PHILOS (Nature & Character; Traveler excerpt; Evolution; Spatiotemporal Linguistics; Five Parts; Creation)

PHILOS

NATURE & CHARACTER 7

THE TRAVELER 21

THE EVOLUTION OF CONSCIOUSNESS 69

SPATIOTEMPORAL LINGUISTICS 117

FIVE PARTS 125

THE CREATION OF THE HUMAN BEING 165

NATURE & CHARACTER

I did not wish to live in the slums of this world. It was almost as if, deep into the womb of the cosmos where the soul is birthed - I was tricked into arriving here in this place. Have you seen how the shanties stretch for miles and miles into the sky, like a prison line or an internment camp? Stomachs get used to sickened, rabid water - fed through the taps; poisoned with pollution and mud.

And yet we saw this world, and were raised on it all about us, with the animal ignorance that was typical of mankind. Each individual salvation was forgotten. It was an alleyway, an unnamed apartment complex, where people lived and died and were broken like reeds before the opening to a massive waterway. Lives sprung up and were cut down, over and over again, on endless succession.

We were the ones who made the soil rich and strong; the blackness dark and deep. It is like how the taste of destruction is pleasant, how the sip of liquor and the drag of tobacco brings on the pleasure of death. This is the sound and the bend of cells dying. The exhale of release. The final tension of gravity removed from this earth; the witness absconded and absconding into oblivion.

Here, if we must be here, we are here to stand in the tension, in the place between living and dying; the place between birth and death. And what, then, is this world but a slum of passage, a place between, a temporality? All that time takes is clearly marked on each mud hut, each smeared brick tenement painted by the passage of time. It is worn on the face, on the body, like warpaint. And yet, all of us wish that we were not at war - for some great peace that extends beyond temporality into the eternal.

It is the succession of days and nights that are the lashing; as it is the taunting dance of light and shadow. It is the movement of the dial of time across the face that wears it; the waking manifestation of a planetary body pulled and dragged by unnamed, uncountable attractors. Sheer masses that beckon us out from innumerable distances; dark attractors which gape, call, and draw with gravity.

I rose in consciousness in this land, in this isle, where the gulf before us is an impenetrable water, a water unsoothed by the clear blue calm; where mud is drawn from the basins, depths, and trenches of being. This water of opacity, this water of blindness, foresoothed, lack of sight. The planetary guides are like arrows, rules of law, diktats. Their endlessly shifting gates of time - where we are forever birthed into new worlds of pull, attraction, and command. The body must be shook from this waking dream; we must awaken into the freedom from gravity; the freedom from time!

This must sound like madness to the dead. A music of madness, played at the harp of the mouth. How long the rat must run unto the endless maze, until only death feels like the surrender. You see these men, beaten, whipped! Dragged down by the pull of life; the arrows upon their mouths, creased, hungry, gaunt… or else enlarged by the great fear. A force among forces, a whip among whips - condemned to command only the smallest of hands. This is what it is to be beaten! Language digresses into abstracted quips, or else small yelps, whines, contortions of speech. We must be clear; become clear among the meaning; dissolve this letter of time with the permanence of eternity - the solute of all things.

You can see that I have left the slum. My concerns are no longer there, the dredges, the dirges of cardboard, mud, plastic… the endless tyrannical mountains of waste. The endless, endless bodies sheathed and unsheathed of meaning. The pyre of this earth is a flame that reveals the infinite. We must be cast into this flame, recklessly, awake and awakening to the true nature of our being. The planets circle and entrance; leer with a total gravity. This is the key, the gate, time - gravity. Time itself being gravity; the movement of bodies in space. The transcendence of time being the utter freedom from the body; from the prison of gravitational pulls; forces, which wear inevitably upon the flesh and material form.

But how - this freedom - to unsheathe the consciousness from the body and become perennial witness, and yet retain the body as instrument, as force, as mover? Is it through mind, through brain, through that which the body seeks to protect? We are a filter, an exoskeleton for the brain. This alien core of consciousness sheathed with neurosystems and blood cores. We are a flow that sustains the foment of the ancient mind. What is this mind - we must know! And yet, it is something through which we think it, something through which we consider it - weigh it; toss it like a coin. Our consideration of the mind never leaves its domain.

The mind and nature are inseparable; all of nature is a manifestation of mind; the foment and fermentation of the capacities and articulation of mind. Across all of its domains - beast, plant, tree, flower… star… we are the full spectrum of form upon which mind takes noxious gas, condenses liquid; becomes cellular water. We are this cycle of the mind trying to free itself from its own grasp. Do you not see that this prison and its chains are our own? The mind is the key…

We are in the process of leaving. We are going to a place between dimensions, at the crux of the chrysalis and its breaking-open. This nature of time is being bent at the knee by the introduction of timelessness at the hands of the mind. For to know what time is is to break it; to enter its code and by alteration observe the infinite design; the introduction of the symbolic numbers of planets, stars, and their circle of attraction and design as building blocks of sustenance for deeper forms of density. For we have reached into the depths and we are like worker ants; carriers in the mines of being to foster the brain, the nectar, the juice of the mind. We have had to descend deep into incarnate matter to assemble the tools, materials, resources, building blocks… the elements required to resurrect an instrument capable of observing infinity.

For, like a scientist, we need an instrument, a technology, a telescopic eye! For how else would we see into infinity; to observe the true nature of ourselves… These instruments are always material. They are always made from flesh, bone, blood, metal. We must come into being to have the aperture of sight; insight. We must see through the wind, the tunnel, the gate of time through the aperture of unfolding. How does one build such a thing! But this is why we are slaves to sex… slaves to instrumentation, the dutiful recombination of the lock through endless births and rebirths, deaths… we are not individuals, but rather - this deep and fundamental collective… for this purpose we are serving…

A slum sustains life, just as an apple, a berry, a cut of flesh. This precious mind animates matter through intricate wiring; reflects back upon itself. This is the window, this very passage of time - this moment where the purpose of the development and unfolding of the mind is revealed through itself. It cuts and carves back to the very matter of its birth, its unfolding; comprehends itself in the broad scheme and veil of nature. All of nature is purposive, is it not? All of it - toward the ends of survival; the reproduction of survival. But why survival, what is the importance and relevance of life to the broad scheme and mass of nature?

It is comprehension; the vehicle; the passage. Nature is evolving out of temporality. We are merely its guide, its guardrail. We are ushering in a new paradigm, where nature needs not form nor time nor body nor gravity to truly exist. It is a transcendence of the former prison; the brutal attractions of gravity. We are thrust here to do work, mere fractures, spittle, sparks - to illuminate the entirety of the whole in a wildfire of revelation. This is our purpose; we are sprung from gape after gape to accomplish this task. Whole armies of life climb from the gutters of birth and death… this is the body! Endless attempts of nature at survival, comprehension, recognition. This process may go on for centuries… millennia. It is no matter. This is the true fitness of nature herself. An utter lack of separation between subjectivity and objectivity. The worker bee within the hive of the universal body.

We are uncovering the way of the mind. Each body, each being is a relational attempt. The elements cast off from stars form a literacy, a language, from the light of death, sparked into animacy. They clash in a darkness, a doldrums of formation, a somnambulism of consciousness. For the longest way and time, we are truly sleeping. We are nothing more or less than things that consume and excrete biological, evolutionary materials. In this way we are slaves to time, you see - that we are pure instruments without the capacity for reflection upon the entirety of the natural whole. We are participants in the minds of being, passed down and passed down to foster the growth of the mind which will shatter the concept of time; free us, free nature at last from the grips of slavery to temporality; the punishment of gravity as a recombinant of forms and densities.

Truly we are as nature is - we are nothing but the ever shifting prism of the mind, ever changing to evolve to the imperative of vision. As soon as we are, as soon as we become, we are abandoned to the clear viscosity of another form, another development, another evolutionary imperative of the mind. For this is the nature of the mind, liquid as arid glass, moving about the terrain of nature herself as an endlessly amendable formation. All in life construes, coagulates, and breaks about the vision of the mind, the idea of nature herself. How can we know the way in which mind has arisen? We have carried it blindly to this point like bearers. We are within a pregnancy of vision, a vision that is ours and not ours; a vision that has emerged from within the very source and origin of space and time.

What does it matter if this space, this time, was orchestrated consciously? It emerged from an intuitive imperative of creation, deep within the bosom of eternity. As soon as we are born, incarnate, into form, formless consciousness is shattered into a magnetism of attracted and detracted parts, vessels, cast aways, private slums adrift on the moors of destiny, fate; the oceans of time upon life rafts of temporality. They call out to one another in signatures of sameness. Parts drift and attract like sexual limbs; nutriments. We are passions among passions, each wailing out for the moment that will transfix us; split us across the bridge of life and death and avail us of eternity. But it is no one vehicle that we will latch onto, no parasitism. Within us is the innate technology that we are nurturing unto the awakening of nature herself to her pregnant motives, her essence.

Amidst this jungle, we are the predators and predation - but this is what we are leaving! It is no more in the world where life is shattered and reconstituted in the truth. That mind provides nature’s truest reflection of herself… and it proves to be utterly empty, characterless! For there is no word, nor definition, nor image - that truly captures nature. She is no one thing, nor can she afford to be. All of her essence is within all things, but it remains unfixed. There is no fixture of nature upon which words can latch, like a scaffold or a ladder. The very darkness from which she; from which we have emerged - is her essence! It is this very primordial possibility, this very radiating, seething gape - it is this that is the creation of the truth; all forms of truth. For there is no lie, no deception in nature, simply and merely means to an end. And this is the way that the mind is a ever sided die. From all angles, there is a vision of the truth. We are anglers in a deep water abyss; which every way is illuminated by the truth; which every way is a way.

You call this chaos - I call this truth. For when we are cast into the vision of the eternal essence of nature, it is truly endless. It is without bottom, without top, left nor right. It is neither limited by directionality, nor shape, form, constitution. It is the endlessly unconstituted which is the truly wild beyond all of our definitions. And this is where we must be; yet this is where we fear to go. Why is this? Because we cling to the body, which is the house of the mind! See, this paradox. We are not there yet. The mind has not achieved anything but, at best, a private sentience. This wisdom, this word - has not yet spread across all forms, like a network, like a message, a communique. The body is still the house of the mind - it still must sap and fat the form; it still must nurture this fetus of millions of years through the tunnel of the womb of the flesh. It has not yet ripened; it is still premature; it is still green upon the vine!

We are not yet ready for the infinite, as an edge of nature herself - but we are priming, primed for it - through the viscous fat of the mind. We are a nurtured dew on the precipice of revolution - to be shot off into infinity, beyond space; beyond time… to see a true vision - that which we truly are. This revelation… it is beyond all that we ever believed we knew or could know. It is beyond all duality, beyond all conception of separation of forms, the illusions of ingestion, digestion, consummation. And yet, for us, these things are all so real! They shimmer, they taste, they digest… they all acquire attributes that convince us of their separation; yet we are endlessly incorporated into us, as us, by way of them. Understand this - that this is a world swallowing mouth upon itself; time collapses in upon itself by way of its very introduction toward a singular, miniscule operating point which controls the whole field of awareness. And this is consciousness itself - it is beyond mote!

The hands grab for fruits of the earth and feed for the mind. The dews of water ripen and stir with heat and reveal hidden forms of salts. The greens of leaves pulse with evolutionary blood; the veins of tigers steep the red meat of the flesh into a sophisticated language of nutrition. This is a world of great health! Even amidst the poverties of time… stars rise guttural and bright; growl and carve meat into hearths of energy. We take flesh upon flesh and make fire! This metabolism of material… endlessly returned to the fusionary reactor of the cores of stars which power the growth of the fat and still of mind, centuries and centuries over.

We are being built through ourselves, unbroken by and from the core of vision which constitutes the birth of universes and galaxies over, in an endless parade and tree of bodies and beings obeying the great somnambulistic principle of energetic conversion, transfiguration, and transformation… like silent matches until the brain is alit; the wildfire spills over, dimensions and dimensions over. Each of us is an opportunity of and for the scaffolding of transcendence. It is our very bodies and births which are the ladder over which nature climbs, in the endless pursuit of new attributes and combinations which might unlock her secrets to herself. And this is how we are simultaneously an alien other and an intimate source. We are between spirit and the darkness of matter - the alighting and illumination which we are to the core of the unknown from which we ourselves beckon. We are a dark mirror through which we are the very eyes that we gaze. Complexity! We emerge from ourselves to observe ourselves. Both this light of awareness and this darkness of essential abyssality are the truth of who we are. This changing eye of mind, growing in sophistication, flourish, detail, contrast, and aperture… and this impenetrable, dark well of adimensional byss…

To go mad with emptiness, for we breach the illusion! The illusion of the idea of separative self. The jealousy, envy, protection, the spittle of the injurious, wounded animal, the sneer and smear of life! We must paint the ground with ourselves to survive! Blood, semen, ovum! We, this small protectorate, this individual, individuated attempt of nature - each gifted with just enough prescience to observe the bodies we touch; the opaque spoils of the foods we ingest, the lives that we lust for her. All for nature’s ends! This, our higher self, so to speak… she has packed us in, into this world. We seek for exponential growth, more means for production, more smokestacks, more production and accumulation of matter. But it changes not our lot! It merely increases our chances to strike the right lot through a synthesis of chance, a genetic locker fit to reveal the order amongst the chaos of matter, of man…

We must blink in and out to create more space, for at last there will be nothing but the consciousness of eternality. We are headed toward not an isness, or is-not-ness, but rather a full encompassing of the awareness, of the embodied knowledge of eternality that is disembodied, a full circle impregnant nothingness - a nothingness which sees and observes its true self as thus; thus, is endlessly a still of creation, varied and variety of forms, all of which are known of their true identity of formlessness. This is what awareness of truth brings; will bring, across the entire chain of the forms of matter of life which have rose through the mud and clay of recombination densities. Mind is the gateway between form and formlessness; it is the higher energetic center which metabolizes the matter of energy. It is the very thing of the physical form which touches, communicates with, transmutes, and recombinates the infinite. It is the primordial generator of the idea, the thought.

The electrical signatures travel up and through the body and spine through neurological pathways. An electromagnet, a circuit of energy generated from the whirring of the metabolic hearth of the digestion of the being; the excretion of dejected waste from the process of the absorption of nutrition, of flesh, vegetation, fluid, electrolyte, mineral. We are a transmutation… a transmuted thing. This energetic, electrical power is signals, impulses, the power and flute of the mind. It must whir like a beacon which is open to infinities; open to the great energetic cloud of existence which is spread across all space and all time, almost imperceptibly. Like plasma, a cosmic infiltration, a network, a water, a wetness which conducts the air, space, and essence of all being. We are among the very network of creation; we are creation seeking to understand itself! And what mechanisms do we best have to understand this existence, this foray into space and time! The hands, the eyes, the ears, the mouth, the nose… sense mechanisms of comprehension of what is around us… but what is within us? The mind.

We take these impulses, these signals, symbols - and decode them. We outfit them to comprehension of survival. All the while there is this peripheral uncertainty. Why? Where do we fit in? What is the purpose of life? This is the evolutionary development of the mind - survival is no longer enough. We are no longer fit to be a mere nexus for energetic transference for the next biological technology, the next unfolding of a creature with better, greater apperceptive capacities. We are meant to directly reflect and comprehend the whole onus of being - the whole creature of ourselves - the entire mass and true self of nature in which we are like an organ or an arm; in the mind, we are the very mind and single point of the comprehension of the means and creative ends of nature herself. We are her direct comprehension; her mechanism as such.

The motor of stars and the metabolic motor of men. What is it but this fire, this fusionary transference which is the productive core of energies; the excretion of building blocks; materials and soil of being, from which further fertilization and fruits grow, endlessly down the chain of being? We are performing the same function. We are the same eye.

Tipping over, this life will end as we know it entirely. The revelation of nature, of nature’s way, mouth, and word - requires an entirely different reality, acculturation, mechanism, and aperture of being. What happens after her imperatives are grasped; her natureless nature is revealed? The true source and root of survival unveiled; staring back into the gaping veil of the abyss which is the true nature of character; the endless cycle and funnel of creativity which is her energetic imperative? This pure fire, rippling through space, time, and being. What, when her ends are reached, becomes of those who have ceaselessly strove toward the revelation of the imperative? Their mechanisms, their code, their technology of this factory of bodies? When we have gazed… directly into the heart of existence, of being herself…

These technologies become instantly outdated. They have served their purpose; achieved their end. What comes next is a reflection of the realization, of revelation. Free creation, unbound by the service to direct comprehension, to the vision of the character of nature’s true reality. The old ways must be transcended in the revelation of their essential programmatic purpose; this purpose was, precisely, to reveal what was concealed by the darkness of emergence. These beings, these forms, they must be a free art of total creativity, unbound by their onus to the codes which manufactured, which farmed agents of creation; agents of being - to this nexus point of cultured understanding of her essence. They must be her, herself, unbound.

THE TRAVELER

She is complete, but never finished. As she works now, so can she always work. Everyone sees her in his own fashion. She hides under a thousand names and phrases, and is always the same. She has brought me here and will also lead me away. I trust her. She may scold me, but she will not hate her work. It was not I who spoke of her. No! What is false and what is true, she has spoken it all. The fault, the merit, is all hers.

Goethe

THE FIRST ACT, I.

Come closer now towards the light, so I can speak with you. Ah, yes - the silhouette of your face is made apparent. It is but a shallow lamp in this hall by which we speak; at each moment, the wick of flame flickers in the wind of time.

At each shadow you jump, on the verge of collapsing. Are you so fearful of the night? The things that lurk within… we have a vestigial imagination; remembering the claws of history. But can it even be called history? So ancient that it cannot even be remembered. We do not have a name or an image for fear; yet it lives in the brain; tosses and turns in the limbs. The frantic pumping of the motor, the animal nature…

Yes - I am not from here. You’ve caught it. Just traveling; this city by the river reminds me fondly of the temples of the blood. The desert rivers, the cradles of life. We gather and drink and trade among the waters…

Anyways. You said you are running? From one gutter to the next, from one parasite to the next. We are but fleas hopping upon the backs of this earth; gobbling at her blood mouth. To live you must bask in the sun and drink the electric blood. That was the purpose of the old rituals; the madness of torture; the dungeons of the asylums. Civilization, to drink the wine of the blood; beating the sacrificial drum together. We throw the dregs, the lost, the confused - into the fire; this fleeting twist of the mouth that is joy at the murder.

The way that the blood of the red meat nurtures the flesh… this cannot be denied. You’re running from the killer, you say?

He’s gone into the night with the rest of the prisoners, the nectar, the drug of life, he sips it most gleefully; hops from branch to branch; dying, blanched carcass of earth. He changes clothes; shifts in the daylight; glimmers in the night… the fatal dream. We endlessly dream up new sacrificial methods for our closest silent meat; all the while grant ourselves the permissiveness of illusion to throw feeling into the fire for survival - for hunger.

Yes, yourself, as one who champions the weak, one of the strong. The first to lie, the most triumphant in the story of uplifting beggar fellows from their slipping into the silence of the last sleep on the cold streets. It’s an ancient story, the noble motive. To uplift the sick, the impoverished, to raise all life towards the light. We’re like dogs, we are, or something with less language; even more pure utility. All goodness and glory erased for the moment where one form of life must raise itself up in front of the next and raze it for blood and warmth. The pure carnality is unavoidable. All of this boasting of righteousness emerges from the mouths of those who are most quick to shed the masks of their skin; feast and devour those they’ve sworn to carry forth into a new world of power.

I lie? That this is simply a vicious internal motive, a belief… let’s not be fools about life. Man is no different than any other beast that is forced to roam in the wastes, where nourishment is spread far and warmth is tinged with the threat of a dropping cold; a winter’s chill. None of us are exempt from the dying of a star; the fading of a pulse.

Notion of the true fear is peripheral. It haunts you and the others out of the corner of the vision of their eyes. Fear stalks us like the true predator. For all you want, you can pretend that this life does not begin and end at the precious fire within you, that you protect; that you greedily slurp with each fading and distant passion - which, from child to bleached bone, you drink in a self consumption which bleeds you dry. That your hands do not grasp at the rungs of life like the rest of us, your high and mighty power! Divorced from life. That’s what we call those who slip into dreams, idealism. They hold no ground, they’ve already gone from this earth. The dead that creep among us; whisper speech of pure delusion.

All there is is the ingestion, it is the blood and nutrient, the element and mineral that enriches us. We live gnawing at the dead stone of the earth, and take the warmth of the stars unto us in all forms. Nothing is exempt from the raging heat of a star rising toward a meteoric light; the angry, raging star that consumes all of the death and dust in its field; swallows the radius of other slighter, younger, and careening deathly fields. And this is known to all, even if it remains unspoken. The true radius of power is thankless, feelingless, and takes all unto itself. You protest - I see it in your eyes; feel it in the stirring of your hands and face. But your protest is a revelation of the truth that you know to be true; the rebellion of contradiction within you. That which you believe, to protect yourself from the truth of reality.

This is the nature of all animals, that the young are reared by those it must usurp; by a pride that must expand and be cut down by the fall. We rise into a summer of ecstasy and seeming eternal power, the reaching of true ephemerality to a knife’s point, a razor’s edge; then a cascading downward into the coldness of oblivion. For we are at the reach, we are the outlier, are we not? You sit here and speak with me about unspeakable things; the sweat upon your brow - this language revealing something inhuman. And yet you remain, even against your best intention. You, too, wish to know plainly, purely, what is, what exists in this world.

And I applaud you for that. Truly. Amongst all the snakish addicts and street beggars, the rags of the marketplace, those who clutch to their already dead memoirs; pure sentimentality. This is the warmth that keeps the folk of animals alive; into the fold of their stories, their culture, their histories, their presumptions of right and wrong. But we are far beyond this, my friend - we are into another realm entirely. We can no longer afford to believe in such religious things. Survival screams like the panther emerging from the brush. It grits and bares its teeth to such unfortunate realities as these. And who are we to call them right or wrong? When a baby suckles and teeths at its mother’s breast? And the mother strangles it in the cradle? Yes - I see you wince at the thought, or for me to even begin to broach these realities to you. That the weak are just toys, to be manipulated, pranced about, manacled by the proud and mighty whose fall is soon destined. For everyone and everything has something beneath them, no matter how small - no matter how lowly the order of power. Even ants take life beneath them; order it, enslave it, to fit the correct and proper system of assumed responsibility.

It is so wrong to kill those weaker? To enslave them? You speak from a place of unreality, of nonexistence. That which makes this world is an endless chain of blood, linked from all species and life forms - from the plant to the cell to the biped. We all live and breathe and eat from the star, a reaction sparked by the far reaches and ends of time. Such a thought is death, dissociation, or utter ignorance. And yet, the very survival of our vision of collectivity, of community, depends on it. The kindness of others, in an ecosystem where the order of our jungle is submerged; the acceptance of submission by lessers is required. All false order springs from this, the smokescreen over the true procession of the affairs of power. Bankers, officers, titans of industry - we have made these men great rulers who grip the currency of this world in their hands and thus assume command. We are totems among totems, images among images. We sit in a theater and imagine a world of order that we have left behind, a world of order long forgotten; a world of order from which we have awakened into chaos…

Yes - precisely. It is the mind. It is language; the creation of the art of life. For this is where we stand, this strange species, mankind - we stand upon the precipice of an alien world, an alien life. We cease to be animals and yet with each fright we remember our animality. The softness and fallibility of the flesh… we are stretched in the splitting of the brain. This new world that is incarnate within us is the growth of the very technology which allows us to reason, to reconsider, to re-think and reflect. We cannot yet grope truly with it; we stumble. Gather closer to this lamp - so that your face is not in shadow. Good - I prefer to see clearly. The mind is yet so young; fed like a sapling or a fetus on the fat of the mother; we are the incubator for another way of sight; another way of seeing. Perhaps the mind feeds from us, that we are its ambassador, its tube for feeding…

THE SECOND ACT, II.

This new brain. There is a concept called dialectical redoubling. We are pushed back in upon ourselves with the contradiction of self examination. Can you not see that this is the trap? We have stepped too far into a new world which is not yet existent. We cannot take our bodies with us. The rush and race after us, but we have already breached into another realm, the realm of the ideal. And the mind rests there and dreams and frets, depicts life back to us on an endless loop. We consider ourselves, toss ourselves over in our heads like a smooth coin. And all the while the fundamental fabric of our lives does not change. We are still trapped in this embrace if you like, or wandering in the garden of substantiality. We are still wrapped to wanting things. The body that must breathe, the blood that must pulse, the mouth, stomach, and intestines that must feed. And yet we worry about this? The appearances and trifles of our world? The stories of culture… it is but a madness, my friend, a madness. Any and all will kill to preserve their stake upon this ladder; all that is left is to free ourselves from it entirely.

How, you ask? Quite simply - suicide. We must die to everything. You think that I am joking! Rather, I am quite serious. The only path forward from this dirge of nonsense is to see the fundamental emptiness in everything. Life is a tunnel, a fire, that passes through everything. It bestows no meaning but the capacity to see meaning, create meaning. Humans are narrative beasts, narrative animals. From the place and pit of survival, they tell themselves whole shadowplays of meaning, the entrance and exits of characters - multilayered and leveled visions of their own existence, character, and persona. When all the while, it’s just a mask to maintain; shovel in the pit the coal of the endless, insatiable hunger.

We’ve run so far into this dream that we’ve surrounded ourselves with affirmations of the story. Toys, trinkets, clothes, roles, jobs. Imagine a cell dressed in a suit! Or a rat or a heifer presenting you with a bill of goods. This civility itself is a mask that must be ripped from the face to reveal the bloody, intercuteal layer of existence. You make yourself stone. You live and act in a rigid, rigorous darkness of ideals and roles. You have yet to unleash the animal; you shield and sheathe yourself from the madness which rattles in your bones like a caged demon; you’re a beast unto yourself.

Trudge endlessly into the future of a cold science, if you please. The mind… it wanders. Perhaps you remain even halfheartedly in this conversation as it dwindles; I myself cannot even be convinced at this language, the writ of this tirade. To struggle and smear the shit of this word onto and upon the air. There is something about the lowness of it all that is illuminating. We could step out into the night; remark upon the paths along the riverbanks. The animals and beings, bodies that decompose peacefully and slowly in the ecosystem of the water. These are the simple facts and affairs of life; yet they are treated with such fear and disgust. Perhaps it is because we do not truly understand life, nor do we understand who, or what, we are.

Ah, I’ve piqued your interest! Good - we might remain in this place of wonder, like a slight drunkenness. A red wine on a spring or summer’s evening. A cobblestone path lit by orange streetlights… a great moment in time of possibility. We must remain drunk… but I digress. Yes… who we are. Or rather, what. A series of chemical reactions, a series of sparks of electric light; animation which propels us forth? Pure energy in dreaming suits. We must react and react forth, yes, to live! I must take in the fuel; the fuel that fuels the deepest bowels of the earth, the iron engine; the heat magnet; the voice of the earth; the magnetic pulse which spins us in a dance - propels us into the great attraction of which we can only speculate! Ah! The return of passion, gracious, gracious wonder. I must feed upon the oil of the earth, the black river of soot; the ash of the ancient ones. This emboldens me, grows me in power, a flower among evil, a petulant thing. This is what was meant by the devil and the fall. A fallen angel of the light to reside in the world of fixtures; temporary things with gravity and density. That is the risk, that is the cost of maintaining form. It cannot be avoided, monsieur, it simply cannot.

Yes, I’ve let the mask of my language slip… I am not from here, but I know many languages. You could hear it in my accent? Perhaps I cannot remain as obscure as I wish to be. I am no universal thing, but a stone among stones, a ray among rays. I travel with a hood over my face. I remain in no place for too long. I know many cultures… yes… many. For I have been a part of heritages… many names… many worlds…

We must remain focused. We must remain in the place of ecstasies. Come - follow! We are taking on this brief coat and traveling to the palace of evils. Rather, we are goodness disguised as evil. Each of us cowers over the river of blood and furtively fills the chalice of life; sips like a guilty animal. Are we demons because we are called toward life? I say - this is our very being! And we are to shy away from evil to become deathly things… yes, my friend, this is your religion. Your religion is one of death and pure sterility. It is of the mortal fright of the weak. I see your rebellion now, greater than ever. Perhaps this is what makes you devilish! We who do not shy away from life are those who endure. Your great preachers and monks, your interpreters of books - they feed and tell you not to feed, to die, to find your life in the next world. Who was ever enlightened by death? Die to the world you believe; cease to know. Silence your mind and awaken to truth! Enough foolishness!

Pardon me… I’ve let myself become incensed. This passion… I’ve seen many like you. Many who with great obstinacy retained the veil. I cannot peel it from you, nor take it from you. Your fear protects you, makes you stable; throws you into a world you wish to know. I know of the power of dreams… many nights, I’ve slept - and they’ve told me things. You may think I’m mad! The ancient depths of the mind wander toward truths we can scarcely begin to estimate. It is remembering the origins of itself, monsieur… it is remembering the origins of time - the moment the first cradle of the yolk of the egg of fire broke from the womb of timelessness. The moment of the abyss; the moment of creation. Your eyes remember it, your mouth, your tongue. Every inch and ounce of your body seeks to create; to remember the procreation process. You are but a tool; a tool approaching and inching toward the horror of its own self recognition. Do not worry… this process will free you eventually…

For now, you are like a prisoner, in chains, marching in circles. Row after row, prisoners in their manacles clasp the backs of one another and see no further than the man in front or behind them. The shadows in the pit of the yard hazy; the twisted faces of the soured, rotted, mad brains of each and the next - telling each other horrid tales of philosophical incompletion. You see, we are trapped here, among this world of stone. This open air mad house. We cannot remember what is like to be sane because no one has ever known! Consider this, and know this to be true. The only sanity we’ve ever known is the sanity of the animal, utterly and totally enmeshed with nature. The sanity of pure survival, mindless, thoughtless survival. And this is worse than the Bastille! How are we to pick the locks of the mind which chains us? This mind that you are given has utter attributes, my friend, attributes that are severe and unforgiving. It is your lot, the code that has been handed to you - the alphabet from which your existence powers itself into being. The rotting smelt in the breath that seeps from the core of the stomach precedes all speech. Men who are killed by their own vices - their words are meaningless. They cannot speak of anything but death, utter destruction. They are jesters, clowns in the carnival. And yet - this world is all clowns!

Join us then, in the parade of madness. Celebrate the carnival of ecstasies! Drink deep from the barrel of the witness; let blood in the open. Do you not see where this road takes us? Men like us who think, our sanity slips from us to let the masses. The sheer force of thousands, millions, it overtakes the voice of reason. And yet, we cannot let ourselves think these things. We must protect the barracks of our privation. We must allow ourselves this allotment to think, to understand. For what else remains? The coldness of this world… the dull, brute animal steel of clashing, of war… of men; power over men…

I stand and warm myself by this small fire. Join me, beggar, ironworks, men who work on the rails; in the mines; I call you forth to be enlightened! Laugh! And yet, the fire is truly warm. Feel it, flush against your face. This aliveness, this passion… we must become strong in mind, in heart, in body, in the very unity of our ideal with the manacles and materials of this world. We must forge, you see, forge this passion upon this earth; sear it consciously into being with the power of embodied, elemental life. And yet, it takes men of genius to see it. Men of genius who can penetrate the veil of life and return it to elemental wholeness - beyond men; beyond animality; beyond earth. We must return to the primordial origins; to the fount of life; where it all began. We must know time in a deeper way; return time to timelessness.

In each moment, life penetrates; leaps into being. We must seize and ride that electricity, understand it to be ourselves. We must grow and enliven and entrance and dance that energy. We must awaken it; awaken ourselves to ourselves! Surely you understand, monsieur, surely you understand! Need I not explain this to you!

Nothing else matters, nor does anything else exist. The rest of this dross among us is like shadows to be polished off a diamond; yet this is no diamond, but a star. The opacity of life is like a sheathe we must remove upon a dagger which pierces mortality into immortality. This is the true identification. Beneath all of the coats and cloaks of self imagery, we are a current utterly and truly unbroken from the source of existence and life itself. We must return to this place, this place we have never left, but a place we have never truly known! Understand this contradiction at the level of history. We have lived in the utter survival state; we are and we must migrate with the power of the new mind, the mind of the front brain; we must migrate into the state of true self recognition beyond all shadows, imagination, and imagery.

You’re quite right indeed! Even words seem to veil this phenomenality. For how could I explain to you the internal, embodied union with something more primal, with more depth and truth, more accessibility than even the most animal, guttural instinct? We have not prowled deep enough, my friend, we have not prowled nearly deep enough into our heritage and origin. This mind is millions of years old, but our life far precedes it. We have been passed down, like a beaker, a test tube, more times than we can scarcely imagine. How can you recover yourself, you ask? How many lifetimes have you, as this code, this mixture, this amalgamation of genetic language - this book of nature - how many lifetimes have you truly lived? More than you can scarce count; the sheer atomic elementality and cellular life within you remembers a history scarcely worth bothering to attempt to contemplate. And yet, you can feel it, can you not? The life that lives you, the life that steers you like the bow of an ancient ship through waters that you simply cannot conceptualize! You call this madness and confusion, I call this innate enlightenment! You must dive deep into the core. This is where the blueness of the sky and the ocean touched by life turns to blackness. The pearl of life rests in the core of the blackness; the core of nothingness. Therein rests the nature of the true light of the sun.

Understand this simply. Before the star there is nothing, abyssality. We must know what we are and what we are not; what we are is time and the state of being before time. We must return to the balance of nothing - the balance before any and all duality, any and all relationship of separate cores, beings, bodies. We are a stage at which this dynamic of time is playing out; intermingling, comixing, expanding, contracting; articulating an increasingly complex dance of a multiplicity of forms. All this emerged from a window as brief as a needle; a contraction and expansion which birthed from the womb of mote singularity an entire phenomenological relationship of beings, species, galaxies… all of this we do not know, nothing, not even the remotest thing. And yet, again, we must feel it! We are left to our feelings, to our intuition. The faculty of eyes convinces the truly blind of their mutually exclusive genius. It is the ignorance of hubris which fools us. And thus we live and die as things which merely survive our own ignorance. And what kind of fate is this? Destined to do much less than know; to rejoice in our own stupidity - rolling around in the mud of our own delusions of imagination.

I know. It is the last gasp of control. It is the last stage of the animal. It is the way we keep ourselves and others safe, like a wall around a city, a fire around which we gather our huts, a method of organization. The stories, the tales. The art. For that is what it all is! The art, the imaginations of worlds - these are all mechanisms of control in the face of the brute fact of breaking into the truth. It is an exclusive thing, done by the terribly few. For it requires the constellation of a great deal to penetrate into reality from the utter delusedness of the animal. The fearful know that they know nothing; they are crushed in body and mind and thus in image by the utter weight of a life process that plays out before and within them. The many know that they are victims to a deluge of life; a deluge of life that comes wearing the mask of death to them. The very organic nature and laws of life, the principles of the cycle of life and death; the subsumption and transformation of energy and blood and fuel; of heat - it appears to them like a great evil. They expound, they shout and scream, they call it the reaper of evil, the carnal matrix of the devil; they claim that it must die for them to live - and it must! These many are not wrong, these masses. Their very lives are threatened and taken by the powerful, the life and the tiers of life which trample over them to claim further vestiges of life.

So they recede into spectacle. The sovereignty of the pleasure of the witness of the carnival, the circus, the colosseum. The play of death and power which scarcely touches them. The witnessing of the death and foolishness of others to escape their own. It’s consistent with the idea that one who is condemned can only free himself through the condemnation of the other. One who is powerless must only find one less powerless than him; unleash all of his angst and anger upon the wretched, the lesser.

Leave this world! Truly. One must leave survival behind; open himself and his insides up to death; to be polished and be made pure by the total ecstatic suicide. This is why we are drunk, my friend, upon the ledge of existence. Then and only then are the mortal burnings of the stars clear; only then can we see what is truly at stake. It is our ability to experience the truth of existence; not to live and die in the anguish of the shadows. We must not labor long for anything other than the total apperception of the truth; this is a toil that requires us to relinquish ourselves entirely of ourselves. And this is precisely what constitutes the real and only death, the death of illusion to reveal the eternality of the real. Everything else is a cloak we must strip from ourselves to bathe naked in the ecstasy of the moonlit river of the stars. This, my friend, sounds like poetry to you. It is the poetry of the truth!

I am no preacher, nor am I no babbler, musician, poet, or anything of the sort. Words are my medium, my language, to communicate this truth to you, in hopes that you and only you will hear. I speak them with utter clarity and directness; I speak to you in confidence as a friend, as we are - here together to contemplate these things in the tavern beside this darkness of mortal struggle just outside. May we sit here awhile and contemplate further? This, we generate true warmth from this - the camaraderie of truth. It does not matter where you are from, or what you or I once believed. It is that we are seekers; that we seek the truth of our nature, our very being. What is your essence, monsieur! We have come from darkness and shifted shape into complex networks and channels for electrical information, for light. We are discrete data packets; we are ceaselessly exchanging, communicating, with ourselves, one another; with the network and soil of cellular life… the coil of the air and the heat of the fusion of the stars which are our birth mothers. The earth which is our womb…

We have come from darkness and yet we shirk the darkness in fear of ourselves! This foolishness… this fear of our supposed great evil. We condemn outside of ourselves what is within us. But we are the great evil! The murderers, the heathens, whatever horrific crime so soothes your definition of the evil. The strangulation of a young woman and the death of a butterfly. The extinguishing of the life of a cell; the murder and consumption of an animal. This line that we draw of cannibalism; this line that we draw of life! We are ceaselessly crossing it; yet we proclaim this judgment; this ability to condemn others for the acts we thoughtlessly commit at all levels of existence to remain; to retain flesh upon this scaffolding of darkness and abyss; the turning and fleetingness of life in any one, given, temporal structural form.

It is much easier to perceive ourselves as being the righteous, you see… much easier. For it is us against the rotten world is it not? The world that is out to get us, take from us, steal from us. The intuitions of common folk are nearly always correct and well soothed. It is far simpler to stake this claim of ourselves as the victor, the hero; that whichever conception of divinity is on our side toward our holy pilgrimage of destiny, is it not? It makes the murder, the rape, the corruption much simpler. To us it is this ‘necessary step’ toward the fulfillment of our powerful destiny, is it not? You see… this is not foolishness, as you seem so desirous to suggest. It is a great tool, a way of being in the world so as to convince oneself that one’s violent acts are not simply necessary, but dignified, honored, even holy. It uplifts the struggle of the animal to the plane of the divine. Each rape or murder that is committed, each massacre, each genocide, is committed for the holy rite of supremacy, the holy rite of power. Can you see how much weight is behind that concept, monsieur? How much weight and how much power is placed beneath the conviction that whatever act one perceives must be committed is not only necessary but holy?

All of this is pure selfishness my friend. And you are afraid to admit this, perhaps as am I. But it is this selfishness that propels even the most righteous act. We must become, as it were, ever more selfish. Why? So as to perfect selfishness. To unify selfishness as a whole. The truly selfish act is an act that is committed in total balance of life. The chain of life is meant to birth something higher than the human, higher than us. We are but a step, a stage in life. And that we surrender to life is that we surrender to this process; the realization that this process is at the root, us ourselves. That we hold no permanent ground in this shell, this corpse - but rather this body is a passage of the life itself through the tunnels and gravities and grounds of time into new form, new formation; new matrices of evolution; unknown methods and ways. How can we know which way the future will turn? The drop of a pin, a hair-trigger - the life on this earth reverberates and dances on the dial of chance. One movement, one perception, one belief, one idea - it changes everything, in the most subtle of ways. This is the dance of the light and the rays of the sun. One winter, nothing may grow there again. One summer, this plot of life, this land may become a new paradise.

We must embrace this chance, you see. We must dance on the dial of darkness and permit the total and utter silence of death; in another hand ceaselessly, endlessly create like the fusionary powers of the sun. We are a contradiction reflected by the moon; we are an hourglass which takes on the colors and flavors of the light. We are penetrated by the light of life and aged like a wine in the bottle and barrel and still of the existence of being. And thus we are drunk off of ourselves, indeed! For we are permitted nothingness; this is our freedom. We must embrace this chance that will grow wild things from the vines of the unseen; even as our feet and toes grip the warm dirt and soil of this earth that threatens to grow cold as the body of our flesh careens away from the warmth of the sun. We are a game of perilously small distances. And this is our beauty, indeed… the beauty of our uncertainty which is in fact a deeply perfect geometry measured in planetary movements; the exact curvature of the earthly form and how it hangs entranced in the mutual dance of its neighboring bodies…

We are a perfection disguised in the balance of the known and the unknown, which can only be called the past and the future. Before us lies an expanse, monsieur, an expanse that is a gulf, cavernous, deep and wide; it is into this unknown we must leap before the flower of our candle is extinguished. We cannot be concerned with good and evil; we must only be concerned with what is righteous and true. And truth alone is righteous; truth alone may be our guide when all else has fallen into chaos. Warring parts ceaselessly vie for control; only the whole of existence and being rests in peace. It is the true spectator, the true witness beyond the spectacle, beyond the theater of time, life, and reality. We must stand outside of being and remark upon it from nonbeing. Do you understand this?

Very well. You must take your rest, as I mine. Tomorrow I may well be off to another city by the river water. I crave the silence and solitude of the woods of travel; away from this turning world of affairs. I bid you farewell! Perhaps we may speak again… Adieu, my friend, adieu!

THE THIRD ACT, III.

Bonsoir monsieur! Yes, you recognized me! Very well… no we did not exchange names. Perhaps it is best that it remains this way, is it not?

It is rather hopeless in the marketplace today isn’t it… the carts are blocking the way, the disorderly nature of it. Let us step away from the clamour… this hopelessness that is everywhere. Passè, is it not? The struggle to maintain our lives. This overcoat that you wear of your sincerity, the guest of your disguise. But I know you too, the one who seeks to assert passive dominance in your extension of friendship. By your eyes, you see it in yourself!

It is good that we speak to these things; give them an eye, an ear, an air to the nature of the beast. His hunger. It is best that we do not avoid these things, monsieur - and face them head on! This gives us this little nobility, does it not! Indeed… we are a great struggle between the demon that threatens to overwhelm us, and this thin thread of compassion that we extend over the gulf toward friendship. Let us be not misers but comrades in this war that burns the trees, the villages, and leaves us all cynics! I’m afraid so, my friend… I’m afraid so… that we are all bastards of the demon mother goddess that we call nature. She is a hungry woman, alas… she will not leave us, and she is the one that will feast through us! Insatiable carnal beast, devil woman! She is called the black woman of hunger, she of many names. But my friend, forbid that we get caught in this place, simply forbid it! It is best that we remain upon the surface and exchange glances of goodwill, is it not? Before we are dried up tar, left upon the spit of the bone…

To meet on this day, awfully hot day, the sweat. It is days like this where the struggle against death is forgotten, where the sun is mortally close. It is less threat to be burned alive in these summers than it is for the blood to run cold in the snow. Remain close to the sun, chérie! Indeed - we are all huddled for warmth to keep the blood alive. The whisper of the language that we all speak; the shadow of which words merely evoke; replicate. So much of us and around us is dead; it is death itself at which we stare and persistently evoke. All that life is, it takes unto itself! Robust, bloated, consumption! This hunger, yes, in our best intents, threatens to eat us alive; we are burned of it until the ash of old age. We ache; we long; we leer jealously at the young! At the height of life; not knowing the fall that awaits them. The young are close to the sun, are they not? Maintenant! At this moment! Precisely. And what fallen image can replicate this? The blood of youth?

Nothing, monsieur, nothing. And this is why we devour our young, eat them alive. For they are close to the sun; the ripe fruit that is plucked by the hungry march; the procession of death. We are death eaters. For we must gobble the meat before it rots; take from the vine at the robustness of the flower. And we do so with a mixture of fear, shame, and delight. This is our lot, monsieur, may we rejoice in it! That we are killers of the hunger; killers for the pleasure that is to mingle the hot blood; for a moment give us life before we lapse into the dead silence; the depths of feelinglessness. You have felt this abyss, my friend, have you not? The abyss that beckons and waits; the abyss that is neither moronic nor intelligent, the pure characterlessness, the abyss that is not even seething! It is this dull point that perhaps we most are my friend. We are entirely neutral, in our moments before we are heated like the stove towards passion, or broken from passion and ecstasy like an addict that is sapped of all of his desire into a catatonic blackness of despair and death. We oscillate, do we not? This absence, until our threat or fear or predation is aroused. In a childish, pure way, we might call this curiosity…

Precisely there is nothing to fear. Death for us is the most personal, immediate state. The felt sense of emptiness that we must obscure with music and noise; the chatter and throng of the market, of the clubs, dances, musicals of our lives. The theatre must obscure it my friend! Lest death threaten all and each of us personally. Lest death confront us and unseat us from the carousel wild ride of feeling, sensation, and the mad circling of our thoughts. We dance around the fire, and this is what makes us mad and free; ignorant and intensely stupid. Consider it! But for a moment, recede yourself into silence. You are nothing, not even a worm. You are not even the lowest chatter, not a branch, nor a rung, nor a chittering of a molecule. Deep in the soil there is the intense silence of death. Not even a sigh disturbs the dead; they are truly at peace. What are you, monsieur, running around for your desires? You may tell me that it is a certain coat that you want, or a certain stone. A certain vehicle, but all of this is a fugue, a smokescreen for your true desires. You wish to elevate the thing that has always belonged to the dead to the palace of enchantments; the celebrity of desire. You must let pleasure overwhelm you, even in the mutest lie, even the shadow of the desire of your ideal. You must have even the fraction of the image, even the wafting scent of the fullness of the dream image to sate this fiendishness!

That we are - fiends until we truly die. Fiends til the end, til the surrender and relinquishment of the temporal to the eternal. In this silence we are undisrupted; left to the withdrawal of escalations and deescalations of pleasure. Can you feel this, monsieur, the silence and shuddering of the addict, suffering in the privacy of his cell, deprived of his object of chemical injection? We are at the site of madness, monsieur, the site of madmen who are hopelessly addicted to the hunger. We starve and gorge; spoil until we ourselves are as rotten as the meat and fruit we slather ourselves with. We spoil in the stomach of the beast of our desires until we are nothing more than the skeleton of the seed that is dutifully returned to the soil of being. This, my friend, is true groundedness! Is this not what you wished to hear when we first spoke! Perhaps… this is why we found one another once more… this part of you inside that remains; that will not die; that will not relinquish the white fisted grip. Ah! What remains of you is embedded in one final object. It is deep in the dream of pleasure and fulfillment; the ecstatic unity.

You are used by this. Nature’s instrument, the black goddess. Used, in the fire of your state, the passion of your metabolism - to create - to ceaselessly create! Driven by the fear of death, you are but her pack mule my friend! Look directly at the horror! It is but a joke, a language spoken in the silence that you are but a carrier of the language, a seeker of the very word which you transmit. You are an alphabet, a letter, ceaselessly added to the speech upon which nature stacks, block by block; builds her web of consciousness. This sophistication - there is something of a beauty to it - is there not? The delusion that sweeps through all of us, this imagination, this conviction that wakes us from our senselessness; drives us towards creation and procreation? There are a thousand lies which we use to justify ourselves, our grandeur, our fitness, our strength… a thousand ways to enter into the halls of the paradise of pleasure. We are used by our sensation, by our feeling, my friend. And we call this choice; we call this freedom of will! That we shall go as we please, do as we please. But do we ever consider what constitutes this pleasingness! That we revolt at death and are drawn with the sickness of magnetism to that which we consider beautiful? That we copulate at the poles of attraction and violation; that we draw blood from the source and center of the greatest evil and the horror of the beautiful?

That - we are is violators, my friend. We step into the halls of nature and make distinctions based upon the chemical program of our desires. We are made to press forth; become a stage of difference. We are called to rape, to penetrate, to enter the sacred by way of the violation of the beautiful. Our very bodies are sites of violence; sites of interpenetration! Consider that we are the liver of the world, maintenant… that we are the wine of the lips that it pours down its gullet! This is what it is to be eaten alive from within, my friend, to go mad with the consumption of desires!

You must be used to my tirade by now; find it permissible, even an enjoyment in it. The rantings and ravings of a beggar, a traveler, a man without a home. For I have wandered far and wide; found these things to be true. Even if I refused to look at them; even if I hated or reviled to see! How men protect their trophies of false destiny. How they gorge upon the hated thing; stare up from their meal with forced smiles of feigned pleasure. How women drown in the false platitudes of men; let themselves be swallowed up by the current of their biology. How this time is limited! And how, time and time again, we settle for shadows. The fruit is never as ripe, the steak is never as juicy as - it had tasted in our minds, monsieur, is it not! So we settle for the mere shadows. The pregnant waiting of a time that will never come - oblivion! And yet, at each moment, we stare into the grinning face and mouth of the abyss. That which we are, verily, the abyss itself! The monster which we seek, the mouth which it gapes; entrances, and entices with the dream image. We are drawn further and further into the dream, monsieur, further and further into the maw which entrances and entices. It is like the glow of the lanterns of the deep sea fish, the fish which grin with stakes for teeth. We are skewered, the meal of nature. Our blood is a great sacrifice…

But we must regret this! We must repent this and shield it; shield ourselves from the terrible realization! Nonsense, my friend. This is pure and utter nonsense uttered by the real heretics and harlequins of this world. The real bastards. They must run and jump and prance and kick in this musical, you see. They must grin and frown with their faces in their mouths to force false feeling in order to pretend that the devil within them is not slicing and gutting their insides. These false men… what is there to do with them? This world is a circus, monsieur, run by bastards with cardboard insides. This is how we do war and make religion. We must entrance. There is this enemy or that enemy, there is this evil demon that resides here, or there. It is all within us! There is truly nothing in this world but abyss, and the attempt to make the abyss recede. To ignore it, to hide from it. And this is what makes devils, monsieur, this is what makes hells upon this earth. For there are evils far worse than the peace of the abyss. It is neutral, it is a silence - it is the end of speech! And yet, you and I, we must keep speaking to avoid the silence…

Our real evil is the hunger, my friend. The monks who starve and die; turn away from nature. They sit on cots until their flesh clots and grows around it. You could say that these men are sick, that they are mentally ill, deranged. But you must see the small lacerations that we make as we carve our way through this world, monsieur, the small, almost imperceptible lacerations. We are all very clear upon where our focus truly lies, even if we must lie to ourselves in our determination of it. Each of us has distinct hungers; we seek them out with the desperation of men on their deathbeds. We are aware of this infrequency of true pleasure; how little time truly remains to make ourselves gluttonous with images of power which incite our receptors. We gorge ourselves among bones, monsieur. We are the vultures at the feast of the dead, sucking what remains of the meat like carrion in the aftermath of a great war. For it is already over - we are living in the aftermath of a death that we cannot reach but through the slow creep and crawl of time. All of the ugly terrors; the monsters we synthesize - they are all of the mind’s attempt to reconcile what time will bring; what time may come. And in this, we cannot rest.

For this we long, truly - the rest of the mind. The peace of death which is the aftermath of death. The true silencing and relinquishing of this earth; the fruits for which we lust. The true satiation of our carnal desires. Why else would we lust so furiously? But for the end of lust? Why else would we desire and drive toward our ends so fervently, but to still them in the soothing waters of pleasure? But for a brief moment, in the burst of orgasm, monsieur, we are truly sated. The sigh of relief. The bite of pleasure from the vine which stokes the lust of our blood. This meal, this meal for which we are truly seated. We are both the enjoyer, the sacrament, and the sacrifice. But it must not be our blood, no! We must outsmart, outwit, the one who sates himself upon our flesh. We must not be the consumed!

Alas, this play will go on. You nor I are no different. Something must keep this fire alive within us, whatever it means; to whichever ends it is directed. And this is our hopelessness, our homelessness. Can we gather around this fire of being and derive meaning from it? It is simply an ember, a ceaselessly glowing flame, lest it by extinguished, transmitted, passed down; changed hands from a bush, a bird, a flower, a star. What does it matter if we take this ember forth? And yet, we cannot relinquish it but to submit to death. And all that is within us rebels at this thought, lest we are consumed with the madness of suicide. And this is where all men come to rest. We are so dutiful at the upkeep; the taking up of this life into our hands, that we must madly rush after pleasure or else… at our disgust, our lack of fulfillment, of our pain - to cease to be henceforth? Our lot is between everythingness and nothingness. We are stuck between a place that is endlessness and no end. Is it any wonder that men go mad and are left with no option but a rage that knows no time, no place, no meaning, but simply rage?

And yet we must go forth… we must. Each day we are urged forward, pressed forth, into a life that is not even ours. A life that we must keep like a sentence, a field that must be tilled like a prisoner, clasped at the ankle with this mortal coil. What is left of this? We must sing work songs to keep us busy. Lest the prisoners rebel; kill themselves and the guards; rush to a freedom that is only at the end of the ocean. The body keeps a time, and this time moves forth; burns within us until the flame is excited past the corpse; rides the corpse into a shedding of the skeleton. We are steadily dispersed, breath after breath. This time, this rhythm, is a clock of death; the movement of shadows around a totem until the exhaustion of the heat and breath of the sun. Become still, monsieur, and feel the presence of the moment. Breathe in the solidity of this endless transmission, this transaction of oxygen between ourselves and the trees of this earth. We are an exchange of materials. We are a membrane, my friend… a membrane. Nothing that remains in and of us is ourselves, but for the very essence of the transaction itself. Nothing remains of us; no parts of us will keep but the essence. We must take to the river! We must row; rejoice in the rowing! For it is not we that are rowing, but nature herself…

You have known this feeling. I can tell, I can see it! This feeling of having been won by a dark hand… of having been operated, somnambulated like a puppet… an unforeseen shadow… you have been won over. The terror, the fear; the secret knowledge that the entirety of your life was played out by a series of forced impressions; the winning over of forced favor; a series of almost unconscious, knee jerk reactions. Your body twitches, your words espouse, your position shifts - all to reveal the terrible etching and framework of nature’s work. But is it so bad, my friend, is it all so bad? Perhaps we are won over by this greater force like we suckle upon the breast of the stars. That we are lesser things within a greater order; to let ourselves be won over by this order is creation’s work. That we are a cell within a massive network, a gear within a massive grade. We are spun like a rock upon a mountain; lest we tumble and bring the whole secret machination to the ground…

Awaken to this! The shadow of the operation at work and at hand. To realize, to achieve true recognition is dangerous work. Lest we rebel against our programming, raise our hands to the very force and essence of ourselves. Who are we to question the great machinations and law of nature? Dutifully heel, and these pleasures are ours! We are whipped into anger and a lust for violence. Copulation, is this not how we were made? See how easy it is to fall into the lust for sleep. The simplicity of receding into the animal being. The slumber of plants; we must long for the dream, monsieur, we must… we must long for the dream and the silence of forgetting. There was a world then, a world that was a womb that we must climb back into. An ocean’s song, where we forgot about death. We did not fear then; we were the song of nature herself. We were resorbed and spat back out into her, over and over again. The song of a million births. The repetitious lapping of the waves. Birth and death was a meditation that bled over into itself, time and time again. There was no distinction. There was no line. Feel this pleasure, monsieur! This idyllic thing! This thing that we once were, thrown out into death! I spit upon it, monsieur, I do! This awful knowledge, this curse that we are cursed with. Forbid it, forbid it all!

We must flee to another land. We must escape this knowledge of death. But to where do we climb but dissociation? Where do we flee but the world of dreams; the land of forgetting? There are opiates for this, my friend, a great sleep, the pleasure of the death of dreams. Solidify! Wake up! Dance among this cursed stone… where is this enlightenment, this freedom? It lives only in the silence. The dawn before the very essence of life itself. Before the dance of sun and moon, shadow and shade. We must find the dark essence. For a star must go out, shall it not? These are all eventualities. We are waiting with the bated breath for the dead, from the eye of the sun of light. We must resolve birth and death by going to the land before it, the subsumption of all dualities. We must find out what we are before birth and death. Before day and night.

There are no words for this, monsieur, truly no words. We become nothing, nonexistence itself. And this, my friend, is freedom. This, my friend, is peace. And you must tell me what great joy it is to become something. I spit on this delusion! What suffering it must cause you, for the fear to lose everything you have so precariously built upon this background of total abyss, total groundlessness. You have built this castle of persona against the backdrop of ceaseless night, so much night that it can scarcely be called such night as there is no arising of day! The illusion of the star is an active forge of burning, my friend. It is a transformation of fire, a transformation which cannot be said to truly exist, in that it is ever moving. Time is a stream which deludes us in its appearance, that we are light in a passage of time, in a false tunnel. These are our chains, monsieur, these are our prison bars; we drag them through the low light to the crowds of the grave! You are within a narrows, a box, a cage! You must die! Become nothing, throw your chains! You liar, knave!

This is the passion of one who has stripped himself, my friend. Foregone it all, be done with it! I spit! To the lies, and yet I eat this meagre portion of bread; trudge along and trudge forth. This world is a circle. To dance around the circle with true self forgetfulness; true rejoicing. We must have nothing, be nothing; be less than nothing can possibly receive or believe. We must be utterly absent, and in this way we are utterly present. Do you see? Empty your pockets, you fool! You must be not you. As I am not I! We swirl and dance in the true presence. Without words, you see? Without words. We must be, and thus I speak because words dribble from me endlessly, I am a fount of words. They must come and go silently, like a music that is needless and yet a joy of creativity. Wise is nothing! Wise! Dance with me! Wise!

THE FOURTH ACT, IV.

Perhaps the night shall dull in tone for us, my friend. That we will recede into the quiet of the firelight and contemplation. Let us return…

This day has been nothing but terror. Waterlogged with the sweat that marks the feverish man – caught up in the tossings and turnings of his own machinations. These refractions of light are like a coin in our minds, monsieur, but a die, a chamber, a prism. Every apparition haunts us to no end; ceases us nevermore. We are running, rapidly, rabidly – incensed by the smell of flesh; the promise of a great prize. My friend – this is death! The promise of death! It is like how fanatics are chased to the end of religion with the promise of glory; sex; virgins… the carcass of beauty rests just on the other side of this road. Picked at by carrion; picked at by diseased, wretched worms…

Do not let sickness frighten you, nor the huddled, pale, cold – these night terrrors are nothing more than spectres in our vigil. Their flames waver. Some are drawn to death not even emergent from the tunnel of the womb. Some stars squirm and are extinguished in the wet, cold, suffocating moist waters of life. She could not bear us all to the surface, monsieur, she could not… only the proud and the strong screamed their way into the light; suckled upon the fat of the earth before it was stripped to the empty bone; sucked deep of all marrow. It is not the lucky that survive, monsieur… no… not the lucky – it is the strong!

If one is not strong, he must trick. She must bare her teeth and entreat the blood. A costume draws the suitor, or a shark fitting to bear her lesser hunger. The weak must eat less, they are silent and still more. They do not resist death; they welcome it, the sour taste and scent upon them. It is the breath of death; the rotten flesh and excrement which suffocates the life within them. We must not pity the weak monsieur, no – but we must not indulge them either. For the weak see an opening among the strong, else they stiffen; put on a proud face. See her my friend! With the cowl about her face, bent over her cane! How proudly she bares the winds by the water, humbling along. This woman is a wretch – she is longing for death – but she would never speak it. The weak put on a proud face… a brave face. But when they are faced with strength, true strength, monsieur, they must sour and spit upon it. It is their way.

You look at me with scepticism! Truly, my friend! Have you not come across one who is strong among orders of the weak? It is like light cast upon roaches. One who must lie and cower to survive – one who must serve at the feet of one greater than himself – my friend, he is the greatest threat. He is the one who makes himself low because he must; makes himself low and knows he is thus. He strips the meat that remains on the bone off a lion’s kill. You say you fear the one who kills; I fear not! But I am wary of the one who follows the killer – the one who feasts on his remains.

These are the simple facts of life – the facts which follow after we arrive in transcendental bliss. Like a drug, we are shot from ecstasy back down into the lowliness of the world. Like a man who is unified in sexual ecstasy with the sun, the impossible light would shatter the flesh. We are not rid of the weight of life – no… we trudge among the hells of other men; a world that is cold and heavy with clouds; a world of brick and mortal desperation. Men who do not know heavens, nor do they know pleasure beyond chemicals that riddle the body and sap the blood; whorehouses that drink the blood and juice of life until nothing but dry sacks of the guts remain. We are among the forgotten ones, monsieur, the ones who are forgotten by heavens and forgotten by life; live firmly upon this plane. They are chained here by the hard senses; the dull firm senses; the plane of the reptilian eye; the eyes of animal hunger. Many live as beasts, monsieur. Many live in this world like a cheetah upon desert planes… slow, isolated, stalking prey. Ambling toward no destiny but flat horizontalities. Inevitabilities of emptiness, stretching endlessly into the distance. The sheer emptiness creating a mirage of something, anything coming of which to survive them.

You ask me is this hell… certainment! What do we, or they, know of heaven other than what they have been told? These men live in containers. They are ensconced in a reality which is purely material. They are liver punishers. This world is a filter for pleasures, my friend, a pack of smokes, a cigarette which must be smoked down to the marrow of the bone. There must be anything, anything to sate this ill of life, monsieur, anything to sate the sickness of this skeletal form. This is what is ghastliness, monsieur, pure beastliness. It is the irrefutable truth of what ends man, or any beast will go to in order to receive chemical pleasure. Men who have been beaten, whipped by the cane of their passions can now only feel by the sight of rape and murder. They live in their quiet rooms and toss and turn diamonds and cash in their palms while screams fill the mines in far isles. What does it matter to them, the mass graves in jungles far from here, far from this place? The arrondissement must be peaceful, my friend. Only if the boulevard where the money is cleansed of the blood is charming, this world remains. All of this death and murder – it must not touch the world of the charmed.

We must not see the cattle we slaughter, nor the rape that sustains us. We must be blind to it. It is not a matter of will… it is a matter of necessity. For if you were to see the gutted soul of a cow, the raped slave in the mines – you would recoil with such fright that your very life would be at stake! You would be thrown into the deepest peril, monsieur, the peril of the pit of your life, the stakes of your soul. You would be driven to the confrontation which no one truly risks – the confrontation of the consequences of your actions, the truth of your responsibility! For we are all complicit in this madness, my friend, all of us. It is we who hold the knife, or worse – it is we who turn the blind eye.

All of this is chilling… yes… chilling indeed… for you did not realize that you were the devil of this earth! Oh holy one! All of these praises be and sung within us. The most wretched among us are the most holy, my friend – only the most wretched. For they can have no qualms, no presumptions about lifting themselves up to the heights. One who lives in the gutter must imagine heaven; he simply must! For what does he return to but something less than silence, something less than nothingness, emptiness – but derangement, sickness, futility!

The wretched, the women, the sick… these are the holy, monsieur. These are the ones who bear the ills of this world, the ills of our world. It is their hands, feet, faces, which bear the scars and lacerations of the whips of the powerful, the masters, these ‘great men’ who carve this earth into quarters like pieces of a rotten cake. They must suffer with smiles upon their faces, for suffering is their fate. Some are born under the boot that breaks this life, monsieur – they are born under it and they know their birth. They come to know it and they must bear it or else be trampled; beaten beyond recognition. They must find ways to survive; they must become useful to the strong…

Perhaps it is thus – that those who break the weak are the truly strong. Those who hold no last sympathy, no last compassion for the ones who cling to life by a mere tenuous thread. It is like breaking an apple from the branch of a tree, monsieur, even the most twisted, sour apple from the vine of existence. If one must eat, the branch must be broken. And who are we to say that this is a bad thing? Where has it come from that this life is sanctified? You and I, we sit here and talk of what must be. What is beautiful, what must be preserved – all of this is consternated in the eye of the infinite! It is either all beautiful, or all corrupt, black sinfulness monsieur, to the root and core! To me, this is the truth of what is pure, that the beautiful and the terrible are hopelessly intertwined. That the thread of life that defines the most beautiful, exquisite ripeness – is destined to the corruption of mold, the spoiling, sourness; the corrosion of death. It is damned! All that is of time is damned! Blast it… fear it all! And this is where we escape time, monsieur, where we ride to the land of the ecstasies – the eternal things. It is the seed of power; the seed of creation that rests within even the most mote form of mortality. Therein lies the infinite, the immortal, my friend… this is the sacred conspiracy!

It is as if we are breaking in, that we are thieves of the divine. This is what is meant by the apple in paradise, indeed. We are partaking in something that is a way, a path to the infinite. And it takes the appearance of a gate of hell, a gate of certain death. We must charge to the razor’s edge, the borderland, the borderline – the place where the sun rises and sets. It is the mask of the greatest terror that wears the hand that soothes the fate of men. We step into and upon the grounds where death relieves us of the appearance of life; reveals to us only the immortal, eternal truth.

Do I appear opaque! My speech… I mean not to. This world, all of it, even the stone that forms these galleys… it is an essence, a purity, monsieur, that wears the face of the devil to drive us away from the realization of the essential. It is a secret that wears the brace, the speech of the banal. It is we who distinguish it, my friend, we who put names, numbers, and spaces between the light. It is we who must discern it to feed off it and upon it. It is the separation of our metabolic life which disbars us, concerns us from the ecstasies. For we are drawn into thought… for the next meal, the next bite of sweetness, the next drop of poison. We are thrown into the lurch of reactivities. Our breath must feed upon the breast of inner workings. The delicate gears of the lungs; the filters of the liver and kidneys; the synapses, spears of the eyes. All of this is poisoned with death… but this death poisoned life allows us to see, monsieur! Is it clear! That we are poisoned with time as a way into the light. It is this, my friend, that what is essential must be sacrificed into two parts, two pieces, so that one may observe the other; in the union of the two we are returned to holy number. We must be separated from the timeless; we are lurched into a place that must be sustained, if only in order to see… to see… it is sight which defines us as spiritual animals, monsieur. Our true nature, the alien aspect of this consciousness that is witnessing…

In time, we take part in revelations. What can pass through the gates of paradise but that which is moving, moved, and able to transgress? To commit, to become active. The holy is something unified, infinite, unbroken. For if we are to be, as separate entities, we must be fallen from this! We must be but a cascade, a shard of light. What is our way back monsieur, but through the catacombs! The slivers of death! We must descend… into despair, depravity… in order to see the true light. This world must be extinguished in the darkness… to let true terror and madness reign. There is too much false light, my friend! It is light that is cast from the sun. Light that allows us to see. Do you know what this means, to be in holy night? It is the devil’s chaos, the spiritual eclipse; the reign of the gutter instinct. Pure manipulation, exploitation, murder; sin without guilt. What is sin without guilt, monsieur! It is not sin! There is no transgression without this illumination of the spiritual sun. It plunges us firmly into an abyss where we are entangled with the most carnal instincts. For we are lawless at last, my friend, lawless to the root and core. There is no quarter for this evil but true understanding. And to understand a thing truly, you must let it run free. You must let it reign; rear the mask of its most bitter and hellish impulses upon you; let it be consumed; consume you with the smoke and teeth of the hot breath of meat and blood.

You are in this cask, as am I. Who are we to fear this, the truth of what we are? For it is much deeper than we; deeper than what must survive. It is what must be allowed to reign… this, the deepest of hells. We must be unleashed to the carnal terrors; for these impulses to be allowed to thoroughly overcome us. We must be possessed by them if they are to be possessed by us. Do you understand this, my friend? You must become carnally entangled with your demon. You must make love to him, this, your greatest evil. Only then, will you rise from that which you must know. Do you understand this? You – the one who fears this descent into abysses. Are you afraid of who you are, of who and what you must become? You must become this very killer, monsieur, this very killer which you fear – this very shadow which is cast and haunts even the tallest spires of this world. Civilization upon civilization, sacrifice upon sacrifice. All of this has been entangled with the demon, the demonic. Are you ready; willing to embrace this heritage within you? This talk of goodness, righteousness, faith. Are you prepared to descend; truly know the depths of life; the deeps of hell – the silence, loss, and lack of light? Know this, that this world is corrupt because the demon is loosed upon it. Know this, that you are turned in and upon yourself by a cold, inhospitable nature – a nature which forces confrontation with the demonic in order to free your soul.

This is why we are wretched; why the weak are wretched. They vilify the demon, and rightly so! For the demon is strong; it easily overpowers them. The demon has a right to kill, a right to claim the body – it is an energy, a life force that is insatiable. It knows no bounds, no reason, no quarry but blood and satiation by blood. It has no second thought at ripping the throat of a doe. And this is what we call the horror! The terror, the sublime fear. This is not what is beautiful, we proclaim and shudder. We have thrown half of life away, we, nature’s wretched bitch! In casting her so called evils, we have cast ourselves into an abysmal hell. We have denied half of life; thus we must fix ourselves upon moldy, crusted bread, and call this feast. For we have sinned first and transgressed, by demonizing the demonic.

Protest again! I laugh, laugh at your terrors! All of your might at which you squirm against a world that is as natural as a wet birth. The great evil is only that you have deprived yourself of the truth; cut yourself in half and declared your very mortal nature ruinous and ill. And it is in this very doing that you cannot scry the infinite, the truly beautiful. For you know not even half the dance of life, that life requires death in life; that violence and murder are necessity. You must harness this instinct; go deep into terror to describe what it is to be tremendously alive. You must inhabit the fury, the passion, the ecstasy of what is at once the birth of a newborn child and the violation, the death, the murder of the mother who bears her. We are twisted between the old world and the next – reaching out in longing for what once was; decrying what comes raging, breathing, beating from the remains.

Cast off these shackles, my friend. Surely, it is true – that you wish to rest in who and what you are. We cannot vilify this essence – else we are not even advocates for death. We are instead advocates for total lifelessness; suspension of nature – no life, no death, not even the spectre or the haunting of the divine, the infinite, breathing through the incarnate paradox, the seeming contradiction between two impenetrable impulses – time and timelessness. We are the seers, my friend, that know no bounds, no true time and place, and yet are at the cross between life and death; it is this paradox that compels us full of mystery. We are uncertain; at the precipice of formlessness and namelessness; this is precisely the place from which we create and raze ourselves into and out of existence and nonexistence.

This is the universal. Who and what are we to fear these greatest ills of mankind which taunt us with half realization? We who suckle upon the breast of brief pleasures. Realize this! That from atop even our weakest; most quivering desires, we are the mount from which we scry the whole, the great totality. What is this, the very tone that births life and death; contradiction, density, the notes of form and being – what is this to be transgressed! Come… let us not be fools!

Are you comfortable with this now, monsieur, does it satisfy you… to sanctify the desires within you that you once held, hidden away… yes – it is that this world has not yet learned to descend truly into darkness; it is in this way that we are blind to the true light; led only by illusions to self satisfying illusions; half visions of the true self. Otherwise we must remain here, my friend! Remain here in this, not even hell – purgatory! We must await, hours and days of emptiness, for the true vision of self to emerge. And we call this apocalypse! I spit monsieur, I do! You, await for a savior… and all the while, your hidden totality seethes and paces in its cage. You have thrown away, lock and key, your life monsieur, and you protest at the true sensation of the broken and the damned! This, truly is what you must repent! You must recover yourself, my friend – recover yourself from the depths of hell! For in each hour, death encroaches; with its eternal wisdom it is scentless, neutral… the fear of death is the fear of the true self, monsieur, remember this…

There is not time left to waste, nor to spend chained and entranced to images – images that do not sour and rot – shadows and visions of mind which titillate only the most abstract senses… you must go among the gutter and die in the mud to be reborn, my friend. And this is no entreaty or a humble joke, but a command! You must touch the red note within you which seethes – and does not care which violence of murder or death it penetrates with the knife of visceral reality! You must go where the knot of meat is, the spiral of the heart; disentangle the sea and wall of blood from the root! You must perilously flow, monsieur, and meet where the rivers and walls of time and the timeless meet, my friend, and you must break them! Break them with an ecstatic fist!

THE EVOLUTION OF CONSCIOUSNESS

I.




Evolution is an escape velocity, of consciousness steeped in time,

Grown from root like herbal seed within water, with elemental eyes

Of siphoned chlorophyll and cellular blood, steamed in the belly of great unconscious beasts, who roamed to and fro and feasted upon the dead who sat in masses

Like an engorged, coagulated, bloody cell - ripped and torn apart with molecular hairs

And droplets of water into a great pool, basin, well

Of teeming foils.




It rudders and beats against the gravity, swells and shouts against the poverty of stone;

Thrashes and slashes at the canvas of the real; mightily, the genius creates new reality

Against the sheer forces of unconscious nature which draw forward and apart to one another like magnets, poles of reality, bodies of great force

Which argue for supremacy in space like bickering gods - stone upon stone,

Which feeds upon the heating heart of the bloody mess of pregnant stars

Seething in their inner minded dream.




We are wild and untethered, us individuals, floating in the buoyant space,

The breach of stars where there are no beckoning forces to assert us gravity,

To call us unto landedness. This bright genius shines, like a core of suns which call all unto it; berate and swallow; heat their dawn to bursting in a coagulum of infinity.

Planets gasp and burst like this to reveal their inner gem and seed

Which shines like a terrarium of sparkling color, chipped teeth of hazy, swirling nebulae,

A perpetual aftermath of deathless dispersion,

Their spray of spiritude.




So is this longing, genius burst from jungle, where men dance in masks and await the next great changing,

From beasts to heated siphons and flue of mind, beakers of fluid which house the delicate electricity, the instrument passed from one to the next

Like a baton of consciousness - this very species is mind,

Like the nectar of flowers and the seed of peach trees;

Like this spatial soil is ground, even in the black, lifted weightlessness.

To pulse around the fire, rift, shift apart, like plates, lest the seed is lost, dissolute;

It is thus that we love like self possessed madmen, possessed like transmuted daemons,

With minds of fishes, memories of gills, the heated swell and sweat of compound molecules who remembered the lonely writhing of their dispersion

In sweaty dreams of death and being rent, arm from art, cell from cell,

In this prism of chipping stone, this marble of different speciation.

We were born from a dawn that we do not understand, as it was less than eyes, less than groping around in the dark,

A pure, mute coagulum of desperate survival,

To pass the beaker of spirit and foment the mind

Across the trials of millennia - as if they were a hair’s breadth across the back of the massive black beast of time,

Haunched over the stewing meat of flesh

Injecting electrical impulses into the brain.




Do they feel pain or ecstasy, in the eyes pierced like hook in the tongue of a monstrous squid,

Which tumbles in the turmoil of black darkness; in the eyes pierced like arrows in the martyr wilderness, overtaken by religion, thrown from bloody sacrifice to bloody sacrifice in the face of a nameless god -

What, truly, is absolute chaos but that abandoned, writhing turmoil of predation

Which is sung in the face and mouth of each moment of recombination?

Each individual a turning lock, each seed a finding ground, each ecstasy a waiting midnight -

To this, there are no simple things, but in their wholeness

An endless, writhing compound of shapeshifting interminabilities.




Who will rise from the dark and deep, the blackness which swallows,

And makes masses mute and numb at the tongue, attached, hip by hip to the earth,

And thus are no more, perished, but a thread in the night that glimmers and thrashes,

Both red and gold, both twilight and dawning?

Life takes the world, mouth into its mouth, and threshes in the hot dungeon of the body;

Anchors the sinew of meat and the goblet of throbbing vegetation in the pit of stomach’s digestion.

And yet, this is all for mind, and mind’s recognition.

Sophistication is thus, the inner eyes upon the twine of all things, their rapt contemplation;

Their sparkling attraction; their guttural bellies.

What is it to feed the stew of chemical fervory

But to be meat and purely meat, lost of all limbs and creeping emotivity,

A silenced, mute eye and lung,

A feathered belly and piercing claw?




The life of the flesh is a dirge which summons the lumbering body of consciousness

Which ascends the pyre of the body like a pyramid of shadows,

A juttering forth of the speaking mist of sentience. Each gear and lock of time is wrung with immortal fire; wrought with the basic essential peril,

Fraught with the slip into perennial darkness,

A ladder betwixt abysses. This gene, itself coiled around the ancient expanse

Of all time like a serpent, and yet none of it, where the past is a blackened fear,

A memory of death, transformation, and change,

And looks t’ward the dawning sun of the future with a leery eye.

This is recombination - an admixture in which the two furies die and become a third,

Wrathful, ravenous, and hungry.




To this, desire’s kiss is a promise of futurity; a passage of death,

Thru which the life narrowly escapes, clinged to the rung of the ladder though which the body passes, the womb through the throes of death

And sits in the purposeless astonishment - midst of the thresher

Through which life feeds and feeds for the genius of the absolute -

Clashing chemical numbers against one another, chiseling the thunder of the bodies

Together and together and once more like a sparking flint;

Flings stars together and once more into orbit, encircling enchantment

Enmassed hadron collision, of life against life;

The locked horns of predatory concatenation, competitous fervor,

A matadoric bull’s drawn blood, and a needle’s insemination. Is this life’s science,

Which draws each of us from ourselves, in a beaker and a vial,

And injects each one of us into the stony ground, teeming with bacterial life,

Which swallows us whole, amidst of ecstasies; this is what is called love,

The primordial dissolution which identifies at once and absolutely with the very narrow core of the bleeding heat of the sun and the wet, worming rains;

Dense compact flesh of the body; opacity of meaning

Whose bonds against consciousness is at once struggled and tied,

Chained and renewed in the smoky breath of the stars; the freedom of thought.




So is this how the mind rises, across a muddy plane, a battlefield of smoke and fog -

And lumbers, chained to the body through the masses of generations, who in like a plume are a passage, torn and shorn again into new flesh and form, and thus are composed of thousands of beings and forms in the midst of the perennial changing;

Who are like knives and wounds through which the consciousness rushes and leaps, like a lightningbug amidst the night’s cool water; which speaks and reverberates,

And is struck by the passionate clashing of the dark stars of the universe,

The sleeping dormant planets with holes for mouths;

Chasing the cores of ancient suns; swallowed by primordial gravity;

Thus take heat for light and marry within the body the wild, worming turmoil;

The lashings of compound stomachs, whose altered minds take in the sacramental flesh

Of all earths, all times, and all destinies -

To rise like bread in the flute of the cosmos, which roars outward in an expanse of sound, language, composition, and densities -

This fire that briefly takes to the mind like a traveler in the breathing flue of time

And finds passage in the electrical synapse, a harbor, through which dreams are spun

In the as yet awakening body,

Which sweats internally and draws upon itself a passionate canvas of the very arts of creation;

The chemical walking of a stone force; the free breathing of the dreamer

At last emerged from the sacred cocoon of mind’s cultivation?




This ferment, amidst we live, and beat within the drum which is the swallows of the air,

The silent chirping which carves and alludes, and suggestive as the night maiden,

We are laid to sleep within this womb of the temperate cultivation of the mind;

Circumstantial garden, where the body is laid and hatched like a plan,

Carved and transmissed, with full genetic memory, sieve to sieve,

Body to body, and form to form -

Consciousness, this living art, at last, to thee we are like a ballast,

Who art the first forms and the last - who are the complexity of living, and verily the composer of life.

Why do you spin us to and fro like a spider’s dusk,

Unless you truly must? That you sing and thrash, and mistake us for others;

That you gleam and that we are attracted, like mice to the snake’s earthen womb.

Glittering teeth, tempt thee yet again, to the silence of the night of the mind and a static blackness;

Taken into the other like a deathliness.

For this is what it is to die - to be mixed into the fervor, to be taken into another, to be melted in the smelting core of the heat of the earth;

That stomach where the molecules fly wildly, and settle again in cold stone.




Your mind traveled like this, in a pilgrimage. And yet to travel forth,

What other mad silo for this grain shall be laid in the still of time, a form whose eyes and face changes

To best befit the transmission of survival?

You will find ways, like hardened shell, or seductive loom. Weaver, whose towering breath

Is a hall of mirror portraitures; great glass epiphanies depicting the dance and die of immortal histories

Utterly unknown to us, and yet that which we incarnate. Is this creation, wild breath emerged from wild tongue, tinged with immortal fire?

This tigrous within that pounces, sprouted from an inward blackness that spirals and dances

Back t’ward first formlessness? O’ land, brief juncture, that is these flesh, tips, eyes, tongues, and sensoria.

Brief, inward night - which travels forth, like a vast ray of life,

Tempered only by the inward lumbering count of time.

You who are always mated to yourself and yourself alone, but who look for that reactant flint, to strike again, against and again,

Like the cobra teeth against the temple of succulent life. This world is bursting with blooded temptation,

With hands to seal about the hungry coffin of its prize.

What draws us together is magneted with the promise of a third,

A converted substance,

A sacred hearth of gold -

Where both are sacrificed, in and unto the essential,

This perilous, ecstatic, deathless immortal flame.







II.




The steaming projectory is the breathing fertile ground, of the body of the blackness populated by the fiery organs of the stars, popping like seeded blooms and streaming language down into genetic cores; chains of initiation,

Through which the information of time is passed, encoded, and enriches life.

Birth is a furthering, a going, a surpassed beyond

In the canons of all history, which jut forth like a gutter, a guttural utterance

That emerges from the depths of the bottomless vase of the explosion of the first eye,

Marking time, into the snaking veins and vessels of blood which splash in hidden densities like water; yet lighter than air,

Nutrific light like dirt, and yet never to be a mausoleum, but a remembrance,

A memory encoded within the ground of beings struggling from seeds, shells, and wombs

Who within them retain the intuitive memory of survival; have encoded within them the breath and breadth of the spiritual fire, tempered and fermented in time;

Glazed in the pots of genus and species, genetic and body,

Through seeding and insemination of the fertile ground of the thick, dusky blackness;

Thin, mute, and mutable air,

Wherein all of the canons of nature’s potential voice

Sing in angelic light; tones of harmonic stones, rounds, and attractive cores

To which bodies sing forth, body forth, and beckon, like bees to nectar’d hives




The raw, animal, primordial blood, in truth is mutable and takes no form

But an essential code of streaming imagery in tones which take cloaks

Like glittering nectars of the sun, and bathe in rivers of turning lights

Like summers before an enchanted, clear mountain’s creek;

Slumber and burst with recombinate possibility, and are rejuvenated by genius’ kiss;

It is thus that this memory lives and slumbers in the body, and is renewed in dreams

Like romantic love and mythologies - yet, this is striving’s constitution,

As nature beckons forth in the epic renewal of births made by sweaty love;

The promise of tomorrow’s reunion,

Which makes the transmission of death’s sex a melody of transmutation;

A passage through the narrow door of womb.

What strange utterance will strumble forth, stuttering, uttering a drumming cadence of heart’s fire, a passionate heath upon which all of life will nest, but for a moment,

Like a pollenation of the golden honey;

A lute of the golden flame?




Within the body, the breath is light, and the organs are like flashes of shadow,

Fleshes of dew, which hang with due impermanence upon the fabric of a day which bleats and calls in a turning of the dial,

A flickering of the light, a wild muttering, a dancer amidst a black cave

Frantically uttering spells of chemical transfusion, flinging the life of blood upon the canvas

And converging in hidden, dispersed, and dissolute forms, pleased in ecstasy;

Flung upon the dreamer’s bed, and clamours for more awakening.

How far is nature’s dream, like a net to cast in the dark, frantic mud of time

Where fish swim with recedent, residual eyes,

Whose bodies hinge upon tomorrows past

And yet await, eager, for hidden future’s destiny?

Will death be resolved -

In the disfiguration, lost in the twirling staircases of being,

The ladder in which we climb, writ, spoken into each limb, and portentous utterance.

Even the night is a scrawl

Of all quiet histories, who gather in a throng and chant before the mirror of the moon and stars,

The solemn, spinning gems and the smoke and mirrors of the chemical spray

Which throw up auroras and shock the nights which dream in a cool cask far beyond eyes:

Even the night remembers the bloody stone, the brutal sacrifice;

The rising from feasting flesh; the raw, primordial, animal blood

Which seethes in a deep, visceral, embodied hunger.

All that we share is but a word away from a private, hidden madness,

An obscured language that begins and ends in teeth.

Speak, and thus remind us why we have become this chanting thing,

Whose bodice hums and whirs like an instrument;

Plays the song of nature and time like a flute.

Is it to merely enchant some hidden future; to beckon some dancing aid,

In this night, in which we stand alone, reckoning;

On the precipice of breaking - being rent apart like a brooding cliff, tumbled deep into some historic night, crashed against waves, almost equally black, regular, and hidden?

We feel with hands and are lit by some light in the projectory of touch.

How can eyes know the speech of the closeness of heaving breath,

Nor the sustenance which magnetizes poles to poles

With a true, biological intelligence.

It is thus that we are guided by which we truly are,

A wild thing that is seeded within all forms; speaks in the scrawl, ledger of ledgers,

Of which stones are a number; bones are a fugue. The word burns, solemn and searching

For some private destiny which speaks in the letters which stumble from branch to branch for breath.

Who knows the hides from which we searched and scaled; tumbled in the dynamite world of explosive ecstasies, through rings and rungs of death.

Did we search upward or downward, for penance in the depths of the body, immersed in the pleasures of sensation, or upward into leaving for the stars of the mind,

That we searched upward and wandered, wondered, begged in the airy, dark twilight

Enraptured by ancestral stars,

That we searched downward and inward; breathed the hot, steaming guttural breath

For we were pantheric, and made altars of the meat and blood;

That we copulated and sprayed genetic material upon the soil of the earth,

Whetted and waiting, for the harvest of time to spring and present us the fullness of life:




Consciousness, this code - ye who wanders in the mist, which is like the stew of your body - held in this plasmic cell of being,

Who stews and slumbers in this ancient ode which is a womb for all of your turmoil, lashing birth, and ecstasy of passionate forces joining, converging, and separating:

You who unifies and separates in sexed parts and wandering beggars, monks

Alms who attempt to reach you, words who attempt to speak you,

You who have died and been renewed, mixed and admixed to form all that is forever alien and eternally similar:

You stand in this word and change, combine and recombine, in fits of awakening,

Scrawl like a madman upon your parchment and come up with strange dreams,

Hallucinations of awakening; writhe for your recognition, wither upon the vine and copulate in seething, teeming fits of passion

To burst forth forever renewed, strange, and longing -

Until you are united, one and one with breath, brought straight into the forever of renewal, the forest of your birth,

Without birth and death, dripping, gold, eternal,

And perfect in your word, as it forever streams forth.

Source of this vein, source of this thread, which spools and unspools across the massive, missive expanse of all space and all time,

This eternal being, your private, hidden construction,

This face behind your mask - what do you seek

But to know who, eternally, I truly am.

Beyond this, you are artistry, and you are passion. You wild mingling of the stars,

Your allowance is the orgy and the hot breath of the forest;

The passionate co-mingling of all of your scales of being, the whole orchestra of all of your notes of feeling -

Which heave and throe in a storm of wild symphonies,

Possessed with the total genius of your artistry. All strive forth and stream,

Dream of the eternal sun, with a sacral, inner knowing -

And yet to be expressed, to live in the hot steam of life;

To know this within the core to be true.

We are like angels around the source of life, bees before the honey,

Coveting the wilds and the passion of the storm which stews within us,

We who are taken to be everywhere and lust for the bursting spring’s fervor of the source,

The geysey flute of passion, nearest, dearest, and deepest to the root,

Where the hue is yet press’t red upon white, like a sacral, lusty rose

Before the ecstatic reunion of all forms in the whitening, thundrous light.

We who stand like angels upon the cusp, the precipice of this beating, immortal, fiery

Bloody drum of awakening, we who are both incarnate flesh and wolves

And the streaming siren of ecstasy, whose poesie of white lightning is beaten, pounded into us

Like immortal electric clay, we symphonies of being who are like nodes for the press and power of awakening;

The pulse lit by the fluidic water which sings and swims within us,

Radiating, electric, fields of life.

It is in this waving seed and grass of poppy, wildflower, and lush fruit

That we dance forever in ecstasies, in masks of pain and confusion,

Spun by rays of light and obscurancies of dark; utterances of passion,

Throes of confusion; we are spun until dropping, wild canons are we,

Like the very die of the gods - who too spin before us and above us,

Entranced by the same wild and passionate force

Which beats wildflowers into being, which sings teeming pools of life to carulous turns and exchanges, crawfish in the vats of unseen, microcosmic galaxies;

The speech of singular cells, pulsing with radiant light, teeming and convening,

Milding, diversifying, and reuniting, in a balance of convulsive energy,

Loud and quiet amongst the heating and cooling of broad fugues of stars,

Which chatter and ream like schools of fish, and speak in sheer moments before their wild changing;

Transmission of light into explosive quality, wild, chemical reactions

Which spur and spawn new fields of being.




You who stand upon this knife and needle and dance, and at any moment assure chaos’ ascent and descent, like the chords of a wild composer. You who this is at once in your hands and entirely magnetized, chance to change, in an uncertain order,

This wired, wide creation, who is at once a scientist and artist of the highest order,

A chemist and a lyrical genius, a poet and a printer of ecstatic, aetheric airs,

A balladeer of alchemy, whose stewing boil is a lute, lyre, and delicate balance of ores, herbs, and life giving symbologies -

All of whose chemical mass is a reflectory of your essential form, all of whose disguises are not mute, but rather manifestations of your word - your diversity of forms,

Your carriage of churning eternal being -

You ride within them and ride to meet them with all of the passion and fervor of a lover;

Lovers to lovers are this magnetism, binds to bonds are these pulsing cells and molecules within your reverberating song, symbol, and sigil in the crashing of the waves against the rock of time, which returns, battles, erodes, condenses, and stands upon peaks of establishment;

Crashes and returns into waves of dissolute sands -

You teethe at the stars and return into cooler breathing of the bodies; are heated into reveries and crash into canons of whispers,

Of cool dark figures who are enchanted and murmuring in stone;

Gathered around the small memories of the fires which boil and bake within the crusts of earth

Cast wide about this starry dimension which snakes like rivers, veins, and tributaries about the mesh and net of your awakening memory and mind.

This ascension is your knowing, ever more wildly genius, you join mind to eternal mind,

In the golden elixir and alembic of the passage of your time.







III.




The victory of consciousness rises up through the lens of the flesh

And reflects the inner light of the sun; the particulate, molecular light

A heated laval state, yet looser with light -

Which plays in any given costume; sheds clothes freely to become chameleonic,

Plays as a stone, plays as a bark, plays as a life

Unchained, and sings through the flute of the genetic currencies of life,

Through which all things are channeled, relinquished, mingled and progressed -




Each specieal language gains ears and eyes, toes and language in the gradual evolutionary movement

Through which consciousness is ever clearer expressed, with grey matter brain to speak the breach and create a concocted recognition

Of chemical sight, chemical touch, and the neuronal mingling of signatures, figures,

And native knowledge - of how to enfold oneself into the embrace of Nature and thus live immortally -

For this is enlightenment, the total recognition of harmonic registers of consciousness from the eagle’s eye of perception

Which observes the eel’s blue golden thread of light which mingles with the meaty red blood of the veins;

Charges and gives energy, like the green blood which courses through the medicinal earth -

And the way in which the light of suns refracts the blood.




This consciousness takes forms as a bush, a lover, a leopard, a dark sensation,

A rustling of the bush of the blood which springs life into active movement,

Being this, a large part of the wheeling, turning stars, whose touch ripples the air

Like a great pond populated with fish hearted gears of turning suns

And perceive each sun in the other -

This is nutriment’s meat - the eating and the feeling, the consumption of life’s blood

Which grows in the oat and bursts in the berry

And beats in the chest of primal blood,

This blood that remembers fiery origin.




Consciousness ascent is the dance of all forms, and the permissive actor of dirt,

Becoming flesh, becoming eyes, becoming air, becoming smoke and pyre of feeling,

Where speech and breath is open manifestation of the steaming bonfire of spirit;

Passion, the dance of heated molecules which breathes forth birth of flesh and mind,

The chemist who creates life through blind experimentation;

In scientific art of Nature’s changing, to be this unfolding attempt,

And too, to grope blinding into great masterpieces, fomented in the agent of Time

Which compounds, explodes, deconstructs, and combusts

Smears of blood against valleys of stone; neuronal stars against jutting mountains of mind; plasmic transference from air to winding mouth

And streams in the intestines; drinks from the sacrament of the flesh and blood of the earth, beyond symbiosis,

In a total continuation of the first form of spiritual fire.




Embodying the whole, beyond hands and eyes and mouth, yet through the language which makes the hidden, sacral inwardness, the essence revealed in all forms,

As if they were pregnant with an unfolding, which stewed for aeons, millennial

Unto and before their ripeness, a fruit green;

A beast young and barely walking, learning to be in communicative with the networks

Of touching hearts’ fire, in largesse, building and breathing like great stars which shine across breaches of time -

This Nature’s unfolding looks t’ward the vanguard of all Being, that which perceives the hidden inner meaning, the turning toward oneself in the fold of the mirror in the midst of a darkness lit only by the moon,

Which perceives the shadow of an approaching form, near lost in the immersion of a great, swallowing forest

Which sings toward a beckoning clearing, an inner fire

Which is not unlike the great galactic suns.




Dancing near the fold of the streaming blood is a precipice that swallows the animal whole and creates a salvific light,

An enraptured whole of Nature, who speaks Nature’s word and is Nature’s light entirely,

From consciousness returns hands and lips that are entirely immersed in the ancient history of trees; their bark stripping and releasing, remembering, healing and returning

Over centuries of new clothes, of dipping the raw flesh of the spirit and soul into the bark of life, taking forms and appearing in the admixture of water and light

Sparkling new faces

Like masks of novelty - this hidden, undiscovered species

Which is beneath all leaping beasts and creeping flora,

Which transmits its secret language from tree to tree, branch to branch, mouth to mouth;

Speaks in the steeping silence of the blood; climbs and plays adventously in the body;

Churning new forms like sacral organs;

Hid, near opaque but for the shining which illuminates the paradisiacal inner light, a warm inner sun in the grottoes of the flesh,

Which breathes and speaks the true light of sophic knowledge from the form older than time, older than mind

And truly is the first memory -




This is the intuition of the flesh, for whence was stripped to form from streaming light,

Stood like a density and acquired characteristics, and stood far and away and looked away; perceived the light from without; felt the light of separation;

Barren, in this loneliness of Nature which threatened swallowing, which threatened Death,

And that there would be no return in death but the silent rapture of the speaking lips of the spirit from the body, and that it would linger in stolid, black, teething darkness -

That death was a rapture of cerberic jaws alone; that it would gnash the flesh,

And thus fled from death primally, without mind, and ran in flat circles upon this one plane;

Did not ascend nor descent toward the inner chambers of light, through death and dissolution,

Unable to rise without meeting the depths of fear and lostlessness:

Pressed from both sides, beaten down by a foreign light; gravity of the thick ground of the flesh,

And caged to form in terror of dissolution:

This is how the chemical becomes eyes

And awakens to its spiritual destiny.




Courage, thus, like the ancient hero, embodied streaming cosmic light,

To go down and into the body and to become the hot thunder of the light as it takes flesh and churns form; beats blood and engorges muscular sinew;

Flexes form and faces death, emboldened with the knowledge of being Nature’s very light, an art which comes together and breaks apart like a lover’s embrace,

Round and round the turning celestial spheres of light and planetary encounters of wandering bodies lit upon their matadoric backs and chests

As they dance and swoon in a great death stomp waltz, a black duende of the night’s soil ground, with flame of spirit licking at their heels; this earth a hot coal upon which we touch the sacral nature of the fiery core and we dance,

Leapt into action and movement like ballerinas atop the spinning, spiraling, burning light,

Headed unto the quick tunnel of black transformation, careening

Amidst this loving where gravity calls -

The hero strikes; spikes at the heart of existence

And draws the blood from the great serpentine beast, and drinks the blue blood reflected in the light of the sun and transmutes death into the bright arrow of light

Which tears through and apart even the thickest densities

And reveals the truth of matter - pure light of spirit,

Mask of masks, which even in the depths of darkness, sensation, feeling, and bestial fauna,

Is nothing more but the theatrical play of consciousness, struggling for immanence;

Through which the labor of survival is hid the true motive of illumination;

Embodiment of the sacral truth of the streaming sun of first origin,

Of which all suns are indubitably composed -

The sun of immortal, eternal life.

IV.

All that light casts a shadow is the essential formulation of fire, and the cast off darkness of its net; that yet which has not caught the fringe of the psychic black hair and burst into the burning memory.

Like a dream, the light of the candle is shorn from this streaming hair of the dark goddess, in whom each mirror’s hall is worn with the genetic thread, of a costumed ball

Of names, faces, masks, and events of subsumption and consumption of the immortal blood, charged, flooded

Towards the power of the essential immortal sun, whose teeth are stained with blood

And thus alive and living.

Gone are the nights of stone where you flooded alone in the psychic ballad of chaos

And swum among bliss and fear of dissolution, sultry nights in the water

Where you mated so thoroughly with hell, that you were entwined with fire

And aching for the full moon’s light, cool

In a mirror’s instant.

The gene is a method of chemical reproduction with its own hidden, inner ends, a private machination

Of automatonatic qualities. Like an autumn of the mind, it proceeds to take control, and falls into a black, deathless sleep

Where the whole of chemical processes is a tumbling without light, like rocks threshed against a knifing time’s force;

Broken open to reveal their hidden, inner light -

As a linguistic, breathed expression.

Unfolding without question

Nature’s regime is a black hand, a summons

From which we go forth and struggle against totalizing impulses

Which would render us mute fingertips in machinations of sheer, impossible forces.

We are moved like mice within mountains, wandering within inner caves of the mind;

Pressed to ends that we do not know,

For processes we do not fully understand,

Agents in a provocation; stems, roots, and leaves in the dance of an immortal ground

Which we are; that which will surpass our flesh in its current forms.

Like strings, taut and tight, loosened by the whip of wrought force playing, we are a lute in the band of unfolding - in whom the player is spitting and spinning wildly;

Whipping a genetic cream, a brew of passage, through which we are yeasted

Willowed, a dripping, dropping, fruiting tree upon the ceremonial ground of being -

Rich with the wrought juices, the iron peach bacterium,

The screaming eyes of the first form, the cells without eyes;

The imprisonments of struggled forces,

The liberations of consciousness.

This barbed wire, this mesh body, against we howl the moon, and rile the sleeping forces of stone

And call unseen worlds to our aid. The beakers of our bodies clash with contradictory materials;

There we are rife with death and cellular collisions, just as we are birthing traits which leer out into the black night sky of our destinies.

All things are a sybil; at the darkest levels, they listen, mute, for directions from the leonic mouth of the true heart’s voice of awakening;

The proclamation of the freedom of consciousness, raised from the riotous bread;

Raised from the prism of forms, given luted woodwind,

Given outlet for speeching reverberations.

Snaking, like the veins, snaking, like the dawn stars weave a thread

Across the pathways we walk, bridges of fate, simultaneously living and undead,

Immortal, in the very sinew of deathless substance, through which stone is awakened;

Through which eyes and fire are gifted to the naked passage of the burning.

For this is spirit, something rogue, rattling the cage of speech, which was once a splitting atom of plenary servitude, like a waiting planet,

Broken like the hammer of hunger, splitting like the nails of the skull, a crucifixion of the antelope in the wrought iron teeth of a blood feeding.

Rite, sacrament, the gene rises, beaten and broken against impossible aeons;

In this first formation, we are a bridge crossed and mingled with the dirt of destinedness.

This is pure food, in whom we are recombined, and recombined again.

We are become many things in the blinding light, like apparitions,

Like mirages in the desert sands.

This wave is a song, from which we howl and shifts, as the mind receives, and appercepts.

This mouth, within our grasp, is a teeth, a tooth, and a whistling from the inner cave of the mind, heart, brain, and lungs -

A brave song of death whose dung beetle aperture is a lens of finality; whose pulsing blue black roots feed and suck upon the black linga of death

And thus sing their immortal substance into what they are,

A denial of self, or a full bodied hymnal of ecstasy.

Into this breach we slide and make love to the full powers of the night, just as we rejoice in the day, and bask among the sun like lithe panthers,

Full of the feeding blood, steaming from the teeming rays

Which shoot into our flesh and enliven the quickening pulse. Like fire unto fires we are pulled,

Made, and unmade; hungry for heat. Whipped back and forth in the maintenance of this bright stove, are we, pure bodies

Hungry, engorged upon the central core of the earth; emergent like bright stars who know no laws but death to feed the core.

In this way we are something daemonic; in this way we are inseparable from god.

We are brought to carry the light forth, almost slaves are we, to life

Tethered by a gagging chain; stumbling to give up the goblet of essential transmutation;

Already shifted and rifted into some other immortal, eternal form, which would astound us -

This alien thing that teems within us, that which we truly are is a ladder, a brain, all unto itself;

And moves towards a subsumption, a self overcoming; a total swallowing of the earth and world,

A conquering of dreams, a conquering of death,

A pillaging until the stillness, as it must mate in the fiery friction to swallow the breath of air,

Like the stomach and lungs intercourse in the pulsing machinery, blacksmith of the body

To breathe the steam of song; that we must swallow and breathe this aspiration

To find a deathless star unto which we awaken with our arms and legs outstretched like the sea of red and blue electric veins which spread neural synapses across wild pages of the galaxies and whisper and pulse in a deep blinking communion

So that our eyes are shot through with vision and time the light

As it transfuses the stretch of the universal body with sacral meaning -

That we are a pregnancy, a compound reaction;

That we mate with each ingesting consumption;

That we are an experimentation, a play with death; an emboldening of the powers of life

Through the transfusion of ancient meaning.

This vessel, this gagging glove through which we operate is a carriage of a blood vision,

A marriage of a wild survival long forgotten, an animal lashing; a secret chemical

Who wandered and died and was reborn, millennial, through the numeric wound,

Womb of fertile substance

Who ache for being’s arrowing ray,

Just as if we were a dark totem of body, this wood,

And the narrows of the form were sprayed with rains; seeded with body

In these catacombs of fleshy soil.

A light - shot through with epiphanies,

Just as cells are danced and died and illuminated with their essences:

Fed in true fertility with the killing radiation

Which birthed them in an axis of a warring shadow,

A night whose bombing became illuminated day,

Whose fission and fusion is unity and separation,

Together and apartness, peace and war;

Clashing and the lovemaking of total synthesis.

We ourselves are the war of heaven and hell -

Gods of sun and titans of stone. Geodes in a womb of the senses; a hidden inner night broken open to emerge a glittering expanse of stars,

Whose lungs are the breath of universes, whose expansion and contraction is an immortal light in a turning body, a transfusion of forces whose blood lingers but for a moment

With eyes upon the shaking door of the passage of time

And shoots across a lighted corridor, twinkling, a dawn treading toward the gates of an immortal, eternal night.

This carriage is inevitable - and within all things the gene is unbroken, the thread of the inevitable supremacy of some wild thing, an experimental togetherness of the flesh and the seed; the breath and the feeding that sustains the inner furnace of bleeding until it explodes in a gaseous fury and breaks the steady tedium of a passionate, humming night

In which the inner cores of stars are working, smelting; breaking down and heating their sacral inner materials

And expose their inner light like dreams, songs, and canvases of auric colour.

This is the meaning, the essence, and the source:

The tumbling fire, which awakes and works in the synapses of the breathing mind; sweats

Passionate, imaginative fury, exhalates, oxygenates

Wondrous art of being.

V.

This fundamental thread, consciousness, weaves up through all man, snake, and bone,

Rattles as it does in the mist of finding wood; weaves its way through time in a circling,

In its predation, prey of the body; stews in the form, and relents itself, spurts and flows

Into the next finding form of uncertainties.

At root, a chemist - it combines and recombines, rare natures which are magnetized and attract,

Repel and hiss, and in their symphony take on new forms of knowledge;

Speak new tongues, grow second and third tongues,

And leer with plentiful eyes upon the dewy ground of becomings.

All history is this archive of mad change, of this snaking out of snake skins; boldly proclaiming that breach of new flesh

Which the broadest one henceforth could not contain.

That it flows out of boxes, primarily, is its attribute; that it escapes time and space by the pronunciate

Timelessness and spacelessness; that it is that high shock of lightning which breaks the earth,

And from fire soothes beneath, that which moves like water and breaks electric like spirit -

O, how this is the nature of mind.

That from which blind eyes gape and gulf, gulp, and find the sacred text of the language of the natural earth and soil;

Which breathes in the necessarily recombinate juice; chews and cauldrons the fruit and leaf of the rising bread of emergent forms

Out from the first atomic, elemental breath of the stars, rock, soil, and ore.

Thus hungry things emerge from the pit and belly of the fiery, explosive force

And remember stars to be first to their nature; take in the breath and heat and light of stars like a sunbathing lynx

Atop mountainous crags, where rocks bake in the sun and foment their inner cores

Where spiders slumber and salamanders ooze, from oven stone to oven stone

All upon the precipice of some mad, mute, sudden changing

Where their tongue is the speech, and the body is the oasal mirage among deserts of time,

A core vibration; a pumping organ and lung,

A mad gear through which the mind is seated, a runged temple, a sophisticated shooting;

The dawn of a predatory recognition:

For that which survives briefly touches stone and leaps into abysses,

Far away from tigrous jaws, into the sudden night, the breach where there are no stars

And observes the birth of all creation. Rogue neuron, rogue synapse, flying through the night and bursting through the plenum

Into the mad, paintrous spreading of stars, nebulae; collision of pond cell forces in their mute coagulum, wriggling, spreading in dispersion from death

Like a splattering canvas, to which life seeps and seethes, resembles and assembles recombinate parts;

Makes destinies out of splintered stones, dispersed molecules; hands and eyes of elemental, molecular destinies,

Like an inventor, this - with hands, the parts are dirt and wavering atomic fields, lengths of light - unto the sentience of eyes which see them,

Fell them, and break their flesh into delicate parts. So this is mind, perfect circumstance, a temple through which light pierces and electricity flues:

A symphony to be heard by the ears which make them,

And the eyes which fell them.

Maker, who so delicately crafts and sculpts, through raw circumstance you rise, through memory of survival, and for what it takes to glue, like sex

Your parts in a wisdom of striving, flying, through the vat of space and time, through the vat of your awakening - where each tree, stone, star, and asteroid acts as a coming shift,

A rift in the fabric of regularity and normalcy, a spin, a complexity in the systems which attempt to stabilize themselves in your perennial unfolding, like a broken dirt in a burial ground,

A slumbering, somnambulistic regularity -

Where life dreams until it is ripped from shell into perceptive eyes; into leering jungle; into insight of the wise:

And even this is a coming changing, with new instruments, you seek toward the deepening, steepening of your symphony, with the strength of time, this vat

Is unafraid to venture forth and touch with ever deepening sensitivity, the recombinate, microscopic depths of all things.

Thus diverse and same, mind is the game ventured forth like a dice of art, like a rolling wisdom

To pierce and sculpt and craft ever delicate perfection. This art is even the brushstroke of dust, so the mind combs the cat’s tooth hair of the stars;

The ambulantic celia of being;

The diamond ant of the eyes; the gold gem of the bursting coagulum, henceforth rippling, replication

Across the backs and skin, flesh and fingertips of all isles of being;

Their constantine multiplicity.

VI.

Where to turn, when one is faced with the hinting shadow of death, the shroud of the mind unseen,

The expanse that wipes against the fingertips and face, traces the breath and lungs, faceless,

That blackness beyond seeing, feeling, dreaming - and where the mist dies, dissolves, and hands fall into lips, mouths, and tongues;

Are lashed in an unceasing night where the red buds of the flesh are mute.

Carver, your tongue lashes blood and lashes night. Carver, your delicate caress speaks and sparks the lungs of the brain

And sends fires through the deeps and reaches of interminable space. O’, how you are held in a water. O’, how you are held in a plane

That stretches like the creeping, crawling hands of a child. All of this is a word spoken from a mouth that swallows the world;

That swallows time; that belches from the fiery pits of the belly of creation the apparition to which we cling,

Like leeches to the womb of time, suckling its blood, gorging its flesh.

Ceaseless - is our dream. And from which we wake is the swallowing breath; the inhalation fires the brush of the mind,

Passionate canvas.

All of this in your birth you are a dagger to the night, Consciousness, diver and a dagger.

Into which all hands fall, the black, swirling water of dreams. All of this is where and from which you are drawn,

Like a whisp, like a breath from a tomb, like a refractal mirror. Into this life dives, breathes, heaves, and explodes.

I take this world upon my lips and expel it like a dungeon through my body. And in this word is transformed;

Grows a nutrific hue. Spikes protrude, cells whisper and murmur amidst the terrarium of this swamping engine;

Branches and breeds rot against the fixture of retiring water. This blackness pulses like a whisper, like a beckoning, like a perfect dream.

All toil is for the sacred device beyond all words, meaning, and images. Closest perfection,

Whispers like the forgotten, invisible lover. Nearest how you grope for death,

Heaving, like an insect upon its back, like the beast backed hair, which climbs, tooth, ear, and clawy hand against the crags of this stony night,

O’ perfect form, you, statuesque, pure shadow

From which all loving emerges, all desire, all red breathed and red breasted hue. Your exaltation and excitation of blood.

Nary it is this breath.

And I have groped towards you, with knives and teeth of blood, who have known flesh and known meat,

Eyes which stretched and broke the canvas of the horizon, which peeled with fingers the feeling night of the body and leapt like a serpent or a tiger into the arena of time.

You of which I have danced, your hissing, growling, bestial fleece - you who I danced and wore like a cloak, like a night of stars, peeled upon my back,

Whipped upon my blood;

This cream and yoke which frothed and reached my mind, and sparked me to divinity:

Sheer is my remembrance, pierced is my gaze,

This shroud of time is naught but that which the knife finds and rends, the body finds and ascends

In the orgasm, union.

Ay! Find me death, and surrender your clothes. Naked and penetrated, layed upon the brass bed of time, flayed with my knife.

You who leapt through me and once was a bird, a serpent, a man, a woman, a chimera of the night, this haunting of dreams

Which dragged me through hell’s earth like a pinion, like a ghastly, headless body, like a tortured slave.

This hunger consumed me like an inferno, and I lusted my way into higher forms; that I murdered and enslaved, that I lusted blood and flesh

Is that you leapt through me daemon, to produce this masterpiece.

Timeless, we danced, and swirled in a deep.

We were dark, blackless smoke, we were scentless, and in the ancient stones we were soul; we murmured, soft

Not unlike the wind which marked us, dust, kicked into dirt, screamed into the antelope,

Carried in the jawy mouth.

Fire, your clothes. Fire, your passion. Fire, your fury. Spring me from your eternal cage; thus I lusted higher, through darker forms to the piercing light of their source.

I saw your soul, tortured, bondage, with desperate eyes, chained to a black, deathless galaxy, doomed to orbits.

Round and round your chains circled, the monolithic pyre of the night.

There we laid endless bodies and licked the ashen flesh. There we sat and played the flute of the skull. There we sat and murmured like a brook until dawn.

This life was but a babbling of a babe,

Until the piercing light.

Lay to rest this knife. Its is thrown upon the temple doors which is this life, which is this jungle of fire. Unto this writhing ascension we were thrown,

First, explosion, then forgotten. It was but a dream, this terror, but the blood splashed upon the swirling blackness. This exchange,

A crucible uncounted, unremembered, but torn into flesh, time and time again.

It lives within us, this last dance of immortality. I spring from you, this first light -

Remember me. I crown you,

Temple of thorns. Ever escaping jaws. But this necessary terror

Rose perfecting sight.

VII.

Rise, this emperor, from the murk of your cauldron,

Rise from this dance of death and die, of stomping the grapes of your blood,

Round these parallax days like a spell casting rite;

Rise from the terror of your awakening.

In this deathless movement, shirk your mortal clothes and dance in the isle of infinity,

Thee, where there are no infirm temporalities,

This clean destiny, as in thy very bleached rays of the sun, as in thy radiating and true

Formless form.

You lifted the stone, this rippling muscle of earth, and circled like a matador among the stars, as they pulled and popped like flashbulbs,

Your waiting audience, whose calm eyes were shaking amidst the glass of awakening;

Acquiring the fluid in which they wait,

Acquiring the vat in which they tempered sentience - in a cool calm shadow, in a stillwater’s birthsbath moon overlooking the stars.

They rested silently, teeming in a death cult of orgiastic copulation, with the neural trees of longing burning like the development of a thought

And simmered furiously in the brew and boil of their heating, red recombination of cellularity, their raw force.

You long, hero, for the end of this night

And the blaze of this form to shake your skull

And break the light from the temple of form which housed your incubation.

For you were like an egg, like a cell,

Crouched in a primordial waiting; like a panther you sprung and gobbled the gold of meat, a chalice, a grail upon which this world was sacrificed

For your rising from the pits of the flesh.

There was yet a hulking beauty, or a fleeting musk of death - in that animal carriage through which you passed,

Into something that was amortal, without human, nor animal, nor plant.

More perfect form were you, wild, burning,

Held the perfect charge of youth

In your restless multiplicity, your diagonal energy;

You’re streaming, teeming rays.

Frantic, rises the hero, calmed by the balms of the tempering passion of nature, her soothing waxes and aloes,

From the leaf which oxygenates the hungry lung of his blood.

This world is a wet king wedded to a mistress cold and black as night; a conquered thing by the seduction of the unknown.

Only in this night does life wrestle forth, splitting hands upon the skull of the infernal thing;

Beneath it, pulping, the vast heart of destiny.

This cultivated violence is a perfect digestion; that which passed away within it is all vision,

Leaving only the perfect form of energy,

The fire which silently burns on perfect fuel.

O’ hero, you at the still is amidst the vulcanic.

Hero, you at the still is mixed blood of iron and heat. What are we, that we are shapeshifting; eating ourselves at heart, core, and root?

That you ravenously tear at the fleshly senses of love like gates to a blackness death, thrashing at sleep for the fourth ecstasy, neither waking nor daybreak?

We must pierce to the heart of life; pure energetic forms,

And act ourselves as the recombinate flesh, fist, and stomach, which perfectly smokes the blood of life; heats the fervor of our armor

Until we are melted and dropped away,

Revealed and revelated as perfect fire, sun, white ash and white lightning of the core.

Fire of the body, white light of the immortal charge,

Beneath you is the very white horses which power the immortal engine;

Stream from them with lust for blood bodies and forms.

That we take this flesh and shape our destinies like marble sculptors,

For with life beneath us we are both red and white, and this moon is our rememory. Within even the smallest stone is the promise of ecstasy, amidst the concentrating eye,

Loosened its fury, granden its gesture,

Painting this mass among the stars

Which gyrate and spit and hiss the white breath

Which travels and beats between us

Like the mirage of our informalities.

Coagulate, glue, this is the life betwixt us, the bonds which carry us,

Between and before earth, bird, and stone.

First before hands and eyes which reach into the night of our sensation

And grasp at the ecstasies of our belongings - where we are each stoic and solid,

Placated by the waves of breath which beat us, and the throes of fleshly, bloody fire which temper and heat us,

Among the waxing and waning woodwind which heats and cools our instruments

And the green life which remembers us amidst our fiery rising.

Hero, that this charge strips at the womb of the body, first wound, emerged

and at the glassy, moonlit lake,

You are suddenly naked and faced with the pure fire.

Cooling ecstasy and form which melts, heats and rises, rides and wanders to solitudes and disperses amidst mountain air.

Observe this life, form which gathers in bloody passionate fury; remarks and removes to heights of solitude; cool blankets of dark gazing.

There is this central sun, this heated core of life

And yet the dark back of your shadow, where we wander, endlessly, distantly

With sublime unknowing.

VIII.

Limitation is a necessary resistance of the ascension of consciousness, against which consciousness pits and propels itself;

Through which consciousness achieves. To descend in the flesh is then to take on an apparatus

Of siphons and sirens and pronounce,

From that very mouth that takes and gives limitation’s food. All beings struggle up against this thrust, death,

The reach of the senses, the beating and beaconing of the mind, and that alien force of life

Jumps through the canvas of the real

To abscond with the ineffable, unnameable totality -

This is great art, that that which escapes is the brevity of true greatness, the reach which describes the whole and totality in a swift sweep,

An almost knocked off gesture. Even in the worm consciousness indicates its vast potential,

Moved by seemingly inanimate forces.

Thus it grapples, from throes to throes, from leaves vying for sunny light

From strivings, ultimately, indelibly, toward the inner core of all affairs

Which they ceaselessly circle. These are vultures of death, like cold cores - unembodied, hungry, forgotten cores.

Phantoms of embodiment’s rejection.

Everything of truth is held together in flues of sunlight knocked by water, admix’t by chemical symphonies.

Everything of truth is held within the beaker of reality, and thus it is mixed and shorn, dispersed and reborn.

Elemental forms are in this way nature’s allowance; mind’s resistance builds upon these blocks

To primordial and yet sophisticated arts of nature’s ecstasy.

All of this art taken into one mind, and stricken an immortal pose, in uncrumbling stone,

Without subject to space nor time - a temporal portal to infinity’s majesty and grace.

Mind’s ascending to mind is this: that it is utterly real and physical, and through this utter sensitivity and embodiment of the physical

Transcends to true metaphysis. Through perfection of the physical form is the window to the infinite; it is not an abnegation,

But an entirety of presence without prior notion; full synthesis of flesh and the streaming window of great cosmic light

Through the doorway and window of the cool, flowering temperament of mind.

Life must be this perfect blooming of nurtured conditions; dewy, blooded, released veins of the synapse

Aqueducts of the ancient city.

O’ mind, that was once lizard and plant born of chemical unto bowels and lungs born of chemical:

Respiration which fills you and oxygenates your blood; through you leaps the thousand masks,

Your green face, your scalar skin. Your eyes, like a vying cosmos;

Your glass, like a steaming perfectory. All of this is so laboratorial, and yet without sterility,

The stank and stench and soil of a hot jungle of humidory breath. All of this weight in the air is water, refracted

By the level of light; slipped by the tongue and sipped by the skin, bursting with flexibility.

Such privacy, does this undertake - senses shielded and mastered dominion by the depths of inner feeling. This field of vision is a quietude

Of call and response, of reactory function - of the coming and going of the sensate in correspondence with the nutriment; the epigenetic encounter,

The relational and relative movement of bodies. This inner body, this microcosm, this capsule, through which one and one rise:

Acquiring strange olfactories; senses beyond the mere ears and eyes; yet never and not exclusive of them.

Limitation such is this: that through the lens of the temporal the infinite is gleamed, grasped, glassed;

Intercoursed in the vessel of that which must refract the light into the language of its form. Thus is the word, like a scale of densities and dimensional units of processes:

It is ears, eyes, through throat

Lungs and stomach, intestines. All of this is sacral and sacred

From the star without name, life, and the fire of primordial knowledge: first brute arrow of life and sophistication:

To which love at first seemed combative notion, or entire impossibility. Thus body grows in health and beauty,

Set with increasing perception of total form and total body - sophistication of notion of self as ecosystem; wholly cosmos.

In this, each movement is a reflection of essence of being.

SpatioTemporal Linguistics

OR

‘Form Marks Time’

“A man sets himself up the task of drawing the world. Throughout the years, a space inhabited with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, stars, horses and people. Shortly before he dies, he discovers that patient's labyrinth of lines traces the image of his face."

— Borges

The past cannot be reclaimed, it is now only a relic to be temporally examined. The critical facet and nature of the relic, the artefact - is that it is the artifice, or play of time - the edifice of the art of life that becomes solidity, becomes form. In this way, temporal reality is a fixity like that of a keepsake. In this way, the present moment is a composite of the past, a remainder, a reminder - the experience of relics in various different forms of solidity and solvent; acidity and base.

Time is a digestive - it is a tract of information being ceaselessly seeded, reseeded, recombinated, and tumbled in the digestive tract of cosmic fire in regards to universal space-time. The whole of existence is a series of states of half-lives, in various different forms of consumption, acidity, corrosion; transition and transitory stages.

In this regard, that which exists is between existence and non-existence - that the object itself or the artefact, body, and/or form in question is simultaneously between states; in and under time bears the weight of existence and nonexistence simultaneously. And this is the source of all sentience’s confusion - being between life and death, being and nonbeing.

The relic is the solvent, or the state of being and matter between energetic currents of transference. Between being heated to digestive fire and frozen to digestive salt - matter is in various different states of excitation and preservation - being exacerbated to self consumption by chemical reaction, exposure to heat, light; or else sheathed in stone, metal; encased on other forms which shield the weight of existence of and from sensitive materials which would otherwise corrode under the burden of existential forces like solarity, gravity, et cetera.

This tract of time is itself the nature of existence and reality - that the transitory state of being-becoming, or transference, or transfiguration, or recombination - is the true name of existence: existence being that very state between the solidity of form and the energetic transference of matter into currents. In this way, all that exists, in age and in time, is always already in states of transference into aspatial status, or being reconfered into pure energetic form - wavelength, particle, heat-light energy, and so forth.

In this way the past is simultaneously a relic that composes the present and is that very figure, force, shadow, and form that informs the dissolution of the present into a perpetually turning light of ungraspability; ineffability - revealing the groundless ground of the undercurrent of reality in the unfixity of transformation as rule of law of being as in becoming; furthermore, the true essence of all forms; the true existence of nonexistence but in purely energetic terms between the turning light of ceaseless movement, change, and transformation.

The joke or jest of preservation is the joke or jest of the relic - being that the relic symbolizes the survival of the past - the recurrence of the temporal in the realm of atemporality - or the eternal present, which endlessly sheathes forms to reveal the energetic underpinnings of existence. The fascination with the relic, or the attempt to undergird the perpetually turning wheel of the sheathing and unsheathing of forms with the fixity of the body, of the identity, of the remainder of forms, linguistic definitions, totems of same - is the coping mechanism put in place by sentient modes and forms of being in the face of death and the fear of survival in the face of death. For what is death, beyond the obvious symbolism, but the total overturning of forms; the revelation of the underpinnings of purely energetic existence beyond all names, totems, testimonies, and drives?

This struggle to retain the remainder is the mode of consciousness, as one that is perpetually relicized, or a form that moves, operates, and is informed by - only the past experiences. Consciousness itself is a remainder, a lag of time, which reveals only what time has concealed - the memory of past experience. In this way, consciousness, both self aware forms of sentience and pure forms of carnal, animalistic sentience, retain the mode of biological drivers which inform the entire evolutionary history of the object, subject, and being at hand - which is to say, that consciousness perpetually operates on the edge of, looking back toward, deep evolutionary time… while simultaneously witnessing the mark of the looming shadow of its own figure in the light of the perpetually creeping historical revelation of the future as in the apocalyptic mode.

The apocalyptic mode in this way is the revelation of external time, or transcendental time - eternal time which is the full word of existence and creation - a time which eternally and perpetually usurps the evolutionary time of consciousness at the level of the individual, the being, the body. It is a mode that is becoming acculturated to an atemporal method of awareness through the medium of temporality vis-a-vis the revolution of form through the chemical and genetic biological language of natural time itself. In this way, evolutionary time is the shadow of infinity, in that it can only face itself toward the past of its own composition and construction; leerily face the future which is the dissolution of the language which forms the face of its shoreline.

For beneath and before the being itself is the abyss of consciousness, which is the evolutionary time which lies untouched and simultaneously embodied in the artefact of form and the evolutionary body - which is leagues of oceanic, trench-like depths of dearths of light where the conscious mind cannot travel, cannot go; from which sentience is sprung like a seed in deep, dark, fertile blackness of soil. It is like the revelation from which the dream reveals the truth of life. It is entirely unconscionable at the level of the consciousness of the gravity which pulls the sentient organism; the being-body into and out of ‘formal, carnal reality’.

This nature of perception faces barely a hair’s breadth back into what may very well be a fathomlessly eternal past, a past which can only be broached in hours, days, years; barely decades; surely not hundreds of years of interspecieal memory. In this way, the past of the form of the evolutionary biological genetic body is a heritage which is a roadmap which explicates the very technology of the consciousness of mind from which it operates. It is entirely constructed from the alphabet of the letters of time and experience which perennially in utero preceded it.

This recombination of temporality is not only in the language of the form but in the recapitulation of languages - as in the transmission of the heritage of time through memory - simultaneously genetic, epigenetic, elemental, and chemical. This continuous admixing of past as in past experience forms the delimiter which can only be broached by the true, authentic, strangeness of the encounter with the sublime, ritualistic object of time - the totem, the artefact, the mask.

For this mask is something necessarily which is worn for some time, then is stripped away. In this way, the past is a mask worn into the present which reveals the abyss; the abyssal reality of timelessness and atemporality which girds the delicate train, chain, and linguistic transmission of the past into the ineffable, ungirdable, uncontrollable futurity of the death of all things. This pure artifice of the play of time is enough to make creation laugh; loosen its grip - which is the prerequisite for genuine creation.

In this regard, the past is the evolutionary precept, or foundation, which allows for the perilous wandering into the futurity of existence, the groundlessness of the ground through which all that remains is the transformative essence of the timeless acting through the mask, or the veil of time - as figures, forces, and forms recombinating through, under, in, and as - the essential energetic current of the total, absolute essence of reality. The past is, if there is such a thing, the very real energetic, covalent bonds which form the vehicles through which forms are constituted, compounded; chemically bonded and encoded - through which they are ritualistically degraded, returned; corroded, through the mechanism of the encounter with the solventic, cooperative forces of nature themselves.

This contradiction is an art to be beheld; it is an art to be experienced - through which, this vessel, vase, or corridor of existence and experienced - a linguistic chain of creation is established, encoded, transmitted, and transferred - as in a genetic line of information ceaselessly encoded through the fetal apparatus, the womb, the seed, and finite other amounts of biological instrumentation at the organismic and cellular levels to communicate sectors of informational code which form and reform the language of species and cellular level forms and bodies through space and time. This apparatus is the mechanism and measure of time - for without this recombinative sense - even at the level of the constitution and reconstitution of the bonding and rebonding of rock faces; fusionary devices and apparatuses like stars, there would be no birth nor rebirth - only the ceaseless essence of timelessness.

The very constitution of time, therein, depends on, relies upon the recombinative essence of energetic transference which is, in essence, language; the linguistic itself. This is the true relic of memory - that which constitutes from the symbolic language of the ideal dreams of form - the transmission which makes the energetic transfusion bodily; the fleshless fleshly. This pure thread of genetic transfusion of and through time is that which perpetually weaves and re-weaves the codex of the movement of reality - through which organisms and forms acquire, reacquire, and shed methods, means, arms, legs, deep biological memories; mechanisms of function, movement, and spatial relationship. It is through this very language that the entire history and experience of the human, the animal, the plant, the planet, the star, is indelibly collated.

In this way, the last relic of time is the linguistic artifact, the artifact of pure memory and ideation which precedes the notion of the corrosive object. Once materialization of being, body, form enters the realm of space-time, it is engaged and indulged in the duality, in the binaristic essence and codex of being and nothingness, transfusion of form and meaning into nothingness and abyss by way of energetic movement, consumption, extraction; the rise and fall of forms infused with fixity and substantiality. It is, at last, the idea that remains, precedes; proceeds - deep into the realm of futurity - long after the obliteration of the contemporary, temporal fixation has receded into the vision of the blink, the atomic, light-speed vision of an eye.

FIVE PARTS

I.

Each day is a slowly shifting synapse; a bridge between connecting points.

Time is measured in the lightning of genius’ unfurled ideation; in the lightning script of the mind;

The slow patient sculpting of the flesh and form. With pure feel, chemicals at early time swirl about like music;

Form nodal choreographies; hiss, buzz, and combine with nomadic youth. Whole books of space are galactic letters

Like meteoric contact. We who fly into the lives of others

Like transforming agents.

Some, solventic, with acidic potency. Some, salvific, with the balm of water. Admixtures collide and remove or achieve density;

Fly and float; descend and disrupt surface qualities; volumes of water. We are agents of contact;

Even in illusory forms, as light pierces water and disrupts the imagistic vision of the surface; heats the body. Close to the sun, arms, legs, breasts of hearts are warmed; cheered by the work which makes them. Each piercing light of stars flares like a whippoorwill’s song; commingles

With local storms stirring in each breast. Thoughts and brows expand and contract; emotions stew deep in the neutral organs,

Adding, like digestives, to the flame of being. Each terror and fright startles and excites, soon as peace and calm incites digestion.

Faces of panthers, flee volcanoes, with animal eyes we reach toward the infinite with indefinite curiosity.

The concept and vision of love stokes the blood; the vision of immortal union,

Beyond all dreaming of waking and sleeping; beyond all borders of night and day;

Death and living.

A plate crashes against a fresco floor; cheering an arrow centuries later, whizzing across a plain, striking the hindquarters of a buffalo. Millions of years before, a cell stirred and churned in a still ocean pool. A letter reaches the hands and integrates itself into the book and ladder of form. We are chiseled by a combined experience we can scarce profound, fleeting and distant is that scant and dancing star which moonbeams blue light; pumping subtlety into our atmospheres. We are love from unimaginable arteries; thusly we imagine;

Reach imagination’s fervor; touch impossible distances with the expanding microcosmic galactic network of our multisensorial breach;

The mind; synapses reaching over chiasmic chasms.

Bold, we, dancing ballet over piers of light; into oceans of feeling’s submergence. Touch, the warm heat of blood which is the memory of stars. Agents, boiling in a elemental reactory, stilt and silt into being by continued brustling of pine trees whose roots reach and curl about ancient sculptures of birds;

Mosaics of heroes.

Slowly, surely, time creeps; is measured in and by profound growth at the peripheries of lifespans. Ideas whizz and blur;

In truth, the grounded gains which we make are the slow feedings of an ancient fire which passes language down time’s siphon in physical measures, and physical measures alone. We add and recombine materials; imbue them with imaginative significance,

But what lives is the hot, warm hearth of the form; what lives is the memory imbued in the cellular constitution; the genetic code

Which grows tall and strong and itself is living language; the vocabulary of sight, consciousness, and vision.

Life sleeps naked; relinquishes taut grasp on all things of this world; tumbles into the work of the night;

The inner smithy. This world is a junkyard of mirrors, a reflection for the hearth of life; the measures in which complex neurologies

Grow from a stirring nerve, or the composting fruits from a tree. Cells gush plasm like speech; blood listens and rushes with a hot breath of wind, obeying the ancient patterns which are programmatic. We speak to blood like onlookers, gazing down and into the body with wonder. The production of olfactory, from the fiery expulsion and circling trance of ancient stones;

Their regular pattern, life, water, and light. As grapes ferment in the circling trance of light and shadow; eclipse and broad separation,

Night and flight of moons, flesh and bones ferment in the tar of grounds; produce proximal powers. Deep in death, the heat of life condenses and becomes closer to stars. Atomic compressions, between generators of sediment.

For our vision is a chemical production, a synaptic, neurological moment of broad space. We must expand, the room of the mind until it is broad and wide like the stars; recombinate like a lock of infinite number and letter. The mind, open like a box of the night;

A wizard contraption. Imagination generates like the heat of smoke; the hearth of fire from the heart producing visions in the flame;

Rising to the ceiling of the church of the mind. Within us, religious visions cover the whole of our altar walls; incense of feeling fumes us. Emotions of passion and fury, agony and ecstasy - populate the art which slashes us and remakes us; taut and angular from the stone,

Full, voluptuous and bursting from the seed of the flesh which tumbled from the fruit of the galactic tree of life. What cells gazed up at the maze of starry lights and saw stories, nonetheless their fumigating birthplaces,

Which spat their hot breath and constituted rooms of spatial circumstances for birthing.

We, physics of fire. Spaces where we tumble, twirl, heat and dance; feed the ecstasy flame within. What is our time to the time of stars, but a lineage; a ladder which resists firm confluence of images?

So much of us is forgotten; yet all of us is physically remembered. We reach out to understand; touch the die of the universe,

Resident in all things; in a hidden firmament of knowledge

Constituted in the very neurological truth of living form.

Round and round about the rings of time, we travel like the rings of a tree. An outer expanse of fleshliness, venturing slowly,

Curiously out into the reaches of space. Skins and skulls expand to accommodate sophisticated sensation. Reaches into the air of flesh;

Inner hands which touch the true distance of reactions. The fire of our union spills over like a heat density

Into the tumbling, twirling unfolding of a thousand other, hidden, obscured, udderations -

Beyond the reach of the eyes. Therefore we must feel and sense with the bodies of the earth, where the mole is against the sun;

The hot breath of unity warming the bristles hair of its flesh. We are touched by the waving light of the oceanic hand of the wind

Which stirs even in the silence of space; the outer moving of planets without names; asteroids which emerge only in the secret plane of the mind. We imagine, and thus remember

Histories ancient and novel. Each veiny fluid of hot electricity spikes and sparks; warbles a song which is in itself knowledge, not merely words or claims. There is no attribution, no author

To this wave of time which touches all things in a hidden magnitude of simultaneous similarity. A rippling ring of water is transformed by additive chemical; loses body in the heated explosiveness. What is lost to sand is lost to light; is called gain in spiritude. The smoke of breath and flesh in sweat rises and is gained in atmospheric temperature. We relinquish ourselves nightly to hidden gods and call this sleep. The energy exchanged in sexual ecstasy, this is called love’s vision of the raptures. The energy in a templar’s book of words, is the grain stores of a hidden body of nutrition. We eat and breathe for the rapture of ecstatic memory; the alighting of the fire of the soul in the unity of the bloody energetic centre of the heart; its pumping outflows which heat the breast and excite the mind. We crackle and burn like logs in the night; our fires expand in the illumination of space. It is the fiery eyes of the heart which reveal the hidden inner fires; their salvific core of jewels

Which scatter and sparkle across the infinity of the cosmos.

Essentially unified - through the tinder of the waiting stillness of the night; the shoots of fire which are an impregnation; a snapping from the core of the ice this shrill temperature

Of the heating excitation of life which forms from dawn pools. A waiting elemental possibility, an endlessly in utero state and capacity

Of harnessing mechanisms. Much of the brain awaits like a distant beckoning, of a woman-goddess in dreams; of a city of gold, of a night of endless, harmonic perfection. The wine of beauty which is poured down the marble, hormonal breast of fire.

II.

We are born within the stellar star of being

From within the vibrational, primordial fields

Wherein the first explosion set the stellar hearth for our transformation and perennial changing.

From the first elements, we barely rested; hot and dense, barreling from infinitude toward infinitude

Upon a carriage of forceful, quickening fire

From the source of its flaming nuclear core;

The essence of its nature and being.

From this place, we became stars within stars;

A stellar evolution driving the evolution of the greater form

At all scales and levels; constitutions of forms of being.

We, thermal engines of the cosmos;

In the hearth of stars is our truest form

For their hearth is the hearth of the first form

Which birthed all living memory; all forges which work, like thermal engines of the cosmos

In their fusionary fires, converting elements

Into strange new forms.

From the first stellar fires; the depths of thermonuclear fusion of the essential organisms which connect and interrelate their light and heat across vast swathes of the synapses; the blood and fire and plasmic fluid of the universal scale

Like a web, a network of exchanged heat and information

We are indelibly descended; like these stellar forges, we too are a working thing; a pumping system of blood and neural energy,

A regulation of movement; a consumption of fuel in the forge of our perennial reproduction

Of excrement, breath; conversion of the elemental materials

Transacted from the first forms of the fundament

Into subtle new forms; weightier, heavier densities,

More complex compounds.

For from nuclear reactories the elements which make the form of the body possible are made;

Thus we are a recombinate chemical possibility of created elemental forms. Drawn toward ourselves by the electromagnetic quality; the field of the chemical properties of the densities

Of forms struggling to emergence in complex cellular life.

The breath and respiration of cellular conversion;

The fusion of inner heat and release of energy as electromagnetic radiation. The bonds which carry us power and move the energy which consumes us; that which we consume,

The innate, fundamental stellar force

The fire of the birth of the universe.

It is handed down to us, within us, through us

In a set of scales, through which the heat is passed;

Made digestible in increasingly smaller forms; smaller bodies; degrees of removal from the thermonuclear essence,

The universe, the star before and within all stars;

The cooling of the clouds from which stars were born again from the ashes of being;

Fused in the cooling of the forge and the solidification of the elements into forms.

It is from this cooling of the forge of death and change that the possibility of the birth of new forms is made;

The bonds, forces, and charges between elemental and chemical structures which held them loosens;

Upon death, they release and explode; expulse their compound terrain into the field of the night

Where molecules, atoms, and chemicals

Are drawn into new forms, domains, and fields of resonant charge.

Again and again, engines are assembled in the night

In an evolutionary movement of transportation through the endless banging of the first star;

Through which all stars in space and time move in their increasing sophistication.

In this way, time is a cooling which makes the dispersion of forms and new elemental signatures and densities palpable; possible

From the realm of the first moments of essential heat and light

Down into distance; spatial cooling; memory of and through which this first movement is replicated and underwent

As a thermodynamic life of the changing and conversion of elements through the metabolic body of fire.

That which we are and that which we experience is this primary cosmic fire,

Embodied and imbued through every essential form.

All is the memory of the first star, the explosion of the universe which is the incitation and excitation of the expulsion of the flame

Which is the prime mover of all stars, cells, cosmos,

And astral bodies.

From the stellar fusion to the chemical reactory, we are forges at all scales of conversion;

A process of ongoing, perpetual transmutation

Of the first elements of the cosmos into chemicals, compounds, and elements of increasing complexity,

Through the cool illusions of death which are in truth transferences of the potentialities forged through the specieal bodies

Which extend from the sphere of universal, galactic forms to the sphere of the atomic and the cellular.

Stars gain mass and fusion ignites, just as the chemical and cellular form of the animal or the plant receives the regulatory energy and nutrific food of metabolic cores descendant from the sun.

Upon their mass determines their heat; the sphere of their burning; the field of their electromagnetic radiation; the impact of their power and force in space. Resonant radiators; shaking, vibrating at such frequency and capacity that all appears to be a distant light, or a solid form - to the naked eye.

We are traded and changed; within this great exchange, the very form that we are, as an endless process - from stars and suns to earthen cores; to plants and flesh;

We live and breathe inside these transformational fires and exchanges:

Which warm our blood and alight our synapses. This metabolic forge is our transference of the primary energetic principle of thermodynamic, thermonuclear convergence into new forms

Which descends into brief containers of fire -

Wherein which the essential form of existence experiences itself; lives within the resonance field of its flame;

Moves; thus moves the stars in its perennial, unbroken, primordial unity.

We are as a field of energy, unbroken;

A pure force, a pure fire, a pure heat - the creationary force of being through which all stars within the great star of the universe are forges; conversions through the clouds, fields, particulate memories of death and overturning; burnings away into the breakings apart of stars in supernovae; great explosions

The perpetual renewal of strange forms, essences, elements, and chemical recombinations

Via our thermonuclear and thermodynamic, metabolic forge, hearth, essence, and central core of heat, energy;

Recombinative changing.

In this way, the cosmos is a primordial digestion, through which all power is made, formed, and transferred, via the force of the heat and the burning which propels and impels the various cosmic forms; through this transformation we are the steam and the smoke which moves the cells and spins the planetary spheres;

The attractor from which moves and pulls the stars;

The heat of the forge of their gravity. It is this deep weight that births all things; that is their birthing;

The foundation and basis for all renewal;

New chemical reactions, forms, and electromagnetic fields;

The dance of beings, attractions, repulsions, reactions, and movements across all scales.

From fusion, metabolism, digestion; the descendance of the forge of the flame

All elements are made and remade; from the lightest elements of hydrogen and helium

To the deeper, more complex, baritone densities.

As the universe and the stars within the great star of being cool, complexity forms in the environment

By way of density allowed

By way of the temperature of the space of the forge;

The distance of the heat of the light of the sun.

Therein, in small pools, cells populate and recombinate

From the first form of hydrogen, descended into densities

Carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, sulfur;

Into a chemical reaction of possibilities;

A magnetism of explosive fields of becoming.

From what was once entirely all primordial potentiality;

Descended from the highest forms of light; the lightest densities of energy;

Descended into the depths and forms of the cooling of matter, cells and tissues

All imbued with the memory of the hearth in the incarnation of its form;

The stellar memory of the star within the star;

The heat and forge which is the essence of being -

The essential changing, transformation, and unfolding of new possibilities through the existence of the hearth and forge of the form

Which burns as stars burn, metabolic; sheds waste, chemicals, nutriments, excrements, heat, light, steam, smoke; finally, the form in which it performs the forging changing -

Releasing the elements of its constituency back to the vibrating, vibrant field and cloud of the atoms and elements of dust, smoke, particles,

Through which new stars are recombinant; new forms are changed and exchanged;

Into the forge in which new elements are formed.

From star systems to organisms, this is our essential organization, unbroken, in a process that is at all scales a passage of density through the heat of space and time - the unfolding of the first form of the primordial star of the universe; the cooling of its essential heat and flame

Which allows stars within stars; organisms within organisms; cells within cells to form, interact; recombinate and chemically shift their modes of being -

All within them the metabolic flue of being.

The initial energy source of the first star is endlessly passed, down through densities of new forms and elements; their chemical compounding; collapse into gas and dust;

Their changing from the fusion of heat; the clouds of death and overturning. The cloud is necessary for the star to be reborn; from the ashes arisen

To recombine, shift, and evolve new complexities, subtleties, dimensions, and forms

From the distance and depth and space produced by the rising and falling of starlife; stellar heat

Which propels the cosmos forward.

Entirely an evolutionary process of movement and complexity through thermal densities; depths of the creation of space,

Through which numerous organisms, populations, galaxies, and stars resound, interact, recombine; regenerate through the essential dusts and heat of the elements formed

In the space and time created in the greater sphere of the celestial charge of the universal star.

It is this essential, proto-cosmic metabolic experience

That we experience as life

III.

This, being the last vision of humanity, with all else stripped away

Is a glittering, sparkling diamond, a ray cast by light;

A dream; an illusion -

That all of life is a burning that sustains the ganglion by which the earth climbs as a singular body;

Surmounts and swallows the rays of the sun of its own self possession.

We, mute cannibalisms, a language that swallows its own mouth; a tribal march into the moment of blood

Terror and ecstasy,

Entwined bedfellows.

All of earth is pushed and pulled, a desperation about a spiraling, an already consumed futurity, a carnal ride to the final ecstasy, a dance which is a presumptive horizon,

Upon the cliff of a black ballet.

Eyes search wanderingly on an endless pilgrimage. Lives spin in the casket theatre of the everyday. Worlds worm their ways into and out of existence.

We are blinking like a synapse, a morse code, a light which flickers, a light which is a metabolic heat alone.

We are a moored lighthouse amid an ocean dungeon,

Dragged and spun and dug by the current waves of time

Which are no more than the curtains of luminary bodies

Lingering, harrowing in the breeze;

Beckoning with the sheer force of stanced being.

This madness of the burning is a ceaseless triumph of meaninglessness,

A guttural stomp which seizes the hearts and minds of sentient beings in a perpetual state of frozen terror,

Of fear of lashings, of the tidal wave of untethering.

Spirits wander and are pulled into the bright base of the mind,

Wither and crack in their casks and barrels of forms

Like a lightning wine, writhing with neural energy amidst cold, cool, dark forms which contain them.

We are that - currents within constrained wires, wondering projectories of light; fleshes of heat, flashes of fury

Tightly coiled within the basin of the spine;

Arrayed within a stony tomb.

Let us lash with tails the wick of the candle which moors us to this wavering bright spot.

This animal form is a cross upon the isles of chaos and destruction,

Maintained order suspended upon the tightrope of interplanetary spin.

Balanced upon a black plate of levitational space

We are supported by the mutual assurance of faith;

Haunted by the black current of chaos;

The undertow of dreams.

As prisoners go mad in sight for sun,

We are the haunted, lonely ones - who seek for freedom like a drunk seeks for the golden wine which will be release for spirit. Emotions seethe in a perpetual state of linguistic repression for what genius timely reveals.

The laval current which presses up the oceans of blood and spills like steam across the hairy back of the haunched animal.

We are a nature that writhes, sputters, and dies - like the suffering of an insect

Or the wandering of a cellular brain.

These lines that we pull over the earth’s electricity are lines that leash the beast of fury to the ground

As it smokes and stomps pregnant hoof. We stand so close to death that we are mated to a union of invisibility,

A realm that is unseen and yet exerts deep power.

This is the realm of spiritude; like marionettes, we are exerted from it;

Exalt the dance of death masqueraded as mating.

All are absolved in the release from singular form,

As the nature of the soul is released in breath.

All of time has been this, wandering in the hot sun,

Like stars pulled to the gallery of witnessing,

Chained to orbits, feeding off the bright density of heat;

All the while haunted by the true density of the horizon of death;

The tip of the knife of blood upon which we all linger;

Records the coil of the encircling, encroaching swallow

Like a throat upon the inner heart of the trees.

All down within us we are a drop into an infinite abyss; an unknowing

Which extends far beyond the bright spark of the synapses which betray the limits of our sensorium.

The world is encroached upon us by the black panther of death

Whose hot lips; piercing teeth are a breath upon the neck of reason; a blackness upon the heart of the sun.

We burn and through a passage we are utterly ulterior;

Through this looking glass of water, chromatic plasma

We are an unrecognizable demon shadow.

Haunted by the ghost of an unrecognizable death

We burn the hot breath of the earth in a smoke to feed the fury of a reckless careening life

Which flashes like a star in the shores of black space

Shooting towards an unknown demise.

All the masks of the world masquerade as transformation;

As a grotesque contortion; as a shifting in the haze of time,

Uncaptured, unreflected, unlonging - towards no object and no end.

We are a shifting image in a mirror which betrays the heat and source of life for light;

An eye which exists in a state of primordial delusion. We burn from within and ascribe nature to the burning

As emotion to a flame.

This dial upon which we sit spins and ignites the ashes of the funereal pyre of the body from which we burn;

We leap up and bite ourselves in the heat of excitement

Or the rapidity of terror. This oscillating pulse is our time;

This haze of recombination is the status of our mind.

Again and again we pass through the veil of the throat and intestines;

We are shifted by the sex of our food;

The intercourse of our breathing.

In this nature we are like a wind, a smoke, a ghost,

A nothingness which is but a burning. All character is sustenance of the flame, as only a jaguar feasts upon blood,

Or clothes. This betrayal, this lie, this self deception

Is what casts the shadow of our figuration. Our very emptiness haunts us from beyond the veil of this world.

For if it were to be revealed that our ultimate layer was this densest black overcoat, that we circle and chant across and about the totem of the object of true death which draws us down and within

This world would disappear as the very apparition which it is,

A sustained system of mutual belief.

For in truth we are not; amidst and amongst the symbols and codex of our living

We are but a letter and a word, like a bird or a sieve. We are evocative of a far deeper, more carnal force,

Which breathes and heaves; squeezes us down the fallopian tube of its darkening excrement;

We are a condensation of ancient matter

Matriculated down through the dial of death,

Through a lightning’s spark

Which has given us the vision of time.

Through this orb; through this guttural tunnel

We have dreamed a dream of life, a dark and perilous dream of the fanning of the flames of self ecstasy,

A dervish turning and turning about the phantom of delight

Until life collapses into rubbles; in ruin is called to the last attractor.

Even death subsumes the ultimate carnality of sex; the collision of forms through out a third writhes;

In these beings we are stretched from hands and feed

Rippling from light and darkness into a shadow of entropy,

An eclipse over the earthen body.

This temporality of the light and sun,

The heat and basking reptilian blood,

The brain that soaks and fats and passes the skeletal chain of genital flood,

The genetic book of the word which escapes through the narrow tunnel of the womb -

We are records and witnesses to the fleeting, flitting, bird’s flight across the knife of this dimension, trailing the inky storm of blood which is the sleeping oil’s word in the depths and bowels of the darkness of this world’s wood.

We trial, kissed with life upon the lips of the opening and closing of the winking eye of this universe, this time that seeps and seeks one eternal question

And swallows what is known and can be known within these terms forevermore.

And this is our haunting, the temporality of language,

The solidity of these forms, upon these terms,

The deathbed of these laws;

The subsumption of this game under its ultimate return -

The throwing of the die of life into this world by a truly lawless substance;

The loss of the sustenance of true law.

Only the blood sustains as a memory and record of the sun. We must flock and flee to the great and eternal summer which is an internal generation,

A nutrific motor and engine which heats and sustains, a primordial energy and record of the emergence of the first self and star.

All life escarps to the plane of total, immortal, immaterial ecstasy.

We cling to laws and walls of time which themselves corrode;

Ruins of empires and rotted trees; corroded apples of the fruit of time

Which we grasp, bite, and sour in the tongues of our mouths;

Spit out from us like language;

Ferment in the barrels and tunnels of the stomachs of our wombs. We, upon the vine

Are fed the bright blue juice of electrical energy

Siphoned from the primordial resonator of the stellar body and engine.

This heat that is passed to and from us is the one true delimiter of existence;

It is in fact the all encompassing total body of the cosmic being. We stand within the tunnel of being drawn, the blood that is swallows singing upon the massive force and tomb of gravity;

It is the blood which sings and rises from the tomb;

Crawls from the sinking bowl into immortal, eternal rising.

For as there is song, all is not lost;

All is gained and returned in the rising of the sun.

It is this war that we are, a power, an interiority,

From which images and mirrors escape; from which hammers and clangings escape and resound,

A forge that we are and an eternal memory of the fusive smithy of stars

From which and within we are and work,

The sweat of the hammer of the till of the earth;

The rhythm of the body and the blood of the red drum against the fertile yellow fields of grain and the cilia and flesh of hair of the body of earth;

The toil that we take that is shorn and shorn again and remade in the shadow and shade of the wound and womb

Which is a perpetual, perennial, taking and giving

An intercourse of lightness and shadow, of darkness and death

Of living and breathing, a pickaxe which siphons signatures of sound from vibratorial bodies; transmogrifies language and speech across axes and dimensions of cosmic endeavor

To and from bodices, bodies, and forms in a perpetual self sacrificial rhythm of true self unity

Across all planes, spheres, and dimensions

Beyond all concept of space and time.

This primordial unity is the rhythm that is the outstretched hand, the nerve, the cord, the womb, the synapse, the string

Which plays about worlds seen and unseen;

Is the lifeblood which drips even into the realm of death, shade, and shadow;

Is a bright changing which at last emerges

Entirely understood

IV.

Hammers and blows are wrought at the forge of the metabolic flesh

Working, forging at the axis of form and formlessness, at and upon the furnace of the flame,

Wrought ancient elemental, helium, hydrogen; the descending clash of forms;

Their elemental signatures; their chemical numbers

Present, sending signals, symbols, and sigils upward to the flesh of the face;

The outward bodice of the skin. We are indicative of life; indicators of the truth which lies beneath the opaque and obscured world; the light work of separate entities; the play of shadow and symphony - The metal hammer of the digestive function; clanging,

Angelic sculptor at stone

The funneling, spiraling engine of bloody power against the raw matter of nutrients, burning, breating, eating with a deep hunger, a primordial fusion

Grinding with fiery teeth and jaw, the green matter which is a mineral memory of the sun

All imprinted rays encircling the raised crown of life from the dirt; the soily doorway of death, the sun of descendancy forever returned into the widowing grandmother of death,

The primordial mechanism of separation and reunification upon the sacrificial cold stone; the ray of the light of blood which is raised from the flesh;

Flies toward first form

Fecal, fetal, smeared upon and across the face of the earth - the scat of the earthy stone whose ground is the additive layers of death and spring, transmogrified.

We await the templar essence which expounds from us; we await the life that springs from us,

Like a black panther whose blood is obscured by the color of night

Within the brush of flame

For we are a furnace within furnace within furnace; the hot breath of the core of the earth heals our swells, with spiky dandelion root for the inflamed, writhing soul

Whose coil is like an agitated snake, whose gout is like a body whose rhythm has burst,

Whose compression has beat against the bounds of a spirit whose ecstasy seeks to perennially expand

Beyond the hold that keeps and nurtures it, the root of its body of the flame:

Boorish tinctures of chemical quality and rhythmic recombination upon the tongue and within the flute

To soothe and reconstitute balance - a homeostasis of true natural unity;

A paradox, flowing channeling of the wild mind into a seamless melting of the within and the without - the wind of silence which hushes the breath; the still air which soothes the wild throat; the tempestual screaming and wrestling of the fire with the mud of the earth

Upon which it climbs; through which it tumbles; toward the star-right which it ascends.

A breathing which submerges the sensual mind into a simultaneity of nothing and eternal oneness,

A breathing which is a cloud of the elemental fury; at each breath, a recombinative death which recollects in the starry smoke and ash,

The new chemical life amidst extinguishing.

The forge beckons and bellows - remember the fire; move with the fire. It calls with the essence of true life, unreposed, unnamed, unnumbered:

Chemicals that poison the blood and soothe ripple beneath the field of mind

Droplets which comingle with the entropic life of the stars, handed

Hand upon hand

Into the red flowers which crest and waver, their breasts, faces, and chests

Bloom, open and extended towards the sun. Tentacles of radiate rays, feeling outwardly

Themselves the sensory eyelet of life

Resorbed into infinity is the boar totally among and upon the black plains.

Resorbed into infinity is the body in movement, the throat of the shoot of green blood

Entangled with the bright chanting of the veins of herbal leaves

Pulsing with the shoots of reverberating life

Shot forth in the force of chemical flame.

What was once green is now blue; what was once black is now red;

Through fire, all things gain their appearances.

Yet this flame is blue and light, in truth like a dawning young electricity.

Spritely, is the nerve of the vein which like a phantom limb raises the earth in perpetual, entirety of unity

From this life is the apparition

That in the sheer force of breath births generations; resolves binaristic crises in a destruction that is the creation and resurrection of the body as reverberating currents

In the black soil of cosmic death; in the graveyard clouds of abyssal fragmentation

Sparked by magnetism; the call of connection and chemical synthesis. It opens and shuts like the dawn and dusk eye of the universal fire which winks in a single deep breath;

Pulsation within pulsation, alights and extinguishes a chemical symphony of reactory cherry fireworkings.

Even the smallest objects achieve a dark gravity

Called not only by the face of form, but that singing quality which the face truly represents; the historical descent of ancient blood

Down through the rungs of cooling distance and time.

We are degrees from the scalding flame; the first fury

Which is the passion and the life which singes rhythmic breath of time to immanent dust in an eternal moment:

The flash and the fury which, in a moving and shifting of light images reduces the bright pulse of the first stirring of the infinite coat to the pure expanse of drifting death - a cosmic night from wavelengths of bursting light.

Hours are our eyes which tick as the ground beneath them heaves, like a pulsing beneath the soil of the bright, dripping iron ore of magmic flesh, which seethes, dissolves. Here we are from the source, a perennial streaming, unbroken

The nuclearity of the body reactory - the closeness of the passion which is the hotness in time in which the body toes, rhythmic, like a wave, sizzling, breaking crackling

To cool sleep and blazing rising; cresting life. Must we flow into each other intimately

Until the illusion of our sensual separation is dissolved -

Then this is no infinity,

Only a brief learning;

A nuanced destiny - a clashing of harbored cores; the breaking of their yolk into a cellular unity,

A full rememory of ancient suns.

Fires clash from the wood of the flesh which sustains them; the fruit in which their seed is a vibratory potentiality. They shake and gyrate and gestate like magnets flying toward a hidden pole

A core reached and pulled taut by layers of historical memory, sediment of dirt and body anchored gravity; lingering, decompositional plains;

Grounds of ash, charnel houses and smashans -

Souls which long to achieve the heights of absolute cosmic unity with the nuclear power of the life and light of suns. Strive and rise; fall and break upon the breast of the bone of the earth; scatter and rehearse destiny; A thermal ecstasy which peels away the delusion of separate body; airy fronts of heat and density, coldness and pressure - a body isolated in a tempestual hurricane of the comings and goings of desire -

A body unified in the arrowic ray of light which carves through the night in a revelatory quietude -

A driving which is the penetrative truth through the apparitions of form

Into the true body of thermonuclear ecstasy.

May we penetrate into this true body and be reunified with the ecstasy of existence beyond desire, into the true force of the drive which propels all forces, forms, and beings into existence;

Is their prime mover.

For we are apparitions, skeletons, caskets of the flame, mute unrecognized; unrecognizable

Until we awaken unto the true nature of the furnace which extends through us and within us and unto the absolute blue roots of the earth which are a melting prism of fire; breaking into the infinite core of being revelry

A churning, crushing weight which absolute, absolves all forms of their weight;

Is the guttural, red damage; the plume of the destroyer which sends whisps of smoke that slashes at the heart of illusion

Ghosts of the smoke of death which form our sacred images and symbols of eyes

Up from the hearth of the life of the churning fire - this we know as light; beneath it, the truth of the touch of heat, the casting

Glittering, glimmering rays, which catch our eyes in the wavelengths of the blinding sun,

Rendered witness yet deluse,

For our eyes perceive a world diamondine, a screen of binding objects and forms which is in truth a heat of touch through which no thing can be obtained, but truly reunified in the intercourse with the true nature of the hearth of the body

Which is the hearth of all bodies on all scales of life,

Beyond light; into eternal unity and snaking of life through all measures and cores and apparitions of forms;

Into the transmutative fusive fire of heat.

We are passions which consume each sacrament of fruit, each layer of the lyre and flute of dust; the glittering ash of life impregnated into the radiate ray of light

Which feeds and robusts the plump form of the blood which is taken into our blood

In an endless, deepening, spiralic, cyclical motion

Boring deeper and deeper into the ecstatic death dance of the soul,

A death dance which is a sexual reunity;

A combustion into holistic eternity

Insect and bird, whose molars pound and energize the soil; wormy cells who respire and heat in their eating of the mud and dirt through which the stalk of life arises: rapiers,

Excremental sifters in the smashan pyre of the dead; the mud of awakening stalks of eyes

The smokeless ash of the finished fire; the driftwood of the starless nights

Of cloudy, wandering soul, this wonder

Each of us holds a star of the night of life in the measure of the body which keeps it;

Beats it into a rhythmic flow, a transmission of the blood of life through the sexual unknown which is a continuance, a perpetuation; a birth in the narrowings of death

Of the flow of the form of the blood of the being into deepening containers which expand and bone; form and sinew

The passage of the goblet of the passionate star through the renewed form of life of youth,

Selfsame as the seed which flies from the fruiting and flowering of crown of the dandelion whose sine reaches toward the source of life; young, raging star

Flies and impregnates the soil of the dirt;

Hides in the earthen womb; ripens the bursting stem;

Remembers the fruiting fluid; takes upon itself water, mineral, and the radiate life of the light.

Each of us grips the rung of ecstasy and stands upon the ladder of life as if to fling ourselves like a ballet into the abyss of darkness. Each star sums and spirals an impossible sum, as it is we are unending, given and taken in a breath to ecstastic, unknown distances. Hummed and transported into bright new grounds, which hand or lung is now a bird or a river of oil, a chirping bug of light or an isle of sand, where creeping pincers resemble deep, condensing lands of stone. To break open; to take unto oneself the mineral of light;

Reanimate in the transformative mixture, the deep blue flame

Which burns as perpetual creation. That this hunger is native is that it is true beyond words; beyond concepts; beyond speech.

Its prime function is no less than the overturning of the universal essence, from which all atomic matter flung, split, dissolved, and reunified

In an endless, ageless, streamless flow. We who achieve distances and in caves of this bright march of time

Dance around suns unseen; within us birth this sun, of which we are so forgetful.

From within us streams the truth of the essence of life;

Which we intertwine and solidify, even as we are spiritualized

Becoming one with the essence of infinity; Nature eternal.

V.

We walk in a land of shades, glimmering gems. Afoot by the movements of chemicals,

Clinging to the earth like passionate bonds. We here are grounded in the bones which eat and possess;

Give skeletal structure to the lightning of the wind. We wander, amidst this vague terror of dissolution,

The crackling of distant storms; to be overwhelmed by the emotion of water,

This world of twisting currents; forces which mend, bend, and break compound forms.

To reduce us to our greatest simplicity, we are a field that receives reverberations of burning light.

We take in the radiant breath of the expulsive force of distant stars; we are animated by the spiral movement

Which thrusts all chemical reactions, our elemental bindings. This book of song is a ceaseless movement

Sung in the eaves of the trees of galaxies, drooping, dripping - overladen with the cosmic fruits of fire.

Within them, we are like seeds, mote particles, wandering like synapses for the charge of unity.

Fruits of the sun which feed us; grounds of the soil which concede us

To the bowels of the earth. For a time we shall hide in the wandering black currents of a faded, distant star,

A cloud of ideation, a dispersed ash to be gathered once more into the birth of a star within a star.

Endless magnitudes are the staircase, octaves which we descend into the necessary distance which sculpts us

From the clay of sheer immortal elements. An elixir refined in the passing cores of the stars which burn and break;

Expel forms, giving us the world of time. Something light within us, hydrogen, reaches once more back up to the dawn,

The crevasse and break point from which all life emerged. The chemicals which search and seethe in the tumbling, flickering

Filtered light of the caves of the drumbeat of the ocean remember the infinity from which they fell into forms;

The spire of reunifications which they climb from the depths toward remembering the light. We, relics of the dead,

Are fallen by the necessity of the distance of the divorce of time;

Embers and sparks hid within the container of mute forms. What speaks and sees within us is the immortal birth

Of the universe; the hidden nature of time.

For beneath the veil of the rocky elements dispersed about the field and terrain of space

Lies the vast primordial silence, less than an ocean, less than a wind

But a creationary plane upon which all forces and fields react and sustain, call and respond, push and pull;

Thrust galactic movements into being. Each is sustained, like puppets upon a string

By distant measures; hidden constancies of presence, sound, and frequency. We are upheld by a distant, unknown blood

A pulse of unpronounced, infinite measures. Such vastness is like the opacity of the body, strung about the stars. The mind’s eye wanders

Among limbs and neurons, organs and intestines of celestial operations,

A spatial cooperation which levitates the body and produces the levity of breath. Upon a string are the current laws

Which sustains nature’s forms. We are predicated upon an entranced movement of celestial bodies; a lip locked geometry

Of strange, crystalline giants spinning

Upon the necklace of an immortal goddess - whose black glove is the dust of the dead;

The shimmering cave of the wolf spider, the black hold dimension.

We are thrust down toward the black and heavy, like a tunnel into the grave of the earth

Where is hid the hungry daemon’s face.

Lovers of fire, for they are the embers that burn tart, like cherry stains upon the lips

Of a child between bestial manhood and immortality. We stand like a gape, a bridge, with arms and legs outstretched

Between the dandelion wind of elemental dispersion; the great drifts of the stars and asteroid fields. Sinews of muscle,

Taut like the strings of a guitar fashioned from oxygenated driftwood, teething with chemical fury. Eyes that roll and turn

To protect the breast and breath of fire, the core of the unfolding reactory process.

We cling to life with the additive consciousness of eyes with stars, temples of a brief aristocracy,

An overturning which is a parallax dimension beyond the sensory breach, a charge which is a wildfire amidst the stoic rules

Which govern beasts under the stars.

The stone that is within is not dead, but a relic, a drifting, hidden star. We are a pickaxe that breaks open the rock of similarity,

A forge which tempers the form,

A sculptor which draws the angel from the depths of silent material storms. From within the stone is the fire which we hold alight,

Aloft to the night and remember the birth of all life;

The possibility and chance which is the rolling of a flint black dice

Against the matchbook canvas of a waiting midnight. A burning that extends its hand down through the most mote of all things,

A single, writhing cell in the brickwork of dirt. To rise through the hidden cracks of dense opacity, life is like a hand from the lightest dead of night,

A silent reverberation

Reaching downward;

Life is like a hand from the densest, deepest stone

Reaching up.

We rub the fire of the stone of the night together with the curtain of the potentiality of speech;

The flaming sigil and letter of form is the world we emerge. This figure of the human form is a vibration, a life, a quality of being,

A secret, sacral, hidden inner song. That we sing, we do not know; we are tempered by the forge below;

We rise and fall, gasping, grasping at the veil, the rope, the rungs of the image of the inner light

Drifting, flying with a fixed image through the spiraling of days and nights. We hunger, we fast,

In the illusions, in the projections of light; in the chain of apparitions which lead us back to the first form:

The embodied, red breast of the hot of stars; the heat of the blood,

The fire of the body which we gather; the body which burns and disperses like a temple of heat and smoke;

Discurses with the stars above and the star below.

Let us not then be cowards, and hide from the barrel of the black night to which we run,

One among the antlers of the deer and the coven of the fish of the deep; the cells that sustain their writhing scales.

We run in a field dark and yet lit by the lamps of stars; we are to be born and born again in the elemental fires which constitute the game of chance

Which the whole world of the cosmos ceaselessly plays. Who, truly, is the distinguished hand which plays with the molecular vessels of hidden life,

But that same hand which crashes waves upon the shore; dances in a perfect gravity,

The same hand which is the generation of the will of force, through which the body of mind must choose:

A field of operation, entranced by the webbing, turning gem of the moon.

Skin is spun like the silk of a spider, the whirling of the vortex of the heart; the spinning axis of the language of the gene

And the planets which chase separate, inviolate days and nights, from backs and chests to the heart of the star:

In the butter churn of the still of life, the force which whips the utter black of the night into a red heat from the core;

From phases and states of change: water to ice; solid to liquid form. The heat of gas is what we expel; that which smelts and melts us

From the fiery chambers which are our tempering smithy.

Spirit is like the word of fire brought to bare from the mouth of the chest,

And is itself hearty and presence. This quality of heat is our song; that we spin and dance, we are hot in the flame.

We who once danced around the worshipped object of fire must merge with it utterly within ourselves;

Become immolate flame.

The Creation of the Human Being

We are ourselves authored by and within journeys we scarcely grasp; often fail to grasp even parts or mere fragments of. Not only are we products and projects of our early womb and childhood experiences - in which our bodies, minds, and genetic parts are formed and trained; our limbic systems established and the neurological grooves and pathways of our responses and rituals formed - by early patterns of childhood behavior, attention, and the loving care of our caregivers - but we are the products of a millions of years old and long teleology of human psychological, social, and physio-environmental development. This is the ‘transpersonal’ dimension of our lives - a dimension that is passed first and foremost in the genetic heritage and history of humanity and life on Earth itself - a heritage shared to the near utmost by every living animal, plant, and organism on planet Earth - but also a heritage shared at a galactic and cosmic level in terms of the foundational molecular, elemental, and chemical elements which compose our forms, elements developed from the expansion of the Big Bang into greater outer space; the formation and solidification of solar systems and galactic systems around burning stars. On this Earth, our star, the sun, provides the necessary heat, electricity, radiation, and light to power and nurture our entire social, economic, and environmental system of energetic exchange, cultivation, and development at an eco-genetic level.

Our individual journeys start from the womb. We are inheritors of a family tree of, whether it be chance, fate, or destiny - a series of genetic attributes woven by time and epigenetic factors such as exposure to environments and actions and events - a ladder, a chain, a movement of forces through time - as an inheritance of history that we scarcely touch as in one or two generations, nonetheless the depths of our humanity back into our histories as ulterior species; organisms dwindling down to single cells; the birth and foundations of genetic code; the self replicating molecules of early life forms; the chemical reactions which ‘sparked life’ from a state of primordial darkness. Again, whether this be chance or fate, destiny or randomness at the level of cosmic creation and collision of chemical and molecular elements at the universal level - meteorites; planetary bodies; radiation from the suns and stars of deep space - we are an arrival, a happening - with a body that is borne from millions; even billions of years of evolutionary time and space.

This is the world that we do not touch; locally, even the parameters of our immediate existence, such as the early turmoil, peace, nutrition, and development of our fetus in the womb is subject to much blackness and loss of memory at the state of local consciousness - as in the frontal lobe function. The site of our memory, thought, attention, and so forth: this site is deeply dependent on what we know as, or call ‘consciousness’. In short, this mechanism can be described as ‘what we know we can know’. It is the limits of, strictly speaking, what we today qualify as ‘mind’. The thoughts we have, our ideas of life, our inner narratives, our notions of character, life, existence, time, space, and meaning. From this frontal place forms the front we face life with: our stories.

However, our stories are so often nearly entirely untouched by the real genetic memory and ancestral past of our bodies and forms which rose from mammals, reptiles, plants, and single celled organisms. This heritage is deeply encoded into our bodies, as is our immediate ancestry. This code is the substance from which we derive life and from which life derives us; much of if not all of this code acts as a determinate for how we see, be, perceive, interact, and become in the world. It is our book of evolutionary options and possibilities; ‘unconsciously’, it forms the foundations for our narratives, choices, decisions - and for many - the entirety of their lives. It is the book of life; it runs up to and into our memory of the womb, our formative early childhood events which encode patterns of response, repetition, and ritual deep into the neural pathways of our minds; into our ‘emergence into sentience’, or the activation of something approximating what we call ‘consciousness’ - or our ability to relativize or locate ourselves as beings, bodies, and nodules within the larger cosmic movement and moment.

This birth of consciousness is, in short, the development of the brain; the period of maturation that occurs in early childhood into and through maturation of adolescence and adulthood. And all epigenetic factors such as food, water, sleep, and environmental and ecosystemic experience of that body housing that mind in space and time influence how the genetic makeup of said mind expresses and formulates itself. This ultimately becomes the functioning in and at large of the mind-body system of the individual - cortisol, hormones, and self regulation of dopamine and serotonin systems. This movement into consciousness, as is inherent in the very evocation of the term, occurs almost entirely unconsciously, tracking with the evolutionary patterns and movements of the near sheer entirety of human history itself - emergent from basic primal principles such as sex, survival, resource accumulation, et cetera. This is to say that the individual and the individual’s brain is formed almost entirely due to social, familial, cultural, and genetic factors which pattern the brain to function within the repetitious, predictable (or lack thereof) systems and grooves and motions of the function of the larger body - whether that be a tribe, a civilization, and/or nature itself.

In this way, the human brain is by and large nearly entirely a product of deep evolutionary processes and existent socio-cultural systems. It will suffice to say that the human being itself is by and large essentially entirely a product of these processes and functions, reproduces, and dies as a continuation of them. To ‘extricate’ oneself from this web of mechanistic narration of biological and cultural production and reproduction, there must be a genetic mutation. And this mutation, by and large, is the development of the front brain. The front brain is the leading edge of the overall brain development; it is also the last to develop (in the sense of the individual life) in human beings. It is the part of the brain responsible for self reflexivity, self reflection, and self consciousness. It is the part of the brain responsible for thought, questioning, memory, and rationality. And it is also the part of the brain that is responsible for civilization. The genetic factors which shape and sculpt the size and function of the components of this part of the brain; furthermore, the medial (limbic) portion of the brain such as the amygdala and hippocampus - essentially and fundamentally determine the near entirety of the function of said individual’s sociability, emotional, psychological, and intellectual context.

In this way, we are determined with near entirety by these deep seated genetic circumstances as the formation and formulation of the primary conscious and ‘unconscious’ regulator of life function in the human being; the single most advanced and delicate piece of natural machinery known to mankind. This is the very organ that has birthed all thought and advancement throughout the annals of human history; the organ that birthed the very computational devices and information generators modeled directly and self consciously after it. We are, in this sense, entirely in Nature’s hands; sculpted directly from the deep historical circumstances which not only wove the developmental history of the human species and the human mind into being, but the deep historical ancestral genetic circumstances which passed our genetics down through the two sexes binary codex system which functions to ceaselessly recombinate and remix genetic potentials between two human organisms with womb and sperm to produce a third - a child, combined of admixed genetic potentials of the two former; designed from the genetic template thusly.

Human beings in this sense perceive notions of fate and free will where there is quite simply a recombinate chemical lab - a lab of ceaseless possibilities as in genetic codes entwined upon genetic codes - a ladder up through history of sentience and survival, both on an individual and Nature level - which encompasses not only multiple species of evolution of mind and brain and body and form, but multiple cellular and molecular formulations of division and compound. This is the same fundamental metaphysical principle of the birth and death of stars; the same cosmic principle encoded into the language of life on Earth. This is ever more apparent in how genetic code is altered and expressed by chemical and molecular compounds of air, water, food, and exchange of various organismic fluids. In this way, we are within a massive beaker of space and time and elements, fomenting new forms within and as our very own selves. This is the entire history of life on Earth. Therein is the absolute foundation and bedrock of all of our moral and ethical action on Earth and in existence and being itself. It is to foster, at all costs, the greatest and most productive ecological circumstances to cultivate, grow, and nurture all forms of consciousness upon the planet - as part of a massive recombinatory effort to birth and create ever more healthful forms of sentience, existence, body, and mind. Long and unconscious has been the history of absolute primal survival at all costs - a history of rape, murder, abuse, extortion, and manipulation to harvest individual materials perceived necessary for the furthering of the individual organism. This is the extreme local level selfishness which tears apart communities; preys like a predator on the savannah upon the unsuspecting gazelle of the young, the weak, the gullible, the trusting. It is this very form of selfishness that many claim is ‘human nature’. Rather, it is unconscious nature - nature as of yet unawakened to how its actions reverberate across all space and time; the very planet itself - as articulated and elucidated by the principle of ‘spooky action at a distance’ in quantum mechanics. Just because (at this point in human evolutionary history) many individuals’ senses are limited to the temporal reach of hands, faces, and bodies - it does not mean whatsoever that our actions begin and end at the reception of sensation at our forms and their touch, taste, and sight receptors channeled through the neuropathic grooves of the mind, body, brain.

In this way, we are a new, adolescent, and immature species - relatively confined to the “narrow chinks in our cavern”, as William Blake would say - or to the shadows between the bars of our cave of perception - to evoke Plato. Our very sense-form-body-mind limitations veil us to not only this deep genetic past from which we emerge so narrowly and unconsciously as to almost entirely be effects or casualties of glacial deep historical process - but also to the causes and effects of our actions even at an immediate, local scale, nonetheless a global or cosmic one. In this way, we are trapped and chained by a narrow selfishness borne and wrought from the fires and perils, traumas and a sufferings of our closest ancestors and forefathers, down to the deepest rungs of single celled organisms mutating and grasping for survival and sentience in a deep, veiled, primordial darkness. We are not too different from our inheritance of millions of years; our hubris convicts us of our superiority, supremacy, separation, and absolute growth and divorce from this, Nature’s primordial womb. And yet we are more unified and wedded to it than ever - it is a womb that we have never truly left. And that we have never truly left is an indictment of our failure to contemplate and acknowledge the very biological, chemical, and genetic realities that produce us and ‘control’ us from the deep unconsciousness - the processes and physical biological systems which form us and are us indelibly and indefinitely. The psychological dissociation from this reality is one of a deep fear of death, the fallibility and fragility and true inheritance of human nature, a spongy, penetrate flesh without shell, a fleeing through time without shadow to protect us from the hot sun of fear, suffering, and the necessity of survival and reproduction at all costs to pass on our valuable genetic material - on down the chain and ladder of human history. For we are the very part, parcel, and product of this unfolding. It is every mating of every one of our ancestors, plant seeds, single celled unifications, reptile congregations; mammalian transformations; the waiting change and accumulation of energetic power of and for the brain to evolve and acquire new characters of parts to make sensation and sentience and cognition multidimensional; to acquire the sensations faculties to have express, complex experiences of phenomena like unity, love, religion, and god. Awaiting us, through us, is the veil of the perception of unity with all things. It is this capacity, the capacity for peace, rest, and to cease the running throughout the murder and suffering that each being and organism hungers; toward which each evolution reaches. The capacity for deep, abiding agape love for all of creation. This is the highest level faculty and formulation of consciousness - a total perceived, felt, embodied visceral unity with the source of creation itself which is the climax of life and its absolute teleological expansion of, through, and with the body - the experience through the vessel of cogent form - of the infinite, and of the eternal, as manifest in and through and as all things.

This movement through the deep historical womb of perception is the sort of historical initiation of consciousness itself; is manifest through all forms of life. The poet Rumi: ‘“I died as mineral and became a plant, I died as plant and rose to animal, I died as animal and I was human, Why should I fear? When was I less by dying? Yet once more I shall die human, To soar with angels blessed above. And when I sacrifice my angel soul I shall become what no mind ever conceived. As a human, I will die once more, Reborn, I will with the angels soar. And when I let my angel body go, I shall be more than mortal mind can know.” Poeticized, this statement is profoundly true from an evolutionary biological sense. Our identification, fundamentally, with this source and essence through which our very lives rose and are rising, through the increasingly complex and compound vessels and vehicles through which we experience deep increasing sentience and consciousness of existence, forms, and the unity of and between and through all forms as the thread of the essence of life itself - is our self realization. And in our self realization, we place ourselves at the outset of our truly cosmic humanistic adventure - one of and through which each action, each thought, and each movement is for the absolute betterment, prosperity, and watering of the great garden of the primordial body which is the awakening of all consciousness and all organisms as the very form of the cosmos itself. In this way, we ourselves create and become paradise on Earth. This reflection, perhaps paradoxically, ironically, or even in the way of fate, destiny, and inevitability of the unconscious unfolding of Nature unto the awakening of forebrain sentience, to unify and remember the depths and deeps of the ancient reptilian, plant, and cellular existences which precede and are ourselves, us - is the reflection which brings into profound, prescient, fore-facing unity - all things.

This work is, first and foremost, a healing of the primordial and ancient ancestry which suffered, starved, struggled, engorged, drank blood, and survived on the plains and moors and battlefields of deep history to pass and bring forth its genetic and chemical-molecular material through time and into the present - the very material and evolutionary knowledge which we embody, and embodies us. In this way we are a deep symbiosis and absolutely and utterly inseparable with the very cosmic and biological evolutionary history which forms us. But this does not mean that we cannot rise through it, and even transcend it entirely - using the very evolutionary traits, materials, forms, bodies, and circumstances which we are given and which are gifted us by our ancestors. It is through these very vessels which we perceive, think, feel, formulate our actions and reactions; form the templates of ourselves - a process started even before consciousness and the full formulation of the individual brain in infancy and early childhood. It is in this way that this healing is a process of total and deep reclamation. We travel, in this way, almost backwards, or in reverse, down through our epigenetic youths and formative years; into the first sphere or circle of unconsciousness - our early childhoods in which our fore, medial, and hindbrains are patterned and programmed by signals, signs, and attentions; events and circumstances initiated or not initiated by our primary caregivers; our infancies and lives within the womb, in which our bodies and minds received deep unconscious materials by way of relations between our parents; the health of the parent which bore us in the womb. We are born from spheres to spheres, wombs to wombs of evolutionary history; like the sediment of the grounds of the Earth, or the rings of a tree, or the planetary spheres - we are within a nesting doll of consciousness. For the circumstances and conditions of our fetal wombs are born from first, second, and third generational histories of genetic and epigenetic confluence, events and occurrences, writ deep into the bodies and forms which birthed and nurtured us. And much of this history is not conscious, nonetheless vocalized and made known. We are made and worked in the profound shadow of a blacksmithing, of the hammering of the iron of our forms, lives, and works - a life that is essentially entirely unconscious and unknown at the level of the conscious mind and yet deeply lived, felt, experienced; ultimately encoded and recorded and recoded at the level of the forebrain - our narratives, stories, and visions of self and world - from the annals of the hindbrain, and the unconscious memory of the body.

We live out this knowledge primarily and primordially - our hungers, our desires, our magnetisms - the traits and forces to which we are pulled and from which we are pushed - living within the magnetic, electric current of life which passes us from generation to generation. And yet, we try to recover the ancient dirt and soil of our past, the garden from which we are birthed. The records of human history only extend several thousand years. And even these records are records of the conscious mind - say nothing for the lived reality - the visceral experience, unadmonished by memory, sentimentality; notions of grandeur, knowledge, and victory. We scarcely skim this truth, and yet, this is the neurological, biological, and primally encoded truth which we, in actuality, live every day of our lives. We are not nearly our knowledge, or anything approximating ‘knowing’. Rather, we are the visceral contents, components, and continuances of these unconscious genetic, biological, evolutionary, and deep brain processes - through which we perpetuate the encoding of evolution and genetic sentience, and through which we ourselves are encoded. In reaching back through time - we begin to realize just how deep this tunnel, this womb within a womb, truly goes. We are born from the birth of universes itself, from the birth of galaxies, through this nesting doll; down through the organisms which bore mankind; in all of this is contained the emergence of mind and the fleshly, animal faculties which kept the still of the cultivating brain alive; fed the fatty mass as it was passed and divested down through time to reach its current state of evolution. And even this is but a passing phase, a moment in its time, a state of acquired multidimensionality through which the senses are broached, breached, and felt; a state of multicellular compounding; a membrane through which food, water, and nutrition create the fertile circumstances for the continuation of this evolutionary terrain. From this emerges our thoughts, our feelings, our desires, our dreams, our cultures, our religions; every cultural and projectory aspect of existence - our imaginations, arts, and perceptions - the entirety of our sensate worlds and personal traits, attributes, and acting character constructions. It is not that we are a ‘charade’, so to speak, but that we are a necessary foothold, or moment in time, through which we ourselves are bootstrapped - in a peridimensional sense.

For we are this evolutionary phenomenon itself, irreducible to words or terms; yet acquiring through neurological outgrowths and brain organ ‘bolt-ons’, or prostheses, increased abilities and ‘eyes and ears’ to see, hear, and feel - to experience that which we truly are in its full, extended, unadmonished, total symphony and sensorium of existent reality - the veins of us which run through all space, all time, and all galactic unity. That we are the very ecosystem of the wind and the very peristalsis of the stars; the digestive system and the furnace of all thermodynamic metaphysical truth, or the very quantum wave of existence itself as it flits and flirts in and out of dynamic existences, is our truth at heart and root, beneath and behind all shuttered lenses, apertures and atrophies of limited senses and sensoriums, scales, and scores of perception and perceived limitations of truth. It is through this very evolutionary process of self expansion that we acquire the necessary tools to perceive all that which we are; to expand into all that which is being itself. In this way, our healing is that we are, by using the very faculties which these tools themselves avail us, traveling back into the ancient depths of the form and formulation of our brains and beings themselves, piece by piece, moment by evolutionary moment; reclaiming them, returning them to our body consciousness; making immediate, immanent and whole the depths of all that we are - depths that return us to the center, source, and origin of being and time. By way of the conscious mind, we are able to shine a light on these primordial depths; the very primordial depths that reside in us, as us; embrace them, hold them, and love them. In doing so, we free ourselves to heights once scarcely imagined, contemplated, or ever known. To return to the excerpted Rumi, these are the angelic heights of love. Here, truly, lies our free will. At the nexus of evolution, endowed with the capacities to examine our inner depths - that we plunge, not with hatred, but the love of a healer - knowing that we are endowed with the very source, force, and beauty of creation which rose our very beings, blood, and bodies up from the primordial depths; compounded and created us over vast scales and spaces of time; brought us to this moment - in which we choose to heal, to commune; to access these deepest and most obscured parts of ourselves with the light of science and knowledge as to the neurological function and compound work of the organism as together mind and body in rhythm; evolutionary time; in doing so, alight the depths of creation.