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Sisimmän Ikuisuuskohinassa

kuiskaus avaruuden syvänmerenunta

10/19/09 03:52 pm

as my wounds heal
daniel writes brown ink between the scars
paths of spring metal

a magical alphabet of the desert
cartographic points of death
death I death II death III

a map of power
of entities
their banishments and acceptances
their spaces pinions in the dust

pinnacles in the chaos
scratches in the dust between them
leading my flesh to ink or pain
see or no see
shape or shapeless
vibration or silence

and the end,
the pictures on my skin scraped numb
I can tell you not which is which
what leads where,
fighting all night with god and the devil

so I collapse
my shinbones a roadside altar
all palpitating meat
and open the corridor of the prison
give in to the gurney's lazy way
a long night ended under the street lamp

7/14/09 03:11 am

My greatest nightmare is one where I am walking on a sidewalk. I feel the tapping, the rhythm of my steps. I feel the terrifying rhythm of others' steps. I feel it deep within my mind. Like a clock, like something approaching then passing. Then something approaches. Something horrible. A sound. Motion stops. I am made into a mess of blood. My body is horrible, I am like a queen bee made of organs. The steps deepen in sound, they are now a heartbeat. I am now sitting in my bed staring wildly into blackness. I am my blood. I am a heart attached to the skeleton by strings. I am thin, I am strained. I am open for the blade of the sun to strip my mind bare. To eliminate. Into questions. Into what? The dark I wake into plagues me. Every second is an infinitude of thoughts. Possibilities. But it is not as terrifying as the light. With its clear cut edges. Its boundaries. Blinds. Doors. Chairs. Closet. Stand. Gravity. Mirror.

My constraint is illusory. Water is my savior. Within it my womb-body moves. Slithers with the electric vision of touch. Boundaries are something to be danced between and around. Oscillatory. Hand raised towards the sky, clouds motioned towards me, towards my center. Hide it. Slide beneath the surface, half my skull staring suspiciously upward. Remain within. Wait for it, wait for the spine to arch itself upright. Wait for the convulsion of the spirit. The beam of sunlight to terrify me into movement beyond. The wall. Beyond it loping dogs elope silently towards drier earth, except in execration to thunder and the moon. Serpents move easily, slowly, directly. Freedom is found, but there is bondage. Bondage to the tooth. The real: flesh hung upon bone, sagging downward, sweating and water-logged, sinuous from the sky.

Spirit is the behavior of matter.* I have the sword within me, the vajra, the wisdom thunderbolt to slaughter the innermost slave. I will use the body as an arrow for the soul. A tool for total freedom. Beyond mind and body and soul, beyond all division. Motion is necessary for destruction, anyhow. How glorious and artful and dramatic this loathing shall be. Like the skittishness of an uncooperative cat. Communicating intelligence. Moving backwards in order to lance forward. Strategy. Premeditation. Deceit. The capability of illusion. Glorious illusion, wielded like the facets and veils of the world. Beauty as it only can exist, beyond the pale.

6/16/09 08:14 pm

precise and proportional geometric sections of the moon were cut and placed into the earth. large cubical sections of grey lunar strata, we came across one by accident one day. great grey square in the ground. the elder shaman, he just pointed to another section of earth, a valley which had been carved two miles down, somewhere beyond the horizon. vultures soared over it. he said it was a newly prepared section. open, ready, begging. the moon was coming into the earth, a debt repaid from long ago. he was not worried. the wolves still travelled through elongated cocoons crafted of lightning dust through the northern snows. the elderly women from other tribes still placed flowers and dead birds on the balustrades. the insects still danced in response to the call of his rune drum. yet we drove through the alfalfa fields. soil fertile and soft, barricaded into concrete mazes. near the southern mountains, the construction was not finished. the soft fields were sponge-like, workers hanged on precipices exposed to starlit space, the face of the earth thousands of feet below. he had reasons to worry. the boundaries of the world were folding.

a wayward youth was dragged through town yesterday between two horses. he was a thief, an outcast at best. they say he had built a greenhouse on a raft moored in the nearby river. that he had stolen into town late at night and stolen the sylvan cup. he filled it with the blackest blood of the sacred mare, a grave offense. they say the horse was found in a cloud born of a cavern in the holy mountain, that the old tribes were the ones who had encased it in metal and hung it from the great tree. that it was pyewacket, that witch of widgets, who had turned it into a mechanical fountain for the seasonal feast. old pyewacket, and his house of orbs. orbs of water. orbs of fish. orbs of fireflies. orbs of gold. the thief, he was seeking the cup to feed the strangest plants. plants which grew inverted gears, who had clockwork in their seeds. flowers which terminated in miniature televisions, each showing their own color. he grew plants in his bed, he grew plants in his bathtub, he grew plants in his kitchen. each spoon housed a sprout of moss. each jar a succulent and a lightning bug. love. eternal mineral bliss. alchemical matrimony. earths, worlds, interlacing cycles in containers. laughing water nymphs would come and go, taking these. sometimes as gifts. sometimes as theft of a thief. announced by a flutter of white shrouds in late afternoon sun. he was ever more part of their world than the one which would keep dragging him, hook and sinker, into that town. every time the elders would do it they would take him to the great treee, surround him in a circle. then the priest would arrive, bow his head low and sad, so that his prodigious beard would strike the ground. he would then whisper something about him someday becoming king. and the elders would angrily walk off. leaving the thief with a mad smile beneath his river-soaked black hair.

6/10/09 05:57 pm

my soul has withered in a spiral, a burning and intoxicated branch within the vase chamber of my body. but it has left seeds. they ricochet through long black caverns, precipices of glorious stained glass windows, serpentine, worm-like. they are thrown through this vast and unknown space. it is a tundra, a desert, yet sometimes an alien jungle, barren but confusing, fallow but many times fertile. the seeds are wandering aimlessly, without purpose. my body is the landscape. in its numberless corners sigilled rocks, filled with the red fluids of the earth, will be found. the seeds will fall into them, after great searching, not unlike destiny. separate languages will form. botanical rainbows, upwellings of colored alchemical fluids, the dyes of the seasons will drip from clouds of talismanic majesty. the borderlands will be soaked in their entirety, the brushfires which arose of nihil to bring light in the absence of organic clairvoyance will be quenched. their orange eyes answered with the violet writing dripping from the flowers of the moon. a new furious growth will take hold, its density will fill the boundaries, it will form a network, a frame, a skin. my soul will be reborn from this body seeded with light. no longer vinous, growing thinly along the sidewalk in the daylight and crumbling again at night. this will be a strong aged tree of wisdom, its trunk at its center a sphere like the earth, with its gravity. an inward eye which refracts oneness. it will be, and I will be. a warm soul of light born of the fruits of the body.

1/5/09 12:33 am - dreams (+)

we are driving out into the desert, deep farmland desert. grasses sporadically impregnated with cactus. the occasional tree. barbed-wire cattle fences.

we must find the reporter's home, it is leering in the chiming farmland wind. he has said foolish things. he wears too-tight suits, his head a grey far-too-tall buzzcut. he talks with my deep brokaw voice. tightened, angry, tense, agitated.

we have psychic powers, we can change the electricity. this group knows secrets among the moon-swept plain. we will cause blackouts, stranger things then. we will wander in office chairs across abandoned cities made of flower shops and red paved curbs, cut into the valleys. looking for red energy drinks and 40s. youthful privilege and concurrent rebellion. we will ride these chairs down hills into supermarkets of indefinite objects. disrupting corporate order, causing chaos in our midst. we will break the tension from our minds into the exterior world, causing pranks of terror which send social shivers through their sheer audacity at being beyond the pale of reality and the non-paranormal. our muscles will make us fly across dark forests at will, in the mental bindings of magick.

we have found his home. we have jeered and broken mailboxes outside. we are youthful rebellion. I doubt our success.

when dreams come near their termination my mind finds the most delirious, terrifying, and invigorating lucidity. a state where I feel physical sensations. dissociation ends, and a new reality is simultaneously built and operated, controlled. I can feel my eyelids move above the new solid and authentic artifice, my mouth spit out the saliva made from breathing hard and shallow through my mouth instead of my tense congested nostrils. yet I control everything in the dream.

therefore I return, I see that rooms in the reporter's house are abandoned. the lights have been destroyed, the remaining electronics in the room are in the trash barrel, or they are the trash barrel, flickering in and out with the chattering beeping of disconnection and malfunction. we have succeeded somewhat, and I understand our power. he is off somewhere watching himself in the operational room, keeping track of the world so that he may build new words, new interpretations for tomorrow night. he is as unaware of my presence as my parents when I wander their house late at night. asleep in focus on the television.

I break away from the desert. I want more control of the great night. I return to my old home. I am wandering deliriously. I think hard thoughts, tense the muscles of my head, every limb of my body. the light switches are all turned off. the lights turn on, with a shrill electronic ring, like the ring of blood pulsing in my ears but outside my body. I have willed them into being. the house is barely constructed yet its presence is entirely lucid. I float up to the ceiling at will, turning more lights on with my mind, succeeding some of the time, failing the rest. I feel the terror of this control of new realities. I feel the spit falling out of my real body's mouth. I feel that I am in a state of total fugue, and I am terrified yet strong. I wish for more control but only the surroundings remain my creation, I have only the powers of my waking life remaining. I escape before the delusion possesses me, my eyelids flutter open, the skin of the dream decays like burning film before my open eyelids. I am truly awake. and terrified to fall asleep again.

10/30/08 02:18 pm - dream

It is far too hot a summer in Tokyo, children pant like dogs, half-real, half-animated. As the film progresses we realize that they are all silent, eyes wide, mouth agape with shock, they are looking at their dead strangled little siblings as the air ripples deliriously from the waves of heat. Black office buildings, black leather chairs. A child wakes up in the middle of the night, aware of the clock, then goes to sleep. It says "commence the nightmare." It is him wandering around these black rooms, the leather pulsating, the skin of his face warping around his head, a hallucinatory brown-orange, vibrant like plastic. They are finding the voice of the killer by using a new computer. It is a field of computer towers on desks, in an office room of no unusual character. They are all met with legless, wizened, near-skeletal and fetal biomechanical organisms, with too few or too many arms, alive and real, and controlled. They are all sealed in plexiglass cubes just large enough to contain them. Twitching, apparently processing. Oriented away from the computers so that the technicians can understand their movements.

9/20/08 01:11 am - a dream

100 km altitude "red sprite" atmospheric phenomenon, 4 Jul 1994, photographed by NASA jet.

Driving through the desert there are green farms, cranberry bogs in the valleys, flowers in the scars of the landscape. In the middle of nowhere, across the road, unbelievably small, is a vivacious forest canopy, just enough trees to create a chamber, a fluid-filled living space. Floating above the road but below the canopy is a black sphere with vaporous edges, destroying all detail. It is like a great blind spot, a portal of clouded night sky, a circle that follows our orientation, never changing. Everyone is in the car, sitting on top of each other. The car is slowing down out of some reluctance or shock. We never take our gaze off of it. I say "keep driving, don't stop, don't stop."

8/21/08 09:57 pm - desert sun has cleaned my soul of its memory/ you can't pay the rent with love/ envy

matt valentine & erika elder ( MV + EE), Vermont?, 2007

"They choppered in the t-bones and the beer and turned the LZ into a beach party. The more they tried to make it just like home, the more they made everybody miss it... Problem is I had been back there, and I knew it just didn't exist anymore."
-Apocalypse Now

8/10/08 02:08 am

The following spring, a colonizing expedition composed solely of men, many of them veteran soldiers who had fought to establish English rule in Ireland, was sent to establish the colony. The leader of the settlement effort, Sir Richard Grenville, was assigned to further explore the area, establish the colony, and return to England with news of the venture's success. The establishment of the colony was initially postponed, perhaps because most of the colony's food stores were ruined when the lead ship struck a shoal upon arrival at the Outer Banks. After the initial exploration of the mainland coast and the native settlements located there, the natives in the village of Aquascogoc were blamed for stealing a silver cup. In response the last village visited was sacked and burned, and its weroance executed by burning.

8/1/08 11:17 pm

scrape away my humanity with steel wool gamelan shringing tone, she, coyotl, is hurt, she is hurt in the desert and she will not be quiet. I am all quiet nosferatu clinging to boardrooms and staring at the wall, I was born of this affluence, the reign of whiteboard white, the boredom of white, untainted faces. the desert is dirty, stay inside, outside ugly. I am broken tin man steel rock mountain man, white wisebeard wizard wandering the wood when I occasion myself from my tower into mountainous history, amongst pixies made of fluid flames. there far from this, far from this bowl of rotting coffee streams on stinking pavement. I want to be off of this reality, this slate of business, this van filled with paper statements: "you are not actualized." it's easy, it's whispered around corners by sarcastic old flappers who steal cars and trees, it's evident in smiling flowers in those terrifying woods. they are so far out there, away from the shrill night, away from this concrete fate has smattered me and my vestements upon, flat slab under foreboding sky, and everything. yet here and there isn't it, it is he and she, beyond setting. these souls without boundary, without birth, swimming in the same starlight. out there this distance is nothing. we will never be out there, and you are not here, nothing is out there, nothing is here. yet nothing is true, so I touch the meaningless ground and think of its sacred adjacency - molecule upon molecule until I touch everything else by proxy. I touch you but I never feel it, yet I do as subtle as air, amorphous like we forget the solid ground when we think, when we feel, when we encyst ourselves in memory. but I cannot forget how we are fissioned. despondent.
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