatching both the pearl and the pearl’s 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 Allah’s breath through the skin of His hands resting at the surface of the pearl’s membrane.

“It’s 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 pearl’s pale pulsing gleam. It also reminds me of something, but I cant think of what, is Julian’s 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 can’t think of what, is thoughts churned around in its glasswed kernel.

The meeting point of the horizontal hourglass is a valve, through which Allah’s 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 Holderlin’s 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 pearl’s organism.

Armored is the shell, the pearl’s skin. To roam at will, timeless is the pearl’s 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 pearl’s 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 Adam’s 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 ? Adam’s 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 Adam’s 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 haven’t 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 he’s 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 Eve’s 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 infant’s 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: ‘I’m 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 devil’s 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 didn’t know from Adam or Eve when she should have heartily occupied with the confection of some shepard’s pie for her husband’s 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 wouldn’t 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  mom’s boyfriend this morning and he inform us about the people who, (it’s 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 Olympus’s digs in the heazens. The she-boar’s 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. There’s 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 wife’s nose on the spot. And thus the sausage docilely proceeded to go dangling at the tip of the nasal appendice of the fisherman’s 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 can’t be my Lord”, he declares,

“ for I  love not things that change”.

This is Ibrahim’s 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 isn’t 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 Earth’s logic. In those beta forests the trees sham their texture from the wind’s, 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 Ibrahim’s 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 we’re in the same room, and where we would be allowed the supreme grace of being one another’s sentinel. Or we might each have a tower fluttering above the dark sea, and each night

we will walk to one another’s holding a dark flame, a flame darker then the sea still and still in a little glass lantern and the day’s 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