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Today I begin recording my first steps, begin recording my animistic soundings. There is sufficient build up of life in me to feel experential salt etched in the deeper strata of the veins. Because of this I exist in refined combat with both friend and enemy alike because of my ulterior refinement of the radical.
And there can be a seasoned convivial malice, contained in rivulets which seep from one's poetic aura. I say, yes, one needs be stricken in this manner when confronting a world bereft of the supra dimension. I'm thinking of those who stumble about with misbegotten tattoos, wandering in the depths of protanopia, poisoned by the frenzy and thrust of disorder. In contrast, I, the summoner, the conch blower, the juggler, who sometimes functions as beatific deceiver. Yet who, within the treason of his ultimates, exposes his face as suddenly flashing lightning symbols.
Ennui. The expectoration of products. These are the functioning expectations. The aforementioned combined with a superficial zeal. Of course, there is a natural rejection on my part concerning such an epidermal enterprise. Within the realm of such a milieu I am an upright scorpion camouflaged as ghost. Therefore I survey the world from an arcane omniscience. I exist in the world vis a vis departure. A somnambulist, aroused by the leaving of instinctive claw marks. Though seemingly transient, I glow, I say words, which escape objective expression, which transmits to the collective a dazed inscrutable pressure. A power which pre-exists the animal.
Again ennui. The objective world as motionless blankness, as uncomprehending spirit empty with rotational statics. At this instant watching a roadway of beings, of spiritual amputees, vertiginous with assault, "ringed by sand and insomnia.”
The painter Ljuba intrigues me. He understands the vapourous dimensions of the stellar, the curious precision of amorphic trance. Within the state of excogitation I witness his "Sleepwalker,” as though painted by divination, in homage to the electrical erotization of the canvass.
There are days when I suffer from solitary arthritics, from general lunar blinding and movement.
Today, more contact with an ill inhabited populace, in which I am forced to partially partake, ensconced as I am within the present moment within the general euthanasia we call society. The latter, an incarcerated nodule of mental rashes, inflaming the collective mentality with devastating delirium, not unlike a vaccinal fever.
I always anticipate extremes when pressed to intermingle with those who possess the prevailing ideation, that matter and only matter is the primary good. Haunted by futility they take on the aggressive delusions of absolute tremor and profit. It is a bloodless American grimace which puzzles the fluidic, which confounds its own internment.
As an isolate death baron I have concluded over the past several hours to seize upon several figures of conquest, putting them under a kind of para-physical watch, putting them under the powers of light blackened with penetrant paradox. They are therefore marked by an ecto-plasmic metrics, by other two legged beasts ragged with misnomer. These being beings from the anti-cosmical, flecked by spontaneous sufferings, by spells of inexpugnable clotting. As to secret lingerings, they are poisoned by splotched karats, by tangible bank reports, Because my electrical habits are wayward and unpredictable, I sit up schisms, poetic alterations, so as to swallow divisibility and blindness.
At liberty tonight, I am well aware of circuitous conspiracy and teeming. This is how dust is grown. This remains the substance of a gangrenous placenta of fleas. Those infected by the latter are always searching for the right of a deepening imbalance, to claim without warning a sudden irreparable distortion, claimed by a dark in-fluvial heat. True, they are subject to all manner of suffocation, advancing in slow motion form, as if comparable in error to the motion which compels the ferment which results in human Gadera swine.
Today, birds over a river of greenish halo sparks, simultaneously rising above a ravine of lunar imaginary crystal. Shaking in vibratory stillness I am touched by neutrino palpitations, somehow producing an aura beatifically scorched by vehemence. Protecting my honour, I open certain forms of reality with intuitive surgical glances, wearing at all moments an invisible coat of cacti, streaked with forms resembling oneiric lightning feathers. Thus, I exist as upright lightning stone, which is the index of eternity through nothingness. Like the light of the Sun looped through various eras, simultaneous with dialectical perpetuity, from which I attempt to emerge, crystalline, vertical, incandescently impalpable.
It is night, and the plasma of the Sun is seeping through its lunar mists of imaginary lions.
Under prevailing populist ethics there lurks the threat of the denigration of being. The strain for recognition, Prevalence within public forums reveals a paradoxical kinetic fueled by a failure of nerve. It is the deferment of the self in order to embrace a harvest of statistical infernos. As though these infernos emitted definitive existence. As if by force of number they had claimed for themselves an incorrigible oxygen, far more dangerous than any personal inclemency, in that its effects disturb not only the psychic regions, but begin to rule inside the genes as a monstrous devastating damage.
Moving in this fecund vibrational lair, ironically inhabiting momentus icon cages, I explore amorphic direction which evades me and quite heedlessly shimmers, pulsing to the point of explosion I think of huertas rich in Tunisian barley brewed as translatable leper's milk which I've now commenced to psychically imbibe, removing my soma from circuitous moral forces, removing from my concerns faulty quarantine rituals attempting to flourish as dogmatic iodine flowers.
Tonight, my messages are seized by hypnotic jonquils. And these messages monomially rise from hidden tubercular soils, attempting in their upward movement the conquest of seemingly constricted visual chambers, from which I stare out at bodies traversing the atmosphere, hampered by substantive immobility. These messages are penetrant, and at the same time have ascended above the populace, dazed as it is by funeric regalia. It is my attempt at touching the sumptuous through blizzards. And I mean by blizzards, an unencumbered light, weightless, an impeccable flare of rays, appearing from the calx of penumbras.
Faced with a camaraderie of negatives, sweat invisibly pours from the constant sense of threat from the spectres which weave about me. Spectres, rotten ganglia, fissioning constituents. I am in continuous struggle against them, against their criteria of circumstantial inner bleeding, of throttled nerves, of fructifying cancers. In consequence, I flail with subjective anger at their presence, always upholding as they do the supereminence of matter and their wholesale dismissal of supraconsciousness as state.
Ghost travel, inanimate water travel, the telepathic intuitives of a finely muted turquoise perspective.
Now, just as quickly, tempestuous refractions of the heart, partaking of an unceasing alien hypnotic, reflecting a mental state, part quantum, part supra, trembling at the cusp of an a-carnal lake, breaking, through anticipatory assumptives, having done with issues which evolve from distractive embarrassment.
Yes, the blue majestical birds of eternity, their wings, like the burning manes of magical citron ponies, wheeling around a sudden helium vapour, as if, at the centre of a great cerulean hive, witness to intangible Sanskrit Suns, as powerful witness to trenchant combinatory balance.
The black art of writing contains the sensitive, along with the occult and the amphibious.
Cleansed by the monsoons of paradox, the skeletal takes on the substance of Angels, the voice always conversant with philosophical cryptography.
As poet, only the sustenance of verbs is esemplastic.
Perched at flashing mirror points I attempt the verbal lava of seismographic ambiguity, of multifoliate vocabular ambiguity.
Ambiguity is always perceived as the inverted summa of weakness; yet if we examine this assumption the root is found in prejudice against the light of the unseen. Against cryptic beads and numbers which imply the unfathomed. All my quests are ventures which leap towards occulted gold. which entangles itself in psychic ambrosia. Because to live with such intent is always to risk disaster, always prone to being viewed as meandering through wastes, unclassifiable as ferment.
Beauty is the goal of all ferment. Of course I’m thinking of poetic ferment, of the spoilage of the rational as substance. Thus, language flashes in a mirror of free totemic liberty. Stratification erases, the disparate becomes fluidic, language partakes of the interchangeable, thereby regaining the harmonic power of transparency.
Walking around an orchard of riddles, a milky dynasty of ants erupts, and the idea coalesces in my mind of mixtures of colour which emanate from the core or the spectral beyond the consensus of normal optical sight. I find in such spectral emanation the pictorial principal of the artist Ljuba. Waves of colour emanating from the “supraterrestrial” mirrors of light. Concerned with the palpable reality of "Eternity” the painter himself pronounces “…I want my paintings to be a source of disturbance and irritation for both the eye's and the mind, something that might foster second thoughts about our relationship with the world." But how transmit such thoughts to the consuming tastes of the upwardly mobile, to young academic personalities, to the opportunistic bursts of progressive entrepreneurs? Confronting the latter one gets the true experience of the gulf, the organic rupture between planes of existence.
A mirage retriever, I see myself sitting in a sand blasted mud hut, a hawks’ beak exploding from my mouth with the fatal power of impalement, attacking with the sorcerer’s linguistics that which profanely aligns itself with the exoteric spirit of the Newtonian model.
Lightning and blood — poetic cornerstone enigmas. Words working like a magnificent intestinal polemic.
To understand the vertical, the perpendicular, one must have a sufficient thrusting of the psyche into the margins of existence. As if whole walls of sound were thrown up into flaming spider's heavens and dissolved into the essence of light itself. This level of which I speak insists on the non-corporal, opposed to dates and names, to the anecdotal bondage of a rudimentary confessional neurosis.
Having passed through various iodine levels of social constriction I feel philosophically privy as witness to the frozen condition of pain eating away at faces militantly centred around those twin constrictives, of pure statistics, of pure corporality. And these constrictives act as a putridly conscious scaffolding constantly invoking a gravity of collective consensus. The modern world constantly magnetized to these constrictives, maniacally counting up antiseptic drill bits, benumbed in the face of all inscrutability, always provoking mechanical snow storms in the blood.
How does one deal with absolute freedom when constantly shouldered by a society, of dense statistical mercuries? It seems one’s survival depends on practical numerical superiority. But when one lives in a state of constant high samadi how does one cope with the opaqueness of the daily sluggards? Psychic removal? Conjuration of hieratic lavender stars rising in a radiant cinnamon evening? For now one must maintain a dynamically charged neutrality which allows the deeper ores to transmute, to fully maturate, as though one were preparing for a more optimum rhythmics of a coming transmundane interior era.
Look into the wall of emptiness and you will see fire, will see its origination in nothingness, in that zone which has been absolved of the dialectical metrics of breath, thereby reaching the unmeasured summa of vertical eternity. A transmutation of flesh through quivering moon-dial vacuums of consciousness until the transmundane flares up with a curious igneous light, melting the stones of the face. Then the appellation alters its framework, in fact the description of framework or context intuitively disappears, and one becomes charged with the power of origins, and the fact of miracles, of the elliptical appearance and disappearance of the body becomes at most a secondary power, because one will have merged with the black corridor of deathlessness and become simultaneously merged with the light flowing from the mirror of the Buddhist Sun door.
Having reached this plane, does the flesh, seismic, unable to define its perceptual immobilities in the face of this lights totality, opt for a mental thanatopsis of a-rhythmia, sulking, algebraic, depressed, or does it vertically leap, and continue to flow as Grosseteste suggests, naturally, geometrically, with the rays of the Sun darting through its blood? Given the fact of creation as its played before us, the latter condition would in the end seem to be the prevalent one, in spite of a seemingly invincible entropy, there is a level of unbridled astral plasticity, working at the core of the body and the heavens.
Today, I fundamentally see that America no longer possesses a memory. Its ability to linger over the prior exists as failed substance. Which sires a charisma of torment. The prior eats at the base of a turgid population possessed as they are by abstractions of speed. What emerges, is the beauty of ulceration, which goes hand in hand with irremediable decay. For Americans, the optional, is sulphurous, entertaining, where maniacals gather in groups, focused on at hand suggestion, paradoxically configured by spoilage, which results from disarray.
Thoughts are ghosts, are cacophonies of consciousness. They splay and coagulate, disrupt or condone, the eternal complexity of being.
I'm watching two extinguished beings converse. They are rattling on and on about their ominous situations as bodies. It is like listening to pleurisy as it bubbles through the brain stem. It seems they are drowning in waters of mutual self-deceit, passing time, waiting for the death knell to strike. Human detritus, drained of all inherent divinity? I must concur with such belligerent assessment when one thinks of the solemn behavioral spasms of a respectable family tomb, where at a certain phase the corpses deterioration determines a community of maggots. Which represents the overwhelming, from which the aforementioned beings withdraw, anxious to resume their hallucinatory engulfment by habitual mastication and imbibing.
Manifestation, isolate from the invisible, remains a self-sustaining mockery of itself.
"Gleam and vigour in our movements" amidst the perils of darkness and wreckage.
Perfection. And by perfection I think of the Argentinean Macedonio Fernandez who maintains that there are moments of perfection in this life.
What is this perfection of which I speak. I want to call it perpendicular rotation, or a power of cleansing weight, flying above the misty realms of the soil. Dialectically it possesses the root vibration, the colloquy of nerves, like arachnoidal webs connected to the Earth. Which channels pure light seemingly centred as immobility. The body then exists as one connective, as a seminal light source in being.
Even while prone to attacks from the surrounding vapour, I am always finding angles inside of poetic water, always surviving pointed electrical assailment, moving freely, avoiding assault from pointed stingray engulfment.
Emerald fire, regions of splendour, a seminal cataract of verbs.
The incandescence of metaphor, stunning, blazing as splendiferous sucrose, from which always arises oppositional volcanoes, erupting with myth through a vitreous plumage of Suns.
And here, I always align myself with sigils, with the evil beauty of metaphor. In spite of all appearance nothing can be concluded from episodes within phenomena. There always remains the exclusivity of insight, the sensitive spiral arms, the breath which flows from Galactic urns. And at the moment of extinguished lunar imperatives, I am always alive with subterranean wanderings, with voodoo from extinguished alligator hills, always uncovering forceful feral implosions, bringing to life, striking dead, strategically evading forts with acidic rivulets, with ferociously perched vultures, always snapping at the spines of those who suggest a poisoned moral authority.
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