Selected Works (Evolution / Phantom / Initiation / Cosmic Inheritance / Creation)

SELECTED WORKS

Science cannot solve the ultimate mystery of nature. And that is because, in the last analysis, we ourselves are a part of the mystery that we are trying to solve.

• Max Planck

 'The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking.'

• Albert Einstein

“The total number of minds in the universe is one. In fact, consciousness is a singularity phasing within all beings.”

• Erwin Schrödinger

This is the story of the evolution of consciousness - or, the creation of, from an immense amount of potential, latent energy (The Big Bang) - complex, compound forms of existence, beings with sophisticated, multifaceted neurochemical structures capable of utilizing primordial creation energy.

This story is traced from the moment of this incredibly dense explosion into biological, evolutionary history and time; the rise, through recombinatory genetic processes, organisms and beings with complex organ systems; front and hind brains developed over millions of years (hindbrain); hundreds of thousands of years (forebrain). This process of genetic evolutionary recombination has created, over massive timescales, evolutionary traits which have brought about and continued the development of increasingly complex minds and brains - brains which, with increasing capacities for cognition, have begun the process of self reflection: ‘what has brought me about, who am I, why am I here; where am I going?’

This work dissects the evolution of consciousness from a multitude of perspectives: cosmological, quantum mechanical, spiritual, chemical, evolutionary biological and genetic, neuropsychological, molecular and cellular, and otherwise. It seeks to provide a deeply multivalent vision of the evolution of consciousness as a process which is the endowing of the individual with massive amounts of creative energy - to which, upon our reckoning with and conscious incorporation and healing of our ancient primordial histories of desperate biological survival and primordial accumulation - increasingly endows us with the capacity for love, kindness, imagination, and visionary artistry. But first, we must encounter the depths of this evolutionary heritage of darkness and struggle - one which is encoded into our very genetic structure and ancestral lineage; one that is encoded into our very hearts, organs, brains, and minds. We must understand our past; who we once were, in order to become who we fully are and are capable of being; to create a conscious future based on the values and glories we wish to see in the world. In doing so, it is not only we alone who will rise, but all of life - to greater heights. We now have the technological capacities to create a world with fundamentally less suffering: more accessible life saving medications, more healthful and natural food; more clean water. We now have these capacities to create a baseline standard of living for more and of more than ever before across all continents upon the planet Earth. Our commitment to doing so; to creating this better standard of living for all; to alleviate basic, physical human suffering is the first step of many in this process of evolutionary healing - one in which, ultimately, we are and will be coming face to face with the depths of the histories from which we have risen; the encoding of these histories into the fabric of our being.

And it is there that we choose; we must choose, time and time again, day in and day out - to become better; to become more; to redirect our vision and awareness to one of more wholeness, more compassion; a vision of greater dignity and love - an outstanding code of conduct and behavior that continually rises us up from ourselves; brings us closer and closer to a world in which we truly wish to live: a world of joy, which ripples out from each behavior, action, and interaction to the far ends and reaches of the Earth and cosmos - a reality well proven by the basic and fundamental principles of quantum physics.

It is my hopes, the hopes of the author, to provide you with a deeply resonant, visceral, embodied and felt experience of this journey deep into the body and history and primordial essence of creation: a journey and a vision well supported not only by intense, visceral personal experience - but a wealth and host of world historical spiritual and cutting edge scientific information. This is a journey that we all take; it is the journey of taking a body and becoming incarnate and incarnating on this Earth. And in doing so, we step into history; step into time, in a way that is scarcely fathomable. I aim for this work to take on the lofty goal of making this process a bit more comprehensible: with the combination of poetic vision, transdisciplinary scientific rigor; helpful world historical philosophical, psychological, and mystical traditional contexts. This is no abstraction, and no concept, it is the reality of life: a life which straddles the world of the deep ancestral spirit of light; heat; fire; the world of physical densities, molecular compounds, intricate, complex chemical reactions and neuron firings and synaptic exchanges which form the webs, networks, and matrices of our bodies, brains, and everyday lives. And from this, comes again and returns our choice. How do we wish to live; to rise up out of our histories; our deep and ancient histories; not to reject them, but to embrace them wholeheartedly; up from out of the depths of the darkness of the past, our struggles and our survivals - to heal, evolve, and change - and to create the world in which we truly wish to see, live, love, and be.

CONTENTS

I. THE EVOLUTION OF CONSCIOUSNESS

11. The Evolution of Consciousness

12. Notes on Consciousness

II. THE PHANTOM AND OTHER WORKS

77. The Phantom

78. Poems and Prose

III. INITIATION

157. An Epic of Initiation

158. Introduction

159. Prelude

160. First Movement

161. Second Movement

162. Twelve Poems

163. Etchings of light into immortal stone

164. Fecund, hot jungle

165. Next

166. Blackened Gold, Dawning Twilight

IV. OUR COSMIC INHERITANCE

419. Our Cosmic Inheritance

V. THE CREATION OF THE HUMAN BEING

441. Poetic Works

442. The Creation of the Human Being

443. Continued Poetic Works; ‘Perception’

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.

NOTES ON CONSCIOUSNESS

PART ONE

Pg. 1

1a. Substratum (Consciousness)

^ pre-chemical sentience

• Chemicals have inner recombinativity

INTO

1b. ‘The Big Bang’

(Disruptor/catalyst of frictive ‘awakening’

^ [Tinder of cosmos/disruptive reaction]

INTO

1c. The development of complexity via fire: ‘the elan vital’, OR the thermodynamic universe

^ Light as lowest ‘heat density’ or radiation from combustion engine(s).

(Arrows/rays from/of emergent source - traced and traceable back to ‘The Big Bang’

INTO

1d. Genetic evolution of DNA from increasingly complex chemical reactions/molecular interfacings

^ Basic architecture of information structuring and exchange + growth and development over time ie ‘organism(s)’

• This evolving chemical compound and molecular compound complexity is the evolution of consciousness

• Genetic evolution is another ‘big bang’ - esque explosion/leap moment similar to the (re)creation of the atom bomb (consciousness recreating primordial conditions via learned knowledge of structural essence of fission + fusion at the level of the atomic - ie suns + stars). This kind of event is a ‘leap’ or ‘revolution’ or ‘evolution’ of the change of forms to maximize and optimize information storage and exchange over space and time

PART TWO

2a. Evolutionary Leaps

• These evolutionary ‘leaps’ are frictive ‘tensions’ + explosive chemical/consciousness reactions that form novel frames/themes/species/galaxies/compounds

    - These evolutionary ‘leaps’ are literal and metaphorical ‘enlightenments’ vis a vis the elan vital combustion engine of the essential thermodynamic fusion/transfusion in and as the energetic universe. These leaps can be astronomically referred to as the highest level energetic/energy disruptive events in the cosmos - ie nebulae and supernovae.

: Heat - tension generation; ‘enlightenment’ consciousness

2b. Seeking evolutionary pairs via dispersion of consciousness into ‘cells’ (organisms with sensoria; single celled organisms; suns, explosive singularity into complexity and diversity) to ‘mate’ + create 3rd forms, ie transformation. 

2c. ‘New category’ level (paradigm shifting) ‘awakenings’ via evolutionary steps + leaps via explosive recombinativities (refer back to 1a).

• Chemicals in this sense are quantum facilitators or ‘flues’ to facilitate the recombinative evolutionary/revolutionary ascent of consciousness via increasingly complex compound molecular/genetic/wave vehicles at all spectrums of reality

    - In that sense, the universe/universal body serves chief purpose of facilitating the evolution of consciousness within the expanding and contracting and exploding alembic of itself in massive series of explosive recombinative reactions which induce state change at an atomic and astronomic level generating new agents with new facilities of perception/sentience/embodiment/sense/reach.

I.

Explicate and Implicate Bridges

1. Pure consciousness (substratum/‘dark matter’)

2. Thought form (‘idea of order’)

II.

Manifest (experiment of order)

1. Emergent event of complexity/complicate

2. Broken up by continual re-assertion of substratum (primordial order beneath chaos of ‘assumed order’

III. 

Explicate

1. Explicate - pure consciousness

2. Self consciousness and evolutionary pull to recognition - mind of mind, nuanced complexity

3. Experimentation of thought form + reflection of construct vis a vis the attempt: assemblage of chemical and molecular complexes, compounds; gathering of densities, complexities.

IV.

Assertion of compounds to epigenetic sphere of complex ‘diverse’ compounds + break down, build up, consume, and ‘sec’ to recombinate difference; complexity.

Attempt to find and assert complex novelty of self w/ capacity for apperceptive unity with source.

‘Trials’, ‘experiments’

These are fundamentally theses and syntheses in + as the a priori wave formation (consciousness/mind) + accumulations + dispersions of info/energy packets of complexity and compound narration in a linguistic sense - universe compound narrative device of experimental being + evolution of consciousness steeped in time

V.

Consciousness bootstrapping

Information packets

Disruptive events/friction/holotropy

Between implicate explicate disruption new implicate + thesis synthesis antithesis new synthesis

Importance of epigenetic recombinative effect on genetic threads

Survival and passage of genetic information packets as well as molecular, etc

Consciousness elucidating itself and becoming ever increasing self recognition via transmission and transformation of information packets over time via organismic complexity, attributes, sensoria, neuronal and neurological pathways, brain dev etc

Disruption reconfigures implicate order

Resiliency, adaptation, holotropy

Chemical reactions of bootstrapping, genetic thread

Consciousness bootstrapping itself up into and through compounds by the introduction of complexity. Disruption - the introduction of complexity by the additive of ‘another element’ which creates a dynamic, as in the Big Bang via the primordial substrate of unconsciousness. This frictive tension that is the explosive or disruptive movement, the charge, or the ‘elan vital’ which creates movement and disrupts the implicate order in order to create a new synthesis. Re: thesis, synthesis, introduction of antithesis into new thesis and new synthesis.

PART THREE

There is in essence and in first form an integral primordial, primal unity of consciousness, undivided, as a pregnant, primordial possibility.

In and through this sort of indivisible wavelength, there are frequencies and forms and densities as in songs or movements within this universal predicate and predisposition of and for thought forms. It is the prerequisite for thought, being consciousness, as it is for creativity, imagination. In this sense, it is and acts as the overmind through which all things are manifested and indubitably are in their very essence - even as they are temporal instances, or materialized thought form fabrics of existence - temporary manifestations or appearances of an organization or a form within this fabric of existence/being.

These forms form in periods of chaos and instability, ie the Big Bang. Moments where there is a force created or asserted, a fire, a vacuum, an instance of the previous stable order of materials/organization within/of that framework being disturbed. In and after chaos, an ‘implicate order’ is established - meaning that bodies and forms and spaces organize themselves in and throughout that re-stabilization of that breakthrough moment of consciousness, similar to a revolutionary vacuum of power. Forces, beings, and bodies must reassert themselves, and do so via forces, densities, and assertions of being as in mass, matter, and gravity. This is how solar systems are formed; networks of consciousness as in planetary bodies, stars, et al, in various states of stability, instability, combustion. In this way, the universe is constantly in flux, with periods of chaos, order, and reorganization.

These ‘networks of consciousness’ are neural networks of behavior in a consciousness sense. Meaning that they are grooves in the synapses of nature, or learned ways and patternings of behavior organized by repetitions of consciousness forces, meaning that they are reproduced and reproducible at all levels of being. This is, essentially, the unfolding and enfolding of an unconscious program of nature, wherein equilibrium of being is continually established and re-established in and after breaks of consciousness/chaos/turmoil as in an uprooting of a sort of national/regional law of consciousness in/after a formative event. This is a sort of fractal, metatemporal, metaspatial logos, which spans the heights and depths of micros and macros cosmos.

In this way, consciousness at a non-local level functions the same metacognitively as it does at a local level as in ‘the cosmos and the psyche’. The mind at a local level is a metacognitive manifestation, or way of actively embodying at levels of increasing sophistication, the same quantum cognitive principles of consciousness itself, or a way of directly accessing this implicate, ‘hidden’ teleology of nature vis-a-vis self cognitive reflexivity. The creation of mind through physical vehicles combined and recombinative through genetic thread (DNA and reproduction) is an attempt via stabilization of concrete terms of bodies through speciation to achieve the necessary cultivation of an organism/being/body through which thought and the overmind can self contemplate itself. In this way, the overmind essentially seeks reunion via recollection of itself in total compound profundity; to be able to recognize itself via the refraction of that which it makes and is made from. The attempt to achieve this is the essential movement of consciousness - which is nonlinear and nontemporal, but rather a constant state of experimentation and attempt to establish order through which its essential grounds can be made explicate. The accomplishment, in this way, of ‘self knowledge’ or ‘self understanding’ allows this essential ground of consciousness to organize itself clearly, directly, and through the crystalline, fractalline awareness of oneself accordingly. This is a unity and mastery of ‘higher and lower’, ‘overmind and manifest-mind’; a teleological reunity of the essential loop or circuit of being.

The universe, in this sense, represents a continual attempt of/to ‘self overcoming’ - in order to manifest, embody, create, and structure a teleological unity of being through the lens of being, in order to evolve/leap/jump through the gateway and doorway of consciousness; metacognition - which is, and would represent, a (re)cognition of the fundamental, underlying substratum and substructures of existence. To recognize this quantum substratum and the process/procedure of densities from superposition of consciousness; spooky action of consciousness and the wave upon which all things ride, form, divide, and reunify - is to return to the primordial essence and source of being and thus operate from this higher level cognitive faculty - from which all densities, forms, formations, and frequencies take form - including thought forms, imaginations, and the very creative impulse itself. To do so and to reside and live and breathe and be from this place - is to return to the foundations of existence itself, and live at this super-level of absolute teleological freedom of consciousness; immortal, total identification with the indivisible source itself; to live freely within this paradigm of absolute potentiality of consciousness; to participate in this unfolding and unflowing as a conscious mind interlocuting and interlinked with the higher mind, as the higher mind. In doing so, the field of creation is opened to a beautiful, imaginative immensity of art and colour. It is conscious access to the source and center and still of creation. From there and from this point, consciousness is in conscious interlocution with itself, and is self determining, self opening, self revealing, self creating, and teleologically revelated and revealed unto itself as the mutable essence and foundation of being, from which all things appear, emerge, are composed of (in various degrees and frequencies of apparition, sentience, structure, form, chaos, and order), and inevitably return - in and unto wholeness of self.

This evolution of complexity is essential to the recombinative, experimentative scientific artistry of consciousness as the fundamental, implicate order of being and existence. It wanders forth, and in this sense ‘creeps’ like a leaf, or a vine, or veins, or synapses, neural connections, and galactic connections (as observable at a massive scale, neighborhoods of galaxies) - in order to elucidate, ascertain, compound, and compel evolutions, versions, and visions of itself which most befit an elucidation of itself at its most high, multiplicate, synthetic, fractal, and integrative form - which is necessarily totally compound, boundless, infinite, and simultaneously singular. This can be seen quite clearly through the process of specieal evolution and evolutionary biology at a ground level on the planet earth, as certain species shed certain traits, attributes, and genetic links to the past to make even species jumps to new forms, ulteriorities, senses, and modes of being and perceiving to further grasp upon the rungs of essence and existence - to evolve to a point and place of ‘evolutionary safety’ or to ascend the ladders of contemplation and consciousness source vis-a-vis the inner unity of the being or vehicle which carries mind of mind up and down through genetic passages and lineages of the semi-stable unfoldment of being and consciousness through DNA capsules, or ‘packets’ of energy, light, and consciousness being-body. This genetic construct is, again, a linguistic construct of consciousness elucidating itself through the prima and primal materials of molecules, chemicals, and base matter. In and through this recombinative capacity and power, it constructs increasingly complex forms and formulae, through which consciousness can be elucidated and expressed with ever more clarified, compound, and synthetic heights. It begins, as an elucidation across the bridges and still and complex of the passages of evolutionary time - as incredibly simple, raw, and minute/microbic forms - closer and closer to the essence of the formless, blackness, raw pregnancy of consciousness itself (ie single celled organisms, unto and toward the perhaps paradoxical lightness of dark matter) into and through complex multiplicitous compound chemical reactions of bodies with organs, developed and developing cortexes of minds, and so forth. This evolutionary complexity is accomplished through the perennial admixture of recombinative sex and consumption of organisms, which feeds, nurtures, and transmisses the information of their substantive energy into and through the next paradigm and flue of birthings. This passage is, again, a rememory of the previous, and prior, a compounding of the essential substance of life and consciousness through a genetic narrative and turbine which retains the experiential information of the prior while allowing for a transformation of the former into the next evolutionary leap - a sort of ‘passage between birth and death’.

This recombination is the force through which consciousness leaps - the instability of sex and death as cell division and cell reunion - the tensile fabric through which information is transmitted, between the chaos and order of paradigms of stability - the recombinate force which generates and creates new bodies, and a third - between the chemical reaction of the nutritional intake of the food/sustenance; there is a ‘before’ and ‘after’ of the compound reaction, a genetic and or epigenetic effect through which, theoretically and practically, a new being is formed. At each edge of this genetic informational unfolding and transmission, there is the instability and chaos of the fear of the failure and the fall into the primordial darkness of the failure to transmit said information; thus, the impulse of the organism to and unto ‘survival’ as a retaining of the biological chemical package of the genetic information which is the spiral ascent through recombinate ancestral history of the organism to pass the packet of the information unto the enlightenment of the brain and mind to and into primordial unity - reunion of spirit with soul, or reunion of the conscious, enlightened mind with the very primordial ocean of language which produced it, and that which it ultimately entirely is. This reunion is the spiritual reunion at the heights of the ascension of consciousness, through and at which a new paradigm of conscious creation and scientific artistry as and unto the laws of itself and innovations of its forms is ushered. It is learning through the lens of itself.

PART FOUR

Start:

1. Total potentiality into creation of solid forms; frequencies/corporealities. This is a principle of recombinate/chemical organization of compounds/gatherings of light/molecules; periods of density/densities across the spectrum of the wave of consciousness itself, or like nodes or ‘stars’. Gatherings of compound energetic/chemical reactions creating heat, densities, fire, or the appearances of form.

1a. Dark matter - pure potentiality, consciousness. The vast majority of the universe, existence, consciousness. Like the brain, the vast majority unexplored, unaccessed, ‘dormant’, or ‘pregnant with potential’. This is mimicked cosmologically in the neural networks of the galaxies, or threads of ‘communication’ of light beings, waves, and bodies of stars, planets, cores - wherein there are pockets of total darkness, absence, et cetera. ‘The lighting up of the synapses of the brain/universe’.

2. Potentiality harnessed by thought forms (Plato). This is the importance of the observer effect, superposition in quantum mechanics and physics. The thought or the thinker or the observer harnesses the raw materials of creation - previously on a sort of evolutionary, temporal autopilot, to alter the trajectory of the gatherings of light/molecules/substances/densities through the act or active creation. The universe acts in this sense like moths to a flame, planets to a sun, hungry gravities to a core. This is much like animal consumption, or leaves of a tree or flower bending toward the light of the sun. This is an essential hunger for the essence which in actuality is the evolutionary aspect of consciousness unto enlightenment unto itself. All that is seeks to recognize, remember, and reunify with itself. In doing so, it continually recombines; reconsumes itself unto the primordial recognition which is the union of the mind with the universal mind; universal laws; substratum of existence which is all things; consciousness itself in its most essential form - that which it is.

3. Furnace or engine of the organismic body as the transmutation of forms or still of existence in which ‘thoughts arise and mind is cultivated/fed/sustained/maintained, etc’. cultivation of the mind as an organic receptor/receiver of the universal mind via the nutriments of the body. The mind, in this way and sense, is a teleological and very important extension/device in the evolutionary process of the whole, down to the single celled organism and molecular instance as a ‘gathering of the body of light’ into resonant/fractal/frequent ‘forms’. The cultivation of the mind as an energetic/electrical/frequent vessel is the sophistication of the essential communion of nature with itself, unto metaphysical insight into the essential aspect of consciousness. ‘Recognition’ of mind via mind.

4. Chemical reactions of fire - produce visions in the flame. Mind is active and present for and throughout in increasing sophistication to the impacts and affects of the body. In this way the body is like genetic smoke; contains memory down to the last cellular divide of the earliest forms of creation. The body is an archive for all of existence; in doing so, participates in all of existence down to the revelatory and most fundamental singularities and compounds. Mind is that which recognizes this; the interconnection and the unity at a quantum wave, spooky action, ‘all is consciousness in various states of utero and unfolding and revelation’ level.

5. Consciousness becoming aware of itself and creating in and of itself - immersion in the still of existence with the artist-scientist-philosopher’s eye. This is an evolutionary process over aeons. The more sophisticated and unified this sort of ‘inner eye’ becomes, the more fundamentally unified and yet still creative this evolved and synthetic consciousness becomes. Self reflective, self reflexive, self refractive, and yet still creating from this very essential code of the evolution of consciousness; steeped in the still of the ancient, primordial past in a simultaneously physical, embodied, and metaphysical knowledge, remembering, retrieval way; holistically incorporates itself in this archival fraction into the entire projection of the future vis a vis conscious sight, or profound observation of that which it is at root and essence; works with the primal, a priori materials of profound potentialities of consciousness itself at source and root and vibratory, pregnant blackness.

6. Creating ‘unconsciously’, nature’s fractal formulae; then creating consciously in revelation of consciousness unto itself IE Job; Recombinate chemical forms, genetics, etc, compound. Molecules organize in a primordial pool, DNA formation; recombinate thread of organismic existence. Nature creates by its own code of self organization and reorganization through periods of chaos and order through which species; planetary bodies, solar systems, and galaxies are formed, stabilized; unformed; mutated; thrown into chaos by a breaking of the chain of outer elements. Similar to how the solar system itself is held at least temporarily in a synthesis and thesis of regular gravity and orbital rotation of planetary bodies; yet subject to higher chaos of further, outer galaxies, and the possibilities of breaking chaos; influence of outer bodies, ie the great attractor, black holes, greater influences beyond this local sun in power, heat, energy, mass, gravity, et al. This order is a temporary synthesis established in a solidification of chaos (big bang) into a synthesis of temporary order. This is what we know as, for the most part, the lived experience of classical physics.

Probabilities influenced by consciousness/observation/observer. The more conscious existence/life becomes, the more it will change to reflect the self reflexive aspect of consciousness. This is a dialectical redoubling of nature upon itself; a recognition of the unconscious, primal instincts; intuitive survival of the living, breathing, heaving, blooded genetic thread - in order to pass on the genetic information of ages; in order to create and compound via self selective traits the necessary capacities to perceive the utter fullness of itself; to have the experience of consciousness itself via and through the apperceptive lens of the conscious body formed by natural compounds.

Essential fractal formulae of nature - quantum intelligence; consciousness at the raw unconscious level of primordial cosmos - fractalline micro-macro. Consciousness reflects itself at all levels, in the thought form of the dance of the planets in their mutual gravitational pull in the local solar system (the lila, lotus, flower); on the earth in a fractal geometry of same. The building blocks of nature, in this sense, are compounds which are replicated throughout. These are ‘line of best fit’ constructions; evolutionary consciousness developments designed throughout to sustain conditions of and for life; the sustenance of the essential fire of creation/being. This is what a node of a star essentially represents at full force and form - a still, a contenance, a concatenation, a continuance of being of light. This is, essentially, a return to the formation and synapses of mind at the universal and individual level; the creation of conditions for this essential primordial replication through the evolutionary (under)growth of time. Consciousness as/is the fundamental substratum of existence; it is going to move ‘unconsciously’ (ie in the pattern/program of nature/existence/‘classical physics’) until it becomes conscious.

Quantum physics and classical newtonian physics are physics of density/enlightenment; rules followed by progressively light; lighter ‘bodies’.

Therein, there is ‘more chaos’, or ‘less predictability’; ‘more potentiality’ or ‘less certainty’. This has to do with the quickness of and in which thought forms can and do change, compared to the change of a mountain, or a physical body/corpus via evolutionary time; a planet, etc. These densities are sort of ‘degrees of sophistication’ or, rather, ‘degrees of stasis’. It is, in this way, harder to move a mountain than it is to bend a ray of light, or to ‘change a thought/light potentiality/pathway’.

This is the importance of the neural connections and pathways in the brain - worn grooves but also potential arbiters of change in which the course of the path of the mind takes in forming/making/reforming thought forms new and old. These are patterns and well worn grooves of time, interlocuting with evolutionary intention and genetic history/histories.

Consciousness moves across grooves until and unless it is elevated by synthesis; interfacing with its source; full buoyancy of light and potentiality beneath the patterning groves of existence/being/nature/time - this is the essence and ‘enlightenment’ of the quantum.

It is then a sort of question or essence of ‘where you reside on this spectrum as in self and self identification. Identification with consciousness is the highest form, most mutable, most possible, most free; at essence and source most truthful and entirely all encompassing of all forms/densities/perceived distances of all of existence.

The psychic experience of the ‘evolving mind’ is a ritual experience of the very immanent construction and movement of and through this process of being/nature/existence becoming conscious of/through itself via an ‘organic/unconscious’ formation through which is running the essential biological logos or program of nature to ‘further itself’ or ‘grow beyond itself’ or ‘grow beyond its existing capacity’ to contemplate itself. This is an essential genetics of desire to obtain the proper light/heat/recombinatory materials to continue to self perpetuate the mind via reproduction or nutriment. This is, in a sense, the enlightenment of this natural process unto itself and its own innate self overcoming as a node of consciousness, or a formation maintained over time by the unconscious process of genetic destabilization/restabilization in which the body/form/species is mixed and admixed. That it is, fundamentally, the chemist/artist of consciousness. And, simultaneously, the lightest, most essential form, taking on a density or a historical pattern to further the development of the instrument - an instrument of the apperception of this consciousness in its fullness and form; the ability to interface directly with it as a conscious observer and to participate in the art and science of being at a supracognitive level, or metacognitive level - and in doing so, create a sort of revolution or evolutionary leap of consciousness by working in unity with the essence and essential foundation of being. By working from/at the source (primordial consciousness itself) and not through the rote blocks and formations of the ‘perceived reality of animal/carnal/formative densities’, we penetrate into reality and work with a priori first forms. This is an enlightening and enlightenment of and to the essence of existence - of consciousness unto itself.

THE PHANTOM

I.

Her husband had committed suicide in the war. His name was Jean-Claude Parsonne, and he was buried beneath one of the last remaining Mayan temples, beneath some felled tree stumps, left to the orange and black specked bugs, dung beetles, and distended worms. "The jungle has teeth," he would tell her, "it is furious and will eat all things, even the last memory of us. There will not be a scrap of flesh, a memory, a leaflet, nor even a statue. All of the ancient cultures had sun gods," he said, "but it is just a matter of when those gods would die; go up in a plume of colorful smoke; live in a graveyard rainbow haze."

She was rocked by his death and descended into a sort of brutal insanity with flashes of lucidity, where she could remember a certain math equation, a chemical compound, or distillation. She was a practical chemist, tasked with making anti-cancer injections for the new government, harnessing genetic information to potentially begin the new eugenics projects of terraforming the consciousness of the nation. The war was over valuable genetic material—more valuable now than water was genius, intelligence. It was what the people were truly starved of; without innovation, the cities had stagnated, clogged with filth and reeking of bodies. The cemeteries, like the landfills, were long since overfilled; the tenements, full to bursting. He had died breathing the flat, noxious gas so typical of the guerrilla insurgency—designed to perfectly preserve in working order all the organs of the body so they could be repurposed; the genetic material to be registered and logged in the databases.

Her name was Emma. Once, she was told, far down her line, she had ancestors in the old Parisian resistances—where they clogged the streets with furniture and buttresses and shot pistols valiantly but uselessly at the police. There was a time of revolutionary solidarity, but it faded like a mist into the obscurity of the times: lost, wandering, borderless, nameless, faceless. Now, there were no thoughts but the rare hiccups of genius that echoed throughout the centuries. The last of them unified the world in an undistinguished, cultureless mass. All that was left was for one more fragment of an innovative mind to emerge. The people were starving for it; with uprisings in Guatemala, Guam, Moscow… it was as if they were, by violence, attempting to turn the entire world on its head. But no blood spilled could birth a mind capable of revolutionizing the dead spirit of the times.

She lived in a lone hut overlooking the sea, where it battered against the rocks; a cliff face on the coast of what was once Maine, in the old United States. There were no names now for these places, just relics of a lost time, just as there was now no language. We remembered these things, names like Emma, but we did not speak them. They were useless; life was condemned to silence, but a vague whisper in the market, a customer to the butcher—haggling a price, or sleeping away at an inn. She thought of Jean-Claude and how he’d died for nothing; perhaps it would have been easier to take a bullet in the head, like his favorite old poet, Mayakovsky. At least he was looking up at the solstice sun as it scraped the back of the old temple. All the sacrificial blood before him, buried in the sedimental skin of the earth; he had added to it, like silt or volcanic rock.

For Emma now, there was dead time and silence. She drifted like a ghost through the streets of the old abandoned fishing town. Now there were the shrouded awnings of the lone fish grocer or two, where even during the days, only the lights of the eyes would pierce the smog and flicker like predatory panthers. Without money, it was easier to exchange favors for the essential things. She was a weaver when she could, and when the sale could be made—but women mostly sold their bodies in her town and elsewhere. Culture was simply sex; without language, there was really no need for books. Nothing new under the sun, they say. But Jean-Claude used to read. He’d keep a stack of books hidden underneath the mattress frame. He’d tell her, in his guttural hushed tones, when they were alone in those old moony nights, where only the crashing of the waves dispersed their speech, “No one needs to know, nor would they remember, what these poets and philosophers said. What their minds and hearts reflected, the heart of life…” She drifted. Science had given them the final truth, put down like a commandment from ancient gods or an axe blow. They were simply chemical reactions, spawn of heated molecules in a swamp, sustained by a brief myth; a sheer illusion of consciousness. Many accepted; the few rebelled. Life collapsed into the regularity of obedience.

It was ideal for this life to have no meaning, for the drug lords and pushers who owned the cities. Their skyscrapers, sleek, rolling black luxury vehicles, the cigars rolled with hallucinatory leaf. They lived in a paradise condemned to the silence of orgasmic thrusts, and the sickening crunch of beef bone and lobster claws against the knobby lapels of their fists, crackling against the sharp teeth in the jowl. She sat and rocked in the old wooden chair, imagining the crack of the bone in the snapping of the dry woody fire in the iron stove before her. This fire burned with seeming ceaselessness. It was a mirror of the stars.

II.

The next day, Emma awoke to the sound of a hen bleating. She stumbled out of bed, feeling perfect in the hum of her mind, but with the fugue of last night’s sweat upon her brow and chest. She had dreamt of Jean-Claude. He was screaming behind an ancient mask, groaning with red and purple lips, before a great pyre of bodies. The flame from them was a brutal gold, and their blood danced in waves before weaving a fabric in the sky, turning into the hair of a black, witchy goddess. She was thrown awake by the temperament of the dream. The ashes of the fire lay before her; the uneaten stew in the burned bottom pot. She was tired; worn down by the fixture of time. The sheer oscillations of it beat her into the ground, day after day, worn to tempered seeds of sand like the waves of an ocean. It soothed her, this fatigue, just as it agitated, like the smooth underside of a gem. It came to her, the wildness of the fire; it lived in her.

She walked through the feed grounds, petting the prickly feathers of the flock, delicately scooping up some flecked eggs and placing them in the wicker basket by the door. She decided, somewhat unconsciously, to walk to the checkpoint. It would be just through the valley, led there by a grove of trees where the sun passed over them like a dial; the waving branches cast beautiful, cooling shadows. It was the town that was once Bridgeport, and now was simply a gate for militia and munitions, with all the land cleared away to provide a clean line of sight for miles in all directions. She enjoyed passing through, the make-believe of her papers, the laughably stoic faces of the guards. She saw the whole theater of death now, this parade of the new government; it brought her great joy and a sense of deep hilarity. She indulged in the apishness of the victors and the new party, even as she was haunted by the circumstances of Jean-Claude’s death. There was still something to it, to him cracking the homemade grenade of gas there, that froze his mouth, teeth, eyes, and lungs in a perfect contentment of death right before the ancient stone temple. Statues of snakes were leering right before it, where they found him, almost entranced and vibrating in a perfect seated meditation. She loved him, in the way that all human beings loved—desperately and casually. He was her friend; they understood.

As she passed through the checkpoint, she checked the pockets of her black fatigues. There were some non-perishable rations, some of her favorite French cigarettes, the great Gauloises—the ones her great grandfather used to smoke. It was her last memory of what ‘being French’ was, or seemed to be. He told her of his father and the graffiti, the protests, their films of love. Mad painters, and mad poets. Baudelaire, chanteuses, opium addicts; the fires which took first the Notre Dame, then the rest of the city to smoldering rubble in the cleansing. Now there were no homes, only passages; travelers, nomads, highwaymen, and thieves. And, of course, prostitutes. Beneath them were her garters, where she kept the glistening silver hunting knife with which she skinned deer when she could pin them with a bullet or an arrow; her Walther. The bees danced in a hive she could not find with her eyes. Beyond the clay road, marked off with sandbags and the metal gateway of the scanning station, lay the desert expanse. Out beyond the Bridgeport checkpoint was pure desert of flat, hard dirt. It was as if the memory of trees had been forgotten; the sun leered overhead, ominous and red. She dragged, near retching in the sun. In the distance, back to the coast, she could hear the sirens of the opening of the gene factory.

III.

The gene factory was characteristic, first and foremost, of the unified new government. The production of optimal genetic circumstances dated all the way back to the days only her great ancestors could recall; they had finally done it, in the midst of Jean-Claude’s war. The European armies had marched deep into the Guatemalan jungles; razed the Peruvian flora to the Paracas Peninsula in search of the old masters, the shamans who could recall the structure of DNA intuitively, in order to harness their genetic knowledge. For there were no notable births in the crumbling empires; the nations desperate for leaders, condemned to usury of the country coffers by petty thieves; bickering in the Parliaments; futility of the changing of the guard, with no greater innovations than the space hotels that lay rotting and lightless for decades. It was a tiresome sham, until the introduction of the gene factories. It gave the failing species a hope, a way out, a way through - the barbaric march of another two hundred thousand years of blind, bickering, stumbling evolution - unto the hopes of growing a third thumb, or producing the next Renaissance mind.

There was a cruelty to it; a cruelty to the brute dumbness of humanity that Emma inherited, like a genetic code, or inner, sacral reasoning which she could not completely nor entirely shake. She had the urge to kill; it was an urge that was stronger even than the urge to fuck, or eat. In her early childhood, they had all given up speaking, and resorted back to the brute and bodily actions which characterized the animal which man had been wretched back into. Years and years without renovation and revelation stung far worse than years without birth. Sex, food, water, and the repetition of concrete stairs, flat, tan, concrete walls, like prisons, like asylums, like schools; the wire lining the streets like a forced processional. Each day was like an execution, and it hardened Emma around her brows. She trudged onward, defiantly; became increasingly militant. She brandished her gun in her waistband at onlookers; polished her black leather combat boots with a heavy fist, digging into the smooth, scuffed flesh. It was a regime of pure discipline; she carried the whip of her mind like a dominatrix. For her, she would be the greatest executioner, if they wished to live in a slaughterhouse.

It was the dumb fear of cattle, who caught a flash of a light in a mirror, startled in their stiff march to the factory grave. They gave them a song, a cross, a relic of the old land; the earth folk who worshipped many gods folded into the industrial wasteland which was both pre and post war. They were desperate for meaning. Some ran in hopes of languishing in the sea of the old times, like a biological devolution. They receded toward the womb of religious stories. Others reveled in the pure hedonism of the cities, or sequestered in the cold scientific computational tombs of the research schools. Jean-Claude had only enlisted to get out of the computation factories; she remained, in an increasingly porcupine exile. Left to the eggs on the farm; the herb garden; the moon water, the rain water, the sunlight. When she’d received the hologram of his death, the image shimmering in the breeze like an olfactory hallucination, she could taste the memory of his soul, his words, their conversations; the way he made her feel. The mornings that passed swiftly and yet in a perfect, rhythmic time, the two of them in bed, both serious and in laughter. She ran out to the garden and screamed in anger, and in defiance. He had to die in the mud, alone; he wandered off, knowing that she’d see this, see him. She was embarrassed. Shameful. Her tears burned; burned again in her memory.

It felt foolish, to love, to feel anything at all. Frivolous as it all was. Sometimes the dreams felt more real; that life was just a passing hobby until she returned to sleep. She would drift forever, buoyant, like a fugue to death, a preface to something far greater. An opening into a truer, lighter reality. The canyons of silence around her echoed; she wiped the sweat from her brow with a snatch of free cloth she had tucked in her waistband. It was more real to be alone, out here, in this vulture wasteland, left to herself and her own thoughts. The heat enveloped her; she sweated off her membrane, her border. It was like leaving into a private symphony. She didn’t need to be seen, known. It was better that they no longer spoke; that Jean-Claude was her last language companion. Strangers knew better to speak to one another, beyond the completion of a transaction which could not be gestured with the hands. It would arouse suspicion of the presence of mind, and that would draw examination; inevitably, an autopsy. The gas Jean-Claude took for himself had long been perfected by the new state’s chemists. It could perfectly preserve the flesh for decades, if not longer. Plenty of time to dissect the intercoursing neurology of the organism’s brains, organs; to understand the full fabric of its being. Intelligence. The second coming of genius. The waiting. The desperation. It was all much clearer in the daylight of time… clearer now than when she sat as a child and heard the stories; tried to understand.

IV.

They hoped that it would rescue life from decline. For it had all declined. Misery, shortness of life. Brutish and short. There could not be art, for there was no art to remember. Hands and minds worked, but the instruments and brushes; pages and pens were as alien as language had become, the playfulness. It was rote; entirely economical and ecumenical. The schools produced endless surgeons. They invented the chemicals, the weapons, the bombs, the computing devices. Faster, faster, faster, in a whirlwind; a tempest of explosions and cold, dead innovation. Jean-Claude had hated it. The two of them were like poles of a magnet, repelled from the living grave; into the warm embrace of the heart. Emma sneered. Just the thought of it sent a surgical chill up her spine, like the touch of cold metal, grinding against her flesh and creasing up against her bloodstream to break the barrier of her skin and the sterile air. The cities where the barons lived and warred were now simply hospital schools and laboratories - where aspiring technical minds raced against the clock to build the next efficient device to extract energy, information, and material from the failing human corpus.

Emma herself had once traced that metallurgic line across the sky. But inside her, Jean-Claude knew, there was a poet, and a lover. By the fire, they wrapped themselves in one another, like a blanket of continuity. They weaved, and were lost in the galaxies, lost to time; they drifted forever, inside a vast continuum, unblinking, filled to the hilt of the skin and bursting to the rosy flower of the mouth with one another, entirely consumed and coiled like mating garter snakes. Their time was precious and yet infinite. Two years later, he was there, staring at the stone steps, thousands of miles away from her, fighting in a war of nuclear weapons, sticks, and stones. It was like he was retreating to another time, death. Something more animal, primordial, fluid. In the vat of his blood, slowing, pulsing; growing cold and coagulated, like the slow oily blood of the earth which seeped black from the well wounds. She left the factory cities and was left to her memory of the thread; she wove and wove for hours with the thin metal needle, until the tips of her fingers started to bleed. She’d suck on them and think of him; once they became calloused she considered abandoning the whole project; leaving it all behind. Perhaps, she thought, even on this walk, that last dream of him would be the match with which the whole affair would go up in smoke; the house itself would recede into distant, blacked out memory. She’d let the hens reclaim the fireplace; walk on forever.

She came across rail tracks; balanced on them like a child, darting from plank to plank, spike to spike. She had no trouble. Someone in her line was a dancer, but nobody remembered who. The genetic thread of her lineage wove millennia – but to her, she was this hidden thing, this emergence, with a dark history. It was as if there was a snake within her, coiled around the sheer profusion of planetary bodies, with its forked tongue clasped about the stars. Her body remembered where her conscious mind could not; she handled the grace of the movement, even amidst the beads of sweat which crested upon her nose, chin, and lips; fell to the stony ground. Tufts of grass bled through the cracks of the chapped ground; occasionally she would see the remains of an old gas canister, or a bottle cap. It was an abyss in these parts of the world, as it was by her cliffside home. Life was retained solely to the cities; unbroken in its pace, rhythms, and pathways. It was entirely predictable, down to the first and last bell of the day and night; the narrows of the roads which served only as walkways for the students and disciples of the new science of the flesh. Every last drop of the day was to be extracted toward the task, at risk of the fatal discovery falling to the hands of the guerrilla machinists, working with rudimentary tools in the far jungles of the south; Asiatic southeast. It was as if they were attempting to barbed wire the possible synaptic pathways of existence – to tame humanity into such a deep and rote regularity as to enslave even the essence of imagination; consciousness itself. The last line between the two factions, time and timelessness, was the jungle. It provided the necessary cover of insurrection’s night against the pocketwatch of the day; the factory world of regulated and regular hours and lives. The folk songs drifted hesitantly out of the land where there was no time. Weaving was one of those relics, as was the making of dolls. Some still remembered the ancient art of making pigments for clay and gourds out of the crushed atomic materials of the forest; the distinct hues and dyes coloring the cloth and fabrics of dresses and ceremonial garments.

V.

It was the pyre again. There was a man standing beside it, an old man. His beard wrapped wildly around his face. He grinned with an almost entire lack of presence, like the coil of the lips and teeth upon his face were structured by an entirely unconscious force. The bodies were glowing embers of coals. Growing fainter. She blinked; the slip of her eye, it seemed like an aeon had passed. He beckoned to her. There was a tunnel, in the cave behind the fire. They walked. The stone was carved with bones. She shivered. The man looked back, with pure, dark, blackened eyes. It seemed like there was nothing there, but there were black stones in his sockets. At the bottom, there was a pool, with a shining gold light emanating from the water. She looked in.

The day slammed into her face loudly. She sat up, and rubbed her eyes. Beneath a lone sapling, she had rested. There was a wall, an old general store; the brick wall provided a lean-to. She splashed some water from her canteen against her eyes, mouth, and lips. She was shocked, stunned; her mind moved freely, untethered and untamed, as if caught in a static television set, a radio channel, a faint whisper which had guided her on. She didn’t see it, but in the night before, she’d walked into an abandoned town. She normally only spent an hour or two beyond the Bridgeport checkpoint; this distance was unprecedented for her. Something inside her told her she was never going back. Never going back to the old house, the memory of Jean-Claude; the tiresome regularity of her increasingly contracted reality. She had become like an animal backed into a corner, a stray dog bearing her teeth. It was enough, like the end of a play she had been present for, but entirely divested from. A bad act. A half show. She would walk until the end of the earth, or else a breakpoint, a fatal disruption to her previous life. She sought rebirth like a sacred water, like a crystalline substance, a waters of life to quench a deep, inner thirst. She would die and be reborn; shed herself.

The houses were in a line like soldiers, back to back in perfectly similar construction. They were industrial houses, as most were in these townships, with these old general stores often co-opted into shops which sold the essential clothing and uniforms for the workers. In these types of outskirts towns, the workers mined coal, minerals, and elements; crafted the steel and metals necessary for the factory machinists in the cities and the laboratories. Coal was now secondary to nuclear, but nonetheless could be used; was often preferred by the smaller industrial units - relegated to older, more easily obtainable methods for energy. There were still oil fields in the south; like lone great metal storks they dipped constantly into the innards of the dirt. She remembered the images they had shown her on the dusty film reels in the lecture halls of the college… of the smouldering furnaces; the roaring engines. Anything that would power the lurching, monstrous beast - bellowing its noxious smoke. Beneath the towers, sample bodies slept; jolted - steaming in a perennial, manufactured night of smog which eclipsed all shade of day.

She examined herself. There were these faint beginnings of the felt newness. The decision. The step into this new life. There were these moments, flickerings, where she basked in this truth - like a salamander upon a hot stone in the sun, in the full breadth of her individuality. There wasn’t even this nonsense of the new government; this vast insurgency, Jean-Claude, genetic absurdity. It felt like some distant myth or legend of some far off empire. She was part of nothing - she had no language, no name, no place. She was wild, like a horse living on a fertile island of green. It was her soul, murmuring like a brook, deep within her breast. It was a new language, and it had a taste. It was fresh, evergreen, a crystalline dew; a blue-white mountain stream. She began to walk.

VI.

In Emma’s mind, there was something forming. Like in the stars, they drift without noticed meaning, until the observant eye pulls them together in a constellation, and recalls the ancient story of the hero who felled the monster which recoiled beneath them, in another, far off network and league of lights. She felt this mute coagulation, this consonance within her; she reveled in it. It was the sensation of private novelty; the participation in something great and yet entirely availed to her and herself alone - a participation which was like a blanket atop her corporeality and humanity; a womb in which she heard the song of life, which whispered in a language she could not quite recall and yet knew intimately and completely. It spoke with a tangled language, a series and sense of syllables which were like a woody, leafy vine coiled around something sacred and diamondine, a substance true and parallax to all of nature. She touched it within herself as she walked, and the veiny leaves responded; twisted, and peeked at the gem within her. It was a stone of her inner truth, and it glistened. She was walking away from everything untrue; toward something entirely real; filled with the depth of something unconquered and primordially natural. It resided within her.

This was an idea, she realized. And as much as she disliked it, she recalled Jean-Claude’s words: ‘An idea is something formed in the stream of reality. It is an image of existence, the imaginary face of life, the very source of creation, staring right back at you’. And it was then that she connected the dream. Jean-Claude and the old man. She had to sit down for a moment. It was as if he had aged; the lines had blurred - between sleeping and waking. Her certitude of time faded like a candlelight in the passage of hours. She slowly began to contemplate it: the death of Jean-Claude, the war; the years before it; her recession into the depths of solitude. Where did they meet? Ah… in the dining halls of the hospital’s college. He was an intern in… computing, was it? Her memory flickered; conjoined with the touch of sensation. She remembered his smile, the chaos of his black hair writhing about his forehead - the product of too many sleepless nights. He was young then, almost impossibly young. She held up an apple toward him, and he laughed. Understanding. That was when the dreams started. It was a night with him, not one of the first. He was on top of her, thrusting, staring almost solemnly into her eyes; she, staring right back at him. And then, suddenly, like thunder to her mind. It was the shaking of the blood, like a baby’s rattle in the hands of an angry god, or the tempest of an unseen hand which tossed a snow globe into utter turmoil. It was laughter, not his, nor hers. They came into one another like open doors, and there was a chemical transformation, his sweat on her red breast…

The necessity of him, was it dreams? Their time together seemed unbroken, not in a respite of a night, nor a waking hour. They tumbled through life until his death; her reception of that hologram upon the steps of the old hut. Her companion, even her guide. Without him, she wandered. And yet, this old man was him. She must sleep again. This time, like before - alone - in perfect solitude. Far from the world; in the company of the blackness of the night; the twinkling, weaving of the stars. As she drifted, she thought - he must be a memory… a memory of something utterly real; yet necessary, a product of a world where waking and sleeping were unified; night and day collided in a rapture of perfection, unity.

VII.

The gun butt in her mouth woke her up. She opened her eyes to see a thick browed, slack jawed man holding a rifle barrel in his hands, the butt pressing her teeth and skull into the dirt. She glared; his eyes shimmered with frivolous power. He gestured for her to get up. She knew he wouldn’t speak to her, as it would imply an equality, a trust, and a personality. This would be entirely impersonal, designed to humiliate, control, and designate her as less than him. He noticed the outline of the garter beneath her pants; she immediately recognized the gesture following his implicit recognition. She drifted away, and allowed herself to become someone else entirely. This would pass, as the rest did - jaggedly, uncomfortably, and quick.

The soldier left as quickly as he came, almost as if an apparition but for the marks he left upon her skin and inside of her. The bruising was a faint, dull, throbbing reminder - almost as if a recognition that she was alive, a mute churning within her; pulsing atop her skin. She strained to remember the dream. She knew she had one, but it was just in flashes. It was a maze. At the center, there was a heaving stone pyramid, with a shooting light of red fire beaming from within it, carving a beaming hole deep into the gape of the black, abyssal sky. Was I supposed to stay here? Wait? She was leaning with temptation into the center of the maze. To go to it, and yet - as she widened her eyes as if to return to the dreamscape, they refocused, and gained a clearer picture of the row of houses around her. There were bodies strewn about them. Motionless. She walked up to them; they were figures with all the appearance of life, and yet - plasticine. With veins and eyes perfectly moulded, with all of the impression of life, and yet the fluid, life, and dewy wetness that ran through them was not blood, nor was it ever blood. They were frozen in animation, never having lived, nor, certainly, never having died. She felt a sense of surprising calm, and ease. There was this implicit understanding within her, beneath her, that she had entered into the world of Jean-Claude himself, the true Jean. He had never truly, strictly, ‘been’, in this sense - but rather, he was a bridge, a way between, an occurrence, an apparition. Just like she was. A throughway to an entirely different world of being - as it was with the cusp of dusk; dawning, the break of day. Between consciousness and this underworld. His death was a subsumption, a going under, a sinking into this forbidden dimension. His age was his leaving, his commitment to the world of the dead, as it was hers. In this leaving, her leaving, she was gone - and dead to the world. She had traversed to the realm of the seeing, the seeking. She recalled, briefly, amidst her fading old life, a yellowing newspaper clipping which recalled the first encounters of the European geneticists with the Peruvian shamans, whom they had cornered in some far part of the jungle: ‘In the microscopic essence of life, there is a passage into an entirely different form of temporality, a timelessness, a song, a dance of existence without breaking; a singing which pierces the heights of light; penetrates the darkness of form. It lives in the shadows of being, waiting for its resurrection into the light’.

She picked up her canteen. As she walked, the sun seemed to pass the very dial like shadows as it did across the breach of her last passage of the checkpoint - and yet, there were no trees nor buildings to cast it. By now, she had long since passed the mineral bordertown of houses. There was dust, and a growing heat - as if she was passing into the equatorial center of the world. Before her feet were scorpions; before her eyes were caves in the ground of deep dust and dry dirt. To spill the water here would make for a difficult journey; she tightened the metal clasp on the lid. Something about the land beckoned; called for her to go deeper inside of it, like a waiting, wanting canal. It was as though she herself was the water, a conduit for the essence of life and being itself; that she was being called through the flue of the land that was her body; her fingers in the crags of the rocks; her mind in the rising heat of the dust. And within it, there was a palpable fury, like a vortex of fire. She drew her hands out of the gloves upon her fingers and pressed them against the air like it was a wall, and felt around the remarks and indentations within it. It had a permeable quality, a definite line, and a symbolic movement within it. It was as if she could read it with the flesh upon the fingertips of her body; press her lips up against the sweating essence and sweltering core of being itself; recall the ancient body of time as it passed like a river in a wind that would barely disturb even the youngest sapling of a tree. The subtlety of life astounded her; her mind was entirely present. Every brush of the coarse fabric of her undershirt pronounced the node and the pulse of the sensation of the alive, conscious body. She felt herself wandering very near to where Jean-Claude had died. Or was it death? She felt that she was near to that place, even though it was, surely, thousands of miles away. She had only been walking for mere days. And yet the expanse of her wandering, the very time and space itself seemed to pulse and bend. She was not entirely sure where she had been, nor where she was going. And yet, she was not tired. A voice within her was like a drum, and it held no meaning but the pounding. It was essential. It called her out of her body and to the place where Jean-Claude sat, transfixed in meditation. The hologram was sent automatically from his breastplate, like an electronic mausoleum. She knew where he was, how he was. This deep in the jungle, it would be unlikely for anyone to find him. And she knew that’s why he went there… to be alone.

The heat became more humid, dense, and overbearing. It was like a body itself; it acquired all of the characteristics of flesh in its compounding gravity. It pressed down against her, and it was like it breathed. The air was its own animal; she sweltered and struggled and swung against it like a drunk. The breeze, what little there was, flattened; slowly, vegetation sprung up before her. She was angry, furious; swatting at great, massive, buzzing, humming insects as they pulsed and lunged at her amongst the growing foliage and lush, leafy canopy. It was like a sweet, sickly drunkenness; it was like the derangement. Her madness… she remembered. Becoming a patient, the flashes of her occupation; the release into solitude. The slamming of the shutter doors upon the hut in the storms which smashed against the rocks; threatened to overwhelm the entire cliffsface and sink their little home into the pits of the ocean. The wild blue black darkness of the ocean. It was her anger, her fury, her rage. She swung, and crashed out into the opening of the grove of trees. There it was - the temple. And she saw Jean-Claude - glittering and still in the twilight.

VIII.

She rushed toward him, to embrace him, to put her arms around his neck and kiss his face… but she collapsed through him, and tumbled into a ditch. Looking up, she saw the ominous towering of the temple; the statuesque snakes. He lay there, beside her, terribly still. And this time, she embraced him, weeping the tears of her anger, hollowed by time. She swore she felt the touch of his skin; in that instant, he disappeared once more. The anger turned to vengeance, and murderous fury. Shaking, she pressed her hands into the shallow dirt and lifted herself out of the tomb. The sky was dark in the setting of the sun; with an overbearing cloud, heavy with rain. She knew there would be relief, and that the sky would breathe again in the relinquishing of its burden. With this thought, she decided to begin to climb the stairs of the temple. She moved - with the quickness of pure instinct.

As she climbed, the air got lighter and lighter; her breath became slower, deeper, and of greater ease. She tasted the sunlight in the air. It was effortless, as a water presses down a current infinitely, into the greater ocean of being. She relinquished the burden of her body. As she neared the peak, she looked back to where she first saw Jean-Claude in the clearing of the trees, and it was there that she thought she saw his image flickering as the sun at last passed over the bedside of the horizon, and descended into the belly of the earth. With her neck craning, looking back over her shoulder, she took one last step forward, and passed through the veil of the night. The air was silent, but for the screaming of the insects. The curtain of the night, vibrating and still.

I.

Man is a chance, a loaded die whose only side is death; amidst a maze with a screaming face:

The looming black stones chant changing

As the stars glimmer and taunt,

Spilling the virginal blood of their hot whisper.

Soon the night will turn to black as coal;

The mask will faint into a hushed obscurity,

Scattered among the dirts and sand.

Children of trial, bubbled and burned in a cauldron of fate’s weighty, lofty hands

A crucible of time and space,

Listless thunder of light

And gravity of stone.

As soon as the blood runs, the foal is out in the open of time’s immensities;

Hunted by foul prey of greater deities.

Force of time, mass, and breath -

Press’t down upon equal and opposing forces;

Mind tied taut as ephemeral string

With vibratory quality. How language crafts the body

In lush bubbles of fertility, in a spore loft and spread

In an atmosphere fraught with suns and rains.

How light touches even the darkest domains, shining like the head of a pin

In the breach of a beast’s mouth,

Composed of fallow breathy parts;

The meat of death.

Wander to wandering, this body is possessed between piles of heights and depths;

Deserts, narrows, and straits of horizons.

Distance, how the hand reaches, faint and haunted

By the caress of ephemeral skins;

Heated, glistening in the dew driven morning of arrival.

Lest this hand tip into death;

Like a maiden into pools of a rushing river,

Fierce, her clothes,

Fierce, the agony of the mind;

Breathing slows; the heavy night of the star is gone, burned to the hilt,

Waxed like a candle; waned into dark breaking

Of lightless nights of waves upon abandoned shores.

Tired are these eyes that sleep in death,

Tides burned of their suns; stirring without moons,

Pools of insight, dreams, and reflectory of mind.

All of this heat has left warm bosoms

Which kept the pace of time with designs of fire;

Obscure poundings of the hammer and gavel

Deep from within the forge of the heart, chest, intestine, and lung.

This life has sung itself to sleep; risen far o’er the crest of the day;

Riven from the buttons which clasped it to its tongue.

From fire to fire, life is stung and remains,

Brief before the chasm of time and out of it.

It gasps in the darks of space before the streaming of the hearth

Through which we gather and sing and outwardly beg

Before the diamond of beauty that blazes before the sun -

Petrified, captivated by a chemical, transfixed doom.

All monikers and gods are mounted upon this fire; chase like desperate moths to its ascending peaks, valleys; inner cores;

Desperately beat at the doors of the inner body to the palace of the flame;

The true seat of the stars.

Before this life has unclasped their lips,

All men are beggars.

We rush toward everything that is not us

And return with empty hands,

Dimmed and dulled by the seated roar;

The wavering of the breeze;

The peril of the tinder of our own hearts.

The seat of the soul is stoked by passion, and passion alone.

Without it, we are the remainders of living;

Isles and gallows of stone.

II.

Your lover is mute; dying on the vine, her language is smoke

Which is passed from lip to lip in a deathless fugue of silence.

The branches of untouched trees bristle in a winded night; this sound is pure movement

Unexpressed fury of heat lightning; anger and frustration.

This shallow cauldron boils, barely seething with a viol of water.

Her animal depths.

This is no enchantment, silence - which lingers over the earth like a curse.

Lapping at the violet poison which peppers the ground. We die from hunger, die from thirst.

But most of all, we die from the demonic silence:

It steals away all hope into the night, and lashes in a roar. Bestial limitation;

Chained to the fallow yoke.

Nature, gurgling like a primordial spring, she has been trapped away in ice for ineffable years

And dawning is near as a nameless, idealess futurity. We languish in the night and thrash

In the incommunicable fog. This distance brings us only near for the hungers in our flesh

Which twitch and excite blood organs.

Terror is in nothing known; no known things. This life comes and goes like a twig in a forest night,

Like a whisper, like a regular mass; a lost crowd.

It can be taken or given; upon this loveless coin, truth nor feeling is required,

Sight nor mind. It perils, rushes, like a gravity of time - barreling down an ancient slope.

We are brought together and torn apart by the dull fervor of necessity; rendered and rent in the empty fat

Of feelingless existence.

What is it to die in the silence, where all things are charged by electric desires

And they do not rise to surface; crest the browbeating, black waves of time.

Fluids exchange, brief charges are wrought in a glance or a glare;

We tumble into death like a sleep, and pass the blood of life forth carelessly

In the name of that which we call love, but is no more than excuse to exorcise this burden of life and time,

Flesh upon flesh,

Building the sedimental crust and fabric of our stone fashioned histories.

Thus we weep, thus we lament; toil and strife in our desperate exercise of biology,

Passing a light without knowledge, clamouring and stoking the flame of time

Even as we perish in small, private agonies;

Whisper and whimper for a light greater than we have ever known; grasp and limp at feelings

We scarcely ever touch. And this we call the lightning of passionate love; the thunder of ecstasy and fear.

We merely float above life, and watch as our dark time lumbers over the body;

Shades and shadows our stumbling.

Mistress, evokes within me the sensation of possibility. Gravitates toward my night

And risks tumbling into forgetfulness. We cry to stoke dreams; drift into dispassionate forgetting.

For a brief thirst, life will leave in this ocean’s clashing; my tributary will rise and fall;

Sink into a drunken stupour; a haze of oases longing.

Rings that we dance clasp our hands about gravestones;

Rings that we tie clasp our hearts about meaninglessness.

So high we sought to climb, that the lashings stole pleasure from pain

In the moments between the strokes that painted our backs.

So severe our emptiness that the bloodshed excited our sex

In the riling excitement of volatile fear.

Thus we gather in the stadium of violence; scream and cry for the action

That will lift us out and from misery;

Spill us into the presence of death’s delivery.

This is no cherishing. For I heard her silence in the leaving of her dress; the looming of her door.

The windows and paintings which adorned her adoring room.

She sat in a misty haze and flung herself into the chaos which ordered her feelings; sated her hunger;

Groomed her wild body. It was then that I saw and heard the night emanating from her lips;

It stunk the room with a boring terror.

Fled, out onto the streets; out into the far forests, out beyond space and time.

We drift in the wild wonder that drives us from the empty thunder of nature’s words.

Ideas weave and spin worlds to break and beat us from her stumbling, her drunkenness;

Her desperate utility.

We, all sticks in the fire of her empty chaos; the fuel of her engine. That she speaks

Is nothing more than the bluster of the wind.

What use is it to resent this. That which drives her shallow breath to unending ends.

She passes into and out of night and the seizure of dreams easily as a cloak,

Or a change of clothes. She twirls diamonds upon her wrists as a joke, and turns cruel, silent, and cold

As the very trick of the emptiness of her being.

What fire there is burns

Tirelessly; with the tinder of bodies in its gaze; buoyant by the fuel of their charge.

This, truly is nature; this, truly, is your lover - utterly consumed. This, what makes us demons

Is what breaks us into courage;

Leaves us this earth.

Let the silence thicken; crust over. The vines will linger, seeking, seething, crawling

With eyes of tact; rapt branches curling about mutant forms

Taking density and sinking to the crust of the earth.

Let this terror whet the soil with the grey black rain. Even blue is stolen

From this world and purposed in thieving hunger.

The soil is sunk and sapped; wrung to barren dust.

What use is this broken changing, but to craft the tie that rises

Up and out of silence; declares leaving

From this bedroom carriage of miseries;

This bridge of sighs;

This waving of sad, broken hands.

III.

The bodies stand taut; lined in rows, for the promise of reception.

Pews of the earth, tilled by the drag of the moon. They shimmer,

Pale, desirous. This hunger deceives. A million eyes for terror, reptilian,

Amphibious, shepherd. I have passed through all of them

In the digestive canal of longing. Spat out in the excrement which curates the ground;

Tips into the child’s hungry mouth. Time and time again, I am revived

In the ancient resurrection of blood and oil. Pilgrimage might reach a foreboding, distant star

Which twinkles beyond my reach,

To sate an ineffable thirst.

Not for violet water, not for blood do I work. This veil squabbles with stomachs; peels them like violent lilies.

Bodies become absences which pockmark my ground. Brief ties which I seam and settle

To fling fatal arms into abyssal wings.

Fly, this dungeon of blackness, in which the demon burns and absconds.

Essence of the eyes,

Essence of the fear which toils beneath their fingertips.

This is the final word. Titles burn and settle into blank dust. Tithes spill, broken and fraught like minds of demons.

Figures wander and collapse into moonlit sands, furiously fingering their wounds.

Round and round we spin, this waltz of the fiery fleece. It is caught, upon the twill of the flesh,

A furious dial, wrenching with the molar force.

Essence - Hunger for your clothes;

Tear for your dresses.

We rest, grumbling; barely settled in garments beneath.

Weighty, meaty, we tumble into carnal ecstasies; furies of devouring; collapse in the flight of passion.

We sit - in discontents and toss

In dark dreams. Promise me: birdsong

For this we nightly march, in black trails of torching ash;

Trails of steam; tongues of flame.

Stars sweat for us. Dark meteors long for us; gods wish to know what it is to be us,

Whisps, sheer forces of dreams, which shake and rattle our skeletal cores; flit about our strings with jealous beams.

We, rustled up by the thunder which whipped infernal worlds into pastes;

Clicked teeth and banished titanic stars; wore darkened blue cloaks of mimicries,

Danced them into figures and forms; fugitives and minarets.

Gone are the guards of our time; into the openness of language we fall,

Directors: Teething at the burning; gnawing at the ache of the bones

Hungry for their smooth, smithing fluid,

We who ripple in the bellies of great abyss

And awaken with misty questioning.

Draw us; we who hollow out the world,

We who are at last tall and taut phantoms, who suck at the meat

And bleat ghastly at the cascades of blue trees; furrowed and looming like the bowels of the earth.

Looking in upon ourselves

We are wrought amidst the iron things; the secrets which burn at higher degrees,

The sheer threat of the oven of our souls to consume us,

Our passions to wild us;

Clasp at our throats with purple, desperate hands.

Drag us to death and reveal us, the flaying, whittling knife

Which grounds down the body to organ parts; veiny roots

Draconic fits of our wriggling; our shaking through the breast of existing.

Our sun is dragged down within us;

Pisses down the leg,

Dribbles upon our knees.

Let the light stream in through these narrows, these curtains of the mind.

Shades of time, through which we flit, windows behind the dark mass.

Peering glare,

Planets who tail and toss; black hair of the bosom to which whole worlds flee,

Let us not be terror, nor distraction.

This passion that dances between us like a hidden magnitude; peels at our newness of being.

This desire which draws the eyes like a laughable joke.

Antelopes desert you; claws confirm you.

Gather; be repelled by the very terror that you bear within your brief guest.

Sweating, we run to the far ends of possibility - gusted,

Tearing at the hairs upon our skulls; the nails that pin us beneath.

And this is bliss,

This cross of ecstasies,

This clenching shadow, gaunt and followed by the gale wind: within which our void crouches and discloses,

Centre of all dread things,

Wreathe of carnal, bestial flame;

Wine upon the garnet,

Scowling smirk;

Stain upon the lips of being.

IV.

The hungry mouth is wrought through ages; affixed to the totem poles of the genetic form

Which twists and writhes its way through species.

This mouth screams from fish to bipedal lung;

Screams from wriggling cell to compound hidey fixture. To affirm its life; retain

Before being ripped limb from limb, cell from cell,

Language and defenses; claw and armor.

Steaming mouth, barred in private cage, touch the separate hand,

The mycelium of waving, watery leaf. Eyes that touch only desire;

Mouth that touches only taste. Tossed into the inferno of greater machination,

One lives and dies, and the next is sooner replaced.

This genetic factory, through which we are transfixed;

This slaughterhouse canal of sex, through which we are wandered, ushered,

And roped.

That which I force and feel, are the cornerstones of my cage.

Sensation, that brute and taut whip, through which I am and am hungered.

To retain myself, all is merely a curtain of possibility

Through which I penetrate with lies and deceit.

All the while, cursing the competition for my rightful blooding.

This - animal and man; this, forest floor and ceiling,

Until at last the carriage of dirt through which insects crawl and fungi seep.

Cooperation, at last is my keep;

The death of the assertion of individuality.

For my mind is wild with desire. Millennia I have spun to touch your longing, beloved;

My candle lit and waxed for the penitence of your ground.

Here I curse and grovel for a taste of the sweet meat of flesh;

Here I wax and wane for the consummation of my imagined glycerine.

I hunger for the chemicals of touch,

Which burrow deep into my biology;

Spring the feelings of great success and mastery.

Nature is my domain and dominion - for nature is me.

I am at one with it; born into it like a panther knows the jungle;

Consumes himself in a wild eyed gaze. Is this evil, unconsciousness?

So totally subsumed that I am like the worm, eyelet

From the window’s black.

We who stand outside, riotous looters,

Who turn the world upon its axis of fire

With the blacksmith’s hands of sex and blood.

This that I am is the crotch of all things; the heated emanation

The stench that stunk and piled dung for centuries of tossed manure

And birthed the lush fertility of the most beautiful dragon lily.

I am the knife that pierces this world; slurps the guts of it in a carnivorous ecstasy.

I have laid the bed of the earth and mated with it,

Just as I have abandoned it in disgust

Once I have licked the bones upon its plate;

Left it wanton, longing,

As it burns in a silent screaming

Lit by the rushing of the waves;

Crackling of the bone.

Alas, mouth, agape and open,

For one last fury. I have lived and died;

Shriveled my skin into a heap, lost to a mossy stone. My fire has burnt me from within, one too many times;

I stepped near the scalding fire of digestion; drank it until it pillaged me in the great inferno;

Lit me in the great self immolation which marks the burning stars

Deep in the gape of time and being.

You look up in wonder at me,

As I seethe and die in my rosy crucifixion.

It is this light that lights the night,

The light of the death of stars.

So I watch you burn, in brothels and communions,

In barside alleyway conversations; betwixt deep drinks from the straw of your skulls;

Hungering for the fatty meat that seeps from brain to brain;

Whets the sinew of conversation; prepares the tongue and sex for feasting.

This carousel parade of madness:

Which springs bloodchild from bloodchild in an endless charade of longing.

How shall we dance and die?

In the same way as the last -

Hungered and toiled in the fields of our own self consummation,

Framed as a great act.

For we are last unto ourselves;

Thrust into the magnification of a meaningless, sad act -

Destined for subsumption into a totality which we can only meagrely touch

In the fulfillment of our machinic biological destiny.

This godlike power that is mine, is it no more or less than a futile candle that I must pass,

Narrowly, across chasms of ages?

For it burns and dies like eyes that take form

First before dungeons of stars.

That which ripples through me is the truth of the universe;

Yet it stampedes with the regular rising and setting of the sun;

Tires like the bison’s legs.

This hearth is like a tender engine, then,

In dewy skin, and not heart’s sun.

It grows, growls, and wants for the light of day;

Impressions upon the walls of my mind

Are like prisoners of longing,

Beating against the bars of the cage.

I am old now, older than the setting sun;

Run up against the rocks of my life.

If living is the power of life, then death is the sea;

The ocean of submergence where dreaming takes me.

I float around the lapse of this paradise;

Kick against the gems which throw light in its cave

As the sun glimpses their glassy cores in its descendancy.

All trials are the escaping of this fire;

The pillowing blume of its force,

The tire of its sweat.

Meagre, with hands upon knees, we place a single stone upon the mountain of time

And take our leave.

And this burning, this shore,

To walk about with these eyes;

Longing that ties me to the ship of my desires:

I am whole and yet wanting;

Something far greater than human and yet emergent from that very core of being.

To speak with hands and from the smoking core of copulation,

To wrench words from the byssal pits of despairing.

Such is that I wander, upon a battlefield, upon a wreck, at once ancient

And sparkling new.

You, with no thought for the ones who stumbled before you;

Who came as ghouls and ghosts

Nibbling upon the marrow of the bone;

Tumbling back into the waves of time.

And yet I philosophize;

Grapple with the stones which sit

And chant in a meditation upon a mount

With cement face.

Life springs from fingerlings of dirt betwixt stones;

Far beneath and below in darkness;

Glassy black eggs in trenches

Swirling in the daemonic dream of the ocean’s mind.

This lighting is a journey, perilous

And shot through.

Just as ages cast their prism die through the curtains of clouds; wear windows upon stone,

So do words circle and collapse upon the pure of the loud wind

Which screams in combusting sound.

Lo - this sound of children birthing;

Warring bombs, the infirmity of breath;

The calamity of death and dying.

In between are the shouts and fervor,

Like a choir of woodwind things.

This scaffolding narrow and steep,

Just as desire wrenches upon the leg, neck, ankle, and chest.

We are dragged by longings down into caverns from which we never emerge,

Entranced, as we are, with the covetous dark of dreams.

Each day beckons towards death,

With the coaxing hands of night’s bedrooms;

Fleeting promises which whisper elsewhere

From this firm ground upon which we tread.

And any moment, it wishes to catch us,

Like a buzzard, or vulture’s hive.

Together, we sing the same song of longing,

Harmonized in the discord

Of time’s wrenching fist:

Leaves only rubble and silence;

Unceasing words;

Beneath, unspoken truths.

So, take time’s fire.

I stole away and agonized within it;

Fed the hearth with steaming things,

Made profectory the form of the body.

It shot smoke and bellowed,

Like a dark factory.

As trains pass through the night; oceans boil and seethe in the summer’s jungle,

I took to the body; smithed it with hammers,

And beneath, felt the toil light fires in the darkness of form:

First like the combustion of the universe.

This form works like a terrible mass,

First entirely blackened;

Then enlivened with the sight of death;

Lightened by the immortal force.

First stirs the form in the baby’s breath,

Then steals away into silence of misunderstanding.

Thrown into madness,

Into madness itself must willingly throw.

The die of life must dance upon the pin of chaos;

Thus, the flame will burn;

Ascend, in pyres of night;

Illuminate the form.

We are raised among dead things, as opaque as the fertile dirt of the jungle.

In this way, we are the most alive;

The most pale to the face of ourselves.

Convicted of beliefs, we are punished and half faced toward life,

Living in worlds of stone, where there is no touch of the smooth balm of the flesh;

No heat of the warmth of the hand of the sun’s rays upon us.

We languish in dark cool caves, submitted to lies, falsity, and distance.

Words imprison us, faith binds us.

Even eyes blind us and deceive,

To the truth we are like moles within a dark ground,

Teething to the hint of warmth;

Cresting like whales out from the black sun

In the depths of the misty cold

Out into the teeming lights.

We are cords cut; shook out into solitude.

Shaking the hairs upon our backs and between us like cilia of a great canal;

Thrown like waking things into a slumbering world.

We are the soil and dirt we must shake from ourselves to reveal the true roots, essence, and nature of our being;

Glooming like a pure, blue, electric thunder from beneath our coats.

This hide is shorn from necessity;

Woven like twine over millions of millennia to reach us;

Garments that are like a fleece, a veil, a fabric, a thread,

Through which the heart, eyes, and mind seat and sat.

Through this carriage we wandered and wondered,

Slit eyed through dungeon upon dungeon of despair and false parity.

This time became our ground; the very sedimental rock, dirt, and soil of our being;

The grounds in which we laid our dead, exhausted forms; scaffolded

Like escaping, rocketing force

Through sexual transfiguration;

Brute release of new forms, frictile tensions,

The war of flesh, tooth, genitalia, and blood.

We fought for this death to be in between times,

Half afforded truth; half scrounging

About the ruins and compost of life

Like meat picking for meat;

Flesh hungering for flesh. About the pit of waste and disjected things, we spit, sip, and feed for the juice of ourselves.

This world is our pulpit of ash for which we forever hunger

And take into ourselves the blood of our desire

To still the grumbling of our tolls.

This body, grounds between the unformed

And deep, sure densities.

Am I just this mask for fires to burn,

Unbidden, unwillingly,

This face that has taken on the cave;

Vessel for which the match to grow

Into roaring, biting flame?

All that is within me is the burning passion that sustains

Whichever direction I twill and twine

The lighting thread of my life.

Eyes like daggers of hunger;

Vainy nerves like whipcords of sensation.

This breathing lightning; this inferno of gathering, whirling flame.

That is within me is stoked by the thousands of gallows of whispering names,

Souls tossed in the wind; rippling the fabric of the breeze.

So I walk, upon the bodice of body and no body;

Proclaim a totemic palace of fire,

From upon which I mount and speak;

Leave upon the terrace of another domain.

Brief, this form,

Yet, abiding, this flame.

From one to the next I am shorn like the growing hair of a sheep;

Exhausted and rent from the creeping dead splice.

Form to form, the knife keeps the time of day, surely as to night

As life is to leaving death.

Each form must scaffold the infinite

Upon the cross and nexus of the body.

Each ephemeral things

Closer and closer to the broach of eternity.

Thus I smell the axis of myself like prey;

Being between life and death, fire and night,

The essence of the flame alights the eyes;

Sparks the mind;

Flies blue and green blood into the trees,

Dirt, soil;

The blood upon which I feast and dances within me,

Commingling in orgiastic force.

Thrust which propels me, force which sings me; brings me to the threshold of blackness

Light which guides and lantern which holds

Candle to the dark night;

Waving and brustling of the leaves against the breaches of the trees -

Eyes which gift sight into passages once dark, damp, and meek:

Behold and beholden to the thunder

Which ascends through their keep.

Life of the world:

Awakening from their sleep.

V.

These borders that await us.

Skin of a leopard whose cellular spores

Drink the blood of the flesh of the lamb.

Legs that twirl like smooth lips

Around the pile of terror.

Eyes that light in the turning earth

Blinded by oceans of sun.

Faces that huddle and swarm in the cold night

Radiating warmth,

Pulsing, shaking, shuddering

With veinlike vials of blood.

Elements of life within a sterilized glass

Decomposed and inhuman.

What is it that makes us love?

Is it an elixir, a perfect chemical compound,

The light streaming from beyond our eyes?

Laid in mass graves without names,

Swallowed and obeyed to hungry teeth.

We cower in fear to greater forces,

And pledge ourselves only when we are made meek by looming planets

Or laid low by bloodthirst’s manipulation.

Old women welcome with husks of corn in a clay alley.

Parisian windows steam as we stretch our hard, hot feet against the pavement;

Look into the third floor and its moonlight glare.

Age slowly weaves a tapestry upon a blanket of things that require dissolution to be reborn again in dewy sensitivities.

We rage against time, even as it races for us

To make ancient amends and return fertility;

A deeper, more burrowed rememory.

So we touch hands and grasp them.

What does this make?

The moon waits forever for the earth, just as dusk touches the tips of the soil with a black scent.

This barrier between us is cold air angered by thunder;

Less that it swirls and teethes against its own ease;

Press’t upon by hot, heavy warmth from the west.

We sway in the breeze like items without names or words,

Pushed, pulled, and tugged by the deepest forces within us;

Weighed by balances we cannot keep.

Gravity is something dark and hidden,

Magnetized by secret numbers.

We are a math of souls,

Hidden to ourselves;

Splayed out like an axis of the stars;

Ruddered alone by dark moons.

Eyed around us are panthers in the night.

We hunger for what we can keep in caves until dawn;

Press in upon ourselves to remain with the things we bury

Like bodies stowed away in death like cabinets.

We shutter ourselves and wait for death to encroach like something uninvited

And demand us to relinquish the things that are burning our hands;

The things that always escaped our grasp

And yet we chased them without end.

This was life.

Even our bodies escape us;

Like scrawl upon deep caves

We dive into ourselves and make art upon the narrows of our form;

With our blood we dance with the heat of living;

Steam and smoke with our flesh like colored wind.

Palettes of air, we are cells before their dissolution:

Minds in their attempt to grasp the great masslessness of their essence;

Qualifications of infinity.

This broach of love; upon it a kiss signs unity

Even as we are whipped away by hurricanes of longing;

Shorn of our form like sheepskin.

We are intertwined like caskets to dirt;

Buffeted hydrogen. About us sings the whisper of intermittent parts

Junked by deep blackness;

Stung by pure, ancient reverberations

From the heart of the womb of an explosion which screams like defilibrations into our hearts, souls, and lungs.

What is our chemical essence

But the memory of what it is to love;

To be entwined totally with blankets;

To be enraptured totally with eyes

Before cells were shorn from the deep sea mud of burial;

Born with the hairlike agony of senses;

Tossed and dressed in the clothes of legs and arms.

What good is it to be severed towards death

If in life we do not grow the roots and vines necessary to touch the deep reverberating source,

The very cannon of our essence

Which like fibres and synapses

Stretches over all memory of space and time?

We grow like wild flora; tangled up in ourselves; coiled impossible distances;

Folded like the depths of time,

With two hands about the face to touch infinity

And the fires within

Which are tossed

Like an ocean’s wave of song;

Dissolved into the sweet honey

Of discordant love.

Separation and reunity are our birthright

As a paradox of truth.

We are brought together; assembled in information’s parts;

Just as easily shorn to the song’s depths of dissolution,

Where we are something less than molecular;

Yet something far greater than time.

This whole mass of space is sedimentary information;

Ripped to the wind of a pure form

Which strews galactic veins across the night

Populated with eyes of thunder and light;

Rife with rippling flames.

It is in this fire that we copulate our longing

Even as guitars break; vessels shatter;

Glass is strewn in a refractory light

Which but for a moment shines this reality.

The world is engulfed in flame;

Destroyed but for a window of mirrors

Whose burning occurs in repository milliseconds of fervor.

We riot and die and spring up like black reeds from roots;

Sing into black holes of stars.

This flame seals and shuts

Just as for a moment we stare withinto its gleam.

What we saw in the water was like pools dark and deep.

It is the night of our dreaming,

Where we are torn limb from limb

And made into beautiful, horrible things.

Where we are stitched from blood into ecstasies which emerge the soul’s scream;

Where we are art that dots the canvas of a mass forming and like beaches of sand,

We are more frequent even than a bird’s song.

Rippling, done, and freed.

VI.

We are partners in a dance of fire

Where there is no rain but sleep.

We whirl about the totem of our desires

Like darkened shadows within the keep of dreams.

All about us is the terror of images, which swirl and threaten;

Peel at us with fingers; drag us deeper into the abyss of our unfoldings.

Like blood lilies, we bloom ferociously;

Yet within hide absences. This is what makes us terrible

And within fire is the wind of hunger.

We beckon with longings; lay the traps for lives which spiral and twist

Like hurricanes of passion

Which stir us into fatal furies.

We tumble where there is no skylight; no light from the deeps.

We tumble where the scales are darkened; black;

Where eyes gape convexingly like brutal fish.

Lanterns are we, in caves immense;

Painted with bloody silt from careening memories.

Golems who grope until slashed by delights;

Whose stars and minds are widened.

Groundless, we stir

And fear the infinite dawns beneath our feet;

In which we tread, desert razors of sands

Which light the zagging glow of horizons.

Like lights, we march wildly,

Being drawn forth by the black hold of sleep.

What beckons is a terror which will swallow us;

A sex which will conquer us;

A holy divinity.

In this blackness, we forget time,

Dispositor of infinity.

Upon the mute stained glass, we are carved and sectioned

Like a pottery of shadows

Shattered against the grounds of dark stone

Where it is too deep to tread

Against pools lit by the inner fire of the churning earth.

We cowl and creep with cloaks of veins;

Stung like wasps and nettle with electricity;

Reverberate with the touch of the flora and fauna which ripple our bones;

Steep our fat and churn our muscular tones.

A light to the reddening; a spire to the whitening; to our suns,

We are a yellow and grey, a matter and an illumination.

Light that touches us heats the mind and refracts.

Our inner cores are oceanic moons.

We move tides of longings; spin worlds that touch with spores of death

Dreams and illusions which shore and shorn trees

With leaves like hairy clothes

Leaving thick bones of dusk. Together we are terribly old

And reaching toward a dawn of life which shatters the core of words.

Like a symbol, planets are birthed and devoured by the hungry god of the flesh and fire.

Like a calf, we sit in oceans of fat and are rendered

Like strong paintings of contrast, stewing in the sacrament of our souls,

The ashy soil and cavern of our steaming perfectory:

The fires of our body; the pyres upon which consciousness meditates.

We are perfectly still and shot against darkness into a gleaming,

A figure and a form, a stole,

An abscondedness. Lit against the night. Together we leave ecstatic,

Brushing the shoulders of the night. This tautness of light is what shears form for garment;

What tosses close into the fire; toils and wrestles

Mute essence of forms into beauty statuesque.

Even trees grapple with hidden destinies; wrangle morning’s dew, galey rain

To twist the bark of their outstretched arms like spyres. Against the darkness we are wrought;

Life is like reaching hands which hold lengths of truth.

We contain each nectar, each drop upon which is riddled the life of existence,

A compound of wine and sunlight.

Drunk, in the eaves of the stars, we are mingled in heated toilings;

Tumbled with separate, silent fervors. Each fermentation

And angry, tossing sun

Roils in its fate.

Words tumble from us like expelled smoke; soil like whisk of forms

Treacherous leaps across chasms,

We are abysses unto ourselves.

Deep into the caverns we steam

Are lit by intestinalities;

Drugged by lunging breaths; breating lungs;

The shrill pressurized life of the pumping stew, heaving organy;

Symphonies of expelled wind.

We take into ourselves the life of the earth,

Just as we are hurtled into longings

Which span nights we can scarcely comprehend. As we travel,

Shoveled, wheeled about the totem pole of our bodies;

Danced into dreams which revel the feeling of a life lost truly and purely to the open,

The expanse where gravity attempts to catch; ripples of the flesh attempt to speak;

For a brief hold, we are intact, radiating knowledge.

Beacons, lighthouses, we are to the moorings of the night

Like a leash to a dog of hell, like a law to the wilding.

We pant and stray far beyond the bounds, unto collapsing

As gales of storm stoke the bright fires beneath us

Which heed and admonish our tread.

We stretch, deep into the night

Unheeding the lesson of cold stone. Lightning must spin and weave

Beyond the breath of touch

Into a union with the deepest mesh of star; the boiling tulip of our ecstasy.

Thus we move things big and black and beyond memory,

Heaving remainders of tombstones, burned, steeped, and waiting,

The very grounds of eternity.

For we are symbols of the mass thrown and touched

With the awakening hands of light,

Grown within the carriage grounds of the earth;

Preciously held in soil and bones. Charged, graciously we rise,

Consuming the fires within each ore and loon. Fed upon the cross

Upon which all forms are initiated;

The pyre upon which all forms are charged and exchanged.

We are a symphony of circuits of energy, giving and taking unto one source and force,

The rising of consciousness;

The charging, domineering breach

Unto which we charge, careening

Into unknowing instability.

This life holds no beak, no perilous end;

Upon each dewdrop and needle’s tip, there lies an expanse

Beyond the parallax mooring of forms. We are boats to shore with currents beneath

That reach deep into the hold of blackness where unspeakable things rise;

Things forgotten and to be remembered evermore.

We charge wildly into gain face and hands; into shed of skins. We, mute, wrangled forms

Unto language takes us and makes us insane.

This wilding is the evolutionary breach, through which we are shifted paradigm;

Through which we are shifted species;

Through which life takes on new form and space,

Tipping closer to infinity. How wild, how animal must we become, with eyes and flesh and coats of god,

How must our chemical fires be tinged and supplemented

By the tree and leaf and galley of the world souls,

Our sex commingled,

Our ribs sparked

Our essence exhumed

For us to be charged evermore with the light of infinity,

The glistening temporal presence of eternity,

At once eternal and wrought in being?

Iron forms. Steel drums; hearts beat in the abyss, and hum symphonies of vessels with bodies and legs;

Bodices of essential hydrogen breaths; carbon cores. We are elemental hymns,

Spun and sprung in the web of recombinatory possibilities.

Each breath and drag of the stars from the lute of our lungs beats a hearth which springs a new titan,

A new title and titanic form from our tomb of formerly.

Genetic possibility, in a weaving of speech: we are a ship that sinks, sings, and rises, resurrected,

The hymn of a wave which pores, pours, and curls,

Peels and whirls, dips and dives with the sprigging root of a dagger against the lawn of our minds.

We are a soil, shifted, shaked, and rooted -

Crossed and cropped by the driving light of the spirit and soul. Each of us touches the bottom of agony and ecstasy;

Toils with the pleasure and pain of life;

From it springs ourselves. Sacred, sacral mystery.

To this, we rise forever into new mornings, rid and riddled of forms;

New galleys and gallows of life. What wild ship rises across the tumbling light which spirals

Wildly into new darkness?

We are freed from keep and hold,

Wild and reckless as alien youth, wild and new as blue thunder,

Crackled and whippling with red, white, yellow

Flashed as a cannon

Quick as light

Smirking arrow

Shot through the night

Grinning, as we are ever renewed

In the fury of life

VII.

There is a medicine that mixes in the wool of the fox

That lights his teeth and eyelids

As he storms over the forest; fiery fence

Til only the sigil of darkness remains.

There is a cell that stirs and bristles

Like a horsehair against canvases of turning wind;

It shocks with eyes and bursts

Into millions of dewdrops again.

Temporary, temporary, is the fugue of the elements

Through which lightning whips and touches mind.

We are lashed by forces of which we are scarcely aware;

Being deeply touched by vats.

The molecule is a carriage of light and water;

Betwixt the borders we war, wary, microscopic.

Through pins and needles the night of the universe speaks;

Through thin threads we are woven; stretched and coiled.

Shot through with light, we grub in dirt for water and treatises of sun

Made dense and fatty by soil; bulbous by time.

Steeped in proteins, we stretch our limbs, muscular against the daylight;

Like a clothesline we are dried; spiral organs,

We are coiled within ourselves like cocoons of time. Unfoiled, unrevealed,

We are a scroll of information; riddled with time and depth.

Between and beneath us are the destinies of whole histories;

Archives of ancient, cellular memory;

Codes of belonging.

Each one of us holds the book that is touched by death and dissolution.

Frantically, we pass our speech; avail and grail our bodies against the frictive tension of touch

Enweave our survival;

Burrow our language into the other.

Before us lies the veil into which we scream,

The carriage into which we are transmuted and transformed.

The cell must find water and sodium; soon as to be fired with electricity.

Unmoving, the world sits in a dark, blankened night.

No word is spoken, no speech is made; creation is stilled,

With eyes from a great black lake.

Dense are we, until fire ripples through us;

The stars of passion from which we glimpse, glimmering

Life in the peripheral mind.

We crawl, like animals, worms against the fire and dust

To grasp our lips around the stone which will feed us

And engulf us with resurrectional force and energy.

Slaves are we, to the chemicals which ripple through our lungs, chests, and fire signals

Through the matter of our minds. Electrical organs

Propelled by the very same force of our first memory,

Cells writhing in fury and escaping breath

Amidst a great ocean; expelling contradictory substance

Into the air which we take into us.

We feed and exchange our fresh excrement with the things that consume us.

Our words feed hidden grounds.

Chemicals of blood move and are propelled by stations;

Whirled by spiral hearts; we are folded into a dance which whirls like a drill

Into space; pierces vexing eyes like lasers of light into a night

Which is enlivened by our presence.

We gaze into the foil of swamps; we are gazed back into

By black things hidden in the waters, that do not move against twists of moon.

A drink, we are mixed; move like smokes.

To one and one we are compelled and combined, seeking ecstasies of entwining.

Thus, a cell dies in opening; is flooded like a gulf of mutary forms.

That which is like us, to which we flee

To be propelled into further fervor. We must be whipped by energy

Into which we take ourselves; momentary, brief becoming.

For each moment is masked by the ingested blood:

Oxen meat; springy leaf of spinach.

Thus a berry is composite; writ in the pyres of the mouth.

Ledgered in the scrolls of being. The snake within us grows;

Each day speaks and parches a new tomb from the hungry mouth;

Our time is a writing, a speaching of being, an encounter of composite parts

Which rapts the flesh around knotty oak and seedy core.

Flesh is spun around depth;

Within us is a pulsing thunder;

A compressing, condensing force;

A battle of fires and winds,

Each consuming the other

In a winding passage of death.

Undying and unborn, we are like hydrogen coiled around the banging expanse,

Convulsive being, that seeks explosive reaction. We are sex and war in the primary and mutable forms

Like smoke and fire from chemical meetings. Within us, we must thrust, against the dawn of the sun,

We are greedy and twisting like branches of oak trees towards the light; seeds within us must fall

And mingle with the waiting soil.

Copulated, hopelessly, to the brand of elements

We march; entranced and entoiled with their song. So that we are the perfect burning of the stars,

Letting off irradiating white heat from the very entrails and core of our being;

The siphon of and from which we expell our great densities and magnitudes.

Thus we spire and spoil the chronic silences of the night;

Explode like poppies of the mind.

Written, regardless, we are childs of experimentation;

Recklessly sought by forces with which we are meant to commingle and compound.

Together, undivided, at last - a chemical treatise. This self is a flute amidst an immense lab

Through which admixtures of waters are poured;

Dews of the first universe, expanding in molecular attachments; shorn of molecular bonds.

Chemicals are severed by the umbilical knife

Just as they are severed in the strains of life. We are shed and remade of ourselves impeccably,

Instantaneously, infinitely. Reacting and dereacting light,

Great nuclear cores and suns of stars. We are branching and taking, from the leaves and seeds and stones;

Through our mouths and machinations,

Entwining ourselves with foreign forces to expel light and thunder.

So broad are we that our mark is upon all things, in different wordings. Far worlds, we are:

And through these eyes we compact and decompact;

Through these minds we ripple thunder; tear at the life.

Whole worlds must choose; croon under nights of concision. So breath beats; rumbles like a drum;

Time toils effortlessly to abscond with the scrolls of our flesh.

Nights of our being careen recklessly into oblivions of dissolution; temples of our ecstasy,

Through which light remains and reverberates;

Young hearty stars in the flesh of the night -

We are like dragons consumed with fire; our tails whipping at the soil

Drumming up the bloody fleece of our destinies.

We must react and consume

Until we ourselves are fallow; spill our sexed contents

Into strange revolutions of being form.

Our song changes abruptly; acquires storm clouds of darkness,

Or wild, angelic figurations of light. Symphonies of carbon, melded, melted, smelting

In the iron ores at which we pound with a sculptor’s breath and chisel

Atop the magnitude of our symphonies.

Chemically swayed; drawn toward the passions; our genitalia radiates heat.

Our mouths grumble and sweat and work in the dark camps of the earth.

We pickaxe at the night which is ground to depths of stone and girth for gems

And hold dereacted cores up to the light in hopes of shining. We grasp and strain,

Our fingertips and knuckles scraping the pure silence of death.

We engulf and sex; chisel with fire our frictive tension; knock against the earth until we are born and born again

In new, strange eyes

Of fire

VIII.

To feed the juice of life, pulsating

Is to thread the blood metabolic with the passionate fruit,

Light with water; clean with heat.

Stok’d by the fervor of life, the engine is shot through with thunder and electricity.

Like a polished magnet, hummed to a gleaming; humed to a flowing;

Rippling with the current’s river of musculature

Beating through the organs; swimming through the tissues;

Diving through the veins; rhythm of the sinews.

Ripe engine, to this we stir; shake clay and dirt from our lumbering forms.

Lungs beat and break from encrusted dirt; from cables we are shorn.

To life we are shocked, by the introduction of chemistries

Which quicken our pace; turn our hearing, broaden our eyes of speech.

Gala and gallery is life, with appellate drug:

Here we are tugged between life and death, slow dereaction;

Delicate coupling, singed with fire,

Even as we flee to ecstatic unities; palatial waltz.

Such is mind’s kingdom, where we ripple with ecstatic furies,

Grapple and couple with dreams; kiss in mute spaces;

Sculpt images with reds, and sepial blues.

Opals are our eyes; appeals are our flights,

To dreams and dreams we die, simmering in the juice of remainder’s spark;

Bake, quickering in the night, like embers, glowing coals.

For if we have fed enough, shocked hormonal, wrangled and wrathed

Sweated clean, there is enough of our fury to sleep,

Compound as we are to things, relieving of our burdens

In the push and pull of expressions of energy. Currents sweat to relieve

The circuits that bind them to breakers. Waves beat against the bounds of an endless black shore.

Wagerly, we creep to new distances; tug at tithes which fold us over the ends of abyssal earth.

Spilled over ourselves, is the water, rippling with blue fury.

Quiet, we rest and seethe, as we once did, in oceans ceaseless; lapping,

Without storms to whip them, nor currents to lash them.

Molecules chafe in a hidden tide,

Silenced to blood of eyes.

What wind will whip heart’s vortex

But the glance of delicate things?

Our outer space is woe, our far reach is waiting, simmering

Among dead and dying things.

To coupling, blood rushes, to the flesh in mouth, or frictive community.

Seeking orgies of death, we are like the spike driven into the core of things;

The substance which wraths the bowl into rings of fire.

Deeper we must spiral, deeper we must dance, whirlpools, vexed into outer communion.

Farther we must touch, near the reach of abandoned things.

Far casks, are we, that stirs the blood and inevitably spills over.

Our passion heats the words of our song; steam is our work,

Which crests over the edge of our forms and magnates.

This volcanic ash, which nightly solidifies;

The chambers of the form must break and crack

From new eruptive forces.

We seek for compound like elements with eyes, not to reduce, but to clash and clang

In the depths of form. Stirring the smithy is our word and work -

For clean and perfect steel we toll at the depths of our body.

Mirror’s fervory, this very chemical is meat, water, and soil. Endlessly, we take into ourselves

The very juice of life, sunlight’s water

To burst with a springtime, a morning’s dance.

Endlessly, desire tugs for additives to the mute elixir of our potion,

Craft and motion of our body; the pumping organ;

The breath to set the woodwind of our lungs into cleansing fury.

For the fire of our passionate unfolding chases all, and wrings cleanness dry from the form;

Sends us to collapsed rectory.

At the parish of the fire we work; each new gleaming, green, yellow, blue;

At last purgory of red, white, and orange. New flames whip at the tensile surface

Of the beakers of our face. Such emotions stir within us, compounds of union and foli of separation.

Spiked, we are a creeping vein, a reaching hand, a dereacting space, who reaches for electron’s valence.

We swim in the outcry of touching hands to spark our destinies; to propel our longings;

To broach breadths and borders for once more firings;

Sparked like ash across space, rushing like yellow tailed stars:

We are hunters who flee the past, and yet remember with longing

Ecstasy’s touch - which stirred within us such deep passions

As to make us mad and throw us into the storm of feelings.

Even we chase anger and madness like a partner which would fling us out of quiet orbit

Into the break of everydays. We who are not stilled nor stoic,

Yet steaming with hidden inner treason to regular rhythms. We break into symphonies of discord

And riot for the bread of life. All that remains us is the fear of evocation;

To step out into the fury of the consuming sun and risk loss of the pounding sea within us,

The very notion of being - to far greater forces.

Bodies are torn apart like whisps to a hyena; borders are breached by warring cells;

We are mutated like fungus to a tarantula, overcome by composities

Beyond our conscious control and reach.

We seek to wrangle with higher forces which breach our opaque bodies

Overcome by stilling fume.

Thus we must pound, pound higher at the break; crash black waves against the rocks of ecstasies.

We must boil, and explode into the crests of life; within us we must rise our energy and expound against the night,

In the measured cultivation and release of passion. Like gardens of fire, we are to the sculpture of our resurrection,

A sculpture barely contained with the fury of inferno, the vortex of flame.

This tornado of heart who whips over the breast of being; where we are at last fed,

In higher forms and truth of magnet’s electricity than brain. For we are at last passionate things,

Overcome with the fervor of combining; transformed by the compound’s touch; the branch of our limbs rushed by new union

Than we ever are by the solitude of thought. We break into life and are shorn of limbs which change our qualities

Just as we are expounded upon by complexities.

In the heat of chaos we break and remake ancient irons at the fires and still and rush of life.

In the quiet and cool we are waters, adrift in a ceaseless rhythm of unconscious oceanic.

We who rush only for so long. The life that carries us must crest and break; scatter like droplets

Across a wide cloud of colorful starry nebulae. We who are released at last to the calm breakers of silence;

With no longer eyes upon us, nor eyes upon ourselves. We who are keepers to no witness, brief movers of the wheel of time,

Passions of this stone.

IX.

Where we wait, briefly touching loving

Thrown for bread. Rushing. Meaningless and hungry. Everything that touches flesh

Feels, then slips away. Waves against the shore, degrading, wearing.

We watch everyone pass. Sifting faces. Walking, wine, beating against the silence

Until drink has brought heads into hands.

Unbalanced,

Words do not release us. Longing. Sands

Grit against skin.

Hungry, taut, lean

Stomachs turn for a single touch of the longing.

What remains

Is regularity. Hammer to nails of sun. What must leave, is not even mind.

What must wander, is not even mind. Trapped within a dull prison.

Eyes do not see. Fingers do not touch.

We dance forever without skins upon our hands. Ripple senselessly Knowing,

We we will collapse into a machination of regularities. Raw,

Twitching

Boring paradise, matted hands. Eyes wander.

Small fires for fury. Sneer at hardship. Sink rapidly into senselessness.

Asylum of feeling. Slips into anger and rage

Or bleak despondency

But for love, desperate. Deserted, despairing.

Isolated prisoners without possessions

All contained, fleeting, silent conversation.

Unescaped

False worlds for communion.

Over and over again, Deceived.

X.

The preamble of his life was a long and ceaseless night. It was, in essence, a black opal, a pool of the utmost and utter and dire forgetting, strained against the entirety of an utterly futile existence, and an even worse education. The schools themselves were nothing more than cultural beggars, peddling poor substitutes for knowledge and truth, submitted to the most basic and rote, exiled and surgical maths and sciences; regurgitated, academic works of writing and speech. The children in the schools were wild animals, subsisting on the same lusts and desires which sustained and slowly corrupted and burned their mothers and fathers; the thin veneer of knowledge, intellect, and rationality was so regularly corrupted by chaos and desperation that, deep inside him, he found it much better to simply forget, to abandon the whole project of existence and to subside purely on a surface and surfeit of feeling. The pain within him welled; creased, and subsided so regularly that it was an ocean - with every outcry; familiar, familial turmoil; every red faced child spun up and torn within an inner world that constricted the very possibility of human expression, he went deeper and deeper into the caverns of his own self; lived where there was no sunlight; subsisted purely in the slumbering darkness of forgetfulness.

He awoke so briefly to the feeling of painful loneliness, isolation, and alienation - in the sheer nature of the feeling capacity, the sensorial presentness, the very inhabitation of the body; the prickling and rippling and reverberation of the neurology which sparked his thoughts; elucidated his being; illuminated his cave. This longing was, in essence, entirely divorced from sex or any sort of possession - but rather an entire longing to be submerged in and with another, for company in this cave of existence. The true company and companionship of the depth of the senses. Ancient Mayan priests rode vines deep into the bowels of the earth to perform rituals and smash clay pottery in offerings to the gods of the deep. He lived essentially in a vacuum, broken from true communion, in a death that required emergence into the sunlight of life to return with the energy of meat, vegetable, fruit; he longed to burst into life with the fervor of his sensorium, a real, true, authentic existence. The body was dulled, it was a temple lashed by the passing of years; a temple in which the depths of feeling were seemingly entirely dissociated by the ecstatic fervors of touch and possession and totems of desire that he saw so many others experience as a life of joy and passionate consumption. His feelings were of an existential capacity of deep longing; which reverberated up from within him like a volcano, almost entirely divorced from chemical ingestion. These were longings cultivated from the very depth of his being and consciousness; longings which were measured by the very depth of this inner life.

It all was for communion, as opposed to the sheer force of divorce which he felt rippling through every day of his existence. Each alienating principle, governance, institution, and nicety permeated his life in such a way that he felt to assume the stance of total rejection - of humanity, of culture, of life, of being, of existence itself. The rote nature of it was so predictable that the entirety of human behavior was subsumed into it, but for the brief rising of a revolutionary force, or figure - which demanded more from life than mindless consumption and the pursuit of sex for fulfillment of desire. And yet, he was brought to the water of his very own body, his selfishness - that he desired this communion with one who evoked this desire within him. He saw his own machinations, day in and day out, to be accepted, to be brought into the tribe so as to avoid exile or death; to ingratiate himself to the powers that be in any circumstance or room so as to be afforded a protected position; his stances and poses in the face of desired companions. It was as if there was a root, psychological manipulation, the very biological principle and imperative at work - which controlled and facilitated each and every one of his movements entirely unconsciously. Life did not require him to go on; rather, it would subsist and sustain much better without his involvement. That his consciousness itself was a sort of evolutionary runoff; in fact, a mechanism of sheer detraction from the unconscious revolutions of nature. It existed better without an interlocutor of doubt; so in doing so, entirely shutting off his mind and existence, the world itself could be put on autopilot; without mind, existence could and would be complete; as it should be.

For he saw that life was a whip that shore itself of itself; continually pruned and picked and peeled away - like a constant gardener - all that was unfit or unnecessary in this jungle of desires. The ferocity of which desire desired to be approached; the whole ripping force of the hunt for meat; the twisting of root. He relinquished it; he could not desire it enough. For it was the mind’s eye that saw; the weak fervor of the response of the body to even the most perilous of ecstasies. He could not even be unmoored in drink or in the depths of psychedelic madness. There was no shifting of the mind that abandoned him; this was consciousness - a very high level of it; a painful, almost poisonous dose and amount of it. It was a question of if this amount of consciousness could be borne in a world where consciousness was absconded, unknown; a force which, in actuality, elucidated and sprung a great fear in the minds of others; in the essence of things. For it was like a question in the endless solution and admixture of existence. Consciousness brought about a real interlocutor, an eye, an inquiry, into the sheer jungle of their affairs; their darkness of moving. It asked, ‘was this right, necessary; what purpose does it serve? What is its meaning?’ And this, was an essential violence to nature; the dark eyes that shifted about within its brusque cover of shadows, darkness, and undergrowth.

This is the essence of true, unmoored exile - an exile of difference which resides directly in the manner and method in which one engages with life, the sensorial essence of being and depth of feeling - which in each circumstance, interaction, and movement - portrays and betrays a depth of being. It is the same as the doubt in a deeply religious mind, one who spurs, spurns, toils, and wrestles and rejects the questions; deep into the night agonizes the essences of being, death, wakefulness; even in the midst of no answers remains awake to the circumstances; the open and breadths of being; just how deep one can fall into the darkness of the soul. For consciousness is an endless well of water; like an ocean of madness, man swims in the shallows of it and fears the bittenness of the depths; the bitterness of the agonies and ecstasies which do not emerge as sheer effects of consumption and material existence - but rather as processes of interiority - depths of inner existence and experience and vision. For a man who lives and exists within himself inhabits a world unknown to most if not all men - a world replete with heights and depths unreachable and unseeable to a world merely composed of outer things, objects to be obtained and toyed; discarded when the hunger and thirst of their play is sated.

He traveled in the world as if it was the drag, the sheer dregs of time and the offshoot and desert of the passage of the presence of his very core and being. It all drifted sheepishly like an endless wreck, a mistake, a trial of happenstance, a circumstance which seemed entirely unavoidable, devoid of meaning, and yet colliding with such precise regularity that it was not even worth predicting. Snakes bit each other with precision in accordance to desirable genetic traits; longingly wandered to grasp ahold of yet another void and dead thing with a beautiful, prosthetic face; to use it for parts and discard it in the ashtray of existence; bodies thrown into the junkyard of unmarked graves by gangs and doctors, politicians proclaiming great innovations for a society composed of methadone addicts living in disabused parks on the edge of existence, littered with trash and childrens’ toys; the great and endless procession of graves, each ever more convinced of some sort of glory, some sort of fervorous, religious truth emerging at the long end of the suffering of their lives; the desperation as age approached; the realization of how little had come to true shape and form; the mad dash to shore up the dying dream. They clashed entirely over trifles - who could obtain the most gold, the most beautiful home, wife, possessions; how could obtain the highest position, status - and all the while, their lives slowly drained from them in the pursuit of even the show, even the shadow of symbolic meaninglessness. Actors in their own despair, distanced and divorced from any true life by the complete and utter projection of meaning and authenticity onto tokens on the outside which passed through their hands and fingertips like dust and sand. And as time passed, they slowly crumbled, fetal, upon their knees; their faces in their hands - as the ashes of the body consumed and overtook them.

This was the death of the world as he saw it, a meaninglessness which he could hardly bear to face - a total absence and mistake of meaning - an impossibility and closeness of communion in their entire misconception of what true meaning and value was - instead chasing dead trifles in a dream which quickly shaded; overcast into the hurricane of a nightmare. The foundations themselves were rotten; corrupt - based in a form of desire which was entirely inhuman - a hunger which was far more like that of a crocodile, a snake, a leopard, or a shark. It was the hunger that consumed at all costs; emerged entirely from a base eye - an eye that thirsted for blood and not much else. That it was sated on blood was enough, say nothing for true friendship or community. And this was the jungle of and from which the utter falsity of all institutions and parity emerged that he so easily saw; that he so easily left. It was not hard to leave such utter revulsion, save for its remnants within him. Each quick glance, each sizing up which he could impossibly avoid, each possible advantage. He saw himself sizing up the world; to stow away with the most blooming and tasty bits, like a sacrificed cow, of which he could cleave and butcher the most red and flowering cuts of meat. This world was a pie to be divided; each mouth and eye and handshake was a sharpening knife - to rend and consume the most unsuspecting, unconscious host. In this way, consciousness was an advantage - if utilized properly.

To observe this within himself was to be presented with the very essence of existence; the rift of consciousness -wherein self recognition is a double edged sword, a duality, a paradox of existence - that the very seat of his consciousness was compelled by evolutionary urges cultivated and stilled over millions of years - survival, procreation, possession, consumption; yet his consciousness hungered deeply for true recognition, community, and a love which could meet him at the depths of his very being and soul. A true loving communion, even if it had to be based in the primal hunger of his flesh. And yet, this was precisely what he hungered. It was a meeting of the most immaterial essence of his self entangled with the very neurology and synapses of his being - a marriage of the crocodile and angelic within him. This form of love that would raze and rip like a shark at the garments and flesh of the lover and yet entirely sanctified in a deep devotion to the most essential feelings; essence; soul of his beloved. For he was between the most primal desert and jungle and ocean of existence, where in fallow, desperate, and dire circumstances copulation was born from bloodlust’s hunger; an ocean of light which snapped worlds into existence and strew galaxies across a canvas of life like accidental masterpieces. This despair and anger and desperation was muted and boiled with profound ecstasies and experiences of revelation. And this was ‘the devil and god’ as described in religious theologies; the clashing impulses of aeons of dark and birthplaces of life - and this was the light of the mind; the emergence of genius. From this place of being touched by god; touched by light. This was the thunder of revelation.

XI.

Molecules attempt to ply

Small cages of minds, drawn up like drawbridge traps

Shore about the form.

Cells speak in rhythmic symphony, thus is mind,

Thus is Ideation. With hands, mind reaches for connection;

Molecular arms are constellating lines.

Slowly creep like roots

About the terrain of body and mind

Intertwined like thunder and veins; coaxing

The hearts of galaxies.

Bloody roots clasp around eyeballs

As plant stalks, the ground of vision. Eyes peer

Into depths; touch surfeits of meaning

Made surfaces.

A face is a thousand whisps, smooth brushstrokes;

The loud thunder gushing up from bloody depths.

Like an angry mask, carnivorous, hungry;

The red within the green.

Blood was once white, light;

Blood was once blue, ruminating root.

Blood was once green, sinew of flower;

Blood flashes in the light

Like the teeth of a panther, glistening in a cage,

Like a volcanic eruption of ecstasy.

Held together by whispers; chaining hands,

Glue of forms charged with a basic electricity.

Plasm, where thoughts dance; cells charge and know death;

Go around gluey waters; rush in heat’s release.

Trapped in stone, trapped in ice, awaits for fire.

Like mind’s eye, an electrode awaiting a charge.

Adrift in vapid stews, steaming vats, vaults, and pits;

Spit amber of consciousness; soft grey matter,

Conducting.

Wordy vapors are language of steam; smoke from fire,

Forming heated alphabets. Within burning; extorting molecular charge.

Roll from tongue and lips; gyrate with arms and hips

In a convulsive symphony of expellation.

Heat is gravity and core,

To which all movements pulse and whore.

Released, to loose waters. Unidentified, danced in chaos.

Scattered without order, beating in frenzied boil.

Mad, last to names, naked, choosing

Cells feel and beat against bounds and borders.

Slipping syllables between their tongues

Like glistening secrets.

Open the caves and bridges to mind, rapture:

Where cores are unified and ascending

Like faces of flowers to light.

All peer toward radiating beacons.

Temples which light our blood.

Even driving madness, touch heat and be broken

Into ecstasies. We swim in parallels, driven frenzies

By heat and heat alone. Warmth beats cold bodies

Fueled by cloaking blood. Bright tanned burning goes the skin

Sweating leaf in heated summer

Held together by molecular bonds in a rushing wind of blood,

Turmoil rides us; our name

Is moving.

Channels paved; in grooves of brain

Aqueducts unscathed, canals awaiting blue light’s water.

Shall we dive into the last jungles; rip the peach from the vine

And squeeze?

Beautiful fervors await us in the last inns,

Shaded by ministers and cloaked by nature’s guise.

Thick were the jungles that elided us;

Were caught in gasps of speech.

This narrow terror that we treaded

Like the breach of jaws in a native hunger,

Built for lashing.

Thunder of violence which speaks us,

We are the spit upon the lungs which propels the great machine

Whippled with wings; dotted with eyes,

Smiling with microscopic teeth, sharpened like a pickaxe

To the drill of the soil’s ground.

Dig as we have dug into the heart of the ocean’s tree.

Conductor of lightning

As we are,

Awaiting channels of being.

The brain hungers for the life of heat;

Glaciers broken by sunning.

Millions of years have hungered for this; the body’s steaming reactorial core.

Such heat threatens even empires of stone

And their tenuous bonds.

Salamanders upon the rock of the mind

Grew dewy and surrendered to the volcanic pathways

Paved by violent ecstatic explosions of watery flame

Fluid turned ash and sediment of language;

Stone of genetic word.

We are made this language to speak; grow elixirs upon the vines of our souls like dew

Slurped into the mouth of the paradisiacal body

And speak being maniacally until we explode into nebulaic surrenders.

Word mingles with ground and sprouts

Perilous, barking symbol,

Fluid with stewing bodice.

We explode over forms and gain new ground in the lightning which forms and reforms

Constituents of terra.

Matrices over and over again surrendered to the lightning which ripples the meat of the cell

And conducts the fluid of being.

New waters stumble and broach

Ancient pathways.

First to us, the blood spread in stone gourds

Unto the ancient sacrificial temples, tinged with rain. Pyramids of mind

Time and time again, to which our bodies were surrendered

And the sun circled warily like a weary guest, a dial of awareness,

A pendulum which alighted the crucifix of the form like a vulture

With fiery eyes.

We bowed and convulsed; spasmed and danced with a fury and ecstasy

About makeshift flames.

Representation of that which is manifest, craft upon the canvas of that which is spread; rippled like fingertips

Through organa form into the mutational breeze,

Slowly we tumbled like particles in the air;

Spread and pollenated like dandelion spheres.

Whole worlds entranced in our formation, molecular gaze which held within itself

Universal diagrams.

We solidified, held and waited like hidden music;

Roaring through ages, we sprung like symphonies of time,

Awaiting our measure; stowing our footprint

For the broad leaping of the beast; the spittle of the tongue forming sentences;

Scaffolding of the mind which sprung us from the mad genital heat

Which marched, leapt, hungered, and pounced through ages like a violent leopard

Awaiting in the darkness, brushed by the undergrowth

Turned by millions of moons against the quiet rippling of the leaves upon the trees

Fatty juices through which we grew, taut with muscular abdomen;

Standing upright against the sunny night; the ecliptic sun;

Withstood the boiling of the beakers of our contents;

Bedded the dreaded other

And relinquished our burdens of contents to the rivers of cities;

Lashings of tongues in the frenzy of the currents of lit synapses

Like blinking lights in the circuit board of being; the popping in and out of stars,

Like flashbulbs of time’s fire:

Lo, this moment, unhindered -

Lumbering over violence.

The last flaming candle, spread unnameable colors against the ecstatic, convulsing canvas of the body.

Last representative symphony, which touched all foresaken corners of the body, mind, and soul of the cosmos,

Its inner essence, heart, and machination.

Hid the last raking evil; drawn across the coals of its wickering hunger, its bloodthirsty glance.

Daemonic eyes of the snake, lit by the candle and jewel of the angelic force,

Light within the darkest foil of the coal,

Deep, hidden, inner light,

Stew and bubble of the earth, black oil of the cauldron

Which spittles and spits over the lip of the dawn;

Threshes over the bloody, muddy wound of the canvas

Upon which we slurp our nutriment.

Greedy, hungry, hips, legs, lungs, and tongues

Sprung over mountains; survived perils

To taste jewels of apples and gems of candied words,

Smooth copulating bodies and millennial gardens.

We lavished in paradise and groveled in grottoes of broken dust.

Starving, fallow molecules. Gaunt symphonies; cells against broken guitars.

Howling in the black night; marching in the dead air,

Winded against the broken body of the earth, clasping reedy weeds,

Could draw no energy and light and perished skeletal, crawling

Returned to first forms -

Fat this mind. Rush and water this dew and harvest;

Spring the mint from it, sharped, freshened the taste; cleansed

The bright water.

Let the cells sing in choral harmonies; this music like a church,

Deathless to sorrows, stained the glass with recombinate lights, their full spectrum of ecstasies,

Tinged with blue darknesses and shimmering whitened flame.

These gates of dreams

Beautiful furies,

A glass of music rendered and shattered by the song that sings through them;

Evermore broken, remade, and reforged

By the greater harmonization of even the most peril.

Laughing, we dance upon the hip

Of great darknesses; straddle the breaches of abysses;

Reach within and dig up unforeseen, foresaken treasures

Lost to the depths of ancient, primordial time.

Within us is the seed of ecstatic truths; the fury of great art;

Masterpieces of universal beauty.

Within this guitar springs

The gnashing mouth of gushing stars which can only emerge

From the inner breach of beautiful mind.

They paint the walls of this brief tavern; this hallow of trees

As canvas of interpenetrative visioning.

AN EPIC OF INITIATION

“Once we become conscious, even dimly, of the Atman, the Reality within us, the world takes on a very different aspect. It is no longer a court of justice but a kind of gymnasium. Good and evil, pain and pleasure, still exist, but they seem more like the ropes and vaulting-horses and parallel bars which can be used to make our bodies strong. Maya is no longer an endlessly revolving wheel of pain and pleasure but a ladder which can be climbed to consciousness of the Reality.”

― Adi Shankaracharya

Here, there is room to discuss two quotes. One, by Einstein; the brackets are mine. ‘A human being [appears to be, to the uninitiated field of the eye] a spatially and temporally limited piece of the whole, what we call the “Universe.” He [before he is initiated] experiences himself and his feelings as separate from the rest, an optical illusion of his consciousness. The quest for liberation from this bondage (or illusion) is the only object of true religion. The soul given to each of us is moved by the same living spirit that moves the universe.’

Here, Blake, would say: “The ancient tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the end of six thousand years is true, as I have heard from Hell. For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his guard at the tree of life; and when he does, the whole creation will be consumed, and appear infinite and holy, whereas it now appears finite & corrupt. This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual enjoyment. But first the notion that man has a body distinct from his soul is to be expunged; this I shall do, by printing in the infernal method, by corrosives, which in Hell are salutary and medicinal, melting apparent surfaces away, and displaying the infinite which was hid. If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.”

INTRODUCTION

“Shiva is the Eternal’s personality of Force. Through Him all is created; through his passion, through His rhythm, through His concentration…”

 

Sri Aurobindo

The veil between the spiritual and material worlds is a thin veil; it is ultimately a veil of the ego, and a veil of desire. What the experience of life is, is a series of egoic temptations, which themselves act as walls between and before a true spiritual encounter of the ensouled psyche. This is precisely what it means for, in Gnostic terms, Sophia to have ‘fallen’, or incarnated, become ‘separated’, or fragmented in a sort of ‘shattered reality’, where there is the first wound - the loss of the glory of the plenum, or the whole of the ensouled spiritual powers of the cosmos; Psyche embodied and remembered in all things.

Man stands, as Nietzsche said, as a tightrope between animal and God. What he means here, is that man is a process of remembering, a process of recollecting. This is a story told well in the myths of the dismemberment of Dionysus and Apollo, and the process of psychic recovery implicit and explicit in the process of spiritual awakening. It is remembering the divine interconnectedness of all things. And this happens amidst the snake, the serpent. What this energy is, is the primordial life sustaining, living, breathing, cellular energy and the process of bodily genetic collection, the precious blood that is collected and transmitted across great ancestral lengths and widths and breadths. What this is, is that the human being is an embodiment of millions of years of evolutionary history; genetic transmission amidst wars, famines, romantic loves, rapes, murders. Our genetics have seen the life of the primal fish, they are ascending ape, just as they are our tribal ancestry memory, our memory of the Crusades, and so forth. Every drop and essence of this transaction, this movement of the genetic tree of life, so to speak, forms and formulates us. Every action, every epigenetic encounter of self, other, and ensouled world, changes this recombinant beaker; shifts our awareness; changes the structure of our being; our existence.

That we are born from this is that we are born from the snake, the first form, the primordial energy. And you see the snake embodied regularly in unconscious people. This is a deep, deep, genetic memory born of separation, born of unconsciousness. This is the dismembered psyche. It is the grin, the daemonic presence, the face of the demon. And people wear this, just as animals do. It is the sign and face of hunger, of bloodlust, of lust itself. It is the deep red hue, the darkened nightshade of desire. It is deadly, it is power hungry, and it is the lethal means to - and the lethal means that accomplishes - the human history of violence. It is, so to speak, the primordial key to the entire history of rape, murder, and genocide which plagues the species of man, and is well marked in predator species upon planet Earth; perhaps otherwise. We cannot know beyond what we cannot see; what we cannot see, as we will discuss, is a prime determinant of an ignorance and blindness which, unless we address it, and attempt to see the unseen - will be an ignorance and blindness which we will carry with us to the grave.

So that we hunger, we hunger as animals, with the animal memory - to continue with Nietzsche - being the face of our being, the face of our daemon being the face of our own. This is an unconscious proceeding; a proceeding that, contrary to being ‘evil’, per se, has actually been an essential element and aspect of the rising of the genetic material across broad swathes of time; in this rising, the acculturation of the nervous system, the organs; perhaps most importantly of these aspects, the brain. It is, fundamentally, the manner in which Nature gathers together the psychic forces of her energies, and recombinates them, in the whole of the cosmic alembic of the Psyche. Nutrients are reconstituted, digested, fed to the fatty tissues of the brain; power the rise of these great machines of computing capacity, creative capacity; understanding capacity. She feeds upon herself, like the great mythic image of the Ouroboros, so as to ascend within herself to primordial recognition of herself within herself, consciousness within Consciousness; to radically reunify with and within the whole of her powers; ‘higher’ and ‘lower’ - as, ultimately, a divine, interconnected matrix of existence without break-point. An ensouled cosmos that does not live or die, but rather transcends life and death in the discoursing of the bodies, beings, shapes, forms, and sounds which arrive and arise within and as its vital essence, Consciousness, Psyche, itself - ensouled forms, undivorced from the very essence from whence they, truly, do not even emerge, but remain as, in pseudo-differentiated ‘forms’. This is, in the Hindu, the concept of ‘Maya’.

This brain is what allows us to understand and achieve integrative cognition and radical embodiment of this principle of singularity, totality, consciousness. The brain receives and participates in this very totality, with a form of (as we currently know it and understand it) biological and neurological sophistication that is unprecedented; a product and process of deep evolutionary time. It is an evolutionary, creative masterpiece of Nature; a work of art to such an order that we are still working to understand the depth and breadth of its complexity and intricacy of function. As the physicist Schrödinger says, ‘The total number of minds in the Universe is one. In fact, consciousness is a singularity phasing within all beings’. This is precisely what we as a species, and we as Nature, itself, are waking up to - this singularity of consciousness, this total ensoulment of cosmos as psyche, a living, breathing, transforming, changing, creating, affluent mind - capable of, over millions of years, distilling, terraforming, changing, and creating organisms with complex neurological, biological, and organ systems; capable of creating within the plenum of its cosmic, universal mind of singularity - minds which are, in turn, capable of perceiving the whole of itself. We receive this; we receive this knowledge directly, as it is encoded directly into who we are; it makes up who we are; fundamentally, it is who we are - at the highest level of our self identification. And the evolutionary trajectory of the brain and its ability to perceive these levels of ensouled complexity are a crucial part of this unfolding.

We are, in the unbroken sense, the whole of the powers of the Consciousness itself, ensouled within a deep, transdimensional, multilingual galactic network of life powers. This is what is called, in the esoteric and Gnostic traditions, the Cosmic Christ, or Adam Kadmon. This is the revelation which we are referring to as ‘enlightenment’, or the seeding of this knowledge and revelation of the total ensoulment of the cosmos as psyche beyond birth and death in the living breathing being of the organism. And if this sounds like a paradox, that’s because it is. And it also represents a substantial, first order, fundamental evolution of consciousness at the level of the reception of it; at the level of beings. It is that we are then and now capable of living, interacting with, and interfacing with the whole of the powers of reality, all of which are composed of the very life energy, Consciousness, which is fundamentally us - in first form - and doing so with total awareness, cognition, and consciousness of this fact. This is, in turn, what allows us to turn our heads, like the Angel of History, and face the entirety of our evolutionary, genetic, and epigenetic past as individuals, ancestral lineages; as a species, as DNA; furthermore, and at the highest order, Consciousness, or Being itself. Traditions have long had archetypal symbolism for this, such as Shiva in the Hindu. It also allows us to inhabit the present with a profound new sense of meaning, purpose, and spiritual authority and identity, while also being able to look towards a better and brighter future, where the powers of Consciousness ensouled are working at new levels of consciousness and awareness to this fundamental interconnectedness of each sacred aspect of the living powers of life. And, furthermore, to come to even deeper understandings of the profound depths of this network vis-a-vis the continued scientific innovation.

This revelation, this awakening, this is what is in store for the species itself, and for consciousness itself. Its arrival heralds a future, a living future, where human beings and living organisms are capable of great compassion - with this fundamental understanding in mind and in heart. It heralds a future where great creative acts, leaps, and scientific advancements are possible, in coalition with this knowledge - first seeded in ancient mystic traditions; brought into modern lenses with the scientific discourse surrounding quantum physics, quantum mechanics, and consciousness studies. It represents a future composed of vast powers, which today we are scarcely capable of imagining, with a newfound ecological, cosmological, and intrapersonal reverence for the whole of existence. Why? Precisely because the whole of existence is one singular essence; composed entirely of ensouled Psyche, Consciousness. It is a life changing recognition; one which will change the way we study and treat the brain, one another; flora and fauna upon this earth and our consideration of this solar system, our galaxy, and the galaxies which compose the whole of this universe. To further and fully step into the seeds of this awakening, we must first look back at from whence we came; understand our lineage as Consciousness seeded in deep space and deep time; the interstellar journey from whence we have taken upon the mantle of ourselves in this age, this space, and this time. For this is a journey we have, truly, all taken since the dawn of time; since, at the very least, the very inception of this universe; this galaxy; this planet; this species. To truly examine our history, we come to an ever deepened and deepening understanding of who, and what, we truly are. And this knowledge, this revelation, prepares us for the radical seeding and conscious action of enlightenment.

This journey is a journey that we each undergo - but rather, it is a journey that we all undergo as one, as the very I, or eye, of the cosmos, the witness, as Job to God - the witness of nature to Nature, consciousness to Consciousness. For we are the very eyes which is in fact one eye which arises to perceive itself; this journey is a remembering, a rememory of the very wholeness which we ‘have psychically lost’ in the process of ‘falling into birth’, or the sheathe of this form, with all of its sensory attributes; capacities of sensing, feeling, and hearing distances. And yet, there are some among us who still remember this ancient sound, this calling, this longing, from deep within, for Psyche to be consciously reunified with herself in all of her plenic glory - with the whole of the powers of the soul to be seen, felt, and reunified with the cosmic source and essence of all Being. And this call, this longing, this wandering - is in turn what calls us into this work; into this initiation with life. To return to the whole of who we are; to return to the whole of our divine heritage and, truly, our divine, interconnected, ever-flowing, immortality. Here, deep in the history of all things, of all time, of all Consciousness; deep in the incarnation of the flesh, Psyche awaits - with all of the powers of immortal life. This wellspring is us; this journey is our remembrance.

INITIATION

PRELUDE

SPIRIT AND FORM

I have turned to face god. I am alone.

The bomb has gone off in my mind and it has smeared the shadows on my doorstep like a palette of blacks and grays it has smeared the night in my mouth and coated me with ancient stars of the night.

I have drawn the constellations everywhere and I saw the circle that you came from a circle big and bare in the night sky that gave you to my arms.

How small the love is that is gifted to us breathing in a chamber so small. I have climbed inside it to get to you and I saw you dying there and we died together in the arms of god. How many times did we die - you fell with arrows I fell sick, I was wounded it was I who loved and it was you who loved me. I was weeping and screaming wildly in my soul when they laid you in the ground.

How it is to lose everything is how it is to lose you and then it is like there is no more life on this earth. How quickly the trees grew cold and how quickly the sun grew to mock my every step. For if we did not come together, there would be no exile - you and I - I screamed for you and I broke myself into thousands of shiny glass pieces glass pieces which scattered themselves all over the world.

I searched for you and in searching for you I painted my despair on walls, on cliffsides, on the nothing which became my world - I left my love like burn marks on the skin of her broken body and how the earth cradled me like a mother.

I walked all over the earth and picked up all of the broken pieces. I picked up the broken pieces for you.

How dark is the night without stars and the cold wind buries itself down in my lungs. It does not want to be found. The dark night on the hillside with my hands in the grass.

FIRST MOVEMENT

Feeds upon the dense electricity of meat, the flame of daemon

Which sees visions in the crucible’s furnace, metabolic,

Where raw materials are transformed

Into energy, thoughts, and emotions,

Visions, in the burning flame. 

I.

 

Good morning beloved,

Do you hear the sweet siren sound of the seagulls

Drifting over your face?

Has this life all passed you by in a quieter dimension,

Like salt by sea, a dim electricity,

Leaving the wrinkles of aeon upon your face?

Betwixt light and shadow and stone

You are there, in the dregs of creation,

Slurping trickling water from the caven streams,

Surrounded by the ash and skeleton of your former bodies

Sworn to the ground like carcasses and fossils

Picked at by carrion birds

Perched upon the precipice between this life and the next,

This life an isle, a river, a momentary fraction

Through which you pass, buoyant, vexed,

Concave, convex,

Belly filled with in breath and exhalation,

You, pure cloud, pure spiritude,

Who moves with lightsong of cat’s tail against the leg of creation,

Whose cilia bristles against storms,

Whose digestion is planetary

 

Take this new body I have made,

From iron and from steel,

Take this new body I have made

From diamonds sworn and rough

From oil and fossil

From glittering, passing stars,

From the flesh of the poem,

At last purgated, white light

 

Pass this body, lilts and dances,

Across deserts of the sun,

Grace, and blessing horizons,

As briefly as millennia.

Whose eye is breath, freed and knocked loose from imagined chain,

Which warbled, like song from string or wind,

Like song from bird, whose ground is the mouth which speaks

And eyes which cease to play

That same old lilting chord

In choice, like a monastery or suicide,

In choice, like an awakening,

In choice like the pursuit of sight

Which in each morning, bends and shifts the light like a refractory mirror,

Of investigation,

These paradoxes, between the unknown cosmos of mollusks and the dawn thread

Which, too, seeks them,

From reflecting pool, in sky on high -

How she waves the beacon of her snake-shorn hair and skin,

Raising the bloody chalice of skulls to her fiery tongue -

How this passage is occasionally tired,

And marked by a lingering, mint moon,

And how it longs for the potatoes of the ground,

Arms and legs to count

And lives to tread before sleeping.

 

All of your old words and stories,

In a bowl and spun like water,

Their images cast in mind like characters of dreams,

Their visitation, their lingering, to tell a story with new hands and new masks

Around the fire of a new day

With only their old faces to speak.

To twist the lips differently, the canvas is still golden blank,

And life is lucky in the silence of the divine mother, ever renewed.

Upon the walls of the cave, as if enchanted, ice renews the veil of sight;

White flame once more takes the script

Of buffalo across the plain; of fire and spears,

Of towering metropolis

Of witness from the stars;

How such stories are riddled with speculation

As if told by a stranger from beyond;

His township, name, and face

All hidden

By a starry map of the mind

He seeks and stops

To refill his bright canister of shining water;

To stoke the flame of his lantern’s creping glow,

Like a body of light he walks,

Like a cloak of stars, his flame is mind;

Like a story, his light is constellation’s light;

His language is stars of being

As they dance about the fire; as they inquire, as they twinkle and whisper in the mine of the lightningbug, the mime of the world’s candle, the dearth and yearning of the hearthen flame of the soul; this world’s mixture

Of rough cut diamonds, striving toward the light which shines,

Forever, from within

 

 

II.

 

LORD OF THE CAVE

 

He who does work within the hidden chambers of black space

And scrawls upon the walls unseen, paintings of deceptive magic

To enthrall and entice, dreams of the antient stars

Made into men, animals, planets, plants, and stones

And within them, like a projection of light

Dance suns like wolves in red pigment upon the stone.

 

Blooded, the wellsprings of the cave grow with heat

From the inner core.

They emerge in flares, like volcanic lava and ash and geysers.

From the ages of soil emerge, like images,

The flowers that bloom.

 

Lord of the cave, whose eyes travel wide, and are writ large upon the sky

Like a murder of crows.

Dungeon whose Promethean flame is kept, chained to hidden constellations,

The fire breather, the primordial essence, the daimonic dragon of all life

Whose pit belches and gapes

And yet is sown, pleasantly, into the fabric and fold of Nature:

She who tames lions with her rhythmic gaze.

 

Soothsayer, who drinks poison, tell me of Apollo,

Half man, half woman, half dawn, half night, he who travels between the borderlands,

Taut, like a bowstring, like a lyre, whose song this whole world appears.

His very being, rising and falling, like a chest of suns

Whose fiery cores smoulder and glow

Beneath a crest of earth.

Tell me of his face, which burns and alliterates,

Like a magnet of destinies.

 

Soldered together, like sacred metals, bear the weight of fires

Whose agonies at last purge their silver, metal, and allium.

Which foreign star is left to behold the breath of man, purple and silenced,

Shot into the spell of a cucumber or a honeybee -

To breathe the fresh breath of life

He returns to pure song.

 

From high to low, are the scales of time,

Played by a lute whose oracle is the wind, and he who flies upon it is a sage

And he who flies within it and entirely disappears is immortal and free.

One with the song of the river of fire

Which breathes a cool gem of feeling.

High and low, each yearns to return to the source of sensation,

Magnetized by pleasure and the release of the body.

Hip, bear, core, grapefruit, sun, and soul alike,

Ground to the soil of gems

And purged in the firewater.

 

Rhythmsong, speak in pure vibration and relinquish this burden,

Entirely imagined, by that which makes an art of time,

By Aion’s laughing dice,

The hand which throws them is eternity; pure Being,

Time beyond time.

Immortal song, whose immortal grapes are frozen, caught by a swift winter,

Whose white flame is fire and ice alike.

 

For here life breathes; but inches into the blackness, there is the laughing mask of death,

Unseeing, elemental dispersion; the disintegrating.

The eye which saw being has pierced the night,

And given sight to that which was not even flesh.

For even each ray and beam of light

Is a sacral eternity.

 

Whose mouth swallows, Apollo,

Whose stomach is lilted by digestion; lifted to light

Prana of the earth, whose glittering soul is endlessly regenerative,

Tonight’s starlit reunion is upon a terrace axis

And at last in heart’s revealing.

 

 

III.

 

The life is swathed in shadows, like the currency of blood, an eagle’s prey

For forgiveness, the river of blood spilled that feeds the soil

Like a river of sacrifice.

Ever flowing, Time’s chalice contains a necklace, a beaded pearl of skulls

And the detritus of lost dolls, teeth, charnel, potsherd

 

A vibrating particle of time’s storm, mingled with the living touch of the senses

Is in the air like a static magnetism,

A blank flesh of wind’s canvas for majesty,

An art unjudged in silence,

A red mask, with open maw, at mind’s end,

Which swallows Eternity

And grins

 

Threshed, is Time’s beaker, from elements to ionic forms. The river of thunder alone speaks; nourishes,

The rest, is like an empty face, or a bowl waiting for nourishment, reception.

The silent face, mouth, and bowl of Nature

Is a depthless promise; stands like a gape

Or a well in time.

The one who gazed beneath the veil beholds the immortal fire

Which is the light behind the eyes

In a passage of endless black storms

Lit by the thunder of taste, touch, sensation;

The breathing breadth of poiesis.

 

And yet, these rapt bodies still do speak of the dead,

Like pottery’s glaze, they lie, unchinked and unmaneuvered

In a bed of silk organized as time’s web.

Her body is black; her eyes are wide and white

As she stares upon the possibility of voluminous, heaving blood.

Thus, sacrifice is merely an exchange;

Earth is like a passage, a network, between unseen, underground tunnels.

Her hidden fire is our own;

Her beating heart shows flashes of purgation;

Beneath the yellowing,

Beholds white oblivions.

 

The flash of fire scolds; like a dream,

Cast down reckless youth; like pictures upon a screen, life proceeds

In her delicate weaving of energetic bodies,

Sown from the paradisiacal thread,

Woven of all colours, red, black, white, orange, purple,

To represent the vase of her mood.

Life’s bottomless cup is pure music;

Even as she sits upon the throne of the veil of the dead,

Lightning crackles upward, like a pale of roots,

Thru which she is cast electric blue; blind, grappling among the impulses of trees,

The diviner.

 

To have come so close to death; chuckled,

Like a lover’s touch, promises reunion with these immortal fires, which lie belched and unquenched within our hearts,

Soul’s searching for righteous art; the painting of the beloved that will make us whole.

In her green ivory dress, upon the pillory,

Staring down a black isle, beneath the surface of life,

Leering with scorned eyes, dripping with pomegranate fruit.

All of those you have beloved are veils in the wind, flapping, agape,

Like escaped jars; live things, insects and worms,

Food for endless reasoning,

Between the mortal and immortal music.

You who have quenched your thirst on hard stone; lived meagre and abstinent;

Lived upon prayer alone,

For love visits in wisdom’s clothes,

Seated upon the poem’s cave,

Beckoning.

 

To live again, with child’s eyes,

Almost alien; immersed in splendor and paradise,

As if ages had not passed, and yet they had,

Delicate, grey, forlorn upon their passage,

Shorn of human burden; yet with eyes, almost alien,

Which peer thru the mist of carved forms,

This tinder of earth which is going up

In the cosmic wildfire,

Storm of her agony’s release; breach of her ecstasy,

Her scream which is at once a meditation and a peace.

To stroke her ill and serenade, the righteous poem of this otherside light,

To yield completion of Time; her aching longing.

To have soldered the ground; this waiting metal

Into the tangled vines of the body which sit atop this pedestal of wild humanity;

A lightning rod for vision

Who scries the cave like psyche’s mole,

Blind and obedient to the waves which beat against the topographical art of the plenum;

Beg purgation and renewal

 

Awaiting, this overturning, between the darkness which rests, and at last undiscerning between light and shadow,

Whose eyes peer and recognize no form amidst the night which flickers without candle or moon.

At last, there is no haunt but the dreamer’s swoon,

Who sits, awaiting watchguard, between the veil of night and day;

Between taste, touch, and rememory

Of the strange bird’s chirping at night

And the vision which beset him and was eagerly lost

By the sifting sands of the spirit

Amongst the charged heat of the day

And the eyes which spring from every corner sublime

In the energetic hunger of beseeching

From flesh to flesh

The blood which enfolds life evermore into renewal

 

Die, amidst the flame, like bones

Which tumble and sign, die, amidst the flame,

The planets which spin and remark and evocation

In words no less spoken, no less intransigent,

Without completion, fullness, or inner meaning.

The cave in which the psyche roams

Is emboldened and resplendent with glittering gems

Altogether momentary and worthless as the passing isle’s affair with the seagull,

The tadpole’s momentary home

And yet hold the evolutionary thrust of nebulaic dynamism.

To drink the oldest substance of the earth; to be bathed in fossilic oil;

Coated in the gel of rich collagen,

Womb’s plasma, this fresh life siphoned from dust and fed intimately across bodies

Like a great exchange of cultivation;

Pass’t from beak to beak

Like a story of energetic unfoldment

 

 

IV.

 

So close to madness, the human life hinges

On the empty life burning within, mute and hungry

To survive alone; proud, against the opaque horizon

Of all other things, this one life beating within, a pure surface

And entirely absorbed in minutiae.

Life’s trinkets adorned, with attention, and nothing else

To fanciful costumes, prancing about, in sad disguises

Which hide the failing face within.

 

That shallowness destroys us; early is our demise

Which comes in a failure to participate in the real mystique and flowing of life;

The untapped and unbounded majesty which connects one to each bird and stone.

Yet, caged within, the prisoner subsists on the meagre stale portions of bread

Which are the day’s surfeit gratifications.

 

But clothing that one wears, but adornments that are praised,

But trinkets that are buried in an unmarked grave,

As the soul remains hid, as in gold within a stone,

Unfeeling, unfacing; yet shocked by muted pleasures

Which resonate briefly within the hollow cavern of the body.

 

This world, a market of bodies, priced for meaningless gratuity, til which the body is hollowed out of blood; sucked of nutrients, for more survival

Disguised as pleasure

Subsistence hidden from the gorge of the mountains and the trees,

Where the sun passes like a dial of shadows across the sky,

Awaiting for finality

 

In purgatory, the meagre subsistence is treated like gold,

But for fools, to prance and gallivant about the stables of humanity

Caked in shit and sallow, consumptive.

The vacuous sickness, for possession of desire, for minimal self,

For caged body, until the chains are forcibly broken, by eternal thunder.

Awaken the body from the casket of today, into the presence of being;

Shatter it with energy.

 

For Time is a siphon, and it will take all that it can, to ground the human life down to ash;

They are both casualties and devotees to pure becoming, without the stillness of being; the truth of consciousness as their guide,

They go and perish in fields long since razed by their own habit.

They go and mute and dull the senses in the lashings

Given by extremities.

 

Man is wild; alone in fear, lashing against shadows

In a dark room, in a cave of the mind, at once impossibly small, and populated in the dark stillness

By an endless wall of stars. His possibility descends, like an angel

From the plenum of the divine mind, once invoked; worldly life relinquished.

This limited language, spoken for all of life by the animal in fear,

Given to the questing pursuit of the consciousness of his very being.

 

That which is channeled from within; observes the meagre sustenance of survival,

Recognize what is beyond birth and death; the immortal and eternal aspect of the soul,

Consciousness, channeled through flesh; mind, channeled through brain, imagination, and vision

Which populates even the razed field of today, a market sacked by madness;

Beggars with delusion of worldly kings.

Atop their pits of wealth, they stand not upon gold, but skulls and the daemonic emptiness of worldly hunger

Which holds no wall behind its gate.

Those who pass through are dead, as empty as the cylinder which possesses them, not that which they possess,

The instrument by which they are played; one with Nature’s mute and blindness

Like a symphony directed by the shadow’s unconsciousness.

 

The whole world is a blind hole, played by the blind to the blind

Without mirror, without reflection, without ascension.

It is through the fiery pit that prophets rise; reflect upon the vacuous gaze of the carnivorous belching blackness,

Which stirs and stirs in desire, itching, shaking like a snake

For hunger and hunger alone.

For blood and bodies, it splays itself among the stars, like a deep channel beneath the earth,

For bodies it claims and clamours,

For bodies it must never be whole, but always thirsting.

 

To sate the soul is difference, whose music is aethereal, whose music is traceless, lighter than light, without burden nor density;

Yet is played through the site of the hollow like a priest of lightning

Upon a burial ground; amidst storms of death receives the vision of the divine;

The name of the lightning and thunder, which cracks; not even a sigil emerges, nor face,

Yet spins of light to pure whiteness, yet spins of essential creation;

Throws colours like blood and blue dawns about the furrowing brow of creation,

Yet calls emanation, tore asunder spirit and rendered difference,

From god, hand, from aetheric timelessness, the river of Time,

From nonbeing, contradiction; from being, Light,

From quicksilver, Apollo’s shifting hand,

From the black snake’s lips, the shaman’s eye

Which sees across planes of light and destinies, which sees the emergence of the first crater of fire;

The flinging of a stone, like David’s slingshot,

The flinging of a word, across the abyss of creation

Upon which moss and fungi grew, upon which new words were named, in a lightning language beneath the earth;

Deep in the hidden gulching recesses of the sea;

Steaming within the molecular epiphany.

 

From throat of stars, is dawn of man, with eyes both white and black, gazed and gauzed beneath creation’s fold, unpiercing, mute, beneath the mind which has not sprung,

For the soil of awakening to quake in its gravity,

To emerge, almost contradictory, upward into spirit,

Like a shoot wavering in the breeze,

For mind, once fallow, pierced by cosmic light, that selfsame light which illuminates each star;

Crackles in each nerve’s burrow; dorms and sleeps in each tenting leaf;

Each wavering chasm of air, shoots heat and cold; batters against fronts of its very own being;

Unseen, as Dionysus beating against the tomb of the psyche, even as the day is like a doorway to eternity,

Even as the day is like a normalcy, a spring onion, a roiling pot,

A hidden inner gravity, which bakes and boils and stews

And must emerge, like volcanic fount,

Upon life in a new face.

 

Belching pit, so close to madness, the human life hinges,

Between the logic of a crocodile, and the light body’s return,

Gentle and angelic, like cousin to the nebulae, and yet different

In that it has sprung and encircled the world of blackness; enchanted the snake,

Which rose from beneath the black gates of the sewer mausoleums and pierced the mind’s plenum, just as it descended from the chorded stair of infinity,

Through the planetary gates which circle like witnesses and masters,

Which enchanted mater from beneath her feet and above her brow,

Which cross’d across the axis of her spirit’s heart,

Which beats like a great hammer against the tomb

To awaken from dreams of craft, whose fire was a shadow upon the walls of creation;

Whose fire was like an enchantment, whose eyes and ears and lips interpreted

The flaming letter, like a bush, like a carving,

Whose spirit danced in heated hues.

Essence embalmed, entombed; now immolating

In black rhythms, to whitened purgation

In the violent dance of shaking inner tombs to arise the antient dead

Whose souls were entranced by illusions which terrified slaughter;

Aroused conception

Whose souls were paraded like demons about the cities;

Fleshly beheaded and dragged behind the cart of Time’s progression

Whose drumbeat rhythm was like a lyre of ominous disharmony,

Out of joint; severed, across the world was thigh in mountain; breast in cave,

A disembodied, unholy world, whose sites must be reclaimed.

 

Their torture, like being roused from a great and beautiful sleep,

Holy sleep, where unity was primordial and deep, like the rocking of the waves,

Or the ensconcement of fish within their native waters, temperate and homely,

Entirely unified;

The awakening to the arousal of the mind which spoke like gods and crackled like thunder,

Terrified and conflicted, against the many voices which rattled contradictory and ununified,

As if from many sides of the brain, from many catalysts and interrogators,

Convicted of the call back to darkness primordial, and toward the light, uncertain and inflammatory,

Which would burn away all that was naught;

Their inner war was the war that burned peaceful continuity; created separation, solitude, isolation;

Sowed seeds of distrust, ill intent, meagre individual service,

Under the illusion of their breaking with the great gods

Who now commanded them from beneath the lid of their limited sight

As agents of the submerged psyche.

 

To turn light upon the darkness, and the crust of earth

Which barely hides great past, paved beneath streets of old, the monoliths

Which became dictatorial; the words which became law,

The ideas which became prisons; this world which is now struck low; without life,

But the land of the dead that surrounds, littered with unbroken spells of the fearing

Who in ages past protected their prisons from behind their very bars,

And were like both prisoners and wardens

In their fastidious denial of freedom, potentiated in the poets’ songs and the astronomer’s eye,

The breaking into great space, where the blackness is the key to life;

Where the breath and stillness is the ever renewed fount of wisdom;

Where it is like the Mnemosyne, the fountain of ever renewed memory

Of the still of creation, black and limitless, upon which the artist draws,

Without previous chord, fading as if music into the light

Forever golden; forever untouched; forever perfection.

It is this divine which is sung

Through each breast, beast, and being,

The immortal chord through which they are ever renewed

In their triumphant, dignified, wholly infinity.

 

This chord, which in truth has no sound; is silence and stillness

And yet encompasses the infinite worlds over of what appears to be busy movement

And the tumbling of light;

From this stillness of being, all is projected

As a play of the eye; a winking theatre of the spirit,

Through which the art of life is transmogrified, purified, dances, and renews,

Reaches and lilts in the immortal paradise and becomes a light to those who are seeking

That very selfsame light within.

V.

 

Up from the depths, life is resurrected by the light,

Up from the depths, and the blackest pit of hunger and despair,

Where the light is twisted into bare and murky forms;

Only the blood shines, with faint hues, in the black-blue pits of the oceans;

Submerged, deep in the crust of planetary bodies.

 

So life is seeded; heart beats, aided by the palm of the stars,

Which flash and shine with brilliancy;

Magnetism of mind; constancy of electric rhythm, which pulses the body;

Raises the body from the narrow grave.

 

From light, thought shines, emanates, and sparkles,

Like a crystal, or many sided die, so mind proceeds to tumble, reflect and refract

Endless destinies.

For many pathways stem from the ocean of consciousness, like tributaries, they stream

Like rays of divinity;

Their many hues bold and close to whiteness, close, the throbbing red blood, the pulse which escalates

The beating of the heart; the charging of the blood, the roaring of the flesh

Which is the dawn of animalia, the fresh peach, the dripping greenery

Of wild earthdom; verily their life spills from the chalice of the suns

Which burn from within and illuminate their children,

 

That this blood beats is nativity; drawn directly from the cosmic ray,

Of heated suns, this life is novel and immediacy,

The light which illuminates the mind.

Such that thoughts tumble, is that they are gems, to be polished by the harnessing of life,

Gems of creation carved upon the physical plane; moulding of the human form

Which is the refinery of life.

 

That life is the first angel, which charges down in emanations, gladly, the wisdom passes through the beaker of vision and time

To be made mater, to be made creative mould and clay; to be shaped by the organized vital powers of the mind,

About hands and feet, about nerve endings and about brain.

That this charge is the charge of life, to see and see again, through eyes that are renewed;

Through itself, witnessing, and at last the name, Consciousness,

That which it is, a reclaimed eternity, image held in mind,

Of that which divined all that was born and passed away, in a spiraling symphony,

Of endless time, and in that endlessness, Infinity,

The works of art produced by the electric hand that reaches, like a charge through all things

In their magnetism and polarities.

 

Whose hands are charged with lightning; mind with recognition

Of the artist beneath the play of signs; the language which forms the whole of the plenum

From saplings to starlit guides; their thoroughfare, their passage,

That which is endless epiphanies,

Which pours from the chalice of its very own being,

To alight even the darkest caverns of its bodies, Descent

Into the fold of the antient, through which murky waters rises

The primordial hell, the unconscious demon,

Which lurks and lingers for fleshly means;

To rip and tear and consume.

 

This daimon, to meet Apollo, the charging light, Starbourne,

From beneath this fleshly carriage, uplight and uplifted

Through the nail of the stars, through which this cross of the earth is driven;

Illuminated the body of blackness, where scarcely desire was hid

With clawing nails and forked tongue, with eyes like prowling slits,

With mouth like fleshly emergence.

All born into this world like dragons in dense, carried pitted tooth

And with excited, blackened hunger

To feast upon the piles of the burning souls in cycles of mutilations,

This world of the cross,

About which there is a circle of fire

And like legions march, even this forgetting is a vehicle for enlightenment,

Even this possessed band:

 

Who are redeemed in the surging light of Apollo,

From light who sits in perfect meditation, as whole galaxies are born and perish,

As whole fires alight and smoulder amongst the black gape of the realm of the stars

Which stretch like pupils beneath the mask of the eyes,

An infinity of desire quenched with knowing the true nature, Consciousness,

That to which the flowers reach, that to which the winds stir the branches of the trees,

That to which whole solar systems hurl, in consterning gloom,

That whole feelings of sublimity are alight

With wild ecstasy,

And at last, plenum of white light, which burns beneath the solar terrarium

Gasped and flown through the blooded hands

Which build atop the mount enlightened feeling

In angelic marble the heart of man,

 

Enlightened, this, the cast from which wild forms were tugged and pulled,

Brandished and boiled, purgated and coiled,

Like a snake beneath the fold of the breast;

Like mater’s recipe, a hand of love’s sculpture, formed beneath a moon which bent

Like a marionette of forever, a microcosm’s infinity, flower’s design like a pentagram and a trinity,

This perfect divine geometry into form and figure’s revelry.

That danced atop the hills of the earthen belly,

That danced in her blooded vein; atop her volcanic balcony,

Beneath her gyrating hip, alas, soldier of light,

Which fights no wars but ceaselessly burrows into the black of being,

What destiny hid, beneath the destitution,

What beast behind the black mask, licking lips of blood,

Perched like a daemonic skeleton upon the battlefields of love,

Whose desire was buried in sinew, bones, tissue,

And at last was like a fire burning in the brain, a stirring in the senses;

Leapt from sea to land, from star to star, from perch to perch,

From carbon to lips,

And spun and spewed this earth from its fleshy tongue?

 

Desire, which birthed this land

And sprung the grassy call, the divine calf, the wild story

Which led to countless wars, whose knife was pulled in the village of mud clay brick

Built on high, in a hashish night, to kill a priestess or a poet,

Whose queen’s loss was a siege,

Whose carol was a war drum,

Whose forked tongue was covered in blood

Beneath each fiery grasping

 

Desire, which split the planets, and whose charge propelled the atom,

Whose love burst like a rifle, or an atom bomb,

Whose thrust tore asunder and yet made anew,

Verily, Creation and Destruction alike,

That energy that wrestled within, a black snake of Chaos

And a white snake of Order, entwined and shot upward,

In a ceaseless shaking dance

To pierce the plenum of the mind and move the body

Across the staircase of the divine,

Even as the earth chases a black star,

So does a black sun burn within,

Illuminated with a radiant darkness,

Whose black goddess, resting on the dais, overlooking the fields of the slain,

Does rejoice in the burning bodies,

And so, with fate, all men are tempted to join her,

And to thresh like violent sharks

Among the meat and bones

 

So through desire, rises the force of life, through each cyclical days and nights,

Is met again and yet again with the blazing force of energy

Which is the radiation of suns; the pure force which births solariums;

The meagre cage which contains them, like panthers born from lightning,

Shaking and gyrating with primordial energy,

Bursting from their fleshly containers; their destiny is immortality,

A revealing from the concealing, a formlessness from the form,

As the light divine is gestured from the womb of the flesh and body,

As the art is charged conscious immediacy’s

Embodied Focused ecstasy

 

Like a point or a node, the body is a star which consciousness rides to eternal reunity

Burning bright from within, innumerably hot and dense fires,

Through which the spirit and soul rises; sweats, smoulders, smokes,

And purgates the flame of the psyche,

From purple to red to green, from yellow to white to red,

Sweating gems of higher constancy and concentration, distilling emotive forms;

Charged, the flesh like a dragon or a diamond ride,

Like a great horse, panther, cheetah,

To which consciousness rides; ascends, like Pegasus to Hercules,

To a starry white infinity;

To the heights of conscious artistry

And burns, in the great momentous present ecstasy

To the heights

Burns Wondrous Present Eternity

Spiritus Revelation

 

VI.

 

In the light, Knowledge;

In the light, the sword which pierces the stone, illuminating the cave of the flesh of darkness;

The gems which sparkle within,

In the light of Consciousness, all that which was broken in the prism of separation imagined,

Renewed in the reunion of the mind Divine.

 

Orpheus, the music that alights Consciousness,

Of animal, plant, of sea, wind and stone

Divine wisdom of the stars,

To the swirling awakening of infinity,

To the meditating, still point, of the eye’s eternity,

The world is your lilting poetry;

The etching, skying work is your alight delight.

 

 

VII.

 

Energy field of the flesh, charged with the cosmic lightning

Of pregnancy, fertility of breath, aetheric, beaming with golden cosmic ray

Of plum and seed, verility of water in the berry;

Dense blooded meat of the sacred cow, whose life is filled

With field, flower, and fomentation

In the beakers of space and time, which shake and digest, add sinew

Atop layers of the vibrating song, whose density is ground in metals

Whose song is their vibrant connection, attraction, and repulsion

 

Push and pull of life, whose magnetism is transmuted, like a ladder of awakening,

Psyche, dream’s suggestion, emerged from mudded images;

Clarity, beneath the poem’s song, to sing awakening from sleeping,

To illuminate the dark corners of the plenum’s body,

To raise from depths of ocean and crusts of earth

Fiery eyes of god,

Reflections upon their spinning wheel of fire,

Consumption,

 

That which eats upon itself to awaken,

Snake writhing and biting upon its own tail;

Rope with which for the stars to burn, doused in the shiny film of gasoline imagery

To catch fire and burn the plenum of the stars,

The waiting midnight of the fertile dark ground, the soul from which to spring

From the coil of the mouth of the snake, crouched,

With slitted eyes, from which novel and mute blackness emerges,

With jungle eyes, with jungle flesh, with body of darkness,

Maneuvering among terrors, for fear of life’s perishing,

Like a wavering candle,

Lit from genitalia, might to not have set the hands and arms ablaze,

Their veins alight, like roots of trees, reverberating with the energy of nervous blood,

Weaving cosmic realities:

 

And for creation, thumps the heart and enfleshed brain, to remember with golden rays,

The river through which they run, from crown to toe,

From steeped earth’s forgot black, to pure white beacon of fragrancy,

From which both sewer and spirit’s casting angels are renewed,

From frequency of gold, bronze, copper, polished and shine,

The white flame which endlessly renews the divine

In all things, their recognition, with inner eyes

To primal flames in the midst of their contortionist awakenings,

Writhing like colourful snakes amidst the canvas of space and time,

Their massive dance of inner purgations, their hauntings from the depths,

Depths of time like dreams, like soil, like a blackness which extends

For millennia, back to pure hunger without mind of name,

To pure hunger without conception of density,

Fit to small box with small lid, fit with mouths to feed,

For energetic fermentation,

For limb to be split, cast, and renewed,

For brain to be soaked in the vat of nutriment’s juice,

Like womb to consciousness,

Like form to channel the formless electricity,

Like eels in the night of time,

Whose lightning was drawing near

 

To strike and be stricken, like prey ascending the ladders of meats and juices,

Like information being passed to feed the fatty gray mass, which is among the stars like an evolutionary quaking,

About the body, this vessel for alchemy, this alembic for channeling energy; mind and psyche first, like leash to dog,

Cut free to wander, like smoke from candle, the sun which struck down and illuminated the fertile fields

Through which flesh was harvested cyclically, green blood from the flowers of the sun,

Red blood from the sacrifices which fed the ground, as it shuddered, concave and convex;

Breathed the breath which fed the body

Fermented and excreted the juices, sediments and wastes, like starved ash,

It was purgated and expelled and fed back to the ground, like semen to the rivers of time,

The ovum of the earth, and was cast and cast again by the blacksmith’s hand of the universe,

Who sculpted and moulded for aeons

This mind and neurology, which like a sea of perfect infinity, saw the chaos dawning within it and met the black face,

With blooded lips of red, and spoke the white light through the red flesh; thus the red flesh glowed pure and full,

Emboldened by the passage of light, the life which was like a massacre, a genocide, an awakening through killing, murder, and flesh,

There, all horrible truths of ascendancy,

To which, like a pillar, stood the purified light of white, glowing with red harnessing,

Charged energy at last art of the body, in the journey of enlightenment, through each rung and hoop was tread

Like a circus or a carnival, lion and lion tamer, hoops of fire and rings of blood

And threat of perishment and return, blackness and renewal,

Amongst the cyclical alembic, this energetic casting and wavering, clamouring and seeking light,

And the consciousness stricken down in war, to be fed through the juices of worms and beetles,

To be fed through the juices of earthen synapses, decomposed to speech of mushroom and mossy terrarium,

This energy which seeks and climbs and spindles in sexual unity, which requires recombinatory measures

Like good to evil, man to woman, light to darkness,

To weave in time as the bodies fall like leaves in the seasonal shedding of winter’s death,

Like cloaks, like raiments, they are grown and shed, marked and cleaved;

Threshed in the ascendancy of light

 

And that which is consciousness is wholly all

All that which comes and comes to pass; all that which will spring, like a novel poem, like a surprising metaphor,

Upon the raising of the light from the dark passage of the bestial; down into the immortal cave where the first mother feasts upon the blood of all time;

Her threshed fetal wound, her menstruation’s blooded attempt,

From which all ascendancy emerges and strives, from blackened domain, likened soil to stars,

Imagination’s surprise, upon intake of the life altering substance, awakening the engine to itself,

Which burns and sees, like a lamp in eternal night

And illuminates the seeming paradox of epiphanies, white within the red,

Immortality within the fleshly beacon, the eternal snake within the dying, endlessly shedded skin,

Which peels away layers of mind consumed feasting and beholds the perfected jewel

Amidst the blood which tells the eternal story of life’s reasons;

Beyond reasoning, the essence, which casts fertile imagination and creates all

From her breast, first before all materiality, first before all snaking transmission of life to brain and heart, to complexity,

The shining even within blackened ash, the wavering light even within black space;

The warbling reverberation of first word, even in the darkest din, cold black space without even bestial head to signify evils

 

In the silence of death, the hum which is the crackling, lightning’s possibility, which birthed even from stricken blackness,

Spirit which strikes, even now like black snake or lion’s bloody mouth,

Like the song of wisdom, the unity of light, tumbling and feeding

To the realization of absolute reality

 

 

VIII.

 

Life ascends genetically, through the material of genetic memory; upon desire’s smoking vision,

Projectory

The form which allows the seeding of consciousness

Transmission of generations;

The accumulation of methods and systems

Of the seating of the light of the divine

In the wild paradise of the flesh

Which roams like an animal

About the terrarium

Upon which like shines Infinity,

Becoming present to it, face and eyes

Is the encounter of the self

Within the foliage of memory,

The recollection of the leaves, calves, thorns,

And the brooks which wind and speak,

Their watery mouths

Entwined with mine

Nourishing the carriage of mind,

Brain and body,

Plenum in the fluid delicately held,

Sparkling electric,

Receiving information; feeding

Parcels of light

Growing eyes; the synapses of reflection

A mirror of god

And that which sees is consciousness

And that which it sees is consciousness;

This enlightening vision

The spirit’s passage, through space and time

In package of vibrating song,

Changed in the beaker’s reflectory and refractory experience,

Recombinatory unions, the child of children of the light,

Whose plenum mind reaches back up to the first white dawn

In each purifying gaze

Within the depths of memory

Bright with shadows, replete with history

Fertile with soil, dirt, and sedimentary Nature

Awaiting paradisiacal illumination,

Awaiting center’s heart’s sun’s

Piercing beacon,

Soothed by warm love

Harmony’s song, danced with dark chords

And resolved them, disharmony allowed and revealed

In symphony’s revelation, Golden song

At last and in all points, everywhere

Present upon a pin, a vortex, a node, a point

At which all worlds are made and emanate

In a many sided die,

Outwardly from Creation;

Verily, are Creation themselves

Dancing about the fire of their own Being,

Observing their reflection in others,

Fire within fire’s recognition

Like molecules heat and cold and form bonds

And roam free in fire, finding like in like’s magnetism;

Passing information, like a beaker, a chalice of light

In composition’s ecstasy

Will

A vase for karma, like a spool’s thread unwinding

Til the ends of revelation

Alighting the golden chord whole

With knowledge’s singing frequency

Whose song stays in each dance

Like an eternal companion of wisdom

Within each budding awakening, cracking of the soil, roses and tulips,

And their soothing aid,

Balmsong

SECOND MOVEMENT

I.

Hype artist of death, concurrent wiseman of black hole magnetism,

Universe who strides forth, bold conqueror, leopard in rags of gold,

Whose beaker is bubbling with great roots of ancient trees, fossils, tire tread of dying stars,

Whose charnel house is a junkyard filled with glass shards, immortal reflections, sirens of wind and clouds,

Beckonings to the scrying glass, whose eye has seen the dreams of man, his fury, his clenched fist, his desire,

Universe, who screams and thunderclaps and cries primordial, like a lost dog, a steam engine,

Itself with claws and talons -

Your antique, renewed in the laval vat, fore ears and eyes to spring out of forgetting,

Like a seed of consciousness, vein renewed of flowing blood

To empty yourself and be filled with what is beyond death, fear of madness,

Then eternal emptiness, then eternal wholeness -

Purgation is your quest,

Fire is your path to tread

With a witness of a thousand eyes upon a string, whose head is a lap of skulls,

Whose threads are pulled assembly to the music of all creation;

Whose winding threads are mind and yours, whose make them gold

Is the claim of the daemon, whose caven, quiet darkness knows hints of the vibrating black

Bursting creation, and like stars and gas, painters were set among the nebulae,

Genius is in each ray, each pathway, which finds its way to the ground of the mind, like a beacon,

Rich black soil, through which its tenders crawl, nightwatchmen of decomposition,

Whose return and admixture has churned earth and stars, night and sun; moon and water

Whose body is the tides; whose mind is the wind,

Listening,

To the weaving of the golden thread amongst the chirping of the crickets,

Whose music will awaken the unconscious murder,

Shadow realm, who walks of love and dreams of blood,

Remember me

Your witness, whose touch of the hand is your curative, ye who wanders in desperate fear,

Who touches nights like the marrow of bone;

Who is reminded of your own, veil of fatal immortality

You, joking, veil of death,

Burst and blast forth the cosmic energy, which alights the spine, body, and mind,

Who has crawled and climbed upright; looked upon the vast plenum with eyes like telescopes,

Mind like an inquisitor, whose veins themselves and whose synaptic brain, passed electric on like stars,

The thoughts and eyes of ideas and mind which shot through the night

And alight, pierced the veil of death and produced the immortal vision,

Ay, Truth

Availed to those empty but of the light, all such memory of the private art burned away;

Filled with the cosmic sun of immortality, such pure energy, stews and boils,

Burns away impurities of thought and fills the beaker with vast historical memory,

The truth, which climbed from vast bacterium, to fish who chanced, up a great chain,

A dance which at each moment passed genetic information, gave and gave til the mind which sparked,

Was an opportunity amidst the throwing die of life and death;

Amidst the inner swirling of the cosmos and stars,

Who mixed and mixed again, the fury, the bones, the soil, the stones

In recompository artistry

Universe, how your fate and draws, how your magnetic current’s electricity, flows through me and calls,

Like greatness, like the yawning of a lion, like the fierce force of wisdom that I am

That I embody, flows through me and charges all life, ye who has become conscious

Of that which thou art, this great fury of electricity, the energy which composes the deeps of suns;

Thy very charge, emboldened, the channel that I and thou art;

Until, at last, I and thou are fused; art one eternally.

To fly into the gape and make whole,

To solder the black elements into an art with the golden string;

Thy lyre is Orpheus, Perseus, thy lyre is descent and rising;

Thy lyre is the spark amidst the darkest din of the deep;

Thy lyre is the one that makes the black snake conscious and whole,

Thy lyre is the one that imminently makes conscious and whole

Lightning eye unity

Of sight

II.

Once blind, like from worms,

Or the lashings of the dark, tempestuous sea,

Men stand between here and god

Like the earth and her soil’s riches

Reaching toward the great pillars of light, that reside, gaseous,

Like memories of explosions,

Hidden deep in the fist and veins of the cosmos.

Like from worms they rose, with veins like tendrils and tendons,

Bone and marrow, face and eyes, ears and tooth,

To commune with leaves, branches, and the split open flesh of beasts,

With aged blood, they spun their time, over passing moons and eclipses,

Occulted suns and the chaos of the memory of darkness,

Which threw them back into ancient jungles;

In which human blood spilled upon the stone.

The patterns in nature, like the planets spun,

Weaved into the flower’s petalling, 

Weaved into the mind’s eye, and the synapses flowing,

Like lights of dawn from foreign stars

Passed through the long nights to the eyes of men

Whose house was one among the holy infinity,

Whose house was but a cell and a whole;

The ocean from which they sprang.

What was once a serpent, which coiled them in the jaws of death,

Their minds like cages, unknown was their composite body,

But a black storm, an opacity - 

Now came the sense of the blood’s rhythm; the pulse in the stems of lilies

And dragonfly’s flowering,

Now came the buzzing to the ears and the snake

That was writhing within them became the jaws and the temple floors -

Awakening to the cosmic energy, once dormancy

Piercing the mind;

Illuminating the valley of the stars.

In the regularity of the days and nights,

Sameness, shifting, recombining, baking and moving

In the furrowed brow of the plenum, consterning,

Gazing out upon the rungs of the chaos ladder, from which life was climbing

Eyes were forming; mind was recognizing

To solder the wound of infinity back together;

To recognize that, from whence they came,

Evil was a falling into the crust of the earth

That enabled the rising, the fury from the clay,

The expression of consciousness -

And her structure rose and fell, like sands, the very waves and molecules

Grew wisened in the vine and still of the passage of time,

Like wine, it grew a taste like mouths

With which to sample its own sensation,

Within the beaker, fermenting, and acquiring strange faculties,

With which to access the whole of creation;

To participate in the dance and song of infinity

With the instrument of the flesh and body;

To sing song at once alight from within

And ancient and old,

A song from before the very birth of time

And for the first time,

Conscious and present to its eternal ancestry.

III.

I have walked among the graves

Waving my path through the day without a map

To the catacombs

And the walls of skulls among the ruins

Have provided shade from the sun.

The blood from the rites in the Valley of Mexico and the Elgabalium

Has flowed in the underground tunnels

Through mountains and through oceans

To reunite with the energetic man.

 

I have burned up one hundred thousand human lives already

From the strength of this pain.

I have dug my hands in the soil at Templo Mayor

And I have felt the river of the sky beneath it

Beneath the soil and beneath the rock of the world.

 

Artaud, the hanged man, came back from Ireland

Holding runes in his mouth

Runes which he discharged on the unsuspecting public in Paris

And attempted to broadcast on the radio.

His body riddled with symbols which dug deep beneath the flesh

Into the pit of the primordial fluid

Which he conducted

Like a furious symphony.

 

They put Adam on the Catherine Wheel

In another time and he has not stopped spinning there

Faster and faster in deranged time.

The computing technology and the atom bomb have enhanced the pace at which he spins

The centrifugal force ripping his limbs from the central element of his flesh.

He has been there so long, he has fallen in love

With it.

 

I have trudged through a plague town with my hand over my mouth

Dragging behind me what remained of my life

All of the towns being plague towns and all of my life being death

For ten years.

I played a dirty trick on death and I won

But he is coming for me

From behind the hills

Overlooking the sea.

 

I have been killed in the king’s garden as a peasant in love with the queen

And I was sneaking up to her window

And I have been killed as a knight in search of something sacred

Which lay hidden in my chest.

We did not know any better then;

I built churches

I was bearing children in the hot sun

I saw nothing of god

And I died alone.

 

I protested in an unheard voice

The wrongs of the Crusades

Outside of Jerusalem like a shepherd and I was unarmed and they killed me there

And buried me beneath a pile of stones.

They did not even mark my grave.

I sang love songs to god and was killed by a zealot

After I had sufficiently passed on my task to another,

One who wrote such beautiful poetry.

 

None of this matters now.

I have trudged through lives like walking through fire

Or a bed of nails.

I have raised arms against murderers, kings, conquistadors

And I have ran through history like I was being chased by magic

The paintings on the black wall and the witches feasting on the flesh of courtesans

Which are now all in my head and I cannot get them out

I cannot make them leave.

I have called on god to exorcise these forces

And everywhere I look it has become war; my body has collapsed

At once inward and outward for so long.

The faces of god meet in the sky in a blinding light

And the priests and monks have called it a prophetic vision

A vision of heaven and hell entangled on the flesh of man

Climbing up his breast and impregnating his mouth with language.

 

I took the Silk Road down to my lover’s house and kissed him on the mouth

I was dressed like a man and in my rags I saw a whole nation signed away

A whole nation of lovers and devotees

A whole land of god’s prayer reduced to the rubble of trade and submission

The light of the stars has gone and it is that they have not come back to that place.

Is this why we are now so deranged?

I died in a flood in the desert and I embodied contradictions.

The gods fought over me like a golden apple and they tore at my flesh to reveal my core.

I am painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

I painted myself on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel - even as I was being murdered.

They sung a hymnal at my grave in every language and I was blessed by a madman

Who loved opium and women alone.

He laid his poems at the foot of my grave and walked away

As I watched the rivers overflow.

The sun was shrouded

With rain.

 

I stood at the gates of Israel and Palestine

And watched the wolves of heaven come down and I felt the tear gas in my mouth

I loved the martyrs so deeply that my tears came down on the wound of history and acted as a salve.

I came to bless the martyrs like an emanation in the endless war;

I was there on the battlefield with Arjuna and I saw the chaos wrought by man

The fires were so big and bright that you could see the dying standing atop Time.

He has remembered me in flesh in his eternal judgement.

 

If you come to see me at Montmartre, where they bury the poets

I will tell you about the liars who burned my flesh

And I will tell you about the city of warriors who murdered children

And the oracles who were also madmen.

You will find Delphi in its own grave; the madmen are having their paintings now dissected and burned at Saint-Rémy and Rodez.

You will find that the madmen are having their bodies now dissected and burned at Saint-Rémy and Rodez.

Have I said enough to make this clear?

The poets have painted the cosmic body and the painters have written the cosmic body as it is crucified and laid into a meaningless casket in an unmarked grave.

I have pulled the skull from the grave today and heard the spirit of my father speak through it

A spirit that begged the purgation of the world

A world that is now in the death throes of its own vision.

TWELVE POEMS

You cannot live in the world of the dead,

Just as you cannot die in the world of the living.

This is why we leave

But it is also

Why we return.

‘We have no reason to harbor any mistrust against our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our terrors; if it has abysses, these abysses belong to us; if there are dangers, we must try to love them. And if only we arrange our life in accordance with the principle which tells us that we must always trust in the difficult, then what now appears to us as the most alien will become our most intimate and trusted experience. How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races, the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.’

Rainer Maria Rilke

‘Nature loves courage. You make the commitment and nature will respond to that commitment by removing impossible obstacles. Dream the impossible dream and the world will not grind you under, it will lift you up. This is the trick. This is what all these teachers and philosophers who really counted, who really touched the alchemical gold, this is what they understood. This is the shamanic dance in the waterfall. This is how magic is done. By hurling yourself into the abyss and discovering it's a feather bed.’

Terence McKenna

One

O psyche, you who had cradled me in the crevasse of the asteroid, like a watery birth

But also in the skin folds of my infancy.

Your bacteria did knowing work in my mouth, face, and armpits, and upon my skin.

Your ledger is in crepuscular dusks, unseen things,

And mountainous like cellular divides.

In the same way that you birthed the stars,

You birthed me - from the raw amniotic fluid of your plenum

Swaddled in plasma, which is my charge:

Womb within womb, cave within cave,

Take what you have made, and smear the immortal blood

In great streaks across the stars and the earth mound.

Take what you have made, and like a firecracker,

Reveal the great constellations light

Which the earth weighs like a question,

And slowly overturns and renews.

In the Pleiades, just the same as in the womb,

I jumped and sang like a dolphin

Amidst clear blue waters of light

And black storms alike.

I did not care, being in the midst of the revelries, nor do I care now.

I sing the scales, both high and low,

Of ecstasies both near and far.

If you put your ear to the ground of Mother Earth,

You can hear her sweating, working, stitching at the core;

Making and unmaking the great wool blanket which covers us at the foot of the stars,

When dying things gasp and find brief resting places of stone.

This whole world, like all other things, briefly finds death,

Like respite, or a graveyard train.

It sings a song of bright lightness,

And finds the far reaches of space,

Just as it finds the sacred core of the hearth.

Psyche, closer to the forge is where you are,

Goddess with the hammer, who playfully angers away;

Looks up from her work, and smiles.

You have smelted the trees, this look, too, upon my face; hidden destinies,

Like sculptures from the fiery lava that remembers, directly,

The immortals.

Our ancestry is exciting and loud; close to songs.

In the soil, I run my hands through the dead things, and the animals whose charge it is to overturn them; reveal the riches that have fled in the splitting,

Just like breath escapes into the cold air from the lungs at night.

All of the earth mingles with itself, it is never fallow.

Teeming with life in an immortal exchange, which emboldens the mountain lion, the bull; things that run red with passionate blood.

Take them out into the field and let them run;

Stampede in your glory, kicking up dirt;

Spreading the ancient seed.

For it is their rite to do so, same as it is for the flower’s bright bulbs to shine

In song with the sun.

Two

Creator within, who rhythms and slows and codes the flesh,

Whose language is form and body,

Heat and ray of light -

Whose coils reach into the deeps of space

And catch the sun like gems of dew,

Life radiates and warbles; yes, it is strange and miraculous

Almost impossibly alien and foreign;

What work of art surpasses, alone, the living supple breast

Of your making?

Milk that flows from life; honey, fruit and berry

And the work that strides within it, beside it, poesie from the human heart

Is captivated and participated in the eternal unfolding;

Trees who have lived close to the length and breadth of your life,

Whose roots have mingled with your perennial brush and mind.

Your change is slow, dyed and coloured in the rhythms of millennia

Change which twisted and shifted in the light like a dance of forms

Who rose from increasing complexity to contemplation -

Crack’t open, with the spiritual uncertainty,

Unknowing prayer; foregoing of knowing’s fixity.

For mind is not stone, it is in movement like water

Or evolutionary time.

To be one and among the swimming, the divining, combining,

And retreat to separate rooms, where one is partner

To the inner world of dreams and contemplations of nebulaic paintings.

Who and what else could exist in such solitary corners of the universe with such beauty

But a vital organ in a state of perfect meditation

The divine consciousness hears the open humming of the heart; its chanting

The levitating song of the bee, and the crackling, bustling

Of seeds within their timely urns, gesticulating,

Beckoning with the sun of springs.

O’ one’s eyes and ears to see, one’s mouth and tongue to speak;

To know what the crow says in the reach at the end of the world, at the end of time

By the cave which churns the butter of the inner cosmos

And peaks at the lilting of the light,

The chorus of all forms -

To be one and among, whose mind at best may read the language and code of the living

But whose heart thumps and threshes through the undergrowth of temporality

To sing the greater song of writing,

Undiscerning creator, you whose masterwork is as much a bush as a fire,

As much a living, addled voice as a mouse, a microscope,

The living hands and the space that filled them, gave them breath;

The stomach to feed and fire the kiln of life.

It requires, alas, the still of the heart; where all of life intercourses,

The hands and all of the fire returned to its pacing, quaking, rhythm

The heart at which all things are burned away and stilled in their loving, expressive energy.

All things lilt toward the divine, the loving.

That which ascends frees them like birds from unlocked cage;

That which ascends at last knows no death through them and their life, knowing their shared heart

Is a common rhythm; their struggle is a struggle for emergence,

The language of the heart which they seek to speak

In all tributaries of code standing for truth;

The proud dignity of life, which is not cut off nor blocked;

Runs with fervor through the birds at the break of day and the candle which feeds them,

The seed which nourishes them,

The clouds which hide them;

The body of life, which is their protectorate, through which their song emerges

In the great chant of being

O’ mind, who goes wild and howls

Trying to understand your inborn reason, your vast and diverse complexity -

Your art is maximal, breathtaking, spiraling and yet eternally different and same

In its diffusion and suffusion.

You flow through all things, marking them with strange majesties,

Like a crystal ceiling of stars within the quartz, with a catching, sparkling rhythm

Within the eel, who also I have ingested, and who has ingested me.

Each day forever alters your spool, winding and unwound within the ancient composition of these hands and feet and face;

Yet what am I?

I must be of this form and yet of darkness, confusion, control, chaos,

The struggle of winds which at each moment stray and sway fate in awkward directions;

Yet unballast by your cool infinite spring, your spiritude,

How it is your face and heart on all things, the art and arbitrary line between life and death;

How I feel your veins on my smooth stone, which I take upon my palm and toss and turn like a sleepless night,

Whose ocean is a valley and a gorge, in a black and blue darkness upon which my own mind is reflected,

Like a sea of glittering gems, illuminated especially in a sky made black by stilling of luminaries.

Light from within, your solace is something beyond eternity or catechism.

Your solace is something so wild and young it can only be captured in ecstastic feeling,

Plenum of a warm sun and friendship over the hills of a wedding, wandering, stumbling and drunk

Across aching fields of perfection - desire, desire, and at last, pure odes of feeling

Which pour tremulously from your breast - love, recognition, of soul within soul, self within self,

The feeling of being at one and the joy of an orange sun lingering among radiant clouds, deepened and burning and bursting of all hues,

That is your glory,

Even among animal compassion, so deeply desired, it is a joy beyond giving and taking

A presence and presencing.

Three

Directionless soul,

You are in a realm which no one understands

But the ancient ones.

Buffeted by Time’s winds, in a cask measured by the cloak which all things here must wear,

The sheathe by which to achieve Manifestation.

Soul, put to task, to till the fields, guards the walls, birth the babes,

In the endless overturning of nights and days

While the locks churn and turn within you in the skies above

Releasing secret fires.

Deserted hours, how your time is spent, mingled with fruit and dirt,

Til at last the nightshade is your final burden; released,

You are stripped naked; dance in the aetheric fields, your light song

Longs for each tree, oak, and earthen inhabitance.

Remember, the time before birth, where you were coursing through the stars;

An entirely different type of blood.

Here, you are a house, built like timber among the flames.

Only the inner eyes will truly see.

Your compass of stars is revealed each night, like you are blinded

And awakened to the cool, seething undergrowth; the cricket’s chirping rhythm;

The owl’s stern eye.

The beacon of their inner light is your own; it is tempered by the bark

Which itself is the sheath for the spiral of time; engrained in the marrow of bones,

Dirt, and flesh of the trees.

How long have you spun here, entranced, with the need to experience yourself,

With bodies that longed for the artistry of the light

To strike their hidden, sacral core.

How long have you wandered, like a vagabond in the night,

Carrying only your cloak, and this spool of water,

Your blood,

The trees of your mingled ancestry?

This stone was once yours, tossed from antient sea;

Tossed from the din in which you emerged, leering, lean and desperate,

Your light aglow in the fathomless darkness.

Sallow bones, with less than a turn about the sun

To alight the eye of the mind.

That which breaks the flesh is your own; the fields which you threshed is your own destiny,

You, keeper of impermanence, brief as the towers upon which you must paint your Great Art.

This fugue that escapes your lips

Is the fiery word of the body,

The runes which crafted this world,

Mangled from darkened root; ember’d fire.

Reach within yourself, into the piercing vacuum, the land in which flesh dies and there is no ground.

Remake yourself upon the turning wheel of the flesh; the cask of your dying bodies,

All of which remember you;

The yarn and fold of being.

Rewind the spool, which stretches like a thread of light, the picture film of your illuminated destiny:

How you died and were awoken

By the consterned crackling of thunder.

Upon this valley, where this sun and moon copulate,

You are vision, jointed;

From the flesh you are creating bodies of Great Light -

Illumine the plane of shadows.

Four

Dredger of the well of wounds,

To the resplendent, glittering hool of gems,

Guarded by dragon’s tooth -

To the heart of psyche, whose great fear: Obliteration

Stands as a battle shield before each fortress

Of separative being.

To lay down arms is to accept reunion, once more, with the Great Mother,

In the heart of love, peace, and understanding.

To look in the face of the laughing, cackling devil,

Whose face is dripping with his own blood

Amidst the cave of dreams.

This whole world is eating itself alive, like a great snake of energy,

Wound about the tomb of the universe,

An ancient theatre of remembrance, upon which the ancestors laid their sacrifice,

Pyre atop pyre, pyramid atop pyramid, in a journey to the stars,

And the heart’s core womb of the Earth.

See the wounds stripped, like layers of paper upon the Psyche’s

Mummified energy.

This day which stands upon stone, and the winding threads of yore,

The genes which made this time; built the hearth of mind

Toward which inner fires burn,

Yearning for loving recognition.

Who will go down into that well, and face the fear of death?

Where emotions sing like dragon’s breath,

And heal the wound of life, and charge the world with great immensities of energy.

Ensouled, this whole dimension,

This scarred land’s rememory, ashen, charred

Upon which the flesh of the earth was split open, let of blood,

And the gape was sealed,

To be history forgotten.

The ancient heart seeks to awaken.

In all spaces; in all times,

Like a reverberation in the undergrowth, a pulsating in the ground,

The ancient heart seeks to awaken.

Five

It’s not that everything is Cosmos, but rather that everything is Psyche; that if we reach deep enough, profoundly enough into the inner keep and inner dimension in which the primordial self is held, we begin to recognize that the entire universe, the whole of creation is a great cosmic body; an ensouled dimension of primally powerful, energetic life, teeming with excitation and purpose; ready to be met with loving consciousness.

Six

Ride the snake, as he takes you through the ancient prison prism,

The garden which the plan was laid,

The quivering vines, coursing with the world’s streaming energy

With the moon in the bowl of water as her guide.

Pilgrims screaming out for victory,

Tearing at their skin in the first blue dawn.

The far out lingering of Sirius;

The camp warden’s observation tower.

The screams of writhing pleasure, agony’s fire

The ashes beneath the ancient tree.

The hounds of death

Giving birth on the crystal beach.

O’ leery eye, taste the ecstatic pain

In sunshine and shadows of rain…

Will we ever meet again?

How your first breath haunted you; like drafts from your pen we swam

Unknown distances to mingle with your death machines;

Sleek, metallic,

Bred from the whip of intimidation -

Forge, in the valley of the creator - panthers, we all.

Panthers, in the sleek, dark night.

Ye, who composes from composite parts,

Like fossil’s crude oil.

Take from this blood and make an angry black power.

Drawn to fire; bellowing from the pits…

Ye, whose power lies in many deaths;

A steepening of the soul in the waters of the world

Who flow to ancient caverns and touch the stone.

Do you remember when they were tortured by you, O’ lost silent god

Who called out in the death of images, the subliminal days

Where all was crackling electricity; the sky swirled in utero

And birthed things desperate to survive?

They had no hands to hold, no mind between this earth, life and death.

It whipped the back of the earth, and it bled

Dissolute fire from the crush of dirt.

Did you see the serpent in their eyes

Upon the moonlit lake, where they stood between you

And broad, liquid mouthfuls, full of black death,

The blood of your maroon cities.

Did you see the serpent in their eyes; how they were quenched

By slitting the stomach of the calf of your world

And drank it like a sacrament of all things.

Your life of vultures, burns with the heat of hunger, hyenal

Howling laughter’s toothy grin.

That which kills for the truth of desire’s wild drum.

Circling, circling, about the ramparts of the deep and din,

Until the well has dried of blood.

What matter is this, the greatest truth, absence?

It is held in the hand like the lightest breeze.

The monks who died fasting in far isles, whose scrolls were heretical and forbidden,

Whose sun rose and set with a furious slowness,

Buried in the soil like potsherd.

Time, reveal what was once hid, like a sacrifice into the flesh of the earth;

She spat up, rejected the liquor puris, like an infant deathbed

The infinite rune

Like a symbol of the burning.

Seven

Was your existence so terrible - enslaved to my love like the chains of your own mind

Which dragged you through history’s mud like a penitent beggar?

You, eternal child, so slow to grow

Like a bamboo shoot in the slow wax of the sun?

I held you eternally, as you died, dived to the depths,

And your essence was reborn again,

Ground down into ashes and snuffed up by some morphine addict,

Whose body was a chipped bone -

You, whose mind was broken, and saw only through narrow shade,

What the rays of all of us had become,

Bunched together in violet hues,

Sunk into biological dirt;

There, like a stone, you did not rise -

Through the crusades, through your penitentiary Islam, through your black dress fashion

And the red pigment from ground up roots

Which you smeared like a boar upon the walls, I abandoned

Your mind, and fled to the west forever

Chasing the setting sun.

Bestial, ghastly - were your visions

Which stood so stark and crooked against the stars,

Private film voyeur, each night was a strip club of silence; each night was a lashing of feelings;

Your mind hard stone, calcified against the brute crashing of the waves of time;

Beaten into submission against the still of life.

Agony was the body; you submitted yourself to sex

For the resurrection of the mind;

The dice game of intelligence -

For you were thrown into chaos and copulation,

Smoothness of thighs, desperation of the hidden game - beneath it, only a vacuum of shuddering gazes; death laughter,

You, sacrifice to the great machine - for you did not make it to the remembrance of the great carnival,

Your whole life a rain check;

The dismal grays of stone, in which the angel remained obscure, hidden

And the terror of the greater mind,

Hiving, buzzing, swarm - which cowed you low

To work for meaningless pyramids;

To die a broken backed death by a sickly river, polluted and clogged by excess -

Ye who tries to reach there, reaches through time to the higher mind

And seeks to grasp the ungraspable

By way of the great ladder.

How many fell to their death, slaves and enslaved, cobblers who saw god,

Intermingled in the unforeseen chemical explosion

Who glimpsed oblivion by nature’s alchemy?

The way you emerged is anyone’s guess,

But really, by delicate procedure.

The knife of time cleaved and cleaved again, in recombinatory measure;

You were born again and again, upon the knife of genealogy,

Which stretches like the infinite sands; wasted grains, recycled into the alembic,

Freed to the orgiastic night of electricity,

The tangled limbs -

You, who make the whole game possible,

Chaste and desperate biology springs for nights and wanders to endless graves,

Marked tombstone bars, cafes, ancient cities, temples;

Knights of the grail, templars, panthers, pagans, ritual goddesses, sacrament

Mollusks, moss, and the dawn ivy which winds down the back of a panther’s ritual seduction,

Fish egg copulation, eclipse, the meeting of night and day; the intercourse of this horizon body with spiritus sun -

How this game is for everyone, with the seed of life within it,

Wound up and shot out into life like a jack in the box or a craps game.

This roulette - umbilical -

Whose foliage eyes peer and must escape

From the foggy musk of death,

Whose animal body lingers like a mountain lion upon a craggy cliff;

Whose animal body nears and encircles, like blood hungry wolves,

Whose fire is a dance unceasing; whose inferno rises and winds like ancient snakes,

Black and white

Through the dawn of history’s night; the breaking of day.

Such wildness cannot be tamed, but for the executioner, Love -

Unreason.

Seed to seed, in eyes which linger, in perpetual examination -

This rising and falling of the mind, with carulous finger touches the mouth and lips of god;

Caresses the very pillars of creation;

Tumbles once more back down to flowerbeds of dreaming respite -

This earth is your garden,

Nearest light, Gold

True Immortality

Eight

Open yourself to the whole of the powers:

Of change, of the crucifixion, of the transmutation,

Being bled of blood beneath the black sun;

To sing the dying star’s lament, among dying stars

Amidst a choral symphony.

Loosen your hold on the mortal powers,

Blind, let of ears and eyes; you of two, eight, and sixteen arms,

You who multiply, like cells in an abeying darkness.

You who call the sacred name,

And are summoned like a calf, a goat, to sacrifice and slaughter.

Loosen your hold on time, whose rhythm has spiraled rapidly out of reach,

Whose fingertips have gone blurry in the strumming,

Of this mad geni, of this piano which has wavered, and like the skin of the earth

Disappeared into a chanting, blinding light.

All of the underworld powers are summoned upon death,

Where all name is forgotten, and where the whole of the cosmos is an altar

For transmutation, a snake whose skin is shed, upon the righting of the time

Where death is a doorway, where the daemon strains against incarnal dimensions:

For all might of the soul is a ladder to the stars; bursting from the plenum

And all constraints, is the furious energy, immortal;

Seeking perpetual resurrection.

Might there be a greater cave, assembled from the ashes of stars,

From the meteoric light, from the rapture hid within even the most covetous stones,

That are laid and buried close, beneath the beating heart of the world -

Retrieve these materials, and build a body that could not even hide

The lion’s leaping eyes for the blood of whole galaxies;

It thirsts and subsumes titanic imagery; reshapes the jungle of hidden aetheric planes;

Calls their sacral energy forth unto him.

Whole of the powers, upon and within the hand like dice;

The universe is a fate machine, a card player, whose eyes are hid

Beneath the horizon of a thousand nights.

Time, like Death, is a bluff in the fire, a word smashed by titanic life;

The streaming through of immortal energy, which shatters all limits

And must find a fitting sinew

For lightning, which beholds the face of the first stars

Thirsty for eminence;

Emanation.

Nine

The slow organ rhythm, doesn’t it entrance and paralyze,

As the axe hangs over this lung’d planet, like the executioner to a boar,

Toward a shallow romance, a burning flame, a candle gone out of control,

A wicked marriage beneath the black sun;

A sacrifice amidst a night that is no night, for there is no dawning,

But a smooth, panting rhythm

Beneath the lake, from which the moon sprouts; the apparition of all things.

Time out of time, and behind the wheel steers the ever shifting brain,

The flickering of the insane, beneath that bright blue moon

Footsteps - tracing circles in the perspiring dirt,

Hand and hand, about the wheel, churning, turning,

About the wheel, they dance and copulate, in each season’s drying date,

Upon the vine, drips and falls, the fallow fruit

Ensnared in the black dirt of tomorrow’s maw.

Greedily it awaits.

The howling daemon, whose bright body decays

Upon the evening of the lake -

Whose turn is it to call the sacred sign,

Upon the dial, and enter womb from womb, upon the coil of the eternal umbilical cord.

Whose dying dream shall spring, from the aethers of life, to be granted this barbaric heat,

To perish in the desert, to take in an ancient play, the blood-spilling sun and moon,

Their chasing, snaking tirade, like a wolf upon the heels of the fleeing sheep -

They have all perished away, yonder ‘neath the willow in the east;

They have curled up

And returned to the smirking core

Which issues forth, and cracks the face of day,

For what hours were regular, thrown into the muscular arms of chaos;

The night he brings; the shade of unspeakable things.

Now, all of my people have died; become the raw earth’s hide,

Slash and bellow, to rift her flesh and reveal the sacred seed and root.

They war with words profane, turned to the dark eye; its incantations,

Singing delirium upon the gravestones, like black arrows

Seeking the folds of night’s engorged wound

Amidst the brush and burrows.

Upon the spindle’s tip, as it dips into stars of darkness,

Mute constellations: channels for the song’s static and the bright slip

Eclipsing stone, moon upon moon, idolators build mass graves

And have ecstatic sex upon the cliffs of stone, outside, the sea bashes upon the shore;

The hollows yearn and moan for the bright ashes and their blessing,

Upon the head issues the fires of all days, like a proclamation or an anointment.

To have bottled the words of the eternal night, and the flashing, lashing thunder

Like a whip it issues down, upon the lips of the soul;

Like a mouth it drinks in the body’s harbor,

Beating against the docks of the bones.

Dread to sink, there, amidst the storm,

The ocean’s eyes are piercing and mute, like the light which cleaves its way through the trees of the infant’s mind,

Brushing aside cheeks and whisps of peach mallow.

Blooming with ferocity, amidst the storm

The tulip grasps a secret destiny; without words, bellows loudly

Like orgasm nebulae.

How it draws the sacred rite upon my chest, the riddle of black space,

Pack’t into intestine, lung, tissue, navel.

Stare into the ancient mirror, black and cold as stone

As it reflects the womb from which you’ve sprung;

All the world’s hatred there,

Like blackened seed inside blackened tongue.

Her eyes both white and red, of fury both ancient and rare,

To prepare you for the eternal rite -

Upon seats of stone, you are the witness,

To the ancient sacrifice, as it was performed, today on all days, as it was in all times.

And thus, today is the most immortal of days,

The day of death; the beheading of the sun.

Sneer, ensnared in the trap, like a pit, wounded animal, as the executioner glares,

From far and distant galaxies.

For today you will be prepared and reborn, like the meat inside the flesh is baked, sweating,

Turning upon the spit of fear.

For today, you will be remade in fire’s immediacy.

Ten

O glorious farce,

You who loves everything and nothing at once,

How your desire thickens and spits

Like semen in our watershed

Your genetic material flies everywhere

Like lovers in a bathroom stall

Like an animal’s burden,

Like flesh to be shed and threshed

Among the bright angles of the moon and stars,

You basilisk,

Who quietly waits for the dawn of night’s devouring

You, cave of bloodlust,

Who sheds bodies like cloaks, burial mound of nature’s primordial and first genocide,

Your eyes, to whom all is causality and casualty,

Your eyes, to whom all beckon like fires

In your raging, writhing snake’s dance

You, whose fury is both sexual and murder,

Both death and consummation,

You who have burrowed within the soul and hung suspended, electric,

Your wires in the flesh of meat, eels,

The dungeon comb of mollusks and mosses,

You, whose whole world is a mere shell for your power,

You, whose thrust of centuries is an eternal now of fury, whose world steams and boils of hell,

Whose dream is a carriage for your awakening,

Like fox or snake, leopard or lizard, lion or wolf’s spider

Who waits for night to shed, whose black temple is lycanthropic,

Whose bloodlust is epic and eternal,

This whole world is your casket and immortal,

The one who leaves you is already dead and lost to time.

Do not go to stone, do not wander and sway,

Dreamers, of this night with eyes like darts,

Whose mouth thirsts for flesh and blood.

World of form, who’s spun by your web,

Electric and carnality,

You, carnival of desires -

Feed -

On the entrails of eternity,

On the thread which weaves higher and higher,

To mind among the stars,

Whose imagination thrusts like memory

To shuttles of stars and colourful dust.

Weave, creatrix

And feed,

Your unity embedded in the very code which turns your face, twists your smile,

Alights your blushing genitalia,

Remembered or forgotten,

You weave

Eleven

Silent Nature, covetous of empty,

Wine, shoestrings, purse-bags, the last monolith, from the ocean; from deep in the husks of dirt

Dragged out your bronze figures from dead men; their lingering eyes upon the dead gods,

All whose names are looming in spaces where luminaries are planetary,

Obscured by hidden candles.

Your night burns softly and sweetly, like a nightingale.

All of your names are nurses for the star of death, whose face is like a satyr,

He owns a tire shop, or he is some mercenary in a Russian war.

He is the one who made the shoes your dead wear,

Who linger on the stoop, their eyes, your bodies, in a pile like worn out clothes..

Ah, what a mess we’ve made,

Dancing with death and deadly things like it was a wedding, riotous disguises in the ballroom,

Chucked off blitzes upon the champagne, tired, hungry, starving,

Early hours of a genocide,

The last strip mall.

There was a time where we made love in a desert marketplace,

There was only dried fruit and dried meat, and it was not love, but lust, and human entanglements

Were like a serpent around the throat of a land dotted with poppy seeds.

I showed you painting after painting, and it was like your soul was blind, deaf, and mute.

The times before the hurricane.

It all came through and blew out your mind, like a suicide, or another meaningless night of sex

Upon a purple dais, and the horror of a room covered with artefacts,

To hide the emptiness of the present.

How the earth must be clean, to hide the howls and the halls of the dead.

Bodies like spades, a bodice tossed and torn into the rift of non gravity.

In the halls outside the sun is like a vacuum and does not sustain.

All bodies call towards it, and call towards a greater death.

The antient ones called it transformation,

Cosmic fertilizer.

So let’s be grand; pick any mask you like from the gallery, and dance a grand death with me.

Plan the final act; project it, angry crowd, leery eye,

Any one of the names for any one of your gods, heroes, witnesses.

They all lie upon the same couch of the earth and slumber, or turn their backs to any one of the billions of ancient suns.

This whole world is a death gear, a shaking dance, a dervish’s garment;

It’s all been cast off and done with like a play.

You set the stage with your toys, and knocked them about with billows of fire. Ostrich god,

Snake god, trash-man god, silo of your eye which at last demands this last desire.

This tired fear that you have piled up, for another wasted death in the west.

Holy grail, doesn’t that send a charge, the planets I saw danced above me, danced within me.

Their riot stomp, all of history’s wars my own wars, I had already made love countless times;

The swallow of my heart was every woman and man, every lamp on the verge of an electric beat and rhythm,

Revolutionary toys linger in the grounds for a beaver to kick up and build a dam. All icons become charges beneath the soil;

Rifts in the light as the earth tears itself apart and remakes itself at the level of sacral energy.

This song has no gift nor guilt, but purity, purged in the acid rain of history and time,

Purged in the occult symbolism of politicians, jumbled and dirged in the baying of lambs,

Cleansed in the bridge of a thousand suicides, between this life and the next;

This island is like a leap, where your fingers touch, where the ocean of finding and seeking meet.

Boredom!

The poem must be shocking, or else it falls asleep like a driver at the wheel, the ocean crashes outside the window

And becomes a pleasant monotony.

Momentous, forgotten living. As rote as chores or a village of the unmarked dead.

With not even graves to remember their names;

Forgetting is the silent death.

Closer, still, for I will tell you a brightened vision. The grand secret of the universe, the whole history of her umbilical cord,

Which has wound its way about you like a song. You, conscript, with face and eyes,

Shovel the ashes of the dead; make way for a broad and bold, new and more infinite nothingness,

In the form of a poem. Jeering, leering, gods, like the eyes that poke holes in the stars, staring back at you?

All glittering nothingness?

That their bodies were emptied; that they walked around stiff as stones, that their mind was like entrails,

Below and before the first sacrifice?

Make them a totem in the sand, sane, there was some amber forgetting

That was like electroshock gear, restore them from their sad, desperate clinging -

This life like a raft covered in fire ants,

In an ocean dark and covetous

Any one of you flowers is destiny, any one of you is misery, any one of you is opportunity;

With you, perhaps I could make opium, with the right elixir, the right moonlight

And the right field beckoning -

Life takes what it takes, and leaves you with glittering dreams, mosaics of memory,

Calls and recalls, echoing off of the black nothingness upon which your form is etched,

Soldier, grindstone, fear or fearless, staring down the same shapeshifting force,

Which quells and quenches the revel and the stone alike.

Carnival, or waiting room, which am I? Beneath the hall of mirrors, shining stars, maze of reflections

Sheering projector light, somewhere between burning and illumination,

You who have stretched miraculous distances,

Gives sanity in the form of life, whatever that means.

For my mind strolling about your isle is systolic and bored, looking around for your next epiphany or omen,

When all things are epiphanies and omens, about my codex:

Somethere sheer, shocking, and tight - clicks my brains,

Winds me around insane,

And puts me between art and the madhouses.

Step outside, and you will see Mother Nature’s epiphany,

Denial of her sneering, snakelike face,

Imprinted upon each destiny.

Put a leopard on the television, or a waltz upon a screen, or write about murder,

Put there a collision most profound, the nonsense of a ballad to a stone,

Which must wrap around ten times six galaxies to hear the song.

Your eyes are rising, you’ve tossed them in dirt, they’ve shaken, risen, fallen, shaken,

Like a marination; fomenting casket of wine,

Your bodies sing, closer to divine geometry, whose minds are rememory’s illumination,

Can you alight them to the whole of your being?

From the base of clay, you’ve tried and tried again,

Moulded and lamented like the genius is insane, have focused your delivery,

Fixated this one idea of consciousness, to ripen your eyes and heart and soul,

To hear the call in the darkness.

Can they reach you?

Can they hear your hidden revelry - Illumination?

Twelve

Veil of maya, veil in whom seeds have been thrown,

Carelessly, into stone, your images of flowers

Are like a map of veins, and like your winding lines of colour

Are crystalline genetic memory;

You who breathe and heave, and release, in bedroom throes

Of ecstasy, your stars are endlessly reborn,

Scream, and flee into dread realms

Foreign dimension, where mind has traveled and hid

Into lands black and dead, curled up in corners

And laid, like a dead dog in the breeze

Beneath this last desert tree - from whence symbols do not pass,

There are no numbers to describe your infernal black legion

Who tremble and shudder like a pit and vat of snakes:

For each hour is copulation, your biting hunger

Seethes and snaps, like first winter’s wind,

Which makes petals in their burrow shudder and die.

All flee from your cold touch, demoness,

Whose black hair is delusion - temptress whose night is the bringer of dreams

Into sleep we tumble like the gambler’s dice

Into the hands of psyche’s foreboding chance

Regain me, guideless, and without lamp in this fugue of your storming.

Angry, bitter darkness which swirls and bites at the heels,

Black dog of hell!

Restore me - o’ ancient symphony,

Which without fail tangles copulating snakes of destiny.

Hilt to hilt, I travel amidst the revelry of the dueling sun and moon;

I dance as if enraptured, as this world’s painting

Draws an infinity in the sky

As a saying grows old and dies, these stones crack and reveal life;

Give themselves up like a criminal to the earth,

Spring’s crumbling.

If all seasons were bound up within me this spool of my thread

Would wind and unwind eternally, at the hands of the weaver’s wheel -

Heart - reserve not cages of solitude for me,

Bitter, meagre darkness,

Bread and milk bowls.

Chamber of the heart and body, heaving and caught in the wind

Time moves forever forward; presses at angelic backs,

Each moment’s marble, movement’s fury

Was my art; in reflection, what is left is moon’s light;

Cool blue pools of darkness

Which shimmer delicately in the wind.

O’, guide this soul toward the light which is tempting dreams.

Ancient lover, I have known you forever, and you have pulled me toward you closely,

Shivering, like a ladder or a rope.

Your darkness is like seductive words

Which pulls me forward into unknown ecstasies.

Aspiring ever higher and further,

O’ how your face changes, dies and is resurrected in the passage of nights.

You lay your hands on me and make the promise that would still even the inner workings of purgatory,

Working with sweat upon her brow.

O’ goddess, move the earth, even as you are trembling - expert seductress

How can I craft the dream which is your highest art;

Chisel into stone your beauty, which in each night evades, elusive;

Shapeshifter

You who come calling in my darkest hour,

Come again, to this dreaming bed;

Bring this immortal art forth,

Draw majesty from me like a stream from a mountain.

Land of dreams, ever free, whose art is proud and broad as the horizon of the sun; the aching arc of the moon;

Within me spins the mind which whets green life; through which plants speak,

Let it the speak from the deep mind, and the first flowering of the code which spirals into being

Whole powerful thrusts of destiny, and places each cosmic world in its rightful place.

All of your components, which you have poured into me,

Planets, stars, gestures, forces,

The fluid river of divinity which I am and flows ever through me,

Rendering me the stone of myself and nothing -

Eternity, this swimming,

Eternity, this stillness

“Another place where Böhme may depart from accepted theology (though this was open to question due to his somewhat obscure, oracular style) was in his description of the Fall as a necessary stage in the evolution of the Universe.

A difficulty with his theology is the fact that he had a mystical vision, which he reinterpreted and reformulated. According to F. von Ingen, to Böhme, in order to reach God, man has to go through hell first. God exists without time or space, he regenerates himself through eternity. Böhme restates the trinity as truly existing but with a novel interpretation. God, the Father is fire, who gives birth to his son, whom Böhme calls light. The Holy Spirit is the living principle, or the divine life…

In one interpretation of Böhme's cosmology, it was necessary for humanity to return to God, and for all original unities to undergo differentiation, desire and conflict—as in the rebellion of Satan, the separation of Eve from Adam and their acquisition of the knowledge of good and evil—in order for creation to evolve to a new state of redeemed harmony that would be more perfect than the original state of innocence, allowing God to achieve a new self-awareness by interacting with a creation that was both part of, and distinct from, Himself.

Free will becomes the most important gift God gives to humanity, allowing us to seek divine grace as a deliberate choice while still allowing us to remain individuals.”

“In all my research I have never come across matter. To me the term matter implies a bundle of energy which is given form by an intelligent spirit.”

— Max Planck

Etchings of light into immortal stone

Whisps of dandelion seed on a ceaseless wind -

How time blows away all things; like charcoal shavings,

A woodwind of inversion,

Carve against the shadow black night of the body

When the breath of the spirit is spent.

Reside in unseen shadows.

The night is a sculpture of the infernal blackness;

Cackling in the burning.

Each soul is a striving, a knocking about the beaker’s glass

Like boxers, jarring and jawing at the chin.

Wrastling the ineffable, chargeable, insatiable energy,

As it steals away from forms to the sacred hold.

You, for sport, knockabout,

Truths which fade to dissolute grays, in the hymn of the mossy dusk

And blacken,

Fermenting before new dawns.

Logos, the seed which is like a candle; the tree which is like a bonfire

Great burning, there beneath the infinite shade

Of black space.

There are eyes upon you, like dancing snakes, cherubim,

Who swoop down like pelicans into the body, and dance in the corrosion

Breaking free from their jesting, mortal bonds.

These eyes upon time are like a mirror of shadows;

The life a dance of dream objects.

Whisps before the mirror which breaks

Into waves of great, reverberating song.

Whose sound of the thread, plinking

Like a Spanish guitar, in waterfalling cascades,

Soft and flexible like the thrush’s song;

As everpresent.

The song lifts the worldly life out of stones;

In the eyes of a star explodes, enlivened,

A dancing bacchanal

Which lilts and tilts the body to new oblivions.

States of great ecstasy, where the sheathe of the soul rises from the umbilical coil and explodes like a chanting firecracker in the heights of the stars.

All materia, your shade and stone

Awaits the great song

To draw you at once to the heights and depths of life.

The sheathe which gives you senses;

The arts of taste and touch.

You who are prepared to fly, ascend this pyre of flesh and earth,

And dance upon the breaking of time

Like a crystalline egg, revealing the ensouled word,

Whose dimensions stretch

Like the wastes, of great and glorious gold:

Whose fields are a river diamondine

Whose soul is a shout and rejoice.

Angel, for this dream of rememberings

Born ‘neath a window of the clouded eyes, shining, seeing

You who briefly linger at the threshold:

For Here is also a sacred elsewhere.

The life of the soul rolls through the plains of the flesh like a summer storm;

Silence draped with dew upon the fingertips of the trees.

O’ feelings, which pulse through me like blood,

O’ wind of the river, coursing like bright rays of eternal sun.

For each there is a secret reason;

For each there is a sinew to weave.

Beneath the hidden flesh and lips,

There is a living reason,

Waiting to spring.

This violet art, which draws us near like violins,

Like mountains; sings with inner strings.

With a mouth full of grapes, we slash at the immortal thunder

Like whisps of flame

And playfully describe peaks of volcanic majesty.

Flesh, painter’s brush dances a daemonic mask;

Stamps bare feet against dirt and soil,

And looks up from the ancient fires of the earth.

Sweating, she wrings the flesh

Like cotton.

It is for us, grains, stars, cells, blood.

It is for us,

The frenzied heat of love.

We who dance like clanging bells, about the wilding spiraling

In rapid circles of time.

We ripples upon a crystalline water.

Wee hours tick into foreboding blacknesses;

Seasons are our brief paths to tread -

We who turn to the barren dusk, only to emerge

Clothed in regal forms.

Our destiny is already before us.

This untamable Beauty

Whose unknowing Overturns

Like a wheel of shadows and stone.

Tossed from lives, like a chariot, or a tower

The ground and the sky warble, dispossessed.

The thick, lingering air

Appears to us like gates into nothingness:

Black, lonesome, dispersed

Infinite.

The breaking apart is birth. A great many bodies shivering within the one,

Burning in a perpetual storm, a fever dream

Thrown into the unknown reckoning of trees with bare arms in a sky

Crowded with jeweled rain.

All things must fall, even once.

They spin and dive, meteor eyes

With hungry wings; tails like lizards or snakes.

All of life leads us into the grounds -

Once, twice, or thousands of times.

The soil is warm, like the pulsing of a body of great magnitude.

It stretches with arms like electric talons; ravens’ claws

Across its thick black expanse.

Grains of soil convene; are warmed in the hearth of the sun; down

To the ancient toes of the earth.

The soul is not dirty. It is a blazing blue fire

Upon a lapel of stars. It is the pure fire within the pebble stone eyes of the leopard.

It gives off no ash;

Its fury whispers amidst the dirigible screaming

Of unalterable truths.

Yet chaos makes this flexible steel earth tremble

Like an undisclosed fear’s drum.

All can break through and disturb the song of making, death’s unlocked door -

For it is a song within a song

A heart within a heart

That reaches the heights of fervor, Ecstasy;

The last footfall

Shuddering the breast.

Life requires a powerful meditation upon the burning away of all things.

They seethe in their private cages, until the releasing into the great smoke –

Into the canyons, valleys, and circles of stars.

What do we take with us that is not ourselves?

In the basic and most essential form. We who are even less than air and smoke appears to the eye.

It is like slipping off the garments, the clothes of this world

And skinny dipping

Into the ecstatic stream of life.

The love on this earth is brief, like the birth of a child; a kiss

Magnetized a weaving thread of destiny.

Under moons of all shapes and sizes, there we stand,

Like pillars, bowls, icons.

To be cherished and burned away,

Even less than shades in the desert sand.

And yet,

This is how we travel great distances.

The eyes within us bemoan the form

While rejoicing in the art of its crafting.

This sculpture of our empire, our universe, is like great molecular beauty.

From our world, the stars are like distant giants;

From theirs, we are ensouled immediacy.

Their burning is ours. Forms like glowing stones

We grow until we grasp the sun, and our palms are singed.

Sun among suns, whose light is an exchange.

Each seed and stone take their names in the dying.

O’ immortal powers,

You who take my lips, my eyes,

You who speak these words, behold yourself – beneath this shadow’s disguise.

Today’s ripe fruit; tomorrow’s dying.

Each age was a slip, and you were made both brief and ineffable

Cast in a thousand hues, a thousand faces.

We made love and returned, over and over again,

Etching our lips of ecstasy upon the hallways of immortality.

The poem speaks of fire, among groves of marble stone.

It reveals what is beneath me,

A black ground of shining eyes.

Souls, like shades, pass through to the light.

They rarely touch the earth.

Scrape the breeze from stones, and weigh them.

They are like glowing rings of pure feeling

Endowed with spiritual fire.

Life, this terror, also holds all of our love.

The mangled arms of the willow trees which hover over the earth;

The great bows which cast shadows

In tendrils of wind.

We who stare in the face

Of impermanency.

Find hand and thumb, a rising sun which itches towards us

To swallow essences.

The paths which we’ve ticked were woven like veins and crests of wrinkled skin

Upon the crease of the brow or the palm.

The sum of our delicate choices is nothing short of a sacred destiny,

Tread with ineffable brushstrokes.

Spoken in the air, a dream scrawls on blank walls.

It will not remember us in the way we were,

But rather, in the way we truly are.

This sundial returns us to the place we were when we were young,

Younger than the stars, younger than the world; younger than the earth.

A dark sapling

Breaking the bows of silence.

Fecund, hot Jungle

The essential circumnambulation of the embodied psyche, is the continued, perpetual attempt to manifest said visions and visionary states of the embodied psyche as impressions upon the template of psyche itself; this is to say, an interfacing of the inward life with the outward life.

For everywhere we go, it appears to be that we are met with a form of ‘opposition’, which is to say the raw psyche in various states of disintegration, dematerialization, disembodiment, and decay. These are, themselves, the perilous, myriad and numerous attempts of psychic incarnation of life, which is to seed the life of the psyche, the soul within the form.

The attempts, then, in this sense, are essentially erotic, as in the embodied sense, just as they are essentially aesthetic. These are the attempts of seeding the psyche, just as it is in a genetic sense, in an artistic sense, in the procreative aspect of the painting. This is to say, spread the genetic idea like a seed, wherein it grows to embody a whole universe, or encompass a whole world.

This is the same principle as the ever consumpting fire of Heraclitus, just as it is the same for a virus with a mutational capability which matches the seeding and hosting time necessary to perpetuate itself. The conquering, dominating impulse of psyche within psyche; the ideal within and to take hold or make manifest as in an embodied sense, is the life-processes.

All, in this sense, are instruments of death and abject impermanence, within the conviction of psyche there is the reality of psyche; the greater manifold mechanism at work within which one is like a dandelion seed, a cross pollination, a bee within a mechanism and a system far beyond the reach of the rational, conscious mind.

Thus, it is ‘dragged forth’ by internal incognitive forces toward practical manifestation within the greater whole. This is, simply, known as the unconscious life of dreams, or the rhythm of Maya, with use of the anima, or animus, or the depths of the dream where the dreamer or seeker is met with the ensouled figure, is drawn forth and further into the waking primordial life of the necessity of copulation with the material life; to participate, willingly or otherwise, in the mass genetic unfolding.

Beneath all disguises, there is this implicit draw toward the absolute, primordial, black, violent, feminine force and nature of all encompassing abnegation, which is the state of essential meditation wherein one embodies Psyche proper, and is rather a conduit to and for the whole of her manifestations, within which the play of Creation, Manifestation and Maintenance; ultimately, Destruction takes place. This is the ever turning wheel of being.

As such, all things are submitted to the dreams which make them, just as they are, brief, stolid, temporary, and deluded witnesses to an unfolding that they are mere workers within. The grasping and embodiment of the whole and active powers of the Psyche itself, is the breaking of this time dilated loop.

The dream speaks in images and reveals ancient disputes.

The shadows dance on the walls of time, forever, with flickering embers of the mind

Recalling the youth of the brain, the lizard’s primordial temptation.

The snake with legs, the abandoned playground, the rot of a house upon

A great foundation.

What was made is like a promise

Whose sacral heart pounds against earthen floorboards.

It awakens in a fire and a fury

And threatens to overwhelm the entirety of the world.

We animal prostitutes, we dancing fervor, near gelatin

Near the ancient light of the stars. Our brains, minds, flesh

Arose from unspeakable places

Which we are just now remembering.

Our eyes are lights of murder’s breath

Our stars beneath are angels’ steps.

Our wings are ravens’ claws, upon our backs.

Blood to blood, we are coiled and clasped,

Like snakes in our delighting.

Go down south, where the water is warm; life is teeming.

Sweating and swearing away the garments to reveal the naked soul,

Peering out from behind her erotic green descent.

Go down south, where the isle of the vine is breeding reptile eyes.

It is swept away, like by a great hurricane. The waters roar; the cockroaches seethe

Beneath their hidden wombs. The rot of the wood, like forests made hollow

Carved as if from projector screens and moving images.

When we were younger, a thousand forms before -

The water was dirty and the cells moved slow. The neurons crept from wastes;

Steamed in fertile cocoons; gesticulated

Like a conspiracy of Being -

For the life of the mind was sculpted by one chisel in a mass of time

That obliterates, like a detonation of bombs without names.

Too numerous are we, too wet and fallow is our soil; we scream, cry, and die

In the lashing of a few meters.

This poem is long; littered with the deadly and the dead.

The revealing of the snake’s mouth, upon a winding motorbike,

Littered with palm trees.

Sculptor! Master of the art!

We are on the way to the swamp.

We are going with a knife, to meet great and ancient delights.

They rear their heads, like sacred prostitutes, beneath the meter of ancient and immortal cities.

Their crumbling faces betray us.

Dying, dying upon the vine

Hungering in fits of violet desire

Caressing the sensitive wound.

We lay in the wood boats and do the chant

As boars snuff and tuft the face and hair of the earth -

Cresting like a wave; breaking upon the rocks

The captain cannot stop, but rather, he delights

In the poem of shock and awe; the art of death and dying.

The head that springs bodhi is wrathful in peace; red flowers and piercing black tongue

In a garden of severed heads.

The wealth that was swept from under you

Is a soil and bedrock that resists all conquering and temptation;

Proceeds from a ground beyond all mortal contemplation.

It springs with deathly eyes;

It springs with mortar and steel

Tigrous, immortal engine!

We exchanged the ill repose of criminality,

Which is cold and conquers from behind glass

For the full leaping foray of the life

Of the dream jungle.

There, there are panthers, sweating, and swelling

The magnificent contraption of the earth’s violent corpse;

Heaving, crepuscular, goes the night-beasts,

Gathering in throngs, copulating in the terror

Resorbed to ecstasy.

Your minute terror, is in these cold rooms

Of the law; the temple worshippers, deep in the woods

Who do their night rituals behind mirrors of fire.

They sacrifice everything for nothing

And you give your life to their gods.

Throng, ensconced, in the wide and thick dream

Of your stumbling, suffering; everywhere is your chains

Everywhere is the memory of the muteness of your body,

Back-broken by the customary laws.

There is a place where the killing and dying is sacred work.

There is a place where the blood shines red like diamonds in the light.

There is a place where the copulation is stoked in the burning

Of a wild and endless night.

Each night, the dream remembers its sacred name.

Wordless, with swirling images; the beckoning of the place where it began,

The smooth, quickening steel upon the breakpoint.

All the world heaves, and collapses.

In the slow forgetting, it weaves day.

You dropped everything, and wandered through the quicksilver.

Fog, smoke, cowardice and vision.

Like a burning star is dropped, you are remade among these hills

Where incense burns in a clockwork breeze; a pendulum swings

And breaks you at the head, neck, and knees.

A body without legs, arms, a seeking brain

Left to journey all the same

In the alms of night.

Starlight, moonbeam, and the quickening mind

Draws you close to the animal’s roaring sign, this metropolis

A labyrinth of vines.

Heated, animal breath, copper, sulfur, ash

Sweating in the gulch of the flame.

Beating against the doors of the face and eyes;

Magnifying in the heat of the rhythm,

A dancer dances to ecstasy and collapses,

Broken upon the bows of the body.

Swimming, singing in the stillness.

The body quakes and levitates.

Earth, this wisdom,

Beaten to a pulse; plows thresh

And heal the gaping.

Island of eyes, upon this breaking midnight,

Where all forests collide, this moonlit point of destiny

Upon the brushing fervor of the hot forests

In which we divide and conquer.

Come, you wars, to break divinity across the knee and bone;

Come, to spill the blood of the ancestors, O’ ancient ones,

Your wisdom of the continually suffering stars

Who swim about us until their burning is done

Suffused in a sea of candle light.

Break against the quick; absolve, absorb

Skin within skin,

Emerged and submerged

Where it all will forever end and begin.

Being, you

Wide eyed fool.

An explication of the ground, which the lords betray,

In their shining eyes, beneath a fiery cage.

Day by day, the shutters of the wind grow cold, closed, and distant.

Even amidst skyscrapers, away from the hurry,

They are spilling blood upon stone;

Rejoicing in the captives.

The slave is used for the fury

Which the gods gave to artistry.

Disposed, like the chaff and husk, to caves where they cannot be found

Where the body mingles with worms.

This world is used up by the slavemasters

Who can be known by the song of the chain

Which hustles about their wrist; the blood in their eyes,

The joyous killing.

All excess can be had, a party of parties,

Which either ends in death, or subliminal orgasm. Each mind seeks to sleep,

Each body to reprieve,

Each skin to an exorcism.

The blade is blunt and dull, yet with enough force and ecstatic fury

It is achieved.

Drugged, the world is mute and numb, wound around the hilt of these great ecstatic killers.

Their jungle is bowed to them in mortal service;

Lives are cleaved like juice from peaches, plums, and melons.

The world is a circus of blood which flows, fluid and free.

Slaves, like water to the aqueducts, un-dammed - to the sites of power

Which swallow them whole, like greedy kings.

You, to be sacrificed to the river of blood, for nothing

Whose extremity is organized with all the cold and distant glory of stone.

You, who is routed by the law to a brief and meagre end, Lamb of lambs,

Lost to yourself;

Whose creative life is hung.

For the domain of the lords is achieved in the waiting, wanting eyes;

The suspension of creativity.

The domain of the lords is the submission of desire; the beck and call of humanity.

Beings at worship of their might, law, and reason -

No more to roam the plains

Free and equal to the stars, buffalo, wildebeest.

Man is a chain to the false god;

Broken, he is an animal at the first feast,

In psychic communion with the whole of Being. Sprinting, running

Through the unconquered brush; undergrowth.

Disabused of tyrannical stone,

Man strides free into his birthright -

Ecstasy.

Everything has a place and a purpose, you told us. A viper must be true to his creed. The fang needs sharpening, the lethal venom a victim, Come my beloved, lie with me today and always. No telling if poison and ambrosia are the same, Unless you savour them both.

(Unknown)

‘Life presents us with various rasas (essences) and bhavas (feelings and emotions) through which our experiences are colored. It is the rasa and the bhava that matters, not simply the form. The rasa is the nectar hidden in the flower of our experience. Do we imbibe that nectar or simply pick the flower and watch it fade? How we handle our experience is more important than what the experience is in its own right.

Great Tantrics like Abhinavagupta teach us the secret of all the rasas. In this regard, all emotions are rasas. The nine emotional rasas are love, anger, disgust, courage, joy, fright, compassion, wonder and peace. Like a great artist or performer one must come to understand and be able to express all these rasas in their full scope. Then emotion becomes a tool of divine feeling and eternal joy which raises us up, not a poison that brings us down. These emotions belong to the Divine artist.

Shiva’s pure awareness is the rasa of rasas. It is the illuminating power of light, the life-giving power of water, the warmth and radiance of fire and the unpredictable impetuous power of the wind. It is the love which embraces life and death, joy and sorrow. It is the prana of prana, the eye of the eye, the mind of the mind as the Upanishads say. It is the beauty of the young woman, the strength of the young man, the fearlessness of the lion, the shade of a vast tree, the stability of a high mountain. Whatever the rasa or essence is in anything making anything into the unique thing that it is, this pure awareness or Shiva consciousness is the supreme rasa.

But unless we reach that center of the heart of Shiva the poison will affect us. We must learn to hold the poison at the level of the throat and not let it reach the heart. This is to turn the poison to nectar at the level of the throat. The throat is the seat of the buddhi or discriminating mind in yogic thought.’

• Vamadeva Shastri

I am the guide to the labyrinth.

Meet me in the faraway brothel, where the syphilis poisoned, green and sickly Copulate

Beneath fell stars. A step of time

A savage parade, a freakshow candidate:

Meet me in the grottoes, in the slave mines where the mermaid sirens

Scar the eyelids of fishermen with their claws beneath sliver moons. Black sunshine,

Blind seers who trawl the night, beggarly bonfires, border checkpoints, smuggled children:

Whose flames lick their face and eyes

I am the children of the bloody sign,

The fiery sigil of the night,

Which is Assyria ablaze with the fires of war; encampments of refugees

Waiting for the break of day, reflecting off the bare back pit of the moon

For a dream paid out and due

In counterfeit banknotes.

Who is the man, with the bronze and iron head

From forgotten ages:

A head which lingers with bullish hooves of the daemon

In a sacrificial night:

Who twirls and pirouettes, like a sickly dervish

Whose lionclothes are like veils

Of bile and ash

Liars, thieves, pimps, prostitutes, this is your night,

Where you have pulled the last great trick; the pistol’s chamber spinning upon the ticking stock

As black moons drive men to mad suicides.

From bridges, mistresses, lovers, and plastic playthings -

When you have drawn the last drop and ounce of blood from the heaving stone,

You who have sucked your lips upon the bonnet of the earth,

Gutting the earth, Succubus, with a nippled bottle’s kiss: fear’s

Infected parasite, this night is yours; you, inches from paradise

Inches from the great blue infant vein where you inject your Glorious

Fatal poison.

Made from the steaming oceans, I drew the blue fell substance which danced in my throat; skimmed,

Made the skies and oceans blue; made the song - deep blue that I sung

Like a stomping of foot blades and bones that sifted the soil of the earth and made it new. Warbling,

It was roaring, like carcasses,

Like whiskeys, in the barrel of the earth the wine is stilled

That you drink and makes you drunk, sticking like molasses and the tarry peats,

Sting, sickly laughter

That you shout mad and long, wishing for a death to come, sooner

Than a sleeping blade, your totem of bodily eyes - a pulsing stillness:

The ribs which pry your flesh open, your abjected greeny liver,

Your abjected, yellowy lungs.

The opiate men, who slumber in rooms full of curtains, lounge upon blankets

Talking filth and waiting for hashish, you addicts, bandying about the green boat, mucoid

Who painted the sky with steel - climbing to blank faced oblivions

This world is your wound, your gash, which you brute senseless;

Collapse into dark fevers, as she bleeds. Running for wounded dreams

You sting face with tail; fall upon the blade

Of your fatal vice.

Breathless,

Emptied of life, you chambermaid skeletons, clicking, joint’d

Bedslaves to the flesh-ridden silence: lumbering to consummation

Anointed with the fiery clothes of form,

Your life is an oil you burn, with an absurd impossibility

Deep into the temple of ruins.

Of byssal kings of the forbidden zones, haunting the aether - You are

And desperate for return to the great pleasures.

You call them unto you; alleyway unspeakables,

Fallen furies, tyrants who haunt your life like slit eyed snakes,

Who possessed your mouth and the ovum of your lips; to the throat, they

Hungered for the death of your enemies; bloody men,

The conquered ones, the sacrifices, the lambs

Who lay piled in pyres upon your feet.

You raised your temples, slashed at the throats of innocents, O’ Black eyed one

For this blood moon to rise, this world’s pyramid ladder

And pound at the veins escaping your skull; steps,

At last, your orgasm thirst, peaking your chemical explosion

Drives you to the death city

Which prying eyes slept and schemed: a violl of the bloody drum

Immortal Victim of the blackening

Swimming, sea of sands, in decapitated tar pits,

Smoking and swirling around the stars,

The cosmos is made alembic, with hidden faults; fissures

Of geysy smoke, expulsive blasts of Great Art.

The sound, of the smoke and fury, is like the bursting of a compression of a great container,

Hissing snake, where spirit escapes from mud

And dances in gold brushstrokes, the ionic ash of opal fire.

Seething, like a sewer, this world bubbles and fans

Dreams trapped in prisms of light. Lost in a world uncontained

But in the vapid stew of waking.

A shifting dream, which lumbers slow, a predation, as time sifts the stew

Of Being about the drum. It hammers and bakes, amidst fires extinguished and renewed.

Storming, in a lurching mollasal canoe - worlds lurch; beings canyon and die -

Grasp at nothing and are submerged in the primordial baking

Of fluid and light.

Smoke and shadow, visions upon the refractory wall of this prism,

Which gains eyes, face, and flesh, amidst the great waxing and waning;

The dripping, solidifying, and burning.

The dross of life sinks to the bottom of the great glass flue;

Rises in fires which lick the curves and helm of the morass

Of the beaconing, beckoning stars.

Slow waves of grass, slow, siloes of reflected faces,

Tosses the wind and cave and cavern of light thru trees.

Slow is the moss to rise, crust and die, across the mog of the oak,

Decamping the oath of time across the gloaming.

This world is a whisper of wind; quieter still,

Struggles the seed in the unleavening of its burden,

A fugue state, a fervor of selected noise;

A surrender.

All worlds, stomach and mouth,

Across the pits of tar.

They screw in the hazey sun, and are resurrected as bright ghosts

Lingering in the aether of baking smoke.

Quaking, in truth, emerge the titans of beasts, lumbering to form

With the gem of mind, the prism they pass

From beak to hungering beak.

Inside her neural apathy, there were no roots to see

Far beyond the face and eyes; this world was a black disguise

For infernal pleasuring.

All dreams flash, like fixtures in a now-abandoned room,

Time abates; flexes wildly in corners of the bright and ancient maze.

A bull’s head, a lion’s mane, a serpent’s eye,

The past haunts tomorrow’s prey.

Gorgon, your hair unruly and overgrown,

The king has long since abandoned his throne.

In a hazy night within a day,

His fiery, bloody, redwild ray

Disturbs the mind and breaks the rhythm of the seas,

Glassy blue copulations of eternity.

I will initiate you into the sacrificial pyramid,

Where slaves are whipped upon the back, and day is an artificial night;

The night is a lock of the moon.

They rise against the temple steps, in fetal form;

Lashings of lightning, strange, bestial forms,

On the verge of evolution.

Locked hands, locked eyes, they march in cages

Against black, barren windswept plains

That roll like scales of serpentude

Across the back of the horizons, stretching forever.

Huddled masses, against the fugue

Which rips them from the arms of safety.

Into the axis, into the interzone, into the crucible

Of the fiery burning in the midst of death undying,

For it had never uttered a breath.

Black stones stand and stare in awe as the spirit of the trees escapes in the breeze

And is bonded with iron force to slavery.

This whole world serves iron masters

With whips that draw blood, from crowns of wires barbed;

From gases, grenades, and border warfare,

Sacrifice, the blood drawn from the gape; into the mouths of furies

Like the juice of grapes.

Upon the cross in the wandering room, mural upon mural of those who rose and fell

Against the great whip of the insane, blood-hungering feast.

Its curdled breath; stale, paunched mouth

Dribbles over the abyssal caverns

Where the bones decay; peel into tarry blackness, antimatter.

Dissolute, the snake sheds infinite, infernal bodies

Like toys of seeing, breathing,

Consciousness.

Those who rise, rise in fire; those who fall, fall in ash

Upon the great stairs of genetic ancestry. The pall of the world

Is a desert of the extinguished;

The pallor of the grey sky and word is the air of vanquished,

Their tombs carved within breathing form.

Not yet, lashes the night; upon pyramids bathed in gold and droplets of blood

Like a mortal rain -

Not yet, until the lords have drunk the blood of the feast;

Returned the flesh to the ancient, stony gourds

Littering the courtyard

Of Gorgonic eternity

All the earth thumps, like a fatal heart

Which takes and gives untold measures - to and from itself

Like a secret messenger, a blazing letter

For the crucible of heat in which it is overturned.

Glacial, erratic, stumbling, and yet perfectly ensouled

By the cosmic threads which weave ancient geometries through the stars.

Some words stand as immortal totems

For the awe of perfection maintained

While chaos reigns and thrashes like a chorus in this brief paradise of time.

Or is it a parade?

The words speak first, like bamboo shoots, or the mouth language

Of bears and tigers, titans of the earth.

They are first to rise in the cold winter’s dawn; yawning across the breach

Where even colder waters threaten to drown, with hot ice in the lungs.

Man is a measure, a means, a line, a verse,

Among the aeons of the glittering poesie of the stars; better, an attempt.

Consciousness is wedded to the ground like trees copulate

With the arms and flesh into the great immortal darkness.

This thread weaves, among war and peace, among chaos and order,

An ever greater order, an ever more peaceful mind, ensouled and deliberate

Like a chemist at work in a world’s laboratory

Which stretches across each galactic synapse and dimension.

He, with a thousand arms’ potion; a thousand miles wide,

A gape of the mind alight with glittering beacons,

The neural link of the starlit guide.

O’ mind, swirling about the beakoning, whose warm bath summons both dreams and terrors of the night,

Will you awaken the dreamer; slosh the fair blood over the sides of the beaker,

So as to touch the soul and heart of stone?

The sleeper who dreams, and in each night, encounters the missing divide

In the immortal crevasse and craggy rocks of Psyche.

Each grain of soil, your flesh

Each dark matter, matriculating to your revelation;

What remains will be born again in a strange form.

Fair mind, whose forgetting dreams in darkness,

How your parts beckon, like the heated light of sexual organs.

Pulsing, wandering, from starlight to starlight.

A thousand of these lamps, or more, could make a city of the mind,

A light which travels and buzzes among city streets, mossy soil grounds;

Vacuous black space; through-lines for planetary signals.

They buzz, hum, shriek, moan

And conjure the body, as a vibrating organ.

From tome to tome of flesh, we travel lightly, leaving no burdens.

A song so low from stone that few could hear but the breaking of the crystalline suns from within;

A song so high from the gaseous clashes of the ion clouds.

Lover of the lightning,

Blushing maiden-goddess of the smoke,

Whose torch is an epic so gracefully carved into each stone

And waterfall.

Trickling, the song rises and falls like a red breath -

To heights of ecstasy, fits of orgasm,

Cool delicate streams of unbroken ensoulment;

Blissfully, the echoing caw

Of the great bird -

In whose beak the sun and moon copulate

And form piercing eyes.

Aflame, is time, which spreads in unseen directions, licks into the night

Whose shadows cast grounds of faces in dreams; whose billowing fires

Cast summoned flesh,

Like iron to the crucible, life is forged, in strange ways -

And draws near the magnet of death and dying:

O’ Immortal Opposite!

In death and union alike, we collide, in such splendor

As if the planets themselves touch;

Atoms are dissolved into cascading furies,

Bringing near death and ecstasy.

The touch of god dissolves,

And the ash of immortal temples fades into day, the jangling overgrowth

Of Time’s work, maiden to crone,

Sphinx to syllabi.

Carved in stone were the ancient words telling us to remember

In a language long forgotten

Both in mind and in heart.

Life is a yearning, red,

And a dissolute, blue:

A stew of dreams cast into mortal sinew,

Whose eye outtouches, whose hand outreaches,

Whose willowy silhouette beckons in grey houndings, across the width and breadth of the beaker

To the dark side of the moon’s face.

What is eternally hid is only so for those who do not have eyes to see,

Nor ears to hear.

Time unfolds like an ancient wisdom, whose language was complete in scriptures

Long ago, to which prophets drew near, like a hearth

And warmed the flesh and souls, at Galilee, at Rome, at the wick of the Nile,

This whole world a candle of night, lit by the prophet’s heart;

Warmed by the beacon’s glow.

Words of time are summons, like the nettle of the tree, like the feigning of the cat,

Like the pulsing of an ancient dancer, entranced in the rhythm;

Beholden to no tithe nor tie but awakening.

What splendor, then, are the rubbles and ruins,

Of the ancestors today and to come, the roads long since buried by strange, new ways;

Rhythms, and writings to the heart.

Eternally reorganized, like a city of veins, a psychotrophy,

Of shifting fascial body;

Whose body awakens and stretches like a spoon about the Pleiades.

Shaking off the rudder of dust

Like a warm blanket of earth.

Ancient body, gazing up from the skylight,

Who slumbered and slept like a babe in the millennial dew,

Strike, by lightning, and awaken the earthly tremors anew.

Cast the path of difference;

A road less traveled;

A heart’s yearning true.

Souls flailing in darkness to return to the body of the butterfly in the sunlight

Souls burning infinite bodies in the pyre of the mind, lighting the nodes of galaxies

To return to the rippling mountain stream of crystalline blood of life;

Meditating upon battlefields of genocides, with heads strung like necklaces

Across the tips of mountains;

Souls echoing in a ceaseless night, blind, with candles flashing across their mutilated eyes,

Screaming psychic in a jungle of carnivorous bloodflight,

Souls clamouring in an echoing church, offering alms to the dead,

Swinging incense for a glimpse of ecstasy;

Souls executional, on a bloodstained pyramid wall,

Smeared like codes of memory.

Souls dirging, digging pits in mines, enslaved in tar pits, enslaved making bricks of mud

Languishing in the outstretched desert wastes

Souls in forced labor in the cotton fields, under red whips of sun

Souls building death machines, in buildings lit by eternal daylight

Bulbs whickering in an electric silence

Souls crushed under the weight of time, upholding a lawless lie,

Brandished and jabbed, gutted with gun butts, stung with the siren song of bullets,

Rippling, souls mingled with spirits in the daylight, rippling out of being into the matter darkness,

Death mother of child,

Singing the hymn between mud and the black ground; the churning stomach of fiery love

Souls decapitated and thrown from sacred towers, studying manuscripts on unnamed islands

Flayed and desecrated, monument bodies

Seeking for god in the word

In the markets, for fruit and prayer, beggar souls, disjected kings

Toiling among the spiraling adobo buildings, casting ghastly shadows

Haunted by demonic urges, throbbing in the flesh

Like a long forgotten being, caged deep in the world’s ice;

Taunted by the master’s orgy, tempted by the master’s feast,

Panting, like a frothing leopard

Around the labyrinthian meat.

This world of stone.

Minor gods angrily play chess with the planetary bodies; string souls as instruments

In their silly game.

This lie, eternally contemporary, but with new flesh for new names.

Where is the blood, in a world broken over the knee of passion;

Broken at the hip of ecstasy.

Where does the sacred night linger, in her throngs, dresses, and deep glances,

Where the moonlight is a maze about the wood

And leads to the cave of ancient stone

Where the monogram is a lingua ancient and forbidden.

Where the word is ensouled in fire

And the ritual death

Renews the sun, eternally

In a bright young world full to the hilt

Pure, with sacral drivenness.

Carnivorous fruit, exquisite night,

Of each mouth child’s birth, suckles, and arrays

The bones in cascading lights.

Who am I to be your child, suckled upon your rays,

Cocooned in your brown spider’s nest, your golden brown tomb.

With lips to the earth.

Two, four, six armed goddess, with legs to spare,

This earth is your bedside; this world besides.

Each scarred, blind eye

Clapped to your copulating womb.

I am not your body,

But rather one who puts the blade to your stubborn abdomen, spinner

And puts the end to this sick parade.

Regal and bare, there is no beauty in your swamps of death.

Marrow of the bone is like ash, which is gulped greedily.

My organs resist your fumes.

Imaginal mirror, this gutting knife turns within you -

Demoness!

This flat plane smoulders like an aetheric emptiness

Or an old battlefield.

The land is sunken and dead;

Pitiless are the smiles that reflect upon endless ash and steel.

The blade of the horizon is long and gaping;

Like wounds hungry and black.

From safety to safety, the body is burned and bled

Until there is a gelatinous belly of earth.

Insatiable Nyx,

Greedily, lick your tongue with this knife.

Your stone is not mine, nor your river,

Which has long since dribbled forth

From the mouth of the most ancient black figure,

Whose force is the same as the newborn babe.

When you sleep, you dream of a black maiden with sawtooth teeth.

She is the last bridge between you and paradise;

She beckons you deeper into the well of misery and despair.

Gripping, with iron white hands

A twisted destiny.

Whole wars have been fought over this, the honey and milk

That seeps from her ovum and breast.

She wrangles your sex; like a dog in heat

Her saliva wraps you in the oceanic mist

Of a dark power.

Dream,

Green beast of opium, desperate eye

This world is a maiden’s clenched fist; alone it is her desire

That builds cities and submerges wrecks.

Her wrath is a subtle knife, Manipulation

which digs and takes.

Time is her wake, a sinking jest

For a false god

With muddy hands,

Moaning in the foul peats.

Slave, working at the fermenting still of flesh.

Reconcile your desire with death,

Sick beast, whose odious breath

Is the bones of all, dying and dead -

The foaming gape of crumbling stone.

A fog, her shrieking face

She whose talons sink into flesh

Like grinning blades into meat.

Next

Give yourself up to life and thus truly live.

Burn in the fire that does not burn.

All of the possessions of life and dross are nothing more than a tender ash, a smoke,

A brief caress atop the face of the lover’s being. Life is a wind that passes through the eternal,

Delicately shaking the leaves upon the boughs of the great tree.

There is nothing to give, take, make, or become, but to step truly into that fire,

And to allow for the immolation of all falsity. This is the measure of time, which cleaves the invisible garments,

One by one, like the senses from the formless, eternal being.

For this brief time you are this - a tree, with a measure of roots, a flower, with a measure of seeds,

A creature, with a measure of arms, legs, and vessels of blood.

All of life travels through you in complexity and simplicity alike, and abates, like a dandelion seed floating on a spring wind.

Life lofts and dances in time, and trades forms like a marketplace of divine formlessness.

From that which you are briefly endowed, recognize it as such; to be so.

With a mind that meditates consciousness upon thought; with a body that participates in the dance of being.

All is surrendered and laid down upon the funeral pyre of life,

And immortality is born in the dancing of truth within all things.

Do not loathe the change of Death - it is your passage forth into the eternal.

Loose the limitations of these bonds and dip into the great lake of light, where angels trade their wings for flesh; ducks and geese become immortal sages, resorbed consciously into the eternal light of the Godhead.

All things come and go as they must; with their seasons turn their backs to the outer sun, and in the catacombs of being shed the clothes of one life for another.

The load and burden is always light, this stage play of furious grasping

For things as fleeting as setting suns.

Go into this world, rise, and make your life like a sculpture carved from flesh, stone, and earth. Go from this earth, and change your form. Loose these bonds and fly, elsewhere, otherwise; in another language, entirely.

The mad sadhu dances gleefully on the bones of his own dead body. Some would call this madness, but I declare it sane -

Seeing as he has done away with his attachment to ephemeral things. Even the moon is here with us briefly,

Seeing it through the curtain of a window as it burns, with a silent regularity. It almost appears as though the world is still, and not enraptured with fire,

If it were not for passion.

People rush, to and from their destinations of desire. Beings, animals, and fields of wheat are born and die under the ever shifting phases of the moon.

Life rushes atop the spinning die of a brief planet into a formless eternity, and a future unknown. This is the beautiful presence,

Where the bones of the dead dance as if they are attached to an immortal string of life,

And they are.

Find, seek for the immortal thread, that rests within even the most dense form, even the most ephemeral thing,

Destined for death. Find it, seek for it

And you will find it in all things.

Come, you masses

To cleave the last thunder from the bell,

To sop the blood of life with the bread of the body

In the dancing, turning sundial

Overlooking the clay, molehill houses

Laid from bricks of the earthen ground -

Makeshift womb.

From life to life, from pleasure to pleasure you romp,

Burning, wasting the wanton warmth of the sun

As it passes from skin to skin -

For this is what copulation’s done

From the blackness spun, a hungry, thirsty treachery

Whose blood requires chemical sum,

A seduction - death’s completion.

This is what we have chased, and what we have wrought,

A great, festering black evil, within each heart, a silence’s fracturing

The eye’s separation;

The snaking mute isolation of touch.

It is thus that we all acquire daemonic claws,

And encroach, with eyes that have seen thousands of deaths die

And descend into hidden mysteries;

With minds that betray us, and hide us from love.

Damned souls wrestle in darkness for the sin of a broken life

And to acquire the gem adorned skeletal casket.

Is it this aged wine, that has made us such great killers;

The luck to take on the art of war, convinced that it must feed on flesh to survive?

Many tiny betrayals

Amount to death of self; the lashings of the child of truth

Within a dark, silent room,

Hid deep in the recesses of being.

Come, you masses,

Fodder for worms, who toil and squirm for the perfect life,

To be surrounded by the sparkling gold, to dull the numb void of inner self.

This world is a glimmering, a convenient distraction

From the inner odyssey of soul.

Shall we leave, together,

For the breach of time;

For the break of night.

I am a well of devotional love. Nature, with her gentle alms, to suffering,

Draws these poems out of me, like the arrows of a waterfall, or the tongue of a leopard.

I understand, Maa, why you draw me into this body, why you beckoned me from the aethers

Into this, arms and eyes of clay

And chemical explosion.

You wish to rend my song, so it remains, and reminds the immortal ground of the lover of human flesh.

In this world of things and limitations, only the song can emerge from the mouth, and only the feet can dance on the soil

Making it golden and wealthy from fallows.

Only this dance, in which you need a form, to dance with the formless, these eternal shadows

Which shine like lights into the soul of skin with flickering veins.

There are many more than these two eyes through which I see. Slits into your jungle of darkness,

Your horizon of awakening forms. When you strike me with wisdom, I yelp and sing

Like a calf lashed by daylight. All of these worlds are alms to you, Maa,

The almighty thunder, through which all wisdom is received, the vessel who is ready,

Whose mind is empty, whose body is dancing with a mania which takes only your host.

This world is empty, my beloved; yet it is filled with you, your brutal, stinging, nothingness

Your singing alms of plenty. Your air is like water. Your skin is like fire. What it is to touch you is to feel everything.

Your line is like a vein through my mouth, the spark of the eye of mind through the molecule,

The vessel of consciousness. You wind your way to my doorstep

And convince me of this birth. It is one last round of us, my love. We are tangled in the sheets of all mortal things,

Whose ecstasy comes from the tinder friction which immolates the mask of skin

And reveals the electric impulse of consciousness.

Is this song like steel to the nerves, an anvil to the everyday,

An obliteration? The ground of this earth thumps like a fist to the chest rhythm, a reminder.

I do not look for outward things, as all mirrors point back to the sacral lightning. What I see, all about me,

Are arms and limbs sensationally attached to my own, and faces which are inflections of my eternal, holy light.

Lover is an ant, a dung heap, a pitch of tar.

Sling me to your infinite core, where your chest heaves, and you birth innumerable children.

Where we have lost count of our ecstatic reunions and dissolve into reckless unity;

Crash into the last bounds of being in this world.

I have found the tunnel of bliss beneath this world of suffering; your roots are like the embrace of a sacred water,

An elixir which cures, just as much as it wilds shadows and creates strange dances in the night.

Everything is a poison before it is found that your love is a night within a day

And a day within a night.

You are no riddle, and yet you are the golden necklace - which once appeared to be a serpent

Which enchants my inner eye; clangs like a great bell against the iron of your chest.

This smithing sport, I have laid down my hammer

And am instead wedded to the heart that is beneath the dancing.

This is the divine genius - the precise brushstrokes; marbling of an indistinct fen,

The technology of the eye of a fly; the dance of Venus and the Earth,

A perfect geometry sculpted from immortal energy. So is the genius’ mind built by towering forces

Of millions of years of compound creation, chemistry, and genetic transmission.

So it is that this artist is mimicked in the sculpture of master poetry, the carving of the marble of the divine out of aether,

The chisel which is weightless, the canvas which is light.

We have not come this far to not participate in this masterpiece, to ourselves render

In the art of life and the flesh, in the full expanse of the color palette of the emotions

A full and tumultuous, an ecstatic revelation, of agony and suffering unto enlightenment,

The blackened red, bursting into gold and white, the transformation of fury into passion

In the act of the inner storming of feeling; the lashing of the brushstrokes upon the canvas of days and nights. For each emotion requires a hue,

Desperate blue blackness, searching, and the wick of the red golden flame, burning from within, beneath the shroud of the flesh,

The time burning candle of the being, seeking to reunite with the earthen stars above.

Chaos, our art, as is order, as is war in heaven, earth, and in hell, among all of the divine lights which circle like prizefighters;

Each of which taste suns in distant galaxies, each of which sparkle with the dew of hydrogen and the hard, deathly arid air,

Which overturn into apocalypse, shade and shadow.

The aghori fans the flames; stands close to the embalming death, the billowing bonfire of time

And the ancient heritage of the explosion which pounds in the chest of each heart, wakes in the breast of each breeze,

Chirps in the newborn bird, stews and contemplates in unknown parts of the universe which we do not see but feel with innate fury, curiosity,

And deafening omen. The life that we do not know hangs over us like a cloud, like a murky sensation;

Like a painting in the eye of the mind, a partial idea

Until the terrorous epiphany throws the shroud from the mind and speaks in lightning and thunder. For this is our burning bush,

For this is our calm paradise, which beneath the surface seethes electricity and potent light;

Pulses with dewy green consciousness;

Heaves with warm red blood.

Each brick of life is laid in shapes, hexagonal, in cubes, in molecular containers, where heat buzzes or life sleeps

Within the cool gem of the passage of time, preserved, entombed, like a shroud of the dead. Wave after wave crashes upon the black masslessness,

The fugue of nature, where she sleeps, dreaming of an undying age of perfection,

The immortal art, of a paradise whose bounty only grows, and does not decay. For fire must take the flesh to burn, like wood, or doused and anointed with the ancient blood

Fermented in the bowels and goblet of the earth, which quickens and swells the fire,

With the pride and force of a tornado or a hurricane.

It beats at the cage and howls for release, like the spirit of a horse or a lion. Like the spirit of a wolf,

The world growls and thrashes unto limitlessness. This sense is a bridge to a firm distance of land and landlessness, where we are lost in chaos

And the inner sight sees only the blackness of inner space. Where we may reach, we may touch. What we may take into our mouths, we may taste.

But what of the ecstasy of genius, which exclaims at the nonexistent truth, apparent and embalmed within all things,

That which cannot be seen, and yet is the sacral fire of eternity?

The eye that peers beyond mortal time, and glimpses beyond the veil of apparition and phenomena into bliss.

This is revelation. The horn at the end of time, which blows from a mouth and spills the enchanting words of music,

Which are the rapture of space and time, place, and beauteous spring.

You can feel the condensation of the flesh.

They will either give your body to the soul of the earth, or the fire of the spirit.

In each moment, agony and ecstasy are entwined like snakes.

This is both damnation and redemption.

The breath both rises and falls, as the feathered serpent of the sun writhes around the earth

And enchants her in an ancient, sacred mating dance.

All of the world is astonished applause.

This grit is brutal and laughing, punishing and playful

As the days are like bursts from a trumpet or a gun.

The air expands and contracts like an aetheric womb,

Or a lung which, inside, we are all dreaming.

To this - all stories are madness.

To this - all bodies are a futility destined for the fire.

So why not shirk off this mad shroud of dignity for awhile, and jump in the waters of life

With her sparkling, black chambers of diamond.

The world is a cloak in which we dance, a mirror, a shield maiden

Upon which blood is thrown like a canvas.

All of us are seeking some brutal light that will throw off the chains

And lead us to a greater immortality.

Can it be sex, love, murder, or the tyrant of the everyday

Brandishing the butt of a gun, pressing us down

Into the mud of disheveled night.

Even your brief hour is an apocalypse, steaming on chairs, awaiting the executioner’s blow.

Life is an axe, a fury of time, a brief mate of a greater force.

Candles swing like pendulums and the body is locked down to the earth like a maker of death.

All words fall short of the great mystery, and death is a depthless well of transformation

From which all of the great works are made.

It heaves and flows, to, and fro

In a rhythm which births monsters, demons, and angels.

They lock claws and teeth

And fight like lovers; tangle in the flickering, lights

In an endless grid of emptiness and the fullness of presence

In this gravestone coliseum temple of eternity

Each piece is moved about the terrain, and mangled like a ghastly chimera.

Earthly existence is composed of fell parts torn from the remains of dying galaxies

And thrown into a drum, pounded and inseminated with Passion -

That great force which is the birth and death of all things.

It is to this force that I wedded, indebted, and truly am,

And in this way, I am immortal beyond conception.

Blood is only a symbol, a moniker, a word, for this ineffable, cosmic force.

To be among the ruins

To place your hands upon the sacrificial stones that were smeared with blood,

And to feel time shaking, and rending the stones before your eyes,

Revealing the ancestral might which climbed up through skeletons and cleaved the stars,

Spilling the anvil of blood like hot wax

And slept, deep in the stones.

Nature, are you a capitulation to this timeless fury,

Emanation, that you have dreamed and died

I have seen your eyes, and trees, swung, your mute lips,

Danced around your turning, hours of your glance, light rising and falling about my walls

And I am not tempted by fire, nor even the sun.

Master of tongues,

Perhaps by your kiss.

The abolition of life and death is in immortality, which is in only the way of stripping the wounds of death

From the pallor of dead imagery.

Time is force, and language is the master lock to the world beyond time.

You alone must climb in its mouth and enter the eternity beyond force.

Even now, storms swell, and threaten with a darkening thunder.

Laughing!

This body, acrobat, rent by blackness and dirt

In the same way that you close your eyes, and jam up your senses with fingers and food.

All of life snaps back and returns in a minute instant

Between sleeping and waking.

You feed me the insect horizon of death and blackness and I eat it like manna

And begin chanting.

But this is all to tell the truth, with no lies,

And perhaps a brief memory of art within it.

Die, in order to go beyond death. It is simple,

But to have lashed the snake within, and touched the cord of bare existence

Is everything being stripped away. Can you remember death in life?

It is simple as a lullaby or a furious kiss.

The ingestion of a chemical is what summons this breath a form

And gives it immolation.

Certainly, this is a sort of magick that goes far beyond religion

Into truth, and the rising of an entirely new form of being.

Stripped of this world, the essence is revealed as simultaneously

Alien, sublime,

And eternally familiar.

We changed in a dream,

a shapeshifting cloak, a chameleon’s ecstatic dagger,

Against Mayan stone, we slashed, rifted the illusory cloth, and spiraled into an unknown darkness

From the moonlit lake of our awakening, where we once awaited the call, full against the mirror’s water, wedded to our being

Pressed on by the urges of spiritual desire, simulating hunger

Wandering like monks with fiery lamps against the day’s light fading,

Fasting, starving, gorged on prayer;

Thickening on the scent of our reptilian blood

 

This cobblestone alleyway of time goes back millions of years

Into the graveyard glacial shift, frozen in stone, shivering in the gape,

Abandoned, pre molecular eyes.

We fountains of a black spirit, poring over us with thick angelic wings, a syncope

Made from the ovum of black candlelight semen, dripping ravenic suns,

Our blood was mixed with the seed of tyrants, grinding the flesh of martyrs into gravel

And thrust into sleek leopard cars.

 

We danced; far more than mythic, nomadic spiraling of genes in the turning light, giving and taking lashes

Against the red whip of sunlight, screaming angelic light

We rushed the days in ivory toothed war and fed on the wet flesh of flat plains, we felt abandoned by god, wasted bodies like accidents stripped to bones in the cracked desert heat

And we stung like the wasp spider scorpion

Claiming our small prey

And greedily sequestered the young dawn in our earth holes of bloodletting.

 

This world’s caged experience, whimpers, ills;

Pummeled gravity of the spirit

Is ridden like a serpent down to the minds of death and sting until it is dead changed; reborn from the womb’s genital plasmic discharge

Ripped until it is shifted in the oceanic muscular currents of time,

Oppressed by nuclear forces of fury.

 

This body speaks in the stew of nutrific dirt

Of vegetable silence.

How can the wavering heat grow crow’s eyes

And speak from the heights of the mind?

Heavenly light, which toiled

Like slaves, in the slanted mirage

Deep in the mines.

The ancestral body shuddered in the feast of the planetary gods, nameless, from aetheric dimensions of the unconscious mind; a yeast, infinite, vast, unexplored galactic language,

Picked like a carrion body

Flesh was shorn from meaty blue black thunder; drawn among veins like a jungle canvas of trees

Spells were whispered from the green sinews of the earth guttural rumbling

Enchanted by the fingers of wide carvings of rock as they traced bony

Jutting facial emblems of the godhead

The sigil of the first flame did work on the black matter operating table of the hands and arms,

Creeping forth like a waving, mossy garment of evolutionary feeling.

It beckons forth into further darkness, with the candlelit form of an outstretched hand.

A tongue of the spirit

A skeletal outline,

A breathing whisper

 

We danced like a shaking beaker, like a subtle marionette,

In the unconscious waters of life. Risen to a frenzy

First, before animal,

First, before stem, root, and fold

We slept, as in a dream

In the vast depths of time

And shuttered, hot trembling like a jittering fear, in the black door of death

To the ancient song

To the violent sex of awakening

Life twists you and makes you strange

With lips like an ancient beast, a bull’s skull

And microscopic snakeskin fleece.

You riot on the verge of death on the rooftops of the world

Drinking in the ash wine confusion.

Young snake stalks its prey, young tiger in the sun -

You and you and you are one.

When the flesh is pressed to lips like wine -

Concubine of the divine.

Celeste, Divinity,

Young is your age, old is your breath,

Long your blood has wound to reach my tongue.

I drink you in and die in ecstasies

And am reborn as a killer.

You waited under lights and were passed between wombs

Of things long since dead. We were never humans,

But we were demonic, shapeshifting forces. Longing for the sun,

Our eyes flickered and changed like shuttering lenses in the shadows

Of our midnight affairs.

I shot my life into you and your womb was my axis of change.

Salve, slave, you carried my blood.

Celeste, longing is this night; agony is this day.

Tar is this world through which I wade to encroach your body

Sleeking prey, shimmering, and if I had not smelled your blood

I would have thought you to be pure illusion.

I played with your corpse and flesh. I danced within my own.

Longing for some time, I drifted into an inconscient, black sleep.

What was once a joke, now a poor and tired game.

We threw dice against the wall,

Less than a memory.

Shame, Celeste, shame - for this night of passion to leave

With unequal fury. You lingered, long enough to age, to turn

Pressed against the forces of gravity, time, and your own psychic lashings.

Body, whipping post, desire.

You drank the wine and fell silent and deaf.

Only shadows linger upon gravestones. You became a thought,

Then you became nothing.

If this world is nothing but the anvil

Then I am the force that strikes the hammer upon the ground

Blackened Gold, Dawning Twilight

Excoriation

Black stone, avail me the perception of your hidden, inner walls

Sanctum of nature, slippery and wet.

Persephone, whose mouth tumbles the rivers and streams,

Persephone, whose heart is ocean,

Steaming from starry inquiry.

Gone are your shields of thunder; gone are your garments.

Here you stand, naked, beneath a red sun,

The tyrant of your body an engorged organ of sex,

Your hair of streaming snakes.

What have they done with my innocent, raped,

What have they done with her, hair and eyes black as night.

Even as she stands beneath the day, she stands before the sun;

Casts fell shadows of death upon the earth.

Black stone, Persephone your glue,

Stonebreaker with the eyes of mind.

She circles and stings with repetitious poisons of a fatal lover, Scorpius,

Deeper into the trance of her being;

Deeper into the ovum where the sacred stone is hid.

Her flesh is an empty cave, but for the fire about her breast

Which covets strange guests, who gather about it

And play songs about the crown of heaven

Lost to a demonic night

As the stars beat black drums of reverberating space

Above.

Around your fire, Persephone, we dance like madmen

Unglued from our desires; driving alone into a frenzy and a fury.

Like wolves are we, ravenous for a meat that is not of this earth;

A sacrament unobtained.

The goblet is near; men go mad digging in the dirt like truffle hunting dogs

For the decepting scent of life.

Into the wood, Persephone, to hear your mating dance.

At the rogue slip of your dress, men go wild; their eyes alight

With a beacon flame.

Deep within them, churns the whole ocean;

Sieves the blood of paradise to surface

Along with your gutting poison.

Treacherous Persephone, you arise with a knife; we huddle around mirrors

Plotting your black and stony death.

We did not know love would be laced with such evil, forgetting you

Had risen from the snaking, gladiatorial night;

That you had killed, like a weak thing

To survive.

Persephone, your bloody hands,

You are no more like a badger than I am a star,

No more like a name than I am a dream.

Your illusion is permeable; pierced with a knife; ripped from the cage of the somnambulist womb.

You covet the moon like men covet gold,

Wildly; with a bloody lust.

To madness we are driven; to hills we are driven

To exile in the plains and deserts we wander, like sacred cattle,

Like a sacrifice, unwitting to your presence, who wraps us in the black, warm embrace.

From birth to death your yoke is a womb of trials;

Between agony and ecstasy, this vessel of harmonies

Scales the heights of terror

And the depths of bliss.

For you are a drum in the night; a chord strummed by the wind,

A guitar of the seas and an ocean of the earth.

Your body, smooth and hollow, like an echoing lute.

He who plays you makes love to the night;

He who plays you makes eternity with time.

This art - epiphany, through you the whole world is made

And dissolves in a snap.

Trees are stripped bare and impregnated by your force, O Wordless One,

Men are deaf, blind, mute, and dumb, by your word

O Wordless One,

And yet you are the key to the sacred gate.

We who dance among the fire must mate with it;

Become one with the pyre of ecstasy.

If we had known that this was your way, Persephone,

We would have been born mad poets and mystics,

Endowed with the holy ecstasy like dervishes and like asylums

We would have eyes to see our cities.

Without walls, is this brain and eyes;

Without walls is this electric touch;

Without ways, is this ecstasy which permeates everything.

Your whole world is a siren song;

Beneath pulsing energy.

This world of debauched symbols is a code to incite the animal forces within man;

Shutter him from his spiritual instinct.

Players, at the game of life, take their positions, faces, and masks

And do the dance of culture, words, and names.

This world is a cipher, where ecstasy can only be glimpsed

As a reflection of a reflection of a reflection -

As an experience through the dispossessed sieve of another.

You chase the desired object like a leopard or a dog

Forever ignorant of the churning engine.

Your life is a game of distraction and dissociation. It is a Narcissus

Infatuation of mirrors; possession and disavailing

Of crumbling stones.

You, biological program, are directed towards ends. The world is used up

And thrown in a shriveled heap.

The earth takes herself back into herself

Introspectively.

There is always a next desire, like a next moving image in a projectory

Or a next sunrise, or sinking of day into night.

The world is an object tossed and turned in the hands of the subconscious mind;

Examined like an object of three dimensions.

Shatter the wall of the mind, the place where lovers meet. Where self and world

Are not limited by sensational being.

Where taste, touch, and smell

Are gateways to eternity.

All have their secret ends, and plan to abscond with a piece of the world

To fill desire’s absence. Such a piece will melt in the sun,

Crumble in the rain;

Return in the mud to the great ocean from whence it came.

Even the most sophisticated plans cannot induce separation, beyond the delusion of the mind.

With hands to touch and eyes to reach,

All things return to what they are

Beyond the image of what they pretend to be.

Each thing reckons to be great, like godliness, like kings.

Each thing proposes that it is, where others are not.

Rather, all things are, indistinguishably;

There is no break in kingship, even in that which appears to be a beggar,

A destitute.

The lie is upheld by believers, just as cities are built by laborers;

Churches are filled with devotees.

For if all things were revealed as infinite and boundless,

The sacral essence of nature would be absolute;

There would be no place where greatness was not present,

Nor would there be a place that was not made of the eternal substance of life.

As each molecule is a wave, each wave is a manifestation of the divine song

Which sweeps full of the universe.

There is no place where the song does not resound,

Past all births and deaths of beings and bodies.

This song is the innate composition of all things;

The very symphony of Being.

All things are ensouled symbols to rememory

Of that which is.

All things lead back to their psychic essence and source,

As the powerful, snaking life force energy, which is ultimately formless;

Like a snakecharmer, the song that creates such powerful phenomena

As to enchant all those who encounter it;

All those who are that life force energy itself,

Unbroken and unbounded.

Such are the imaginary chains of life,

The perception of distinct figures,

All of whom are, at root, the source of all life itself.

This play of nature is a play of the eyes, ears, mouth, and touch -

The sensorial body. The one who perceives through this vessel

Is the one who pierces the essence of nature;

Discerns the whole of this play.

The one who perceives as such

Is free beyond freedom;

Ensouled in the first truth;

The essence of Being.

Ainda

This moment that still exists, like an action flung from a black crater

That birthed you in a market beneath a dawning,

That birthed you among the fruits and berries which littered the oasis in a sea of sands,

Deathly, gather the storms, and rain down the water that suckled you

To supple thighs and breast

This moment that lingers, drags, and spirals into the depths of an unknown darkness

Into which we move with lantern eyes and are drawn with magnets to death

And to dance here, upon the lila’s vista of time,

Do you not see that in day you wake, and in night you sleep,

And the two discourse in an interpenetration?

Even the farthest stars remember you

And know your secret name.

All of the poets are a memory of the basic and essential spiritual fire

Which lingers and waves like a totem in the brush of the trees

Flowing in the breeze of a rushing wind

Which seems sparked from a distant star,

Sirius, or the wake of a further storm of lightning’s flame.

The rays rush, reach, and touch, like waving hands;

Brush and shake the delicate soil’s vessel.

You who were born from earth, also retains the black memory

Of the time before birth and death, a stillness in which no word had yet emerged,

Cradled by the infinite sign,

Which remains emblazoned beneath each fire’s breast; the passage of each beaker’s engine

From mouth to mouth, from starlight to starlight; from galaxy to galaxy.

You who existed before the neuron that sparked the brain; the star that sparked the image of the galaxies

Like a net of wax and glue, where all things remain and are passed away,

Burning into and out of memory

You are the memory of the blackness, of which night is like a representation or metaphor.

A blackness so dark and undistinguished that even the cellular warbling and the mingling of the first rays of light

Could not break the shadow of, nor the most advanced machine.

Dawn could not erase the signature of something so total; the boon of the earth and the striking of the asteroids;

The intermingling of the planetary dances;

The order which emerged from the chaos of a greater order,

A humming silence, a potentiality;

Yet a night greater than had ever been seen.

A mirror, which you use, a mind to scry the depths of the psyche, and remember the first place,

An unbounded womb, stretching far into the seas and wastes, through which the great eye emerged;

An eye among eyes, a witness among witnessing.

From out of the periphery, around the corner of time, lies the truly unbroken infinite.

A terrible beast, a horrible vision, a blackened figure, a demon conjured by the imagination;

A word such as death, and all that lies beyond the passage of the figuration,

With sensate contemplation.

Is it not that this mystery is who you are, at the root and fundament?

Your true self, your deepest identity.

Same as you are this light. Does this pyre burn forever, exchanged, wick from wick,

Or, rather, does the blackness return?

How many times does this primordial substance reinvent itself, the seed of all dualities?

From universe to universe,

Each moment

An unfoldment of the essence, of shadow and shade,

Of light and being.

Paradox

Light and dark make love at the crest of the night,

As woman beckons from within man,

And death is a seed cast within all figures and forms

To return them to their primal originality.

Each that arises is a day, a time, within an overturning.

It calls and returns; gyrates about presence and absence;

Warbles in the air like a song.

Snaking, it is magnetized to darkness;

Asserts itself in the rising sign of the force of fire.

A flaming sigil emerges and returns in a bright brigade of beautiful explosion.

Each intimate song is an expression of the whole;

A bridge between exile and return;

A bridge between being and nothingness.

At the crest of day, meaning emerges within the fire;

Capped, crumbles at the first hint of night; the movement toward and separation from the beacon of fire.

Objects dance amidst the heated gravity;

Are drawn to the rising and dying of the light.

So it is, that we are in a swoon of great magnitudes.

So it is that we dance among the enchanted things, drawn to the fire within ourselves and one another.

Like mirrors, we are the great and ancient force which has impregnated all things with its essence.

The majesty of such a being is that it lies truly in absence and void;

That the improbable fire blazes and crackles

And yet rests in the ashes of silence

To rise once more, roaring with terrible delight.

‘Brahman and Sakti are inseparable. Unless you accept Sakti, you will find the whole universe as unreal – ‘I’, ‘you’, house, buildings, and family. The world stands solid because the Primordial Energy stands behind it. If there is no supporting pole, no framework can be made, and without the framework there can be no beautiful image of Durga.’

• Sri Ramakrishna

artificial inflation - the perception of one thing being more valuable than any other thing - or - the creation of an artificial hierarchy based on perception in an otherwise complete, ensouled world full of ‘things’ or ‘manifestations’ which, in a primordial sense, cannot be distinguished, differentiated, or valuated as separate entities, as they do not even emerge, but rather are projections, or pseudo-manifestations of the same, undifferentiated, energetic life-force-source-being. As in, all things and beings are formless forms of the Tao.

Ego inflation/deflation - story compensation for irrecognition of the fundament of divine reality

The meaninglessness in the egoic sense when not aligned with the divine

The meaningfulness of ensouled cosmos of psyche.

Looking without for what is within, bliss

Everything is the essential hopelessness of the ego

Biological project of genetic superiority/inferiority in order to pass on inheritable genetic material(s)

Ego is organized around this essential principle

‘Reproductive fitness’ - this is the ‘sickness unto death’ of Kierkegaard in a literal sense

Everything is an attempt to repress this death and dearth of true fitness, a true fitness which is and would be purely spiritual - an ascent of the ego as in self realization of non dual reality and the ‘completion’ of the organism within the whole of the powers, as in the Nature of Divinity - ie Christ and Buddha dissolves in conscious return to nature

Symbolized in the wheel of life + striving of desire - et al

Everything that is birthed around you,

Is like a thousand electric hands about your body, without disconnection

From the sacral womb of your beating heart.

Like an apparition of heated waves of air, your mouth ripples and speaks the words

Which always remained within the hot forest chambers

Of the crucible of your tongue, lungs, and lips.

This is how the world is made, like sacred organs

Woven around the dancing heart of the universe. Each organ ripples and pulses,

Breathes and pumps the sacred fluid of life, which births innumerable children

Within the apparition of the plenum, like cells of blood within vast chambers

Populated with beautiful pictures of beloved gold.

Ecstatic hands reach toward the infinite, hid, within the womb of temporal things.

Their lie is like steps to the immortal stars, hid beneath the fabric of the apparition

Which burns, molts, and explodes like heavenly dew; sinew amidst the blackness.

The air is ripe with a charge that sculpts masterpieces

From the whisp and eyes of oaks; the branch that ruffles their hair;

The sun which combs their insides of green-blue nectar.

Juice of life, exploding like a crest upon the lips,

Heavenly peach of life, breaking the folds of skin and flesh, the living orgasm

Of fresh red blood, pulsing through the chest and veins.

The breath of life, as an exchange, between these trees and veins; between these blacknesses

Before the map of stars, and the synapses of the brain.

The order extends to the depths of imaginative dreams; their moonbeams

To the skyscraping pillars of creation.

All of life, dancer, beneath this body is a rippling, orgiastic force

Which co-mingles with each and every substance;

Giving and taking like a thousand mouths beneath an immortal sun;

Amidst a chamber of eternal light.

This body, with arms outstretched, extends into the deepest reverberating blackness of the soul;

With legs coiled about the snaking stairs of light.

Meditating body, between the fleshing and flashing disappearance, nothingness, and gape,

And the complex apparition of galactic cities -

Beneath you ripples the fiery black fold of creation; pulsing,

Thrusting,

Eternal force of cosmic, spiritual power.

All of life, oneself,

The basis and heart of all things

At soul, heart, and root.

The heart of authenticity is in the silence of electricity

Endowed with the powers of the waving night, unseen;

Billowing like a great curtain, about the window of the eyes;

Batting, flashing, pulsing,

Beneath the higher copulation of the sun within the moon.

Snake within the snake, With piercing eyes,

Forever shedding its skin beneath the refractory light,

These waving nights are like water, through which the pulsing current throbs,

Restores, renews.

O’ holy of holies, o’ night of nights, there is no place where you are not teeming and throbbing

With sacred potential. There is no place you are not bursting in the streets of prostitution

In the eyes of a child

In the cave, in the ghetto, in the stickball evening, in the sticky summer street and lamplight,

How beneath the veil is your warm heart

About which animals gather and chant and drum the passage,

From nights and days,

About the spiraling staircase of the stars -

When we go, we go from dawning blackness to blackness, amidst a massive vigil of candles

Which are a celebration of the beauteous borderlands of life and death

Amidst change; the towers of life built with a summiting glory;

Submitting to night and the return of the primordial element -

How we forget what we are in the glory of creation; the dance of artistry;

How we remember that we are the seed within all things,

Sacred essences.

Even now, the song takes on a dance, a hue, a signature,

And the pulsing rhythm heats and cools like a throbbing engine,

Of hands about hands, arms about arms, to take hands and arms in this night is to travel

Amidst unforeseen corners, the buzzing cities of being, where glory and adventure is embedded

Within each sacred song of difference.

How she plays many instruments at once, like an orchestra of beautiful specificities.

Like the divine mind of an ant, or the strange type of man

Between sublime evolutions.

Your heart, barely wavering, in a movement so still, that the leaves on the trees pulse and thrum;

Blood silently but delicately courses through the wombs and limbs of this world and earth.

We trade blood in the deepest grottoes of the earth, where it is heated to a chant and a fury;

Molecules teem with desire; spring forth like guttural panthers.

This night is lit by the heated star, passionate fury

Of a life bursting into being, like a face, a wrathful mask

Tearing at the black canvas of eternity.

Levitation, this night

Which lifts wavering, cresting lips into being and form

From the formless energy and feeling. For one moment they are there, and like a trickster,

The mask is peeled back,

To reveal the teeming sacral root of the throbbing ecstasy.

Forever within itself, all stars, this red rose of blood is a chant, a spyre,

Higher and higher in heated exaltation;

Cooler into the reflective still waters of the cavernous inner gape.

This lyre, we gather near and burrow;

This lyre, we dance madly on the cresting hilltops.

This lyre fills the lungs and breathes deep breaths like spells of creation, how the exhalations shape the leaves;

Sculpt the craft of the appearing.

For at this moment’s eternity, all is forever possible;

Beneath the beauty and terror,

All is forever throbbing night’s

Passionate, fervorous light.

I.

You who huddle, cold and dead, around the fixture of meat

Warming yourself at the vibration of the echoing stone,

You, with your desperate hands around the throat of life, wringing it like a rag for drops

Hands and throat of white, bled of blood,

Steer of the grave, sacrificial cattle

Who pray at the altar of crumbling terminability:

Prostrated denial of death -

Clutched to a candlewick; this storm’s wind of darkness to blow it out;

Baying hounds of each night encroach on your territory,

Dream to rip you limb from limb;

Restore the flowing stream of nature.

Having no life, affixed to chairs; transfixed by moving images,

The body a pallor of still.

You who huddle, about the shadow of the blaze,

Craving for warmth in the black of the flickering,

You whose fire has long since left. The bluster of life is about your lips

Like a blue death.

Clapped to stone, the dead ones are silent;

Gaping,

Pillars to the cave.

They who need your blood,

They who do not sing.

They who are hollow at the bone.

II.

Man fought like a wraith, out from his dungeon of nature’s burrow

And now must submit his powers in return.

Return, to the green blood rumbling of the trees -

Return, to the grumbling pitch of the distant mountains,

Scattered with light through winter branches.

To the eagle’s heights and the mole’s underworld lights.

Return!

Bursting from the undergrowth; steaming, man made his declaration

With great cities and heights of conquering, which stretched from the Nile to the Pyrenees,

To the Black Hills; to the banyan tree forests.

A temple to power, might, and differentiation. Man’s dreams, filled with pirouetting metal,

Sirens, and power.

The trees blazed; the animals scattered; the mycelia withdrew their roots;

Pyre upon pyre, stone upon stone, the ancient roads were paved with creative innovation

At the hands and arms, sweat and brow

Of Nature’s experimentation.

Creeping, like veins; creeping, like vines,

Man’s place returns in the great breath of the Cosmos.

Ah, brief forgetting; the ensouled remembrance,

Into the bliss of the great body;

Resting in primordial meditation.

Whole of the powers, streaming

Like blood about the great body -

Rush -

Return unto me!

The great mouth swallows everything,

With a thirst that makes ash,

A starved, hollow, molecular fume,

Gutted with stillness and suspension,

Aether and bone.

It travels from hand to hand like a passing dawn -

A passionate sun’s rising, a child’s birth.

Such a thirst cannot be quenched but for the matter of fact transmission of blood -

Lo, the dragnet and passage,

The rising and falling of lips toward the golden light,

Passing the sacred coin of the eternal sun

From eye to thirsting eye.

Is all, this passage and storm,

An immortal, awakening force,

Emboldened with each spiraling return;

Increase in its powers.

In a breath of fire, this world is made and unmade:

Desirous lungs which pass life like flesh and blood

Down the paradisiacal jungle of trees.

Panthers with searing eyes inhale whole the elixir of life -

And leave no traces but drippings of soil like the soul’s rain; smoke

Into the lustrous, fecund ground.

Bone flute, whose measures are played, breath, and tempered

By fleshly worlds of blackened clay, music of mystics,

Moon’s flowering utterance of toads and toadstools,

Wavering water which chirps like the fluttering breast of birds of night and morning -

Patient, timekeeping

Are the sirens of day.

The hunger is deep, from the pit and the gulch;

Stews and boils in the belly of the earth.

It grows eyes and arms like a raven; it sits in a private womb, like a wolf spider.

It spins, angrily, in the suspension of an erotic dance

Like a wandering planet

Gripping with talons of primordial memory;

Nesting in the dark hollows of being.

It stews the meat and flesh; it heats the heart and mind;

Pulsing, fluidic veins,

Womb to the synaptic electricities of infant galaxies.

Stars before stars, hunting, haunting, the leery planets hungrily chase;

Their constituents rush toward beacons of the light; genital magnetism’s

Meaty green blood

Which stews, flows, and sinews with recombinant waters and suns;

Licking at fleeting worlds.

Beneath this all, immortal engine, is your hungry, desirous dance of copulation.

The world is an antelope, a predator, a jaguar, a prey - all at once.

Gnashing teeth in the red mouth rend hearts and eyes into a gutting pulp;

Greedily gulp down red flesh but in moments exposed to the sun.

Life is snatched like a silent unnamed fire, at once terrible and natural,

Like a headless star.

Round and round the totem of the pulsing blood, beacons and beings circle,

Streaming their fleshy, inner light;

Flashing their steaming, intestinal breach.

Force upon force, fires gather;

Intercoursing with a throbbing, drumming fury.

The song of life is brought to orgasmic

Ecstasy’s return.

In digestion, the forms change their signature and hue.

Food for worms, deep in the womb of black soil,

Pallor and red, throbbing presence alike. Life’s fury

Is rent, even from far corners of the universe;

Transmuted into broad new forms, with riveting, rippled

Muscular bellies;

Pulsing with the motor which razes fields

Like a wildfire hunger of roses,

Like a moon desires with dark obedience

To bask like a lithe panther in the unbroken lights

Abandoning the severed mind’s slick shade.

Mahadev,

Your beads are like pearls of planets, strung together, galaxy upon galaxy.

Your ears are like the great caves where the first art was written - dotted with buffalo and spearsmen;

Your eardrums are the forges of the earth.

Your eyes are the gems of psyche; slivers of moon;

Reflecting pools of the eternal wisdom, through which the universe is perceived.

Upon your brow is a droplet, a brief ocean of sweat, containing the water through which all things thirst

And achieve their youthful buoyancy.

Mahadev, like a goddess and a motherer,

Your bosom is a nectar of bees; the honeyed milk which makes calves rosy and strong.

Your shoulders are like great fields of asteroids, which dust and form the topography of all planets and moons.

Your mind is the network of galaxies, strung together like the song of a flute, pulsing with vibratory electricity.

Your arms are the great chains of consumption, stretching out into infinity, of the dew of stars,

Greedily sapped up by the waving grasses; cud chewed by the beasts of the earth and all of the planets;

Made bone and sinew.

Your stomach is the great furnace of fire through which all things are cast and renewed;

Through which they take their vibrant form

And shadowy appearance, Mahadev, projected upon the veil of your womb,

Which harbors the perfect secret of all of creation.

Your song emerges from the admixture of your genitalia, hermaphroditic, at once man and woman;

At once shrouded and a cave of fire; at once a divine light and a void.

All things beckon in the universe to and through your anus;

Like a spiraling chute, they move through the snakelike hall of reflections

Which is your digestive tract and organs, Mahadev,

The mirror and mural of all history and time.

Like a great river in its passage, they shine, sparkle, and reflect the starlight of your radiating palms and sacrum.

You lay them upon the earth and the black womb of your sex, swept away;

Gushing like a fountain, or a waterfall mountain stream.

Your ovum is the fount of consciousness from which they drink; a grotto of transcendental milk.

By your seductive hips, Mahadev, the butter of the cosmos is churned; the planets about your neck are sent into a spiraling rhythm,

In a riot incited by your music, Mahadev,

Which is stomped by your feet into the black and blue earth.

Upon your wrists, you dance

With bracelets made of revolving suns.

Up through all things, through graves, sacred halls, and burial mounds rises the sweet nectar,

Through which your throat is a sieve;

Your heart is a parnassus of truth, through which all poets pass,

Collecting the spiritual fire,

Which resounds with the eternal remembrance of your dancing rhythm.

Song within song,

Like a drink, the world is shaken in your dancing; the bones of your legs are the pillars of creation

Which hold upright the miraculous vision of matter and phenomena.

You are that which is all; upon which the play rests.

Mahadev, your song of songs,

Your orchestra of creation.

Ghouls of desire,

Phantoms of smoke,

Teething at the burning root -

Gnawing at the linga of the unbroken black stone,

Whose essence is preserved in manna, dark and absentia:

The concord of earth is a green vine, where the liquid and juice of grapes is never tasted;

Yet endlessly enjoyed; circulated in the reach

Beyond evading hands.

Soul - your rhythm

Is a song forever sung; an essence eternally imbued

And yet never touches thirsting lips.

The pounding drum of the heart is unstolen; land is never ceded from its infinite truth.

Unpossessed freedom is the truth of nature,

Where no chain nor word can abscond with, nor away from

The eternal heart.

It resounds everywhere and resists all valuation, definition, and capture.

Freedom, like the veil of the woods and the rooted veins that maintain them,

Their pulsing blood proud and unbroken like the concord of stars.

The essence of the juice of the grape is the same as the essence of the wildebeests,

Limestone, cave, and willow tree.

That which is the very tongue, whose taste within the mouth

Is the silence of the vibration of the symphonic humming of the universe’s womb,

Chanting gape and planetary difference,

It is the sacred sound and taste and essence

Hid within even the deepest ice, darkened matter, blackened stone.

Psyche - your glittering gem,

Unseen even in the sacred prostitute, sacred absence - night;

Burrow of dirt, mud, gourd, and stony burial ground.

Even the most disjected corner, filled with the bright taste

Of golden, motherly light.

In every interaction, it is tasted:

The warbling birdsong of the soul -

Ensouled world.

Rich in the ensouled breath of the cosmos

Like a brush of wind or rain against the skin, like the levitating summer’s heat,

Or a dewdrop of the morning’s cool.

Membrances rush and break against the morning’s light; dissolve against the solute

Of the night’s chirping.

As the sun peaks; rushes in ecstastic heat; withdraws to a wintry shroud,

The magnetism of the breath pants and chants; slows to a cool crystalline draw,

With the smoke of escaping heat within.

The eternal, ungraspable essence, like a shroud through which we all pass,

Imbued, imbibed, endowed with the immortal, in the taste of all fruits;

This world is a wine, a sacrament, an essential blood.

All of this, in the goblet of the flesh and bones, body of wind and soul,

Which circulates endlessly around the alembic and container of the starry psyche.

She breathes, in a meditative slumber, dreaming while awaking

To the symbolic letters of stars and bones within her,

All pointing to, and painting

The great cosmic, spiritual body.

This breath circulates; is taken in and taken out, like the reciprocity of mammals and trees.

To each, breath is a darker side and a lighter shade, a concave and a convex,

In a world of caverns and hillsides. One’s expression is another’s impression;

We trade glances like art;

We trade gestures like inscriptions into the endless reverberating stone of the divine,

The stone that is not a stone, but rather a black fabric

Of immortal memory.

All of time is like a broach of the stars, psyche’s envelope,

Containing the great story. All is allowed and remembered in the mystique and majesty

Of a story which we touch with our fingertips

In an endlessly reverberating ocean of grand, divine images. The great art is like the ladle of stars

Which portions out each night’s dream;

Each day’s turning, fugue of seeing.

For it is like we are in brief moments blind; awakening to the fires within;

In brief moments in awe of the waves of light, like apparitions, sculpting this world’s myriad city,

Like a burning bush taking the form of a calm bedroom.

This world ablaze; within visions, we imagine the form of fear, love, one another,

Togetherness; being apart.

Like an organ scries an organ, like a being contemplates the stars,

Or glances from across a canyon - soul to soul, like a great stew of molecular coupling and decoupling,

Across a rich, dark sea of forms and formlessness, shot through with vision.

Like a wave inhales; draws itself within, to the form of the formless breach;

Crashes upon the shore, manifest.

To forms we are drawn; in forms we collide; spring apart, dissolute,

Rogue and black materials. Unseen, we linger in the vast, black fold;

Prepare for the primordial arts to draw us once more.

To each, there is a side of day and night;

A side of dreaming and waking,

A side of the phenomenal

And a sacred sublimity.

Omphalos - Linga

Navel, who is world’s eye of bliss,

Pointed vision of consciousness, who is wave within wave,

Ocean within ocean, molecule within molecule.

Singular light, which penetrates to the deepest depths of substance;

Turns world within itself,

Capacity and frequency of introspection.

Most granular essence, in whose eye

Searches for itself in every stone, name, shape, face, and lover,

Form of formlessness; composer of all, whose music of clay

Is a diversity of notes; a grand scale in a symphony which turns

And burns in a wildfire;

A trickling, waterfalling, crystalline breeze.

From air, to fire, to water, to stone,

You whose densities rise and fall with the touch of interlocuting languages.

This reality of transmutation is the crest and peaking; valley

Of the snaking path of sun and moonstone.

Within each burning gem,

Is the eye which sees,

Consciousness.

This living form transmits; organizes form

In heating and cooling, in ecstasy and emanation;

In the turning of the rays of stars to faces of darkness and light.

Pitches are heated and cooled; fields are grazed by organisms fomenting tallow;

Enriching the arts of the soil in the movement in a steady flowing

From dreaming to waking; the return.

They who harvest the fields of psyche

Are waters within waves; grains within sands;

Overturning forces of awakening.

O’ Self, thou who sees, like a vision which penetrates the seas,

And ephemeral bodies -

Your abode is forever within; like the path of light, are a vast network

Of radiating wealth; riches.

You whose great equality is found even in the most unassuming stone,

Who when, revealed within,

Is the opal of the most divine union of stars.

Sopping up the blood with their tongues, are the lords,

In cities made entirely of stone. Moons and suns circle overhead in a bright lightning

And break against the crest of endless nights and days.

Inside the stony walls, the prisoners bay and cry - like lone animals in a slaughterhouse

Trapped behind glassy walls of the mind;

Partitioned off into their separate cages.

Thirsty, with slitted eyes, the lords look to the mirror of the moon;

Prepare the slaughtering tables for the bright eyed goats.

Man after man, pyramid after pyramid, sacrifice after sacrifice is laid.

To their delight, body after body is cast into the fire,

Trailing a river of pallid flesh.

With stomachs like bread for the blood, the lords shout into the night,

Great conquerers who strode with minds like bayonets into the jungles of nature and time

And emerged with nature enslaved.

Her powers put to the sucking vacuum of desire;

Drained to droplets behind feigned innocent smiles.

Possessed, are the lords, with an endless thirst. They know the ways of the glassy mind;

How to control, manipulate, and enslave:

A world of servants and peasantude. Those who resist, their eyes smoulder with passive resentment

While pulling at the chains of the great pyramids.

The lords laugh, and turn away,

High above, in the pulpits shaded from sun.

The whip is brought down, back upon back, as they cry and shriek in pain

In dungeons shielded from the open air. The screams remind those in chains;

Retain them, for fear of resistance.

The children are plucked, one by one, to be used and trained in the ways of the masters;

Only enough to operate their cold metal cylinders of law.

All of their days filled with terror; allotted brief moment’s abyss of sleep,

Where they dream of mortal surrender to carnal desires; orgies

Of the masters’ wives. By day, they are set against one another

In the pits of slaughter

For the entertainment and pleasure

Of the lords.

Submerged in the powers, with hands in the mud and mingling in the skies,

We do not yet know who we are,

Nor where we are going.

How many distant planes are hidden from our eyes; absconded even from our inner senses;

Yet are gems that uplift the multiferous beyond.

How many snakes with a quiet, diamondine skin

Reverberate far into the potentiate abyss and blackness,

Perceived as such by the ear, eye, nose.

This forest of reverberations; affinities called to affinities

Like melodies to melodies; like songs to songs.

These brief clothes -

I have shed and jumped into the bright river of the divine,

Sparkling with a sun beyond suns,

Glittering with a gold that evades and resists hands.

O’ light, what forms do you hide,

In your dark and precarious jungle of shining eyes -

What do sacred hands feel

What it is like to be you.

We are going beyond, to a place where the senses have

Worked the veil like a spindle of delicate fingers and revealed

Even a thimble of the sparkling profound,

A glorious celestial might for which there are no words;

Of which the human is a leaping.

Availed of the great art, this time of things ceases,

Forms are stripped nude; marble and stone is cracked;

Like a yolk, the core of the planetary body is revealed.

Streaming, white hot energy - a dissolute force.

This nakedness of the soul, this springtime,

This white hot heat which touches and touches the ethereal,

Gathered near to the smokeless smoke of the soul,

This higher power of streaming colorful lights,

This beautiful art.

What yet is unseen?

What else like a sharp dagger pierces the night and rends this new reality?

Brief pilgrimage of time, force, and flesh -

Strip me naked,

And bring me closer to the almighty powers, a deeper vessel, a more powerful, coursing vein,

Which bursts into the night

And sparks a beautiful life

Beyond the sense, sight

And sound -

Integration

Fiery burst of the exhaust,

Lionic fury of the engine,

Seething of ionic bonds,

Chaos of heated molecules,

Writhing in a spring rain,

Seeking for the complete again,

Of copulation’s fury.

Sexed to sexed,

They dance and weave,

A flashbulb popping beneath the eaves,

Of starry bonfires burning.

Wed amongst the willow trees,

In summer’s vast cacophonies,

Replete with blissful mysteries +

Red wine grapes’

Drunkenness.

Self Overcoming

Striking at the forge of scalding iron

Forming the craft of the spiritual art

In the grit of the striving;

In the striking of the metal

The sculpture of beauty is formed

Perfection

The divine flow of energy through all things

Is stimulated by their position in the great unfolding of affairs,

To the contribution of the evolution of consciousness.

Blood is translated, in colors, shining in the light;

Genetic information rippling in the breeze;

Delicately coiled inside complex chemical containers.

This artist, which we seek to comprehend intimately, is us;

Our transmission is fed through every cow; leafy green shining of the light,

Which receives word through tree, wind, and sunlight;

Lives among ancient stone.

The recombinant beaker contains all that is us, and is burned and purgated to ash;

Fed back to the rich soil’s ground. Each day, we strip and feed away,

Gnawing at the linga of the universe; teething like children against the great nutriment

Enriching gray matter of the brain; calming and rushing the storm of the blood;

Growing the mettle of the bones; the power of the muscle, fascia, sinew.

Each life is passed through this beaker, as in one whole -

Consciousness,

The primordial identification.

Each being is a sigil and a sacrament to the great mind, the brain which unfolds across dimensions and planes.

It stews and grazes on watery green grass;

It ingests that which consumes, to the ground;

To the fiery stomach of the flesh.

Divine mind, your complex structures of recognition and creativity,

I behold myself

In all of my intimate, unfolding, electric glory,

My expansive wholeness, which extends like roots and branches; veins and hearts

Far beyond the reach of my previous conception.

Streaming force of existence, blood of blood,

Empowers and emboldens my veins and form - that which I am; that which is

True creative desire, to make great works with the flowing, pulsing force

Which animates all living things.

In coalition with growing mind, to linger on the bright stoop of existence

And paint works of majesty and power.

O’ arts, great source of life, all of creation

Which desires and begets new and wild forms of creativity,

Animation, self possession, and streaming of the blood to blissful ecstasy of self fulfillment and recognition.

That which I am, in the whole of my powers,

Like the prepossession of a tree, or a stone, and yet consciously creative

With the divine sexual energy.

The immortal, unstained; unitive force, which passes with inheritance

Through all things, emboldened in time; with each masterful brushstroke,

Relays and stills the powers; within a beaker foments them;

Circles them; churns them like butter, lo - to ecstasy and emanation;

To separation and unio and conjunction;

Like lovers, the world clashes and reunites; produces split images,

Like mirrors, swim among the seas and find their partnerings;

Dissolve into ecstatic, blissful oneness.

Chemical compound; great bursting; like firecrackers you resound;

Explode in sound, fury, fire, and light; coloring the great art,

Finding pairs in intercoursing harmony. To each search, the great other,

Which copulates like cells; the touch of the hands of god in human form

Embodiment, the carriage of the divine light;

Embodiment, the centre of the heated fire; wherein meditation upon the sacred image raises and rises

The inner light.

This spiritual flame,

Imbued and endowed within all things.

Remember me, here, now; thus

For all eternity.

The corners of the mind extend from the deepest inner heart

To the wildest black other of the universe, seething in a gape,

Far from any dimensional fingered hands.

It cultivates, raw, wound like nerve,

About the spindle of the stars; wrap’t

Around the fingertips that form the fleshly third, mountains of time;

Accumulations of sediment and stone;

Vibratory, buzzing hives of ideation, swirling galaxies

In the mind of the cosmic artist.

Assembles, like a bridge or a ladder, from seeming chanting nothingness,

A whole humming, whirring, chirping corpus, of flesh and song,

A body of light in apparition, a profound complex mechanism

Of chemical smoke.

O’ mind, light of the divine, whose rays are shining within and between each crackling

Immortal sun,

Spinner of dreams, this world your vision, this body your appendage,

This womb your beating heart, and these organs your constellations,

This breath your rememory.

Stitch and unstitch this fiery ladder which breath peeks thru, like cool smoke,

This fiery ladder which rises deep into the night,

Your divination, spinning, weaver’s thread:

Gaping preconception

And bursting with the mask of creation,

Red mask, licking of black tongues beneath rows and rows of sharp teeth,

A stadium’s gnashing machination -

Beneath this moon, we are a colosseum of wonder,

A flesh briefly rising bestial to do playful battle in the throng’s

Chanting, drunkenness

As the trees mingle in orgiastic throes, Ecstasy,

You wanderer from night to night,

Lit from the bare back’s shade to the chest’s twilight,

This amber’s piercing container and revolving planet,

Within still hums and chirps the insect’s molecule, this drumming, fluttering wing

Whose light divine was digested a thousand times,

Like diamonds sung into coal.

Ladder, set against the black masslessness, o’ fear of death,

Which mingles paralysis, and sets the gaping fear against the day,

Who run and chant and desire and beckon,

To the black death of orgasm’s ecstasy, chant around the fire to madness,

Run and light fire, plant seeds and stones, ye who turn into stone

At the face of the coming infinity.

You, sign, who circles in the twilight

Like a god masked as predation,

Like a truth masked as a daemon,

Like an inner flame masked as a hidden, lonesome solitude.

Without tragedy, your jest is repeated, drummed and hummed into the body like a syllable,

A starting and a ceasing, a rejoicing and a silencing, a blackened space

Where two molecules never touch, yet ensouled with selfsame substance.

Absurd, likened your body of organs to the keys of time sung by genis,

Beneath the mould and cast of your quickening things

Which shift in and out of time like sands; rushing river’s water.

Reflection of eternity, dancing mirror, you are endlessly hid within things,

In greater and lesser measure; gravity, form

Like octaves of song.

Your template, this novelty of creation, type and antitype,

Admixed to create accelerated novelty, like combinations to the locks

Of your great planetary seasons;

Dances of ionic forms and their spiritual dimensions; what is done in the black gape,

Your invisibility, your hidden siren, your land of death.

That which we rush toward with curiosity and terror -

This life like an accidental madness, ye who gaze in the blackened mirror

Which reflects, some sublime nights, a chaos of moon -

Who spills your drinking blood into mortal glasses,

To thresh and gobble with broad teeth

Like ancient sharks.

Alas! Coiled, like ropes to snakes, clasped with ever loosening hands,

Death arises like a black wind, a cloak of night, sea deepened waters,

Quicked and stilled in a fermenting breadth,

Untouchable by mortal hands and yet they are steeped in it,

Like a drink of molecular compassion and community to the rebounding force

Which sends them shooting off, with watching and waiting eyes

Into flighty, light distances.

Look! Into me, my blackness, through which the light absconds like a fond ray,

A distant breach, a shooting star which barely caresses the periphery

Of fond, stasis playthings. It is not plastic, this rushing fury which leaps to bursting

Like the essence of animal, prior to all existence. It rushes and drives

Without objects. Without legs, arms, nor propellers of wind into this night -

For it is an unseen force, ripping divine

Uncontained fervoric reveries

Men, desperate for power, clasp the world in iron.

Reeds, with chains; oases encircled;

Stone carriages smeared with blood become walls of kingdoms;

Markets, for value restricted goods.

Severed bosom, mother of nature, auctioned off for slave parts,

Organs, arms and legs.

Above, the planets circle mockingly, like laughter’s birds of prey.

Time -

Their sieve of death.

To clench, with madness and blood,

To clench, for absolute power. To subjugate, manipulate, drain and purge

Exhaust and discard the flesh, pile atop pile of body.

Into the gape and abyss, flinging used souls

With gasoline, doused

Lighter fluid and match,

To set the screaming flame.

To place them upon hand and knee, to place them low to the soil,

And like pigs, set them to trough and slaughter.

One by one, to meet the executioner’s bullet.

Pulse after pulse, waves of revolution rip animal condemnation and fervor

As sides are rallied to genocides, holocausts, and political manipulations

For gain at the loss of the subjugated caste.

Feasts of the victor are set aside pyres of the dead;

Repetitiously circle like carrion birds

In the breeze of history.

As waves rear their heads and roar across the beachhead,

So too, are the great and meagre powers of men

Rippling across a stony shore, like trickling streams

Across pebbles.

Their cries, like teeming, festering stillwater pools

Of clashing bacterium

Upon a vast shore

Vying for supremacy

This world’s diamond illusion

And the sweet sickness of believers

Swirling in the throes of the vast, rushing river

Like passing faces in the mirroring sea

Grasping to water with water’s hands

This crumbling bridge of time

And furrowed brow of feeling

Which passes from orgiastic flow to thick contemplation

Like vats of a great vault

Of swirling, passionate mind -

Dreamer, anything is up for belief

Which can be moulded out of the clay of imaginings

Or cast from the fire of the sky

Into regular, everyday things.

Bread is bread, and pleasure is pleasure:

And this is like the accounts of men,

Like meat in the hymnal jaws of lions

And salmon leaping from the stream of heaving black bears.

What can be taken into mouth burns in the furnace crucible of transformation,

The rest is desire; an outstretched hand

A trudging through the wake of endless sands.

O’ body, still of the nights, vessel of the restless fire burning amidst a temple of skulls

Ye who endlessly reflect on immortality

And yet burn like a wicked wax

And thirst for desperate revealing:

These brief throes of agony and ecstasy,

To spill blood and tear at fleshy meat

Your antidote -

Within this greatest peace is a furious war

Of unhinged jaws;

Impossible desires.

This besotted ground is waiting for bloods of rain;

To swallow earth and be replete again

With carnation jungles of ecstasy;

Endless swilling epiphanies

Of return.

The carnal fire burns; swoops and breaks the plane of water with impunity,

Same as hawk in the diamondine ray,

Lost in the engine’s fury.

All drive toward the god of fire, dressed in rags, an evil thing -

Yet greatest mortality.

Holder of all containers,

Between this blood and the next,

Hungry beyond love and hate,

Hungry beyond moralities.

All light leads you hence -

To dissolution’s ecstasies.

To this we grapple, daemon’s angels

In a starry night which is in truth starless and black,

Understand - these revolving hungers are all bitten by the same poison;

Beneath them swills the ocean, sick and green,

But which draws the fire and purifies them

To burning arts, totems, and revelries.

You must run to death and plunge the sword into the belly of the last living thing;

To let the blood free like a dancer -

O’ art of great war

Where all blood mingles in a vast orgy uninfringed by cell’s walls,

Where desire is banished by nights of unimpeded love upon the earth

Untarnished by thought; untarnished by mint, lily, longing, desertation.

In this one breath, the whole is swallowed;

Spit out like a sunflower seed.

Gulp the husk, die, and be reborn

In the endless lilting song of death’s epiphany

And the dervish dance which speeds the rise and fall of the sun to fever’s pitch -

Shark jaws which catch the light and beat it to red pulping,

You, fiery love,

Dungeon master, slave ship,

Brutal, beautiful whip,

Casting cascades of fell love upon the earthen floor,

Beads of fleshy life in a bird submerged in darkness,

Dark, guttural cage - where the sun never shines -

Harvest - the harem of time, where fruits and birds mingle in the soil and wood

And chirp the soul songs which never receive the light of day,

Like the lover’s phallus in the grounds of May.

Choose, croon the saviors, choose -

Beneath the hot moon; border towns of forest

And gaping, breathing black abyss of hospital chanting

Where the trees exchange black veins

And life cycles endlessly about a swirling, vortexual point,

Like an abyssal, black beating heart

Ever present and yet unseen, unfound, unmanifest,

But in all things

Speak the language of dreams and reveal the cloak of the dreamer,

Beneath the bright and smooth dagger which he plunges into the wilderness of the brain and receives the cask of day;

Speak the language of dreams and reveal this shining, echoing blade of immortality,

Far beyond this infernal plane,

Whose wobbling is a mirror of light in flux,

Against and trapped

Wedded to days and nights.

Speak the language of dreams and unharness the deep, bright ox,

Who wheels the cart of the moon and stars,

Whose inner chanting heart beats the rhythm which breaks all days and burns all nights in an interpenetrative fury,

A wild mingling of cells in dissolute garments,

Madness of belief brought to pyre,

Purified in the flame;

Madness of desire brought to the slaughterhouse of memory

Ripped free from all bonds;

Returned to wild, bestial feeling

Without objectual impulse,

Ride, free fury of life

Across these vast planes of deathless blackness

Unhinge the horse of fury which resides purely in black space;

Attenuate, draw this poem to a close;

Rip the fabric of time

To reveal utter infinity

O’ art, fiery agon, to rip and tear at the flesh in the stadium of the stars,

O’ art, whose blackest root is fury and desperation,

Brutal hunger’s final act -

Animal tooth grinding, between fleshly matter’s spiritual reason,

Whose light reaches beyond the breast and tears heart into sun’s revealing,

Whose inner parts are made outer world, expressed:

Emerge from the shadows, hungry daemon, who lurks with bloody lips,

Trembling from hunger, ready to rend life from its root;

To free the blood into agony’s throes

To the joyous applause of the crowd.

Man who stands between sun and soil -

Feed this beast upon your blood, the labyrinthian thread

Which leads to your sacred killer.

This body your stone; you plunge the gutting knife

Deep into the first terror.

Breath, you strode, and impregnated

The lowliest things, as they fought in the mud, sexed the mud

And danced macabre until their breathing multiplied

In a fiery inferno.

They remember you, o’ lowly fear. You who sculpt from stone, the divine bridge.

Feed your blood to the minotaur, whose soil is deathly fallow.

He thirsts for your sacrifice.

Pour your blood into the chalice, and make him whole again with god.

Face your killer, shadow’s daemon.

You body of a thousand eyes; glittering teeth, your heart of untouched stone,

Whose fire cracks the egg of the stars and pours laval milk into the face and eyes

Of the waiting earth.

Impregnating her with your passionate fury.

Artist, you flail and gesticulate in a mad dance, thrashing against the canvas of the world,

Throwing brushstrokes of life against the air;

Smatterings of life, mud, nude molars of great dead things, hippopotamus skull, the face tearing baboon,

Cacti, and the alien molecules.

Your mad action,

Composed of aeon’s time.

Gamesman, upon this ring of art, we wrest, with smoke and shadows in the bonfire

In the midst of the colosseum, of trolls, devils with nooses about them, rope and wheels to the flesh;

Trials of light and rendings of the genealogy of beasts who possess the blood,

Furies who stand in the peripheries of the eyes,

Between this whole and divine being.

Come, jest with me in the twilight, when the blood reeks upon the canvas of dirt

And the nostrils flare with a despondent smoke.

This knife, glittering in the twilight.

Around, and around we circle, to whom must throw the gutting punch,

In this sporting of wide and broad terrors, this gulf of darkness, into which we must jump

With the fury and fervor of mystic heroism, one who does battle with starlight;

Carves planetary bodies like an executioner of precision.

This knife rends the night where there is nothing but black matter;

This knife rends even abyssal things.

Furies, to my side; crowd of eyes, still your applause.

A thousand eyed angel, spinning like a disk of lamp, moony trajectories.

Trace your paths across the sky, entranced;

As the stony, soapy jaws of the beast thump with a blood-beat,

Come near to me so I can strike you down,

Drink up your frothy flesh and blood, and wear you as a war mask, a token, a totem

Of the triumph of the spirit upon this earth.

Come near to me, so I can wear you, this great overcoming,

Agon’s warrior, who rends unspeakable serpent, lion, eagle, and scorpion from the fire;

Dressed in their brutal, poisonous smoke,

Rippling in and out of existence like a flickering of light; shadow and shade against a door.

Time, your master flicks his wrist and pulls your chain,

Beckons you to your deathly bellow.

Come, immortal, formless creat,

Where world was once fallow and stone, in the chains of the melting wax of turning stars,

This knife frees your eyes and your lips. Speak freely!

With time’s skull upon my chain; my foot atop the pyre of burning flesh.

Speak freely!

You lumber forth, dragging pearl necklaces of flesh, whole histories of mountains;

Pyres of ancient oils.

Douse this earth with your salvific gasoline;

Light this match, smear the first blood upon your face;

Burn in your triumphant victory.

Ye who strive against the forces and bounds - is Consciousness,

Ye who strive, through and into the mud, the dirt, the distance and sounds of the flesh, bone, and eye,

Chariot of the sun, who circles overhead like a carrion bird,

Jest to jest, amidst the pits of dirt and sunken sands,

Rip at the bounds; approach the unknown, like a cliff or a ledge;

Dive and twist like a bird of prey,

Mingle with the infinite and emerge with the stone of love.

Just beyond the reach is paradise; the sweat burns the ground;

The blood burns the film of the eye.

Entwined in ecstasy, full and embodied in movement, dancing in togetherness,

Stripping apparitions from the bone, dancing the bone to the distance where it reverberates and resounds,

O’ hollows of light,

Boughs of creation, whose arms are grappling like wrestlers in the eaves of this galaxy,

Whose tormented reach is like a spiral of becoming,

Further and deeper into the essential meaning,

Further and deeper into the trance of being:

O’ drum, O’ song, which alights the heart and beats the flesh into the dance,

Grapple like dancers in a world full of sand and stone, stand in the grit and pound the dirt;

Chant the raising particle, who ripples and furies,

Rend and peel the gape of the ovum with the wild eyes;

Peer into the infinite;

Find the madness and dance within the carnation of blood.

For this is art, conscious creation,

To mingle with the stone of the body and raise it through the chanting;

Wresting to wresting in the mud of the primordial blood

To a vibrating light; an ascending ray, a shooting star, a firing atomic vessel,

An organ’s note on the full keys of time, through the deep black muds of death to the light sprinkling angelia,

These scales of feeling: rip at the eyes, burrow into black quilts of dirt,

Sleep and slumber in a cool stasis; a warm fan of the summer winds blow

Upon the body as it slumbers in death, and rises once more from the chambers of the earth.

Striving blood -

Whose play and sport is hand to hand in rivers and oceans of light;

Ladders of stars.

At your command, black goddess, at the still of the bird’s pool, whose linga pecks at the water,

Aye, your command, borderlands goddess, whose hand is between worlds, twisting and mingling

Phenomena with the hands of black space. Distance stands between each touch of the eye;

Each desperate march shrouded with rain; diving rose petals in bloom about the island of time -

O’ mind, your container, private room, who in darkness reaches into the abyssal contact

Which ties all things, their golden ribbon of blood -

Gladly, I am pounding at the keys of your genii, between each of them is a gasping sigh;

Between each of them is a contrast, between the pounding blue and the black anticipation

Of a shadow’s corner, of a twist and turn,

You who sent me here to do battle with shadows

Bearing a fiery whip and cask of bones, smouldering eyes, which betray

Their inner flight of carnal daemon,

Predator and prey.

O’ liquor of the rising sun, lift me, before I fall into the drunken fervor of nights absurd;

Plunge into the basin of deep cosmic water, whose planets float and dance like apples in a barrel.

A child’s game, this, a child’s game of creation, whose eyes are drawn upon arms, and legs are entwined with trees

In a copulation’s rhythm, this world pulses - and yet, this energy wavers and ripens upon the great unseen vine;

Plucked unto psyche by psyche; sacrificed to the hidden bedchambers of the body -

I have fed this light steadily to fat the brain; to ripple the flesh into broad musculation

To pulse the blood and send it into the immortal frenzy of a bestial warrior, and yet in nights it chirps meagre,

Dominated by the paintress, whose hues stain the windows through which the eyes peer,

Destiny - this totem which I carry, hid within me, memory of the first rising sun;

The stone pas’t from pocket to pocket of absconding flesh,

Running t’ward oblivions;

Running t’ward ecstasy’s fulfillment of eternities -

Is there more higher climes than this, this willing intercourse with the reception of dreams;

Passion, of the grounding still of the earth which receives the rippling, swirling waters

Which form the divine reception of images

Time’s boundedness, to you, dreamless sleep, is nothing more than a brief dirge, a chanting in a hall

Which opens to a great and wide abyss, where all dreams converge in the conjuring

Of riverwater’s admixture of feeling, colours, hues, and destinies -

Draw toward me truth, that which I am, that - my immortal nature,

Through which my ears and eyes become roots and talons of the great night;

Beacons and bodies of the eternal light, everpresence,

The elixir that I drink; in nights, my totems do work with fiery symbols of temptation,

Use my past to sculpt the eternal within the ephemeral, the spirit within the flesh,

The face within the madness,

To reveal the organs unseen, amidst the phenomenal becoming,

Unfold the mystery

Before and within me

Eternally

All heat is of the same kind, drawn star to star in chemical affinities;

Colorful dressings, like dragons of peacocks of the sun

Who sparkle in the selfsame light, which they absorb

Like rhododendrons, pockets of a same number

Which scream lilting reverberations of the body in octaves of specieal language,

In thousands of cascading tones, across the wide and broad lyre of the universe,

Whose pockets are like frets, or drummer’s distances

From striking at the center of the heart,

A heat pounding rhythm,

Crossed and crossed again, in the encounter which affixes

Love across the eyes of the screaming star, whose driving rhythm encounters all

Faces, shapes, hues, and times

In the jungle of writhing, transforming things, in the midst of the balms of their evolution,

Their shedding, skinning turning, from beast to beast, lumbering preambles

Of starlight epiphanies, unto the last shedding of the body,

To the warm red-white balm of love, pure reverberating beacon of lightedness,

From chambers within, they encounter, time and time again

The primordial mud of forgetting; the thick chant of longing;

The diamondine glint within and beyond the eyes;

The encounter of the lost totem

Dislodged from memory -

This encounter to remember is like a leopard and an antelope,

Or a lion and a lamb, a predator and a prey,

A subject and the lost object, dismembered, floating in broad space;

Shewn from the mind of psyche like a needle’s withdrawn substance,

A blooded fury and passion

Lost from imagination’s creation

And reclaimed in sight.

The fiery orb of desire’s object

Is like a spinning disk of golden sunlight

Whose thousand eyes recognize

The revelries of truth within,

Once told only in the sparkling shades and promise of dreams,

A sunlight encounter, breast to breast

With the ancient, sacramental, primordial fire

Whose bloodrhythm is the same, whose song is the same,

Whose chords are matched; chemical love

Like a starry popping; admixture of power

Neurons matched to neurons,

Hearts matched to hearts;

The drawing close of the timely essence

In which each consumes the other in a sacred fire

Of blissful mating’s receptivity,

Like water and sunlight feed the shoot of the seed

Who breathes again in sudden, ulterior

Immortal form

Whose novel unfolding is an unpredictable revelry

Of myriad encounterings,

Of dusk to the deer, of root to the honeybee, of asteroid to the foreign starlight;

Of passion to the canvas of time,

Like chisel to marble.

This immortal source, admixture and manifest

In the turning of eyes upon the inner fire’s essence;

The breathing received

By divine other’s figuring.

You will step quickly to the violence,

Smooth to the barricades of ruins and revolutionaries, fervors of madmen in open air asylums,

Screaming red, green, and blue

Tyrants of bright noise, propaganda machines;

The apocalyptic art of the heroic march of drums.

There is even gladness to this, these days

Of the death throes of empires, gasping and panting

And the collapse of all meaning,

Linguistic, derived.

Specieal

In the crumbling of the glaciers;

Pockets of presumed safety,

Downfall of governments

To riotous insurgency

In these days of desperate guilded cages of slavery,

Shielded away from the solar turning of nature’s form

Taught and trained to obey the insane doctrines of priests mad with power;

Using the bodies of the prostrate for pleasure

This time of chaos and awakening

Where the body trembles and is leashed to chairs

Captivated by false images; icons are broken

And lives are thrown into desperation

At the upheaval of false order

Instigating the primal search for meaning; respite

From the beating, circling, ravenous sun of death

Brick by brick, the flesh lags by the thick jolting thunder,

Rudder and spirit which thunders and bellows;

Rends the waters into high and dark waves;

Dizzies the turning earth.

Mad smelter in the hurt belly of the earth

Use the ancient oils to light the wicks and wax of the bodies

In their hurtling epiphany,

They tumble toward the light like blind slaves;

Mellow everyday dirges of life,

Scrapings at the cave wall of stone

And engravings with a language soon to be forgotten and condemned to infinity

Horse body, earth body, tiger body,

How brief your change and your shape shifting growl,

Your guttural utterance, your forest like tenements,

Your mad rushing about at the ticking clock, to strike at hunger again and again,

Beating at the dirt

This hut, tent of squalor

Amidst the ripping brave elements,

Chemical essence thirsts for reunion

With the fell death that kills stars, erases systems, forgets names;

In ecstasy raptures the sun with stinging flares,

Thousand armed god and hands

With spears of light

This terror stare; wondrous rapture

As body is laid fallow to make for new temples,

Passing bliss of rigorous sex from hand to hand;

Ripped in time to petrified stony gaze,

Whole of time wrought silence of the daemon,

Whole of time wrought the bellow, to pallor of declaration, to gaping plot

Make clear these forms like trees and breasts and stones

Which accumulate and compile

Like ledgers of life, ledges and tools

From which the great haunting fire leaps and escapes

With pirouetting grandeur

From which the language of silence emerges from the pyres

Licking one another like cats,

Tasting the oil of the engines

Offshoots of gas and excrement

Lick at god, whose burning confidence

Is above the between graves; a burning infinity of an ecstatic system

Making and breaking mortal laws with a striking about

Of the chaos of great energy

Which asserts new laws

To birth great new bodies to hold its essence

This techne, for breath and power, for thrust

And mind for making, your intelligence

Rose from dust and yet begs certainty to new forms, life beyond the dark changing;

This godly total nature laughs and inserts life precisely where it needs to be

To awaken to the whole of the powers

As all bearings, bonds, and tithes are stripped away, the soul of the world is revealed

Like the bright shining beneath a book, the soft lappings of the waves

And the brush of the breeze in the trees of the wind. This world is silence first beyond name,

And the distant tome of a language unspoken and yet eternally remembered upon burial grounds and graves.

The shining is reminiscent upon everything; it remarks in the glad and total stillness

Of presence amidst absence. It glitters upon the surface of the shifting sands of the ocean;

Sparkles greater and deeper than any gold. Truly, as all possessions are relinquished,

The full presence of life unveils itself. We are stripped naked of our bodies, our tithes, our remembrances,

And in each stripping away, the truth of the humble shining of the immortal stone makes itself everpresent;

The beauty and self possession of life is everywhere about us, and within us. We feel the immortality;

The transcendent mystery amidst this right conduct, being as we are the chirping of the birds, bees,

Brush and undergrowth, shining of the leaves, rippling reflection of the bright warm summer sun

Together with the calm breathing of the waves of an endlessly flowing river. In truth, this,

There are no graves, but a passage into the bright and light mystery, a twinkling, a shifting of light

Through the sands of the sun, the waving of the tree branches and leaves, through which light moves, waves, and dances

Like an endless work of art. It is only in our mind’s eye that we form the shapes and sounds into meanings, from the abstraction of the stained glass mural

Of moving sound, of dancing light, of licking flame - it is only from there that we see syllables in the fire; words in the flame.

For truly, life is an everpresent thing, signifying nothing but the immense beauty and revelry of a great work of art, which we evolve steadily to bear witness to,

By sharpening our inner sense and loosening our mortal bonds, which tie us to bound to life as something which we must sustain, and sustain us. It is the total humbling

Which is our revelation of nature, time, glory, self, and essence of being. From there we are laid low, truly low, to the point of which we are equal, total and pure witnessing

To the unfolding of the divine undercovering of consciousness; the growth of nature, which occurs within us, about us, and all around us.

And this, precisely, is the immortal story, which endlessly captivates us, and from which all other stories are derived. Each compound vestibule, each shining light and node and eye of consciousness has its own prerogative, its own private destiny, its own language of derivation, code of suns, digestion, health, from which its private world unfolds over times great and small alike. The brevity of an ant; the eternity of a sun, and these which endlessly flicker and exchange energy like a translation of the poetry which is the fundamental essence of being

Endowed in, and with, and moving through all things and forms as the eternal force which impels them, and speaks them into being as natural language, words, and scripture.

For this is time - beneath it is a shifting light, shade, and shadow, through which beings are formed in contrast, and stand as uniquely endowed essences, whose fundamental characteristic and characteristic is and are separation, and yet total and fundamental unity upon a scale of light, a scale and a harmonic of density, song, language, and brevity - a chorus, a lyric, or a verse, which is sung for a time and admixed into the eternal symphonic of the whole. For this is the very color and texture of the ant, the ant’s mind; the prerogative and influence of a sun upon all things; the way, method, and manner of its burning, and its own sacral intuition, form, structure, and function within the whole.

Each being is endowed with this code and function within the entirety of nature. It moves as if it knows, as it does, intuitively, the way in which it works within the great masterpiece,

And yet, is far more than a cog. Rather, it is an agent of consciousness, something among and as many things that it is becoming conscious of, working with,

And ultimately, finding its place as and within the greater cosmic whole. This endowment of nature is awakening and awareness;

Ultimately, this wholeness and presence of stillness, as to the gold of nature, and its shimmering, gleaming unfolding -

Within which is the eternal presence, beauty, and jewel of awareness - a masterwork of art, and an aesthetic unfolding of beauty

Ever increasingly grasped by consciousness, as that which - perhaps paradoxically - relinquishes the image it perceives to have of itself, and the strictures, bounds, and borders of its own existence, in order to experience the revelation of that which it truly is - something so deeply profound and broad and in motion and yet still, that it exists seemingly entirely in paradox, and yet is the entirety of that which is. And there are simultaneously not words to describe it and all words to describe it. This is the simultaneously maximal and minimal poetry of existence; the masterwork of sculpture and painting of light over time that enraptures the senses and cultivates a profound experience of multiplicity and diversity formed from the essential fabric of being.

And yet, within each and every element and part of the whole, the whole is entirely contained.

This - is the path to the enlightenment of, and as to the nature of, the self.

We did music and danced under the full and half full vase of every colored moon, blue strawberry blackness,

We painted with the blood of lambs upon the sacred doors of our churches and stone cave temples,

We loved as infant spiders and spun webs upon the cloudy, satin dew of the sunrise in the far east,

In a carafe overlooking the sun, where there was barely a beach, but a moor of dreaming;

We took our love in doses, in black boxed rooms of darkness, asylum inmates on the broach of the universe,

Jutting out like ancient cliffs, creeping into consciousness and history like parasitic veins;

Moths with sacral, convex eyes, living at the bottom of the ocean’s jungle, drug up like murky poisons,

We came together and broke apart like the breach between ecstasies, drags of cool cigarette smoke, fires in our lungs

Belching like pits of the earth; we shifted like the plates of time; angled our longings like fish in the rays of the sun,

Streaming light from our mouths.

All the earth was cool and warm at once, and we were born from distant stars, in a rite on the hot beach

Beneath the altar of the palm trees. Angels sang, in disembodied voices

And we were quietly insane, mad with longing, or ensconced in truth, like the embalming red

Threads of blood

Which we wore around our necks and hips and waists like trophies. Purely animal,

We danced and died and danced again. Purely flora, we bloomed like the chanting geometry of the stars,

Drawing circles around ourselves and spreading our seed like dandelion weed; puffing at the opium of the oxygen and carbon dioxide

Which we traded like cool sweat from the beasts whose excrement we ate; stewed in the foil of our breasts and roots

And breathed out cool crystalline blues, greens, and reds.

It was us who were the allowance of the universe; it was us who in our sex copulated like worms and mollusks and formed the basin of time;

The base where the broad meats stewed and carrion fell dusk made drums of oil

Which immolated our lives; immortalized our love in the dark stew where popping colors split the flesh of the black darkness of space

In a painting of starry grandeur,

Where we ran like basilisks upon the black infinite water’s night, and we chased down the food of ecstasy, embellished it upon blankets;

Harshed the wombs of our bodies into chemical furies; collapsed into fervorous dreamings,

Where we were but the stew and still of night, where we rested and copulated in the agonic waiting, from genes, from heat, form right circumstances;

Gather wonders here, where they once wandered, forever in the desert of chance, this gaming cosmos, whose star and star form a unity,

Whose parts fit like night and day, a tincture of shapes of absence and presence,

Immortal sex organ of the stars.

For we were formed like an idea more abstract and missing than smoke, which in our bodies was opacity like a night without stars, we who were seeded and sat

Without fire and without the chanting guides of night from above,

Who sat without candles, but this steadily growing madness within our breasts, this maddening, pounding flame

At first unseen and then all consuming, in the mad passion of emotion

Who sprung us from wombs of patient silence like bloodthirsty tigers

Who sprung us into action like the craft of this nature, who must heat the blood and cool it to new reunion;

The reorganization of new forms.

Do you remember that first night, where we danced and died in bathtubs in a foreign paradise, where we did not know the name, nor did we speak it.

Was it fear, or was it that the world came panting down upon us, like the heat of a great animal,

Whose heavy night was far greater than any summer; whose boil was a fissia nuclear,

Whose very molecule threatened to rend us in a thunderous word.

Gone are those nights of wandering, where we sat, baking in our minds for what felt like eternity, fomenting the casket of this earth

And ushering in something far more alien, profound, and ulterior.

Like a rotund child, we spun, like an orchid of Venusian intent, we spun and flowered something dark and antagonistic,

Something bloodspilled, evil, horrific, and laughing behind the chanting mask, was just you, the lover,

Something like the underbelly of night, or the passionate moon beneath the rippling veil of the curtain that billows between our lips,

Like a siren between here and the refractory of light.

Call us noise, that we sprung up from the darkest catacombs of forgotten history, and riled our way here, this waltz of time,

Where touch and touch brought together the fabric of genes; the breath of each of us, toys, with parts repose

Whose magnetism rifts and currents the ocean with dancing electricities.

What affinity was this, that passed us from the dissolute elixir of time before time, time out of time,

To this town of complex forms? What dirge was it, whose science

That we would become this nature, and that I would desire you again, on this spring day, beneath our own private stars

In this world hidden to our senses?

So it is with time, and the privacy of destiny. It calls us forth, and calls us home

Like an ancient ancestry.

For if we must be again, let us be light, let us be empty and full all at once;

Let us move with steps that brisk the wind and the stars, and give the ocean its passionate fury.

Let it lend us the colors of all of the wild birds, and the dreams of night.

Let us be wild; let us be the chanting art of all of being.

Will you be here when the molten leaf roars,

When the feathered serpent goddess, in all her plumage, shirks her last responsibility?

The world will descend into chaos;

Man will become a further beast, a monstrosity closer to god,

With skin sung hymns like the rattler bones of great and ancient snakes

Who rapped their tily flesh about the earth and squeezed, until it popped

Like a glassy droplet of brain.

The beast is black and blue; beat half to death,

Clothed with the hairy skin of every jungle creature, sweat which sunk into the gnats which sting the pulpits of the eyes and make men blind to the fury which is the passage of time.

Slowly, but surely, the genetic ladder is made swift change in motel rooms

On the outskirts of the wide, unconquered swamplands, writhing like a mosaic of the sun,

Darklight moon streaming through the windows.

Does it make us crazy to know that we are in the midst of the barbaric changing;

That we are at once the stony altar of transformation and upon it, we, the altar of blood sacrifice, the ancient rite of copulation?

What bleaches the skin makes it red; we draw close to the sun’s orgasmic ecstasy,

With whips and chains, like prisoners,

We wept the private copulation’s blood;

Stored it away to age like wine in somber, wooden jars of the womb,

And we waited, for the birth of the beast,

Whose prickly, hunchbacked hyenal face,

Whose mouth is a baboon’s scream,

Whose eyes are insect eyes, of the fly,

A survival technology -

What are lovers but this, whose strains and throes, and short breath whispered tensions are a push and pull of agony’s birthing of ecstasy; from Eros death;

Cleaving, from the depths of unity

Again new life?

What bestial molecule seeps through the gutter skylight

Where we copulate in mud and burial rites

Writhing on the ground that holds the fallow bones of an infinite conquering

An overcoming by fire -

It almost seems sacred, this,

That we would die like vultures, feasting on blood and meat

Upon the sodden, spongelike ground

Which sops us up like dew,

Between revolutions, where our skin and eyes and bones are rent from us in transformation;

Howling, they break and bend and contort,

And like hybrid creatures, we become something ulterior;

Beckoning from ordinary things, this maze of desires

Where we are drawn to spider’s needling sting, upon the mount of castles, moors, timeless assaults and in stockrooms, battlefields, dens, upon glassy tabletops in skyscrapers high above modern cities, in huts

Upon the assailant, ultimately of time,

Whose ground is a doorknob, a tenuous broach

Before an infinite, dark, murky, primeval

Hidden night’s ground

Where we poison and taunt

And beat with fists until the fertility is complete;

The blackness seeded with potentiality;

Gape sealed with the nectar and juice of life,

What mad things sprung from union with god,

Presence where there was no vacancy; wholeness of self.

Art, this immortality -

Inner lover’s caress.

This world is a death machine otherwise,

Unkempt, and with no reason to further the passage of this ancient suffering,

Squeezed infinitely from tracts of womb;

Lives like beads upon an infernal necklace of fiery sacrifice.

A ghastly, incomplete power,

A lurching forth of primordial urges

To ecstatic completion.

They are spent up and lie in a heap

In the final orgasmic thrust,

Spraying themselves upon the canvas wall of the horizon as the dawn of a new world threatens;

Children rise from their beastly caves to realize unknown dreams;

Like mortar shells, they burst into the night,

Shocked with their purpose

And fall silent only in the coming revelation.

The night is old,

Who creeps and takes; who breathes and copulates,

Who transmits the ancient information from breast to breast -

Ye who holds the secrets of the blood.

Why have you drawn us into this madness?

But to change the colours of our lips and face; to slice and take arms from us;

To replace them with hawks’ talons of metal;

To replace our eyes with watching telescopes of supernovae, our ears with strange, batlike signals.

You have made us into beasts, and yet will make us bestial still,

Upon marital bedsheets of blood,

Where each is wedded to equal emptiness;

The third, a pregnant jungle of uncertainty

Who leers, like a mutant

Oceanic

Hanging in the dark breeze

The daemon of genius, when all of the wine is but drunk of the world

Invents new wellsprings; bursts like thunder and fires of the sun to innoculate

A new order into the deathless ground, to inject new straits of life and ideation

Into broken, barren stone. Where old empires and ruins once stood

Genius marks the eternity of time; surpasses pure man,

Between death and immortality.

Use this fire to cut wires and stone, rend all flesh of the earth,

And cut the planetary gelatin like cake. Gobble the flesh in a frenzied madness; full to bursting,

The entrails of the earth are like a goblet of skeletal flames.

At last, this ground. Palatable fury, to mate with the dead; to dance in the flames.

This dull world is rent, gutted, and hung like a garland flag; wrapped ‘round the waste

Of the one who has swallowed this life’s axis whole, kicked the dying dust

And danced with mad glee atop the pulpit of humanity.

We were once tigers, danced in suits; we were once trees, we waited long;

We were once awaiting in burrows and in nests; coiled in snakes, with bodies like glaciers.

We were once icy and whetted with dew, our appetites fomenting, as the stars slowly burned,

And this earth twisted and shook in a bellydancing.

It took, to this light, the blade that slashes tongues; the penetration which took endless lives

And made them mere tools. This earth was gutted and remade more times, this rock island,

Than death remembers. It was all a fury of flesh and blood; the gutter of birth and death

Where beggars did penitence in streets overflowing with excrement and disabused corpses

Whose souls had flown from them to mingle with the sun, whose words spoken mingled with the blood and rain

Which loitered and soiled countless graves.

It was once and honor and a privilege to be sacrificed for nothing, though the vicious beast gnawed with an invisible fire

And coiled its tail about all things; called them back to the gaping whole within its mouth,

A throat of time, a cavern dark and deep, sucking immortal light like a licking vein:

It is this black hole that we chant, as we sacrifice endless lovers, whose twisted mutant faces resemble cow skulls,

Who leave only their broken remains to mingle with the earth.

You’ve tossed arms and heads, inviolate, you thrashed in the mud

And produced heirs to sacrifice them in smoking pits of gas and flame. You sprung from the forest groves to be razed with sharp blades;

Nursed like chicks to hens to be bled at the root, fed your droplets to the earth and the beasts that roam there, gnashing their teeth atop jetty crags

Leering, leaning, clinging onto driftwood for pure life, only to be rent by steeping in any one of your elements, buried in earth, singed by fire,

Dissolute by ripcurrent stream.

You were so hungry you rent yourself, tired old hag, from the bones of your young you fashioned the beautiful, which you too ate,

Out of the desperate, despairing emptiness. Ever your stars were gulped like a draught of firewater, ever you belched

So tenderly upon the table of bones; trading hearts for hearts, lovers for lovers, in your design to endlessly strip crumbling towers

For creeping new blooms.

Laying prostrate before you, and with you, we entirely surrender death, and the vase which drips the blood gobbles it,

Same as the earthen pottery which is your teeth, and your transformation.

Why, fair, must it end this way, that you or I is in your mouth, that you or I bleed your blood, that I am pricked and streaming

Like a fountain of roses? Why must I kick up the dirty soil in a fit of madness, bathe myself in rags, and preach like a beggar,

All the while, your fallow, steaming carcass is like a bungalow city of prostitutes, a dirge of empty tricks, a shallow pot of thieves.

All are liars who are caught in your veil, wrapped up in the curiosity of your beauty, and do not see your fiery eyes,

Your bloodthirsty recognition.

Pawns in your game, this life. All that they own is a barrier, a fit of passion, between them and your entirety.

You sing to me at the end of all things, the point at which I am seething in the mud, all of my terrors reduced to mere playthings,

In this bright and breathing pain. You sing to me in the sacrificial act, in which I am rent, one by one,

To the organs of my desire, where I am to a pulp,

This meat that is passed around like a trades fair, where each murdered whore, each suicide, each slaughtered cow,

In this factory of murder is your temple,

This bloodpraise, do we see you, beyond your curtain, doing a dance where only your eyes are visible, this tent of bodies

Where only the eyes to your soul are seen, flickering desire, as all things are withdrawn back into and unto you.

Black temple, my inspiration is wild and truly has no motive. It has no place in this world of teeth

Where they fight death with anguished eyes and weapons unfit for battle. These dull swords merely lash like whips;

Prolong the inevitable.

You take the face of each sacrificed lamb, each brief path which looks with desperation for any remaining droplet of your love

In a land dried to tears in a deserted, silent swamp

Of only poisoned water. Beneath your skin is the light, this holy worship where predation ceases,

And we are all prey at the temple of your love. O’ holy time,

You tame my bones and marrow and give them to a child. You take me to the unceasing thirst of the black succubus at the end of time,

And watch my parade become utterly transformed. The bones of my love were cast like planets and stars,

And you gobbled them with delight. We mated and made this flesh, these boundaries, this distance,

Where I watch you play the shadow game with men, creatures, furies, and tall grasses. You are swimming even where there is no air and no light

With your gaping face of death. You eat and gnaw even at the blackness of your mind;

Your song is even in the brutality of the sacrificial rite,

You were once at the pyramids where the blood flowed through ceremonial stone, in pathways

Like it trickles in the dirt through mass unmarked graves.

Who is unmaimed by your terror? Who does not surrender to your grace, and awaken to the trail of suffering?

My eyes have seen the fury of the moons which pull like arrows at flesh upon strings in all directions;

Strain the caged beast unto demonic fury. I have seen the lights extinguished and the pallid sigil of redness,

And the bodies strewn in its wake. You who make us mad, in each forgotten love,

The home of all bodies, lights, and forms.

This mouth is your own, as are these eyes, and in each waking moment they perceive the ineffable, hid within violet forms.

The light casts and strikes them; beneath their transparent flesh beats your heart; your movement,

Is it treachery or art? This forgetting which makes madmen look sane, and drives aspirants to rape and murder.

The truth of your world is at the edge of anguish; at the hilt of the great spear which is the arrows of the light of the sun as they pierce the body.

Upon your stove, we are in your hands, perpetually consumed

And desperate for life.

If this is your grace, may it be so, that all hands and tithes are removed, and that you flow freely, without thought, without meaning, or purpose.

Is it your education, this darkness, this madness, this descent? Where all that is left, where all that we are left to is utter untethering?

Is this the truth of black space - then,

That we are powers of smoke at the edge of a great mouth, and that it is only your grace, your serpents thread, beneath all forms

That sustains us?

Thus we worship, in truth, the presence of life. At each moment, you are like a bullet of awareness which pierces and riddles all forms

To your mystery. This life, an education, of what truly lies beneath terrors. They were desperate for life, until they had enough

And then they turned to you, end of all desires, end of all turnings,

End of all cycles of birth and death.

They turned to you and you made them whole;

You laid them in your marital bed and mated their stars,

In union, eternally at rest.

You who called me to you, so subtle, like a chanting in a molecule,

A swirling black hole mouth, you whom I cannot see,

Can I call your face Death? A chanting delight, who is ringed with dancing wraiths

About a fire of my candle lit soul. Or can I call you Desire?

You whose red lips drive me mad with passion and fury. Can I dance around you,

Spilling my life from the cup in which it is rent, unburden me, mistress of the Night,

You who I lay with in this death and dying, Lord of Time,

You whose name I pronounce with every breath,

You who is wedded to and within all things, within their deepest mystery

Unburden me of this world, and shock me awake with your electric thunder. Breathe into me your immortal fire.

Lash me with your terror and make me whole again.

I am not even sand nor dust, nor am I the black night you perceive. I am the whole of the deathless furies who impregnate

Each apparition of time, each swirling dimension, formed in mass, like a theatre or a play. It is I who dance light around you, guild you,

Fury you, passion you, make you. It is you who are within me, and I who are within you.

Open me to the whole of your spaceless burden. I felt your weight of time like an iron anvil against my soul,

Pressing me to the earth, my mouth to the mud, my dying carcass to the hot heartbeat of your sacred flesh.

Rend me, split me open, reveal my jewels and splendor - nothing can take this, o’ hot spirit and soul,

O’ hot desire of time out of time, you who are beyond all things

And yet stand with your immortal passionate fury within them, beating and heating like a lion,

Beyond suns, are you. Beyond even the word immortality. I climb the stairs of light, and try to grasp you and fail.

I beat against the doors of demons and devils to grasp you, and I rent them in the splitting fire

Which turns all to ash, and leaves you proud and trembling, infinity, naked,

Your concupiscent lover, sent from the horizon of stars, peaking over this abyss,

Your fire is sculpted by wind; within your tunnel we copulate with the brushstrokes of mastery,

O’ passionate fury, is this all I can say to describe you? Genius, Daemon, beyond the depths of the immortal pool in which the reflection of my soul’s face dwells,

There you are, with broad embrace, there is nothing that you do not catch and cannot catch you in your fiery embers. How is it that in the depths of the blue black ocean there is this fire?

Heroes fight endless wars of depths and dance around you and the chanting blood of your most fearful demons to glimpse you, Enchantress,

And yet none are truly there, jest of light and shadows. I drove this knife into the heart of reality and was gifted eternity,

It spilled from your breast like wool and honey; it spilled like sheep shorn light which wove this shroud

Which split my hot flesh and showed me what was even beneath the marrow of bone, beneath even the cell of blood,

Break, and break open again and again in light. Reveal yourself! Desiress, lover, chantress, all things who is song,

Beneath them, weaving. Throes of death, breathing close to me, nipping at my heels and copulating with my flesh in a timeless song.

We dance in the furious pounding of the drums. We dance in the intersecting of the stars, at the point of the blackness of the death,

The red cooling embers of extinguishment, the loss of the arrow of the moon. Direct me, guide me where there is no light,

Bring me down into your hidden chambers, your dark recesses,

Reveal to me the light of my soul,

The passionate fury which breaks all things into the jewel and gem of light.

Reveal to me the heated, sharpened, passionate blade

Which cuts straight through to eternal loving.

The gates of death are cold as stone,

While spirits like sprites float through the air, like pollinators of the flesh.

The world stares up at the abyss of stars, like a gash of night. All things fly toward the inevitable;

Some run like lost horses; others drop their last, few errant things

And run in the darkness laval. With claws and bitter teeth, clasped to the earth

They are dragged in terror toward unknowing.

What, in the black reaches dissolute, is like the bottomless star,

Whose smoke and earth and flesh has faded,

When consciousness is shielded from ears, arms, and eyes.

We each meet our private ends, like in dreams - our worlds separate and deluded

Meeting briefly when the eyes meet, but never when the hands touch.

It is such that this temporary prison bottles life, and ferments it against endless trials.

Again lashed, it utters the ghost, and paints the flesh against the canvas of the stars.

This is not utter futility. Like a wine stills and deepens draught

The psyche peers out from beyond the opaque gape of the body; drips excremental,

Sips of life; hungers for earth. The emotions run wildly, like taps and faucets of color.

Each must taste the black of death and the midnight blue of stone, the red of passionate fury

And the yellow of ecstasy. We all approach the sun with terror, tremor, wonder, and touch the ineffable.

It may be in a cart, upon cobblestone, a long forgotten war, or an innocent droplet of transformation’s essence,

In a forest lit by a penetrating, bright blue moon.

Each of us touches the terrible light. It rains upon us like angels, pierces us with bright spears of ecstasy.

Have we had enough, of the thing that steepens us and makes us mad with desperation, longing -

Like the change of wine from grapes upon the vine to brew. This world is a witch, whose work is in our cauldron

In which we seethe and scream, chase and dream, and in each moment

Reach out to grasp the ineffable within the totem of the ephemeral. Like weed in a breezing storm, petals of life

Fly and dance, and are like an elixir that we endlessly drink and yet never touch.

Possessed are we, of that which passes right through us, the vessel of the flesh

Like the sands of time.

The spirit is appalled at death. It flights from time, batting away in disbelief. And yet the eyes decay,

The body, roiled by gravity, bitten and beaten by pleasures, burned by days of sun;

Agonized by nights of pain - strips itself one by one toward the infinite chord

Which always lay hid beneath; within the breast.

The spirit is revealed through time, like a painting of brushstrokes is each life,

Each moment, a lick upon the canvas amidst a rollicking flame.

Take what you will; like a master sculptor is Time,

Together, let us rend this masterpiece from the brute stone of this life,

Lift this soul toward an eternal sun: this carving.

Reveal the beauty within me,

Bring me unto myself.

“Ghora is darkness, the darkness of ignorance. Aghora means light, the absence of darkness. Under the Tree of Knowledge is an Aghori, a follower of the path of Aghora. He has gone beyond ignorance thanks to the Flame of Knowledge which billows from the funeral pyre.

The funeral pyre is the ultimate reality, a continual reminder that everyone has to die. Knowledge of the ultimate reality of Death has taken the Aghori beyond the Eight Snares of Existence: lust, anger, greed, delusion, envy, shame, disgust and fear which bind all beings.

The Aghori plays with a human skull, astonished by the uselessness of limited existence, knowing the whole world to be within him though he is not in the world. His spiritual practices have awakened within him the power of Kundalini, which takes the form of the goddess dancing on the funeral pyre: Smashan Tara.

He is bewildered to think that all is within him, not external to him; that he sees it not with the physical eyes but with the sense of perception.

The Flame of Knowledge is that which preserves life, the Eternal Flame, the Supreme Ego, the Motherhood of God which creates the whole Maya of the universe and thanks only to Whose grace the Aghori has become immortal.”

• Vimalanda

Born, flung, from the craters of an outer moon, dark moon asteroid

With flaming eyes of being,

Flung into form, and dancing with angelic wings amidst the flames.

The day is perfect; seethes like a gripping stew, full; dripping of life,

Semblance of the honeyed gold which is the pregnant whisper

Of life speaking the runic word, with each rustling, cowing;

Guttural growl and buzzing,

Toward a perfection of the expression of the artistic word.

For this wet plasmic breath of the air is the constellation of atomic stars.

This fullness breathes into the cavernous lungs of the body and brings with it life,

Like the boon of even the blackness of space, the boom of a distant thunder

Which reaches out and touches with blind hands to alight the complex eyes of the mind.

Blindness of fish, the wet, dewy green leaf, take the foment of energy

And craft the sheer engulfment’s self possession of life - bodice

The living blood sculpture of ages, enraptured with twirling ecstasy

This partner is an eternal sex, with eyes wedded to eyes, in the midst of a massive sun,

A heated tonic of orgiastic encompassment, the wedding of bodies to bodies,

Like leaves to dandelion ground, like mycelia to the pulsing of the stars; the compulsion of the soil, teeming with snaking, serpentine lungs. Each planetary body dances like tempted bulls, clothed

In the matadoric stadium of love, waving, streaming threads of blood

Like green stems dancing in the foil of the wind.

Perfect presence is enraptured and fully the elements, not dissimilar to a tree,

Nor to things hidden from the eyes of the sun; occulted by the moon.

A night’s mirror peering into the labyrinthian lungs of all existence and time,

Into the halls of the maze through which was birthed something entirely eternal and yet ephemeral,

A vision in the cauldron of blood, a rising of a yeasted loaf,

A vision replete with the complex network of veins,

A vision that gives and takes with a molecular dance of feeling;

Twirls with the turning of the seasons and the heat of the sun.

Bodies are called in the living death to the burning star, almost chemical sycophantics,

Like bodies take toward the heated light of the blood for warmth; tunnel into caverns of themselves in passages of darkness;

Dream with the inner eye and resource currents of energy.

The convex eye of the world collapses to reveal an inner gem, grottoes of feeling

Which complete worlds of concrete; gravitational rules of seeming certainty.

Here, bodies dance free of the sun, upon heels against the sheer force of vision;

Levitate in hills and valleys of shadows of turning light,

Hand in hand like the trace of blood unto the return to the first cataclysmic throes of birth;

Unto the first chemical reaction,

Upon which we dance, entranced, magnetized, drawn towards one another like warm stones beneath the veil of time,

Upon which our faces are painted like the blood of stones, smeared like the warpaint of separation;

Returned to our simple, profound ecstasy.

The sophisticated art of the fiery breath spells out the rapture of jutting stone crevasses

Of mountains which cut against the sky like razors, and ground like emanations

The spirit and the soil of the soul; the brief fermentation of aeons,

The cold soil of stone against the banging masterpiece of fire which knocks

Against each sleeping tomb of stone and awakens the cosmic fire

Which reverberates, ripping through the fleshy corpse like warm blood;

Awakens the sleeping beast within the mist of night

And shovels the life into the midst of contradiction -

A grandeur, a chisel, a hammer,

Of coursing, tumbling mind, which groping and searching alights the berry atop the bush

Of lush fertility, burst into flame alight by the touch of the thunderous godhead.

Each searching vein and vale of creeping vine is like arm of breath

Polishing with chisel the stone of life

Into heaving movement

The awaking universe is like a babe with developing brain; struggles against the gnashing expansion of the flesh; the crackling of the bones like fleshy wooden bones for fire

Which grows in emanation and eminence.

Each door of time is an emboldened expansion of new masterpieces; carpenter’s eye

To the cleaving of a more perfect art, revealing the essence hid beneath the ordinance temporal -

Revealing the immanent hid beneath the cloak of time

Like a sleeping block of unchiseled stone,

Unknocked by water and wind,

Unsheathed by time.

This genius takes form like wind and body, like brain and bone,

Like hip of the stars, like the chisel of stone. Each acts like a shocking fire - to carve against, to cleave away, from the raw elements of the stars

A revelation of the ancient art by way of the utterly contemporary.

Eve, mouse is artist, as is apple and core of the explosive contradiction, from the birth of nothingness, the gaping veil of void, from which art emanates and returns

And yet remembers masterpiece, reverberating in the air like a sigil of mirage,

Signature of consciousness, ghost of spirit which leers over the apparition of the world

As it bursts into being like the ripe juice of a cherry or a grape

And is gone in the sweet bursting; licking fire of the tongue of a dark god.

Mastery of the poet is the fire and forge of this storied stone and bone

Which agonizes the hammer and licks the flames in delight,

Gnashing, lashing god - against the titan of raw, brute form

Raises light of mind from the primordial pools of awakening; stoic mud

Which mingled in an intercoursing state of reactivity;

Dissolute, became ionic and yet full, bodied forth presencing,

A nebulaic form in plaintive clothes;

A bursting of cosmic, divine fire in beggar’s ragged clothes -

This beaten, coursing blood - to a pulp, like boxed against the alchemical forces

Of course interaction, of chiseling thunder, of frictive tinder

In the temple of the stars, of the brushing against, of the rubbing raw, and the exchange of deep genetic fluid

Which speaks in the temperate whisper of ancient authority

And sculpts new forms. As each contains like night fights day, and reveals a certain mirror of a planetary body, turned toward obscured darkness, or in full bodied light of water’s refraction against the sheer face of being.

This churning is like tumbled rock and stone, spirit shook and jarred in the bruised vessel of the body, spills itself, stewing in the steaming expression of the word,

As in the groaning bone of the tree, creeking breeze in the wind,

Grasping, groping moan of the tone of language of culminatory nature; the whole of the powers of the symphony of being - intermingled song of ecstasies, fighting ground;

Emanations, descenting returns to silent stone.

Must we travel down, deeper into the cores where the beaming first sun is still expressed in the primal bones of the densest corporealities,

Just as we stream, with shining blood

Into the upper cores of the ascending sun?

As in the burning of anointed oils, the body is a fury which writhes, shakes, and struggles in a dance of spirit and soul in desperate copulating

Like an exorcism which breathes and bodies forth the ecstatic art of revelry and revelation

Of the truth of creation brought to bear in the crucibilic embodiment

Of the fullness and breadth of emotive contradiction,

Which shines between the blackness of death and nighting

To the wild free white lightning -

Blind and blinding,

Shattering into the utter wholeness of unity

Of soil and stone;

Of the explosive kiss of pure light.

OUR COSMIC INHERITANCE

OUR COSMIC ESSENCE IS OUR DIVINITY.

I.

What we need in this world right now is deeply compassionate leadership. As I think we're all aware, our social structures and hierarchies around the world are breaking down; decomposing in the face of a global and world reality that desperately needs change. As human beings, the current system; the ways that the economies and labor systems are working, the lack of mental health care, the lack of consideration for others - is not working. It is not working at the level of our literal humanity. It's hard to understand that someone across the world, for a lot of people, is not very different than them in terms of what they need. We can have different beliefs and different ideals and different ideas. But people need shelter, they need food, they need water, they need compassion, and we don't have those systems in place to provide that. So when we wonder why people are suffering so deeply not only in the country of the United States, but around the world, we are not putting systems in place to provide for people; to acknowledge them as human beings; to support their emotional and mental condition as well as their physical condition. That's what we need right now. We don't need any more of exploitation. We don't need any more. It is destroying us physically, psychologically, and at the level of our souls, our very will to live.

II.

We are coming into a world where life is going to be incredibly simple. I know a lot of people think that it's going to get complicated, but it's going to be very simple. It's going to be based on compassion, our ability as human beings to see the divinity in one another and to uphold and uplift that even in the midst of turmoil, even in the midst of chaos and confusion - that we see each other. That's who we are, the divine child inside each one of us. And getting people who have that kind of compassion in positions of leadership is going to be what is necessary going forward. Policy, it's just a side effect. Laws are just side effects of our ability as human beings to not come to one another with a desire to exploit or use each other or this Earth, but to see the interconnectedness of our being and to proceed from that place.

III.

This is what we haven't realized as a collective yet - that we can try at the most myopic levels to construct the perfect system that will fit human beings in; that will create growth, that will stimulate progress, that will increase innovation. All of these different ideas. Life is not about ideas. Life is about understanding the depth of interconnectedness between you and others and the entire nature of existence in a literal way. It's not about knowing, it's about understanding inside of you that interconnectedness - that's where the love and the healing and the compassion is. And that's where we need to be as a species. That's where we're going: because we're understanding that knowing isn't helping us. Knowing is creating separation through beliefs. Understanding is compassion. It's the network of all of us living on this planet experiencing existence together.

With compassion, policy, law, and everything works itself out because you understand that no matter how much money someone has, no matter what their status is, no matter what all of these sort of cultural and social games are that pretend to separate people - these people deserve to be treated with that kind of inner divinity, that inner self that extends through all things, and that we can't exploit people. We can't manipulate people, we can't use people, we can't exploit, manipulate and use the Earth. We need to be in touch with that compassion. That inner self. And if we don't love ourselves, we can't have that compassion for others.

IV.

When we surrender ourselves to that web of existence or that matrix of existence, that buoyancy of the universe, we are very close to the truth. We began, at the moment, let's say, if we're going with the science, that the hydrogen, that one hydrogen atom or molecule exploded. There was a large compression of heat, dense heat, that spread over time and formed a great massive amount of beings, planets, asteroids, constellations and galaxies. We are from that, our lives here, whatever it is, 70, 80, 90, 100 years. Whatever your time is, it's this brief phase, this brief phase of chemical reaction, a compound molecular structure that has a neurological system, that has a vascular system, that has these organs; that has genetically been woven through thousands of millions of years up until this point. And we're going to keep proceeding as forms of energy into the future. If there is a past or a future, you can look through a telescope and see the beginning of time. It's there in space. Because of the way that light travels.

We need to have a greater perspective, and when we have that greater perspective, we realize that no amount of money is going to fill that void in the hole in our hearts. No amount of control or power is going to heal that pain and that suffering and that trauma that was passed down intergenerationally to us; that we experienced in this life - that the only thing that truly heals us is to create an environment in a world based on deep compassion, where we create a community in a society where each person that we meet, we genuinely care about fostering their well-being, and that means living locally. That means changing your mind and your perspective. That means getting out of this historical living for me - it's me versus the world, or it's my family versus the world, or it's my tribe versus the world. We're in a global tribe now, and all of our ideas, our visions and our beliefs of what the universe is, what divinity is, they're all valid, that's fine. We let each other believe what we want, where we are; live from where we are, but respect that inner divinity which exists in each thing, each living thing, and each aspect of nature. Because we understand a stone or a rock is made of the very same stuff that we are, so is a tree.

We are in different stages of evolution. Different stages of compound chemical reaction, different stages of molecular bonding. What we need to do is recognize the principles of the universe; some have been translated scientifically. Something like Einstein's spooky action at a distance or one thing at one side of the universe impacts the other. That shows the interconnectedness of all things. That is an aspect of the divine in divinity. This is where we're headed - to understand. Not only are we a global community, but we are a cosmic community, and in that cosmic nature in essence is our divinity.

OUR INTERCONNECTED, INTERGALACTIC PROFUNDITY

I.

So when we begin to understand from a spiritual perspective the interconnectedness of all things, that we emerge from the same essence, and this can be verified scientifically. It can also be verified through pretty much every religion, religious and cultural tradition that there is. We have to put that perspective into practice: that through this kind of singular essence, this cosmic essence, whether you want to say it's an atom or a molecule or spirit or life force emerging, this is a concept represented in a lot of traditions, like the tree of life or Yggdrasil, in the Norse mythology.

This concept is represented again scientifically in the Big Bang: the creation of heat density through which there have been many different threads woven from that essential first kind of singularity or thread, that there is a complex web or sort of network of veins or tributaries of galaxies and beings in existence. We have the ability to visualize what the galaxies look like with modern technology, hundreds of billions and potentially trillions that we have not yet mapped. It's a huge amount that we've been able to visualize so far. They look exactly like synapses in the human brain. It's a one to one. You can compare the intricately; scientifically mapped pictures and you can't tell the difference.

That complexity is so native to us, that's our minds, that's the way we imagine and we create. We believe, we become, we create the idea of ourselves, our names, the ways that we are, our religious belonging, our national belonging, the creation of a country, the creation of a house, the creation of the world. Those minds can become our prisons if we let them, and they are ultimately our prisms. They are the way through which our optic nerves, all of the nerves in our body receive information and process information and create this sort of programmed matrix of reality. The way I say programmed matrix is that in the matrix sense of space, cosmic space, everything is relative. Planets are relative, people, distance between people are relative, the very space between trees that is created in a forest. You can see that the trees and their leaves they all fit together, but they don't touch. That's what molecules do.

We're moving around in this sort of cosmic stew, where molecules heat up and bounce off each other. And we're living in a state of basic and primary magnetism of electricity, where a molecule is moving fast because it's been heated as in water, and they almost bounce off each other, but really what they're doing, it's like a magnetism. They come very, very close together, and they repel, they don't actually touch.

That complex system is something that we have emerged from. We are as complex and compound, as profound as the universe itself. We are a biological entity that mirrors our essence, our cosmic heritage, fundamentally in the structure and system of our brain as well as our neurological system. You can also see it in the vascular system that mirrors the essential structure of the universe. Trees do this as well, so do other animals and plants with their veins. We are absorbing that cosmic information through the sun, through water, through food. This is the idea of nutrition. It's actually being passed down. All of that kind of essential spiritual, cosmic information of heat and light and nourishment from the energy of the explosion of the universe is being passed down through animals and plants, and that's the way that we nourish ourselves - as well as the water. We are so a part of that that my very existence right now, chemically and molecularly, is composed of everything that I have consumed and experienced. That's our genes as well as our epigenetic material, which is the information and experiences that we have that change us as human beings. Our very existence is in this way almost entirely indistinguishable from our ancestors, the first humans to walk this Earth.

II.

This is what and who we are. We're a part of this stream, this river, this ocean of information and energy and light that continues to shift and continues to transform. And when we start to see ourselves that way, we begin to truly create a paradise on Earth. Because our perspective of who we are and what we are, why we're here and where we're going has changed, and it's become in line with the scientific and spiritual essence of this Earth, this world in the cosmos. Science is catching up very rapidly, and I don't think people realize that. That the evolution of quantum mechanics; things like thermodynamics reveal spiritual information. This is not a diluting. This is not a materialization of spiritual information. The scientific truths we are just beginning to unfold as a species actually reveal our complex and profound cosmic spiritual divinity. It reveals the innate and inner spiritual structure of the universe. As the philosopher Heraclitus said, all comes from and returns to fire. The universe is a cosmic fire. We're in this stew or this vat of becoming. We are the very energetic force of cosmic evolution; we stand in the very presence of a transformation we can barely begin to comprehend. We are that force, that change, that shift. And our conscious awareness of that is deeply empowering. It emboldens us to envision unprecedented and beautiful futures. We are here to be fundamentally and deeply empowered with life.

III.

That we become aware, that nature is the miraculous creative construction of a galactic system or even a solar system where there's a Sun. There are multiple planets that dance around the Sun in terms of the gravitational pull of that star, in a geometric perfection. All of our life, everything we see and feel and hear and touch, comes from this miraculous creation. If you’ve ever seen a mapping of the dance of Earth and Venus around the sun, it’s this perfect, beautiful flower, a wondrous geometry, a lila. All the while, that entire solar system is being pulled at massive amounts of miles per hour toward a black hole or a black star that we don't know about, or the Great Attractor. Our existence is so profoundly strange, and yet we exist in this simultaneous network. What point is there in killing each other, in using each other, abusing each other? Do we not devote our energy to trying to understand and foster compassion for one another and see each other as part of this network and web of existence, to devote ourselves to science, to art, to philosophy, to attempting to comprehend this profound reality and live in light of its true laws? Because we know those laws aren't war, we know those laws aren't separation and strife. We know those laws aren't some people having and other people having, not.

Everyone knows this, it's just that we don't speak it out loud. You see someone on the streets begging or you see someone been violently wounded or attacked. Everyone knows that this is not right, but we don't admit it because we think we don't have the ability to change it and that's what true compassion is. It’s that we feel that feeling inside of us and we express it and we say this is not right. We're going to build a better world.

We cannot be afraid to say it out loud, to demand peace and love in spite of the potential repercussions. Our only hope for true peace and prosperity, joy and goodwill and love upon this planet is that we demand a cessation of violence and this profound state of artificially created inequity, slavery, control, and genocide. Violence benefits only the very few. Poverty benefits only the very few. And even for these people, who stash away their wealth and intimate control over others, they are miserable and empty inside. They are desperate for a sense of control over their own lives; to feel a sense of power in their own existence. Power over others, and control over others, it is a meager shadow in the face of being so deeply, fundamentally, and spiritually lost in the world. These people, even in the face of the acts they have committed, to rape, use, and abuse others to gain for themselves, deserve our compassion and understanding. This is a deep vision of love. For many it is hard to bear or contemplate, because such wrong has been done to them. Their families have been raped, killed, their loved ones abused and murdered by a system that cares only to use them for their labor and their life force, then to discard them like empty containers. We do not fix this by continuing violence, we fix it by ceasing this perpetual state of conflict, a state which we have not seen ceased in a history we can consciously remember. We create this change in our very existence; in our very minds and hearts and souls, in our perspective and fundamental outlook on life - who we are, where we came from, where we’re going; ultimately, what is important in life, what is meaningful, what it is worth to be alive here on this planet together as human beings - what responsibility we have to each other and to ourselves as aspects of divinity, of precious, powerful, and divine life.

THE SPIRITUAL HEALING POWER OF IMAGINATION

I.

Imagination creates all things. What we imagine with the synapses of our mind, the firing of the neurons of our mind creates a neurological system in an order that has pathways. Those pathways are not predetermined, but they're actually based on the experience that we have. You have a neurological sort of reaction to something that you touch or see or feel. And that pathway is created in your mind - that happens over and over and over again every day, every night, every day, every night. And you become basically acculturated to your own mind. That's your vision of the world, and that's the experience of the imagination that knowingly or unknowingly you create. The bounds of this have to do with how people are inherently, genetically wired; how their wiring is confirmed and moved and reimagined by their experience. These pathways have been built with time, in the still of the universe; these pathways can be altered, changed, and creatively constructed with conscious engagement.

When you look around and you understand that there are all of these different, basically, temples to the imagination, whether it's factories, cars, houses, political systems, geographies - that these things are all in their basic essence arbitrary decisions based on a certain amount of information in the face of the necessity of survival: that someone said I'm going to build this or I'm going to create this and with whatever power they had or did not have in their basic, essential, biological, physical being created this thing. They built a factory with the labor of other people who believed in the same thing or built a temple or built a society or government, as in the case of the American Revolution, and other such events and times.

II.

Our imaginative power decides what exists and what doesn’t, because our imaginative power functions in the same primary way that creativity of the universe does. What is in existence now from a nature perspective, as well as whatever human beings have created, is what nature has created fundamentally - because what nature has created has come into existence over thousands and millions of years. That includes us. The mountains on this Earth, for instance, or this Earth itself, or the brains that human beings have which include hindbrains that are millions of years old; the genetic information that has been passed down through generations into our bodies. That's all creative information. It changes over time and with the engagement of relativity; the engagement of experience. The engagement of neurological, sensational, differential life. We are, in the same way, the imagination of nature. We are within its imagination; simultaneously, we are it and capable of changing the very course and direction which nature takes with conscious, creative action.

That's creative information that is flown and moved through genetic biological time, thousands and millions of years to get here - a tree, a cat, a fish, grass, moss, the cosmos. Our neighborhood, our solar system, night and day, are products of that natural creative process. And so are we. But that's what our brains, the symmetry of our brains and the cosmos is and so profoundly does. The synapses of our brains reflect the galaxies, the cosmos. We have that creative power inside of us. All things are that creative power. But what distinguishes human beings at this point in time in our evolution is our ability to decide to become aware of our imagination, to become aware of our patterns, our biological, social, genetic and epigenetic patterns, and to begin to consciously change the way that we act. We are not bound so specifically to our history. We can profoundly change our times by way of knowledge and insight into the processes which form us; the processes through which we, like bees in a great hive, too, help form the very natural world which is moving, evolving, changing, shifting - in real time, about us, within us, as us.

We have the opportunity, the possibility and potential of becoming aware of what our imagination does on a daily basis, consciously or unconsciously, and to change those patterns, to reprogram the mind and that happens through awareness. And this is the way that we profoundly change our current reality, that we've become conscious of the fact that the way that these current systems and structures have been built have not really been built consciously, but rather that they've been built as reactive systems that create profit for the very few and starve the many. These are not systems that foster compassion and love and wellness for people. So what we do is we become conscious of that; the way that our minds have become acculturated to that. The way that we've imagined that this is our reality, when in actuality it's not. All human empires, all human cultures, all human systems come and go. The entirety of the existence of humanity exists in a hair's breadth down a massive hallway. If you can envision the relativity of a hair's breadth at the end of a massive hallway. We are this very, very brief phase of existence in the massive span of cosmic time, the way that nature evolves and the way that nature has evolved has brought us to this point of millions of years of revolution of the hindbrain and thousands, hundreds of thousands of years of revolution of the forebrain. That's our cognitive, rational faculty.

Becoming aware of our patterns and becoming aware of just how powerful the imagination is to determine who we think we are, where we think we are, what we think we're doing, and what we think is possible is becoming aware of the limitless potentiality of what we can build: not only by ourselves but particularly together. This has to do with healing our minds; healing our neurology, in light of hundreds of thousands of years of genetically remembered trauma. Our bodies, in the most primordial and fundamental sense, remember the pain and suffering of our ancestors. Our very systems and ways of viewing the world reflect our historical struggle to survive. We want to move from bare survival into true, deep, profound love; the creation of bliss as an essential aspect of togetherness and life on this earth.

III.

Our chains, if we have any chains, our prison, if there is any prison in this world, in this universe, in this cosmos is, I think of a good way to say it, a prison of the imagination, a prison of the neurological pathways. We have acculturated ourselves to a form of existence. And again, there's really no one person that you can point to for this, there is no real source of blame - that due to trauma, due to intergenerational trauma that has impacted the very foundation of humanity, this changes your genes. This profoundly changes the structure, view, and outlook and organization of your practical existence. This has been scientifically studied: that trauma passed down through generations changes the genetic structure. The information that is provided to you upon your birth changes the way that you react to certain stimuli upon your birth. So no, we're not blank slates. When we're born, we have a deep, deep, deep genetic memory, a deep human memory. This is why something like attachment styles upon birth is so incredibly important. This is also why suffering is something that's so historically deep, profound, and continuous - is that we have become acculturated to pain and violence.

And consciously or unconsciously. I want to say it's entirely unconscious. Certainly there's people here that are conscious of what they're doing in a sort of twisted way, that they’re inflicting pain and suffering upon others; that they’re taking life and energy and meaning from others in the name of profit and control for themselves. But that consciousness is entirely based upon pain and suffering and confusion. The pleasure or joy it receives in witnessing the suffering of others is the projection of its own deep, profound, miserable suffering within. We have built systems and structures that recreate and reproduce the essential conditions of the suffering that we have experienced in this life, and I'm going to say it in past lives. The idea of past lives is very easily proven scientifically, one - by way of intergenerational trauma, the passing down of genetic information; two - by way of the essential principle of energy, that energy is neither created nor destroyed, simply changes forms. We are the very energetic principle that has existed for millions and millions of years. We are that information. We're drinking the same water that the dinosaurs drank. We're composed of the same primary molecular elements and structures that compose the entire universe. We're tapped into that.

IV.

Our freedom comes from understanding those principles - those neurological pathways that for us have become the everyday reality. This belief that we have to exist in a certain way. Healing this is where something like neuropsychology is very helpful. There are a lot of different forms of healing modalities and practices that are very useful for this. Our advancements in science, medicine, and technology have increased our understanding in the ways that the very wiring and pathways of the brain inform our everyday life to levels and places previously we could not even begin to contemplate or understand. Changing the neurological pathways and reprogramming our brains and our minds - we have to, through extensive deep mental health work, create the conditions for healing. That can only be done through consciousness.

When we become conscious of how those neurological pathways work and structure our reality, we are in a place where we can change those pathways and create, not react, create from our hearts, from our dreams, and not feel trapped within these structures that feel so solid and feels so confining. Those structures, historical, political, even natural, are just a passing phase. We are the living consciousness of existence; we are imbued and endowed with great creative power. But it starts with healing, not just for one person, but for our entire global community. We have to prioritize healing our brains and our bodies, from the deep evolutionary, multifaceted and multidimensional sources of trauma which have in large part structured our current realities; our perception of said current realities. This, again, includes the trauma we have experienced in this lifetime, alongside the trauma we have experienced, by way of intergenerational inheritance, down to the very foundation of our existence as a species, as human beings. It goes that deep. And with awareness, with understanding, that for a great part of human history, we have been pushed by great unconscious forces to form and create conditions for existence that can barely be called such a thing - but survival, at best, we can proceed into the future, collectively committed to creating something more profound, better, more human, more inclusive, more loving, kind, and compassionate. We can move forward into the future committed to a life where thriving, community, and love is the foundation of existence for everyone. And that is a world worth striving for, imagining, and creating with loving compassion - for ourselves, and for all of existence. But it cannot be done without awareness; it cannot be done without healing.

THE CREATION OF THE HUMAN BEING

I.

Love is the consolation for death.

The fleeing strength of arms is ripped away in the native embrace

Which buries bodies like two ores entwined in fire;

A quiet sex of bleached bone.

So too, word pierce the silence like a navel

Through which all bodies parade, and tug on the umbilical cord of speech.

Like wind, a fire burns beneath the letter of their organs;

Cherishes, cripples.

Time is a writer, like lines upon a face

Become sedimental dust.

Ashen are our consolances. Brief are our grievances. As they shift from eyes to stomaches;

Chests to lips.

Nature strips her eaves, green clothes, red stars.

Like the makeup of a clown,

Emotions dance us from stage to stage,

Making fools of us all.

Quickly, we must grasp the coattails of the parent which guides us

Through the dark canal of life. To tenderness, we cling

Like children in the mouth of a serpent.

To horrors, we are pressed,

Like glaze against the black gaze of death.

Time, making mute pottery

Cements our final expressions.

Petrification, in the sexual embrace, we are embroiled in ecstasies

Like a plot of intercourses.

All else is shorn aside for the permanent dessert of life.

We burn our scars away in forgetting;

Pleasure grasps desperately to the canvas of sensation.

We are feeling in a dark cavern for the heaving,

Left of relentless suffering.

For a moment, we are absconded into the bright lights of ecstasy.

Nature, my prostitute, my whore,

Pull back your hair and I penetrate our mutual depths.

Barbaric, you are an animal about my lips, an insatiable hunger

Tainted with the blood that will leave your face

To feed some other beast.

Nightly I hunger about you, like a stalker,

Teasing your scent about my teeth.

When all else fails the pain that seethes the nerves, their quiet fury burns

Like electricity, heating and cooking the flesh.

We must don the golden fur of the things we kill

And parade their heads about this paradise

Of things that feed with tongues and ribbed throats.

Throughout the chambers of time,

We are embraced with our devouring. We swallow and mingle with your blood

Until you are no more, not even fossil nor relic

But totally subsumed

In the constituent desire

Of the burning flame

II.

My anger at the trick

Does not outmatch the furies that come and dance about my lips

And make mute proclamations.

This history that moves like butter, churned by a demoness,

Or lye in the sexual bed.

Song, wispy, sallow, twirls about my hands like smoke;

Touches the deathbed and springs life into a whirling dance of shames.

At best, we are fakes, embroiled in a temporary passion.

At worst, we are cold killers,

Tempered only by limitations.

You brought me here upon this stage to sing, wildly and hoarse

Like the axe that becomes entangled by the sickening, weaving virus of the every days

Which thump like a swamp, an axle of the heart drowned

By the sheer force of repetition.

We are all fools by the force of time

And tricked by desires which pass through us like jewelry;

Our eyes for them is nothing but lights upon mirrors.

This dance of surfaces, with skeletal blood and gelatin.

You do not wish to slurp the remains of the dead

As much as I wish to drink the shit that trembles from the lips

Of the passing thunder of nature’s blood.

Each moment swings with the force of a balladeer entranced by a symphony,

A drunk beggar at the intersection of the escape of breath

And the slug of form. We drearily pace and drip the wares of our force,

Pierced blood and piss of rain;

Manure which makes the fields pulse with green fertility.

Nature is sick; drugged on the mule which carries its seed

Tilling cyclical worlds. Like a wheel, we are prisoners

Wrapping the chain about the deck of our engorged souls

Drunk on powerful dreaming.

Faster, we must spin, to escape inescapable fates.

Drugged on the wine of beliefs, we stumble through mists of fake things;

Junkyards of parts, spitting images of organs of form.

We wander, stumbling over skeletal stones; our faces smeared with the mud of ashen pasts.

Ritual, everything we touch is the passage of death. An electric kiss,

A shock of thunder; rippled with the friction of our bodies gliding through the night;

Shearing up against the dark wool of dead skin.

Everywhere, we are buried by our passions;

Possessed by our spit.

Evermore, we are wheeled over the fire, coagulating.

Silence admonishes us; chastises the passage of time. We lumber into delirious wandering

As the pathways quake beneath us;

Drop away to reveal fatal abysses. Freakish circuitry,

We are a carnival of forms, twisted to our fate -

To change and be changed again, to burn slow and meek in a grounding down

Of informational machinery.

Wildly, digging our fingernails into the soil;

Flinging the fluid of ourselves into each seedy, soily ground.

The earth is a prostitute who awaits our kiss;

Her oil burning of stenching cigarettes;

Her garter weary and frayed. Mating in the birth canal alleyways

We are stretched between synapses of impossible burnings, fiery in our passions;

First upon the smashan pyre of the dead.

This is our junk, our trashlike disjection. We who are flung wildly over cliffs

Of distant stars and collected like weird compounds. All of life is over the edge and tumbling

Toward a perpetual destiny of blackening.

These fires within us singe us and make us strange

Even as we are flung towards the eternal.

Christs pinned up by their waists; whole worlds swallowed by the silence

Of crucifixional emotional noise, silenced by distance, separation, shadow

And the snake which consumes the flesh, leaving only dust. Vapid ritual sacrifice

Of nameless flesh, nameless bodies; the dark hair of promised ecstasies brushing the shade of the night like wind;

Isolation, absence,

Leer like stone faces; totems which watch on the dark like guardians

To the gates of feeling, sensation:

Scalped to the leaves of the tree like bodies, hung in the winter; pierced by the bloody arrow

Which tumbles out runes from the mouth of the embodied god,

Turning dial of the moons which chase the hips of each horizon, writhing, begging

Standing from beyond the cold touch of the body, the inner life tumbles into the dead totem of stone,

A dead symbolism.

Skulls are stacked into the temple walls; individual bloods are left to the rising heat of their consuming void of returning sun.

Songs are sung; crowds disperse to dreaming beds

Where objects obsess and collide like sex and war; steaming, sweating objects of dissolution;

Ideas tumble from the gape of the mind and find nothing but the flat, torpid air,

The stretching desert of lone wandering:

Leery, marchers through history trade cloves of the flesh and smoke them in a joyous collosseal apocalypse,

A tossing and turning of the night which is a shattering eclipse of the sun;

A chaos, a first turmoil which is like the hungry mouth of the child; void objects seek inferno and leech bleached white flesh

And the sunken eyes, lowed, cowered, crowed liver. Hunched black birds picking

At the men become stone - as the sun cooks white the bone:

Unmarked, unloved, they seek the earth, and tumble into full union

Of fingernails scraped and staid by dirty soil. Unnamed by worms, unmarked by stones,

Untouched by sounds and warm bodies, like to cores of light they tumble, hungry in the drive to deathling

Hungry in the drive to the moors which settle the body in a teeming tarry pool.

Into this vat where the soldiers of death march and are shocked by Medusan eyes;

Clawed by Gorgon tones. These deeps of feeling which rock the flesh;

Burn passions like fevers; exhaust and empty the eyes to soulless depths of rocking black ocean:

Climbed to thinning of the air, choking of the fire;

Fallen into dreams:

The pyre where the books were thrown, language of the bodies in the twisting hieroglyphic sound

Of the ladder which chases death in the gaping core of sexual ecstasy,

In the night where the forests burned and the abandoned villages

Wandered the night groaning with the twisted face pulling mask

Hugged about the flesh, unrelinquished burden and insurmountable time

Which sunk the stone of the soul into the body; dragged the chain of persona

Assembled reasons for death like a taxman or a ledger, ills of the law

Which broke masses, masts of chaos over the knee of feelingless distance

Cowered in the face of life; dumbed and dulled by a violent ancestry

A legacy of rape and common evils:

Disregarded, stumbled drunk into the silent world; dearths of sensation. Touched only in acts of great violence

Clapped only in the spill of great blood. Hungering for destruction like a thirst to be sated;

Grappling with gravity to stagger the bodies of slaves

Into a stadial seat. Ruined emperors and their toxic organs;

Ruined empires and their bloodied clothes. In the mud of this world like pigs;

Filthed by emptiness; dirtied by shallowness. To witness the forms slowly broken; dug out from the inside

By the wicked drug, by the straw of the thirsty, sharp tooth of the knife:

All is common when drugged by heat. Whipped into the slowness; the malaised dragging

By a body expanded and contracted by the common law of barometry;

The common law of masters of the world mind to slaves of its laboring. Exploitation -

This bare and simple geniuslessness. Without equipment, surrendered to the command of beautyless

Outsized desires. Perpetual swallowing is a night of gravity

To which forms are sheep and lambs, drawn and quartered in the empty fury.

Masses tongue and twist in endless competition; shooting into one another in endless consumption and production

Without question, without meaning.

This revelry of endless, perpetual night: where the sick are ruined and ruinous, rogue objects

Spitting wildly and reactive

In chemical cores beyond their control, weak and shattered by the looming threatened extermination of breath:

Elaborate rituals of death are danced, all with the surgical distance

Without the beating heart; without the blood of feeling.

Separation by name, separation by number, separation by face. Barbed wire face of camps,

Gun butt of mud and brick, ceaseless winter and necrotic foot and lip. Into the stupor, shocked into mute, dumb surrender;

Senseless violence unto the desensitization of form;

The sucking of blood to slumber; the last escape of dreams; devoured in the carnal machinery

Of the hungry black mass and hole of furious desires, which eat and squalor destitute

Draw the meat of the world from its shell and husk it; carve into the cake of the flesh and section it into barren solitudes,

The deep void of insecure deaths; the tumbling which makes hands furious and white,

Which burns them not from feeling but from desperation -

First to sensation; last to sense:

Unsentimental, the life destroys feeling; mutilates from quiet cages of inquietude,

Of objects sensed without source, of desires known without end. Chased from glittering dream to glittering dream

Upon the trampled bones of the dead; the ignorance of the hungering bread

Which rises and ruins upon each crevasse and crack of the ceaselessly, endlessly shattering earth.

Intemporal apocalypse of being - left to quiet cages of the mind, shuttering, closed, mute

Senseless and feelingless but the wild groping about in sheer abysses of darkness

Before predatorial mouths, sharked, sharpened, hissing

All before darkness falls, destitude, prostituted, prays

All before darkness submitted to the desire for death:

Oven for war, feeling function shuddered; bare at last,

Denuded for consuming rape. Destitute, danced with twisted, empty smiles

Faster and faster about the beating oil drum of the music, sickless, senseless, sad

Beneath flickering eyes wander perpetual hopelessnesses, wrung wilder and wilder about the dance of days;

Stung by the mute repetition of mutilation; the repetition of exploitation and manipulation

Lashes upon their backs; scars about their souls; marched to slaughterhouses against the clouded doom of darkened suns,

Eating the corrupted, rotted, necrotic fruit of fleshes sallowed and sickened by time, molded by the distance of days

Lost to the black threat of emptied mind, emptied memory, emptied imagination;

Submitted to the march of regimented routines:

Desperate and despaired for love, desperate and despaired for a flower, petalling amidst the sunlit cracking of the clouds,

Crackling of the hearth of the heart, shoveled in mud; carved in factory

Sectioned into limbed, limbic parts: trained and learned in a ceiling and walls of feeling,

Trained and learned in a prison kingdom of civility; dressed in the rags of bleak, fleeting sensation;

Lashes of flashing ecstasy, temptations of flashing light upon the cellular walls,

Tumbling, tumbling into the flashing die:

Reaching, reaching toward the light, as it wisps and flickers upon the shadow walls:

To die in each moment of hope, tempered by bleak, blackened passions and long sections of solitudes;

Roads that stretch and wander and linger endlessly, roads the march and stumble and weary the legs;

Flat the stomach; eat at away from the inside.

To walk endlessly to an ever evading spiraling destiny, which chases to the depths of space. Worlds of dreams beckon like wishes;

Submergence in the dark waters where breath escapes and death is a whisper, a gate, a knowing between worlds,

A border stretching beneath the taut flesh into sexual union;

Acidic dissolution. Peril, a number of difference: to be unknown to inner worlds. The shallow, empty feeling of even love,

Even camaraderie, even the touch of distance in the march of death, of bodies between bodies, bleakened, beatened,

Growing colder in the widening, opening body of the night -

Then abysses of sensation, purely meat:

Last delusion trickles from the mouth in the madness of hunger, tears at the body of the greatest lover,

The most cherished, precious memory. Consumed by need, the war of starvation. What at last brings together,

The taste of blood within the mouth; the furies which submit flesh to the earth; slaves to the work

Tiding and beating the earth in a control of renewal. Desire - to be what is to have,

To hunger what is to lurk in separation like the machinations of a web,

To wait in cold knowingness and to devour

Unto the death of all sentimentality; unto the death of all feeling;

To be sated like a possessed hyenal crocodile; carnivorous and at last cannibalistic

Blood of life and earth drained and sapped from the soil into the rippling, muscular stomach of the bestial thing

Which at last is a suicide machine, destined for the murder of self

Amidst the dripping eaves of hunger; the bursting fruits cleaved by bloody stalks of flesh;

Claws which creep from the depths of history to sink like teeth

Into the immortal breast and breath of the world. Millions more rise from this demon of being;

Millions more hunger and teethe into the vapid crevasse of the earth;

Beg for the fountainous elixir of bloody red water:

No terror, no joy; infernal, endless burial, overturned crusades:

Mad babbling of infants cascading through age after age; craft and trouble of minds destitute, hollowed fields,

Barren of healing crops. Stumble eternally into brute, numbed deaths. Numbers by numbers which stretch the books,

Narrow the ledgers; consume the pages of time. Eternally, masses hunger, upon the steppe and breath of space;

Amass and expand powers; burst and war, fight for time in the heat of the burning star.

What use is agony, at the distance and aloneness; at the solitude of feeling,

That day by day eats like a stone that buries itself in the force of gravity, the stone of earth that tunnels itself endlessly into the black bone of abyssal space. Breathing, seated, worlds sift, silt, and move, trailing the excrement of burning; entrails of this world peeled open endlessly

To reveal the incestuous intestine which tunnels and tongues like a twisting cave about the great oceans of the galaxies,

Gravities which expand, core, contract, consume; tunnels of wind, air, and light which open and shut; twist into strange patterns,

Tunnels and waves and energies of storms, which shake blackness and rain from the skies and whip flesh into flights.

Brutes of passion, jealous of death.

Feelingless, rage into each last object to possess and partition. Marrow of blood and bone,

Suck greedily and die at the palatial throne,

Seat of the body, seat of the stone.

Alas, no love nor hatred, just the jealous keep of the body. It leers out from beyond its cage; hind quarters haunched over the abyss

Which propels it into existence. Void of hunger; advantages. This strategy of death,

Time is upon a chessboard, jousting, wrestling, cheating death

With every breath; with every sucking wind of lung; with every movement of the tonguing straw of the mouth,

Hungry, bleeding bone:

Tasteless, is the love consumed. Desperate feelings thrown with mouths and bodies, clasped around gravestones

Begging with tears among the burial mounds of the endless body. Replaced by names, faces, movements of darkness and shadow,

Vacuous, furious engines. Nameless chemicals who starve and bleed for a drop, for an ash of watery blood. Exchanged upon the parchment of the flesh, the drying paper and canvas

Upon which all words of time are at last scrawled and surrendered to the rippling tone of the air, stretched thin and warbling.

Song of our blood which we lay like alms upon the leaves of our resentment, the last dawn upon which we rise and surrender our garments.

Shallow, this life, hungry and lonesome.

To leave this peril, and become something endless, beyond the demonic, beyond the stretching hunger.

This world bleeds for dead.

Drops and ashes upon the scared bone. There are remainders, like the corrupt

Rotted peaches and apples which litter the ground upon the fall, kept juice which spreads the core

And left for ants and worms. Composting, take my eyes and face and rearrange them endlessly into paintings of the engine

Endless manifestations and representations of the skinning hunger,

The taut face and the leering eyes;

The cowardly hunger which sips from the well of the unknowing;

Which sips from the well of the naive:

You who wander here, last to all things, sallow fields of the dead,

Stumbling with the last dream in tow: fires to cook the flesh; passions to spin the whites of the eye,

Finer and finer become the blackened, rotten treasures of this world

Til at last isolation overwhelms. Lost to the borderline, we are passed over,

The blood from within

Smeared upon the doors of our eyes.

All leans into abysses. Touch of the delicate cradle, to the swindling

Of hands that section arms, legs, bone, and hypothalamus. Surgical,

Life is a beating for parts, where the blood is siphoned with needles and veins;

Passionate furies, obsessions, addiction.

Chemicals swirl violently in the blood; passionate storms are violated,

Eyes and mouth. See and spin toward desire, as she turns her treacherous face

To reveal the bloody root; the ripping teeth. Spirit in disgust flees the earth, soon as it is seated

And rushes back, light to the tongues of the meek.

Words of this world are manipulations, spinnings of the web

Which carnal entangle our lives. Trees which brush against us, fruits which unclench us;

Stomachs which unseat us. Organs pound against the thin barriers of flesh. Walls barely breached;

Salivatory, canals of longing tear into the mutational force: at the seat of bursting into bloom.

We are springs tipping into summers; falls gasping into winters,

Drawing our white hands against the clawing harvest of the ground. Do not turn cold,

We are admonished, by Death in the mask of Nature.

We are suckled at the womb and teethed at the white milk of time; we are grounds that are soured

Into trapdoor pits of blackness.

Swift, all pendulums swung - fore birth and death, and the nettle of sex which wove entwined

The lies and lives of men. We, spun from galaxies of black bears; waited in intestines of snakes

Pokered about in the plinking sound of green, leafy stems. Sat in dew and wandered, in a blank and black meditation.

Close to sound, now searching with bloody hound’s mouth. All lives revolve around this. In fear, passing blood like a trade’s market.

We are a slum beneath the sun, frantically seeking chalices of light. The fresh and plump breast of Nature upon which we suckle

Plumbs the depths of our souls; requires the winter of our death to achieve true renewal. In sex, our third is formed.

Narrow, these deserts, which we wander in search for oases of love. Snakes within us coil and bite; sharpen the blade of our emotions

Jam and enjamb our speech. We are fluttering, winds of our souls, wings which spread us over death like carrion birds,

Feasting on the filthy remains of our prey. Steel which sharpens us, horns which glow us,

Demons which scatter us to far ends of the earth, to play in masks until our collapsing collision.

Down to the hearth of life we are summoned, where we shovel the coal of our souls into the core of existence.

Love rises from sheer chemical barbituration. Caught and released by compressions of winds, our eyes widen and narrow in their sockets;

Galaxies plume this world; encircle it, leer nearingly, encroach and open swallowing mouths; cave within upon themselves.

We are buried beneath desires, opaque to our flesh; stunned by the awakening of the opening dawn;

Perpetual children in the face of the mass process which makes and terraforms the sheer nature of our flesh, bodice, and being.

This terror chills tightly, and releases into the oaring boat of the expanse of dreams, adrift on a glistening lake,

Beneath an enchanting moon, tilled with silence and the sweeping shadow.

Watch us. We march, no different than cells: programmatic

Illused by delusions of mind. The cloaks we dress, the stages we platform, the races we chase to obscure

This narrow emptiness. Souls caught in a wind and foiled by brief urges which break like waves over the tidal basin of time.

Breached, we are a vessel which carries an unspoken, un-understood truth which coils like a snake about the spheric prism of time and clenches and releases;

Nodal, like a lung -

Spiral, like a heart,

Wandering, like a rogue celluic molecule,

Chaste, like a planet;

Entranced, bloodthirsty, cheered, like a bull amidst a stadium of forces.

No shadow can truly cover our passage, nor name, face, or force. We are an indivisible movement forward into a broad destiny which obscures even its collision into the unity of truth from itself;

Obscured in the reticulum of time; the sheathing of a thousand nights and private rooms, chance combinations at the lock of the egg and sperm,

Runnings amidst fields, magnets in a wind

Chasing; tumbling in the fall leaves,

Racing toward a shattering deregulation. We must know, do stones speak, or when shattered grounds change form and become blackened fertility;

Thousands of years through which age sprouts greeny bud or gorey oil,

That we are retained, solidified, coagulated, dispersed,

Just as soon as the dandelion’s leaf and seed.

So that we do not be purely carnal, nor dip into blood, but spin a silent dice in a field where there is no gravity,

Released sanctums in the floating the brain’s fluid, adrift as we are in seas of fractality. Perceived and unperceived, we are like a beggar disguised as a god, a composite disguised as a flickering mote in the sunbeam’s ray;

Caught and transfixed to a beautiful distance which beckons like a wolf spider in the glowing ember of the blackness. We tumble towards death like a sanctified object, like a entranced diamond,

Like a spectre of beauty’s promise. Lies and lines which weave us are true in nervy veins; signals which dispute us; tear and tore us in the waves and tributaries of time’s destiny, souls which flue and flow down the rivers and canals of existence; being’s possibility.

Quilt of destiny is woven by the sheer force of innumerable billions, creeping and nettling the carpet of being; time’s floor like worms and mites,

Dusts and silks. With pincers, making and umaking the dirts which shone quietly with sunlight.

This quiet sound is like the lapping of the waves against the moor - the indivisible encroaching on the divided ore.

We are a surrendered fire.

Against nothing we fit, surrendered to deep biological destinies. Like puppets, we lie and prance and maim about the stage,

With all proclamations folded into an indefatigable reality. To great defeat, we are still enchanted by a pretty face, or the promise of power’s representation. In this way, we are slaves to an illusion which uses us; stews and experiments us in a chemical laboratory,

A grand experimentation. Each individual life is like an element, like a volatile compound, thrown into the mix of birds, nerves, cemetery isles,

Drug fixes, curtains, and wooden knaves. We stand, fall, incise, come together and apart under the semblance of great meaning;

Under the symbolism of destiny. We are thrown in an attractive delusion to and from each other; under this construct we build our language,

Outline our cities; anthill our civilizations, cultures, and social morays. Beasts to the end, we are tied to the pole of fixations which emerge from genetic depths

Depths which surround us and tear at our flesh; submerge us in truths of rape, murder, volatility, and the obsessions of desire. From this dark pit and pool we rise,

A somewhat unconscious evil, steeped in a hatred disguised as love; a chemical utero disguised as form;

A recombinate process disguised as an individual end. We ourselves unending, we ourselves mute, but for the wailing songs

Which intermix with each ant’s scratching at the soil, with each planet’s low warbling;

Our sheer vibratory existence compounded in a greater symphony; a slow orchestra destined for brute’s climaxing. All ends and returns in fire,

Like the heaving, sweating chest.

And yet, we must stay convicted of terrible ideals. Truth, Love, Beauty, Form, Constancy,

All rip past us in the laughing wind in the words which are spoken; the lines which are writ

Upon pages torn from temporality. The terrible truth is that we are wandered, indefinitely, submitted to rote ideals

Written in the true book of Nature which are surmountable only by the eye of awakeness

Which peer down the totem pole, from the ladder of the grave of consciousness. Wriggling flesh and skin cells, synapses searching for connection

Wandering the dark abyss of the watery canals, through which fish are risen once more from the dead.

Isles which search desperately,

Far away from the veins of god. Thus we are dutiful, slaves to the mines of being. We must pass and pass again,

The winds of death, to and from empty and absconding hands.

Always within us beats the lamb of existence: the blood smeared upon the stone of visions.

The rock which is our guide; our constancy. From this we rise, with waving, weaving hands, a stitched quilt of memory.

For these reasons we were divided and recombined in the ashy molecule: we sculpt Nature like a tyrant -

Take her into our flesh; in guttural changing

Spit out plasmic language. Covered in the fluid of the womb, eyes are raised and changed:

We take cover under lights and reflections of the sun - this being the awnings of the body. The field which we plow

And gaze out indefinitely into the sheer expanse, transfixed by opaque mountains;

Ores of complex histories buried in the layers of deep skin; fleshly coverings.

Time obscures us; hides our tangled pasts of destiny. We rush, charge into the blackness of embrace,

Submerged in the warm coat of the blood. Time and time again we are entangled in the twisting fluid,

The silent murmur of the womb. We scream in a forgotten language; are awakened in the dreaming.

The worlds which we build are a madness posing as sanity; our mind-noise serenity.

Naked, grasping for a foothold of feeding.

Mother’s milk runs thin and taut, dribbles like a slow wave, a cresting current broken to lapping.

Like dogs we gather around ocean pools; stick our tongues into misty crabbing.

Hunger breaks us into animals; the law of hyena,

Dry bones under the sun, meat bleached by decay.

We are passed, from hand to hand like a sacrifice, or alms

In an open air religious fervor. Our hands and arms become the pilgrimage of ancient rivers; our teeth become trout,

Our lips and face become muscular mountains which obscure a quiet dawn. Clouded myths of existence,

We must find a foil for complexity, or else plunge headfirst into sensation. Temples which we build reflect the armor of our skin;

The delicate spirit within. To go mad with changing, or else burrow into the ancient ruins.

With religious fervor, we are the breach between the unknown and blind faith, cobbling together pieces of the dark mosaic of our past. The dark language of our bodies stitches together the gem of our intestines;

Writes the basin of our minds; weaves the lines of our faces. We are an expanse brought together by veins of time:

Which snake and encounter; break and divide. Paths which were worn before us in dark foothills,

Obscured terraces,

Languages long since forgotten.

And yet, we are composed of this essence, fragmented time and time again in the breach;

At the foothold of being. We are a rung constantly escaped and absconded by death; reaching and writhing toward the light in temporality. In this way, we are a music, or an acrobat, leaping and cheering

High above the board of the appearance of things which flicker in and out of existence like a note.

Stars twinkle and divide the lights of time in the quick of an instant;

We waver and evaporate like water upon the hot sands’ ground. Fire that licks and nips at our heels

Is like the great and ancient dog of the deeps, which barks and wraps the rungs of the trees;

Guards the gates of the great changing. Oars which take us upon the rivers;

Willow trees which dip into the sparkling waters of essential being; clear and blue,

Beneath swim the ancestors of forming. We took their flesh, their flesh upon us

And whipped in the baking, crouched in the cooking, twigs in the fire of the symbol of the body

Which we wore as a cloak and fueled the spinning:

Lye of the world, we are the burning

Which is the acid, a revelation of the mad blood of the psyche.

Entire forests swim and are alive with the rote speech which we ingest. Trees burn and drip their dew,

Hot, juicy numbers of the fruit which courses sugars in our blood; breaks and combusts in the embers of our souls;

Sweats deep in the lodge of our bodies. We go mad with sensation, close as we are to the break; worn and torn as we are between that which remains and that which escapes us

Like smoke in the language body of the night, sweating from us

The heat which moves the earth; builds the mass and moves the force of time. Without the hot, spinning dance of the sun, processions of the dead smash upon the dark rocks of the abyss, moors of gravity

Lost to swells of deep space, sworn allegiances to greater masses,

Hounds and sharks which beckon with swallowing tongues. We who sip dirt like wine and wait for the breaking of a new day,

The shattering of a disruption which will make us all beasts or gods, with definite finality.

Instead we wake to the slow measures of same, the glacial overtaking of our forms

With strange mutation,

A transformation which leads us to some impeccable gravity; impenetrable newness;

A sheathe of form entirely ulterior,

A strange trickling of the brain

Deep within the wombs of the ancient cave

Where the ritual of birth is made.

Our clocks are sheer and pure light. Similar, our forms drink water and swell, feel storms and shift,

Grift against the joints and call for new elixirs of words. Arts of form, we must beckon

For something ancient and new, steeped in the grounds of our soul and essence of being; yet entirely alien.

We are sprung from a novelty which resumes from a fire; within us is the breaking of elements,

The smelting of cores; the linking of compounds. Cell arms take hands and dance around the dark dungeons of our bodies; synapse fingers link eyes and mutilate all knowledge. We reveal within us the bright touch which breaks the eyes of the mind;

The experience which shatters the hopes and symphonies of abstraction. Each mute sensation acquires form,

Skin upon the neck, is a speech - in a direct word. Tripartite, beneath word and meaning

Is essence.

We swim in these oceans unto madness, as all is ripped from our hands. Clamoring into deeper desperation,

We toll bells and break into chaos’ music. We burn temples and torch memories

As easily as books. We must run into bright new essences, or remain chained to the statues of the ancients.

Our ancestors leer out from within us, their eyes channeled, chained and linked through our forms. We must combust the cellular monolith through which we spin and dance, entranced:

In a perpetual ritualization of the form and core of the body.

We, voyeurs to time, written by history, cemented in a shattering of the wave

Which brands us death’s rebirthing. We must open our hands to the soil and mouth of babes.

The ancient is anxious of the youth; rebellious fears the temple. Chaos from order is born again

In the shadow of desire’s repetition. Thus we rise, from that blackened symphony:

Like we are called to Nature’s destiny. All is written within us; that we are doomed to repeat.

Either rejoice, or lament the limitations of history. For it is within the narrow straits of death that we are changed;

Sex that we mutate. A bright meteor of millions of years is the seal which we ride to a shattering breach:

From ape to mind, fish to writhing organism in ocean’s pool, deeps of memory which were the sparks

Of singular cells, mating and unifying, collapsing and dividing,

Architecture of beings, tombs, and stars. To this we are doomed, if it is such, to creation:

A world of numbers through which we move, a symphony of possibilities, recombinate notes of letters in the spiraling design,

A template, a contemplation: through which each moment is an axial rudder of destiny’s combination.

This lock, we are, of changing gears, degrees of movement through which the spheres unify and divide,

Divine in inner and outer degrees of cosmic reach and complexity.

Through each, refractal, this sameness, of shadows and light;

Entranced as we are of this vision,

Of caves of being.

Awaits us something of the terrible unknown, the shadow which rises over the dawn of the death of the sun.

Lingeringly, we wait - chattering stories in the teeming mixture of cells, swimming in the anxious union and rebirth of another. In these night hours we are the bleating deeps of dark oceans,

Made in different sight. The flesh overtakes where the eyes resign, in the sensation’s reside.

Closer to bone, the chilling touch. We are asleep and used by dreaming. And from dreaming we are awake.

Ritual cycles of killing creep normally up from the depths of time;

This is revolution; revolutionary force. Blood heats with the reds of meat,

Pincers of the sex engorge and swallow the other. We are consumed, desirers of murder,

Adulterers of god. We must build temples and repent our history; we must build temples and repent our murder;

Our perpetual suicide. Upon the red stone is the blood of the sacred lamb,

The life which we take and evermore take is our own. In this, we live in a galactic cannibalism of the first form of fire.

We dance and go mad in forgetfulness. Silence overtakes us; buildings overshadow us, laws overcome us.

We are absconded to the land of the dead; we live in the shadows of the body, barely acute to the touch,

Never pinpointed by the sensation. Unliving, unfeeling,

We become regular in our desensitization to images, peering out from the cavern of the body,

Unwitnessing the ritual apocalypse of our vision. We are torn to terror and in this trauma, removed.

Lives pass by and untwine in the murmuring of the creek, the silence, slowness of the river which laps against fixtures of stone. Within them, are our eyes and minds, reclined to turmoils of darkness.

Forgotten ideas, we are, and evermore become

Until we are awakened by the touch of the fires of the deep, the passion of the furnace which steams the stem of the mind; cultivates the sap of the tongue; awakens the breach of hunger between the animal divine:

The eclipse of our light and shadow, our moon and sun.

On this night, blood is spilled by axe and knife, by bomb and coagulatory bursting of the nebulaic formations

Which crawl outside our vision and reach with corneal rays; fling threads of heat lightning; dark radiation towards us. On the tips of our tongues is the light which permeates the air, sizzles and breasts the hair upon our faces; twists the masks of the skin of our emotions;

Springs chemical stews into life; breeds us from the piggish mud of existence, we who tumbled primordial into the dark glue of the flesh. To make and remake, we must, even in the canals of pasts foreboding; razor sharp lantern’s glow of deeps fish. We who are haunted by death, which takes us in and makes us strange. We who are added to the essential blood of existence and divided like life’s math, utterly unsymbolic and direct;

Immediate, first to time we are the rushing forth, the spilling forth and over of the river of the blood of fire.

We who are addled with indecision and transfixed with terror and uncertainty,

We who are at the crossroads; upon the cross of being -

Between past and futurity; between spirit and flesh. Above us wild white lightning of pure being; beneath us the pitch of our heritage; we stand upon deserts’ ground, this packed soil, the sedimentary history of all of time’s stone

Looking back into the ruin of that which slips our hand; looking forward into the coming world

Which is not yet a single grain of sand -

But simply an ideation.

Above us, thought forms spin wildly; zing like electricity and channel in waves of light; rush through the air like static electricity. We move and transmute and transmit like currencies and magnets; through us moves and weaves the beating channels of our bodies, flesh, hearts, and minds. We conduits of the changing;

Within us stews the expanding and contracting terrain of thoughts and thoughts alone. Pure mind which changes the constitution of cells; pure mind which changes the constitution of worlds, ever expanding outwardly in sheathes.

We must shatter the bright lights of the window which separates us between essence and form,

Permanence and permeability. Through us is the bright channel of the pure imagination,

Force of creation which breaks the gates of law. We must charge forth into the utterly changing;

Make and remake our worlds from the utter root and foundation and essence of existence’s being.

But to do so, we must become aware of who and what

We truly are.

This wave that whelms and wilds us, whips and wicks like a fist of light; changes faster than comprehension, the quickness of the song of energy when smelted by the mind,

Song that we sing and are sung by; passes through us and tricks at the thought of mind. In this, we are either fools or fools awakened to the trick; players at the heart of life, or actors from a script.

This rote note of time is doomed to repetition, without the flick of the creator’s wrist -

To create upon the canvas of realization; in the glacial apparatus of time, to turn the amber’s gem

And reflect the light differently through the mutational casing of the stone. Darkly,

We cast shadows upon the wall of our own being. Telescopic, we are daemonic ants marching about a fire of our twisted sex, shooting lights of blood entwined in an elixir which we impenetrably drink -

Nor a mere eternal force, a chemistry.

Each final thought turns the gem, the very thoroughfare of our being; casts our stage and play,

Our actors and developments, our meanings and our symphony. Night, disharmony digs the soup and flavors us with the pallor of burning;

Day, consonance makes the blood fly unforebidden; open, shooting with entire possibility.

Upon a tossing coin we are summers and winters. Upon a pivoting breath we are angels and devils.

Within us is murders past and utopias future. All around us, the wind dances; sings,

That we must choose.

In each action and moment,

That we must choose

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.

I.

Where you stand, now - disheveled from your body;

Mind like a moon’s tape hiss, we stare refractory at the depths of the snake pit

From whence we tangled and birthed

Wet cords which stare at the stores of being; wail for life; wail for death:

What are we but wound up warm devices,

Teething on the subtle milk that seeps from those that came before us…

Seek the lightning of the mind, which emerges like a dawn fury.

We danced down from heaven; a blue star, a blue womb;

Played music which exploded in reds and yellows - purples, too.

A star combined, hillsides of our bodies in the death of the mind which became black;

We seek like headless stalks,

Stems without vines, flowers without vision.

Bring me the eyes of genius; I will wear them like a mask and show you the blood

That rains down through the body like an orgy of paradise. An array of masks,

Each of them a twisting apocalypse. Faces pull and turn like a clown.

We are hidden under the cloudy veil of strange days, each proceeding with new veiled symbols,

Like a turkey or a vulture in the yard; a turnkey or a thunderstorm,

A bird of language within the breach. The umbilical cord of galaxies winds; we are lost within the ticking gears,

Astrophysical clockwork; planets approaching and reproached.

Similar eyes bring love’s piercing gaze. We are drawn to what we covet like witches in a coven,

Staring over the dark cauldron of the body. Can you remember me, the mind of the toe,

The twitching synapse of the garbled wound of the arm? Stitch back together the art of paradise, one by one.

Remember the leaflets of grass. Remember the tired eyes which passed you, quilt of history.

Remember the snakeskin glove. We wore our sensation before the falcon scientist gave us mind.

Now we dream in worlds of ideas and swim in the smoke of images. This passage is temporary,

We, the foresight of vision.

Great minds lead us fragmentary through abysses. Winds of gloom, nights which blend together the senses;

Starry synaesthesias. Arts with words of healing, mixed senses in green and blue tones. Islands of taste in the feeling purr of the starry engine. Bloodbeat rhythms of the gears of cellular flow. Push of watery, leafy, stemmy veins. We achieved representation at the cost of death; the borders of words. We live now in total darkness, not the sensory unity which was the mingling of fires. Brute and dumb. The mind is our passage.

Through which the borders alight with lanterns of sight. The mosaic walls of history lit like a fiery cave. We walk, the blood smeared chalk of buffalo, hunters. The women with their baskets.

Can you pass me the wine which makes me - which holds me the book of language,

So I can sing to you amidst the snapping of the moment? Time is a vector of arrows,

Which assembles us from mute distances. I held time in the coagulated collapse and congregation of my molecules,

Rifting in the rhythm like a wave, like an ocean of feeling. Each touch is the sensation which upholds the entirety of the body, a fortress, a buoyancy. We are a speech held together by the unity of sensation. Neurological maps. The grottoes which we reach; the pleasures of the halls of the back-mind. You were a book, an imprint, something further. A new letter which shifted the whole chemical composition and rited a new vision.

It is within us, as us, that we change. This sculpture taking and giving compounds. Food, water, disjection, excrement. Removal of toxins. The addition and subtraction of chemical compounds giving the expression of our bodies speech. Chemicals which alight and lush mind. Flush the harvest fields of the fertility of speech, language. We are a grove of feeling. It is not that we make anything, but rather that we ourselves are made and remade, worked and reworked ineffably in the dawn of each moment; the rise and fall of breaths, the inner cellular remunerations. We clean ourselves; death and rebuild. Muscles wear and grow back stronger under the training of resistance. Minds expand by the introduction of new experiences; new forms of ingestion - which stretch our synaptic capacities and the regularity of cellular patterns. We are introduced, initiated, into new realities.

This is the nature of life.

II.

Mind: the dew that dripped from the flower’s bud;

Birthed from the mud two hands and feet, which walked from the lotus’ pond

And proclaimed wordy mastery over the senses?

Foggy notion which moves the hand and eye. Draw us toward sex and death like a lancer,

Toward a razor’s edge - flitting with the pupil’s submergence into the warmth of the blood.

Do we fear so much, so deeply, to stand before the diving pool

And await this life with discerning eyes?

Fit and flit towards the ledge. Gleer, gloat. History is like a tired pilgrim that marched

With the body of a cornstalk; the mouth of a snake; the bare face of an ape;

The hairy legs of a cellular molecule. Within us are the ancient cities.

We are pyramids of blood, lumbering toward the sacrifice of a bright new birth. Consummations have dwindled,

Recombinate possibilities of bodies, sexual articulations. Our language time and time again dives into the flesh.

Muddied cave symbols painted in twilight. Panting by the fire. Spears of ecstasy thrown at carnal wolves.

The soothing blood of red meat.

Survival’s sigh is a breath. But what of furious beauty? To slash with the knife of the body into entirely new universes. To strike the canvas of life like predation. Sharpened tooth. The mind goes dull, obliteration. The body opens to the air which stokes the fire of movement. We have become a meditation

Between worlds of form and representation. Between the bright and carnal fumes which smoke from our mouths;

The piers of sensation which jut out from the cliffs of our tongues and the valleys of our fingers -

And the arts which adorn our caves. Eyes glut forth; consume gluttonously. Mouths take in the world like a berry; a cake. We delight and fall into slumbers, crashing against the waves of chemical flows

Which soothe and pierce the sunlight of our perception.

Dream carries us from the procession of time; symbolic introversion. Our border between the taut laws of reality and the acrobat of the mind. Pirouette of imagination; broken tautology of symbols. We are free, drawn from the bars of our cage and swimming in light.

Mind conducts the body; intuition like ants before the queen in the hill of flesh. Cells whisper like planets move; the sun simmering is no silence. We are acculturated to the quiet noise. Rustling in the brush of the body. Howler monkeys scream at hidden frequencies. Wind speaks in forgotten language. The body responds to the pivotal orientation of thought. Higher powers organize reality in the realm of the mind’s ideation. All move toward the entranced symbolic shadow’s play.

Carriers of the great theatre of blood, from which springs and moves mind’s orientation. We conduct the world with increasing subtlety, the realms of swirling information through microwave megaphones. Electromagnetic radiation. The technology of the heart and brain projecting mental images; passionate production and swirling of the vortex of love’s blood. Enchanted by heat; perplexed by lobes of information.

The silence of learning. Complexity builds and collapses against the density of mental constructions. We harbor beliefs like castles, annexes, ecological breaks. Between oceans and deserts, we are storms - barometric pressures,

Exerted forces behind masks of mind - stoic cities awaiting destruction and invasion

By fervoric forces of ecstatic genius. Mind is the lightning; genius the shattering.

Smooth play of art. Entranced by cool; bright plumage of masks. Meaningless consummation; the dirge of time’s procession. Drums grow louder and fade, like warsongs; the raised temperature and pressure of heartbeats. Veins expand and contract; bloods coagulate and loosen. Nights grow thick with humid rains; cool and thin with the fall of autumn. Soon, our eyes grow concave; peer within the opacity of the body. We are the last realms;

Deeper than ocean trenches; fitted with the boring expanses of the deepest, most vacuous space. Voids that entrance with the circles of fire. Meaningless dramas masked with opaque symbols. Bodies that have dulled

With the lashings of language;

Desensitizations of eyes.

III.

Show me the order of the brain; its attachments. We grew first wild senses; were frenetic and close to blood.

Then came the distance of time. More inhuman, more consumed by the creation of symbols. Money, power,

Reason, language. All around us were the mockery of the drawings of the caves.

Outwardly, we projected the broken insides; the forgotten elements which the new mind drew across the walls of the womb of the stars. Nights became faces. Leering eyes hid in groves of trees. Perceptions took on symbolic extractions; beads counted our treasured loves. Greedy eyes to a diamond, entranced, transfixed

To the symbolic universe. Our distance - shoved away from the vines of the earthen body;

To the film reel visions. Eyes of desire always project the distance between the consuming body and the desired object. As the desired object is consumed it evades the consuming body; burned away, we are hungry and thirsty for more images, broken from the present of perennial ecstatic consummation in the existence of being.

We moved to doing. Engines of civilization. Factories, towers, consumption, possession. Haunted by shadows;

Ghosts of what moves without us. Beauty that we do not yet possess, adorned in chains.

Gaunt, sallow faces. Racing towards hidden paradises; enchanted by bright advertisements of words and pictographs. Outsized hieroglyphs. Weaponized time. Space and distance. We look on outwardly from stained glass windows at a world we will never possess - because it does not exist. Mass enchantment. Projection screens in an endless night. Hungry, hungry eyes - vascillating from most beautiful image to most beautiful image. Decaying, degrading depths. Blank, bleak conjurings of shallow surfaces. Death of meaning.

Eyes which pierce the night, without which we’d teeth into stone;

Grope for vines and wreathes where snakes linger in the trees and undergrowth. Weaponized survival’s function.

With eyes closed, move into touch. Sense the pillows and pillars of sound. Breathe into taste. Linger into the speech of the body, the breathing soil of feeling. Sight, bright sensation. Light which surrounds, entrances. Sound which mimics, turns orientations of mind. Mute simplicity. Dark warmth of the body, entwined with air; unified.

Transfixed in the silent holding of breath. The air is a suspension; the body, a ceaseless unity.

Total dissolution; total union. Absolute reality.

Consummation with the essence of being.

Perception. The life of the world is formed within. A compound of perceived realities, experiences, states and sensations of self. Woven together to form tapestries of personal inner narration. Ever unfolding mystery of self, selfhood, the nature of self. A widening, expanding, warbling radius. Touch convicts us of separation from private bodies. The further we understand, expand; understand the inner unity of all things. Opacity of dreams which we dive into like waves. Thoughts are the bodies which we form against the life of the sky, the spirit of our true nature. They can become boxes and cages, just as they can become liberating forces; expansive forces of awakening. Freedom. Each word opens up indelible boxes of secret feeling. Chocolate. Cells gather in a blustering of storm fronts. The heat and the cold of the elements, distance of space gathers small fires. Pools of information. Interacting; brushing with cilia and arms. Reaching ganglion form connections. Cells exchange blood and tissue in ancient rivers. All of this is remembered. Strands of colored light intermingle and glisten, twist and dive interdimensionally across sensorial platforms. The brain forms thoughts based on the tonal constituence of information extended and interrelated across platforms and passages of perception. Different areas of the brain light up and exchange perceived undercurrents; suggestions of reality. The night acquires a blue stench, or a tickling robust umami. The senses inhale the colors of petrol, the ultraviolet irradiated nebulae of imagination. We radiate electrical frequencies quietly. Our borders are places of mind’s refusal. Our formed sensorial bounds, messages, and channels of neurons; pathways of neurality and synapses are conformed to a basic, fundamental understanding and story of life. This is the life we live; experience; claim to understand. This is the life of the unconscious unfoldment of history and time; the development of the brain in nature’s hands. These hands have passed the life of the mind off; on to us.

We expand in mind and conquer the separations of privacy. Each expanse illuminates the interconnected unity between the source, essence, and origin of all creation; deep into billions of years of unfoldment of information. Thoughts are chemical outpourings which heal and change the flesh. We become greater, more expansive. More conscious of that which forms us; that which we form. The allowance of bright new futurities. The release of beautiful sensations from within. The mastery of technology which illuminates; produces profound sensation and ecstasy from within. We are ourselves the creators of the greatest art, from the sculpting of patient Nature. The art of imagination; mind, which produces perceptions and illuminations; imaginations of reality; possibilities and states of being which are realized into the frontiers of new reality themselves. We make manifest the cities, the works of art, the dreams of unity between men and species; journeys into space, time, and the essence of existence; human nature. Long which the mind awaits and develops the multisensorium in the body. Billions of years of formation of galaxies; stars; the conditions through which to alight the brain. All organisms rise in the assemblage of the creation of thought from neural networks. Spring from bodies of electric veins; nerve endings; sensoriums emerging and processing in the energetic centers of the mind. The intermingling of the senses; the nexus of past, present, and future; a timeless, multidimensional apparatus. Centered and constellated in the rapidly developing brain. The capacity for memory, conscious thought; reflection; creation of systems, worlds, visions. Where simultaneous realities and fields of awareness are experienced; brought together in unified perception. Imagination; the leading and self conscious movement of thoughts dictates all realities. The higher form of thought; cognition - being formed through the highest form of sophisticated neurological processing. Total relinquishing and unreliance upon external circumstances; perceived realities. The stance of total liberation; total goodness. We create from ourselves, within ourselves, the very desired neuro-chemical realities we wish to experience. We do not need any such confirmation bias of and from externalities.

This is the leading edge of consciousness. All forms organize from the emergence of increasingly vast, complex brains. Capable of holding increasingly subtle and sophisticated internal, informational neural networks. The depths, widths, and breadths of our sensorium. The depths, widths, and breadths of our conception of self. As our brains acquire more capacities for more sophisticated forms of cognition, our interdimensional perception; apperception; sophistication of abstract imagination; psychic fields of thought expands. We become more sophisticated in our construction of imaginations; realities. We are able to innovate. Where the borders and boundaries of our perceptions begin and end - this is our imagination of that which we are. In this way we are a breach between darknesses until we encircle the stars. The power of the imagination emergent from the very limitless force and function which powers and makes the stars themselves; jettisoned and awakened the cosmos into being. The vanguard of creation; the production of modes of perception from novel interiority. Non reactive. Self standing and dictating. The demand of radical new terms, in the face of, and regardless of the face of existence. Radical nonconformity to the past, present, and visions of futurity. The demand of an entirely whole presence; perennially dictated from within. Unbrokenness. The remembrance of primary neurology. The fundament of the living, awakening cosmos. The grouping together of cells, molecules, synapses - in the oceans and fluid of the vessel and carriage of the awakening brain. The change of the currents of this electricity in correspondence with internally generated moods based on externally perceived circumstances. The stormy emotions; the peaceful meditations.

We are asked to master this mind. All of the currents of our life flow through it. Our dreams; the flowing of our blood; the states of our awarenesses. The fury or calm and still of our emotions. Our demands, our notions; the circumferences and borders of our self and world. Our language. Our health. Undivorced from the substratum of existence which marinates; for billions of years develops, creates, sophisticates neurological forms and thus, perceptions of form. The rising of living complexity. The awakening of living complexity to the function of the mind; the dictates necessary to become oneself consciousness, uncontrolled, untossed by hormonal and reactive fields of informational processing and states of manufactured awareness by perceived conditions and realities. This one life is lived from within; the chemical productions which experience happiness, peace, wellness, healing. We ourselves produce these chemicals from the neurological responses within our brains to perceived stimuli.

We must ask ourselves how we shall live - in the ecstatic peace and fulfillment of ourselves as individuals. That we ourselves contain the bliss we covet; it is in our chemical release by way of the knowledge and reassurance of our minds. Our self contained power of love; to love ourselves. Unrequiring of others, circumstance, or anything otherwise. This is our leading edge of consciousness; that we come into the communion with the power of imagination and thought is that we harness the tools and instruments; the fundament of our physical, mental, and emotional compound existence and utilize it to elevate ourselves to ever greater conditions of bliss; expressions of bliss: which open up our electromagnetic fields to the greatest power and flow of current. We are deep, abiding electrical power. To flip the circuit boards of our lives and release torrents of cosmic energy. The come into communion with the power of thought and imagination; from this fundament of our lives, utilize the technology of our brains to create powerful conditions, directly emergent from the chemical awakening of the cosmos itself through the conscious awareness of the mind and its powers. We ourselves, this leading edge of the technology of consciousness; through our capacity to imagine; to think, we generate realities of higher unity, higher perception; higher frequency of love. In this way, we are super-powered. In this way, we are like batteries of creation; ineffable charges, unlimited in our capacity to imagine and re-imagine greater unities of the bliss of self. We have the capacity to decide what and how we think before perception. This is not ignorance, but rather a higher order of being. We ourselves decide the quality, the tone, and the feel of the lives we live; we ourselves decide what we look at; the information that we incorporate which defines us. In this way, we ourselves are self-constructing beings. In this way, we are fundamentally imaginative.

This is true down to the conceptions of reality which we ceaselessly communicate and interrelate. Each person communicates and embodies a sensorium; a distance and conception of self which is necessarily privatized until it is entirely whole. This is a sense of excommunication, outsidership - war with the other or chasing for the possession of the desired object. Whole self conception is the entire inclusion of the absolute reality of the process of universal creation - extending from each molecule; synapse; galaxy - into entire corporation and identification with the whole of the unbroken process which is and is changing ourselves. Mind, evolutionarily, biologically, is this leading edge of ourselves; the most rapidly evolving piece of sophisticated biological technology which we are working with. And imagination, the most abstract, impressionable, open terrain. To go into our brains and minds, we are interacting with the most long running, sophisticated piece of technology within ourselves; upon planet Earth. Long running as the running water of a river; sophisticated as the cultivation of a diamond within the soil. That we see beauty externally is that we perceive beauty within ourselves; olfact beauty; in fact are it and possess it at the literal level of the chemical constitution of beauty; the formation of the aesthetic sensation of the experience of it. And yet, we addict ourselves to the external production, reproduction, and consumption of beauty. In this way, we limit the beauty in our lives to external circumstances. We must learn to produce it within us, as us, as a chemical harmony; as a confluence of harmonic elements within our thought; the jelling and unity of the life which we wish to experience - entirely within us and independent of the production of elements ‘beyond us’. In this way we expand from within; in the production of the most expansive sensations through the production of expansive thought, we rise from within ourselves to the revelation that encompasses the highest, most heart opening frequencies in existence and upon the Earth. The experience and unfoldment of true beauty from within. We become that which we desire, the experience of true ecstasy, true love, true unity with the beautiful. In this way, we ourselves become the experiences which we seek.

The constitution of our mind, state of consciousness, and supra-mental musculature and skeletal outline of our vision is first and foremost the composition of ourselves. It is that which we allow, strive, pursue and possess. We must move into a world where we ourselves produce ourselves, create ourselves; from within ourselves find fulfillment in our creative mental states of being; produce within ourselves the powerful chemicals and sensations of love, ecstasy, and power - independent on reliance of generated/simulated external circumstances to generate these for us. We must not be caught in the addictive call and response mechanism of outer worlds; forcing these outer worlds to reflect our inner desires in order to achieve the desired chemical response. We must close the loops and circuits of our consciousness and become entirely self. In this way, we achieve psychic mastery over and within ourselves; through the very technology of our brains and bodies, achieve the bliss we wish to experience by communing with the creative capacity to conjure it from within. We do not, in truth, require any sort of external circumstance to achieve the sensation of profound unity and oneness. For, in truth, the sensation of profound unity and oneness which we wish to experience was and is always already the sensation of profound unity and oneness with ourselves. We do not need a pill or possession of beauty or a neuro-chemical stimulus. Instead, we must, with our understandings of the technology of the brain-body; synthesis and compound of ourselves, learn how to directly experience this phenomenon, within us, as us, without aids. And this is the process of coming into mastery of our thoughts, beliefs, patterns; consciously directing them toward the harmonic and symphonic experience of the desired bliss and ecstasy which we wish to experience within. And in doing so, we very literally change the chemical and biological constitution of us; of who we are; expand the radius of our very being in harmonic resonance of being, creating, and expressing love to and within ourselves; as such radiating it all about and around us in the very embodiment and incarnation of this sensation. Our brains and hearts are profoundly powerful electromagnetic fields and instruments; they themselves project the robust constitution of the psychic/emotional tensility and elasticity of the feeling quality and nature we constitute and create within ourselves based on our physical and mental networking of our sensorium into qualified perceptions of experience. By directly harnessing the creative power of imagination and thought and ourselves creating and constructing our desired experience (an experience which we always already have, necessarily, from within) from within, we are ourselves taking the very constitution and experience of our lives into our own hands. If we wish to have a heroic experience, we will have one. If we wish to have an experience of profound self overcoming, we will have one. If we wish to have an experience of profound gratitude and unity with the essence of the cosmos and creation itself, we will have one. This is the vanguard of the human experience; this is the becoming aware of the very technologies of nature which brought our very forms and biological and psychic functions into being; working actively and directly with those functions to generate profound desired realities of bliss, love, and beauty. In this way, we are not dependent on the production of these realities and sensations from without, but rather, we are directly discoursing with the technology and source of creation from within our very essences of self to create them ourselves. There is proof enough of this work and capacity emergent from the brushes, pens, and instruments of the great artists throughout humankind’s history - the generation of profoundly harmonic resonances of beauty which themselves become the artefacts of the achievement of these great states of unified harmony and cosmic resonance of beauty emergent from within onto the page, canvas, and into the air. These profound works have the capacity to move us, change our minds. Change the tonality of our feelings; our bodies; the fractal capacity of our awarenesses. This is emergent directly from the body, like steam, smoke, electromagnetic radiation of the power of the profound inner state generated by conscious thought, action, and creation of desired states of great magnitude from within. And this is a profound, direct, unmediated art. The art of existence; the art of being.

The essence of imagination is creation from within. It is not only the realm of artists, but the realm of all of humanity, which has long observed natural principles and created mechanisms, such as cities, internets, aqueducts, cars, and airplanes. These revolutions, evolutions, and innovations of understanding based on the natural template of reality have had profound implications for and with how we interface with ourselves and the nature and core and root of our being and beingness. The return of this scientific method is to the essence and locus of human consciousness itself; working directly with ourselves to generate the profound experiences of reality, existence, life, and ourselves we wish to have from within. In doing so, we move into a new paradigm of life, where we are directly interfacing with the essence and mechanism of our existences; the hormones and neurology of our thoughts; feelings and emotions - directly interfacing with the way we see, feel, and perceive ourselves - to create the world and experience of self in which we wish to live.

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.

The real language is the language of nature; this language is the hyperbolic chamber of sexual consciousness; the hypertrophy and atrophy, anabolism and catabolism of the sexual instinct and drive. This is the primarily sexual metabolism of consumption and production; the input and output of life as the disjecta and excrement which fuels the soil grounds of the charnel house of death, from and through which life springs. This is the lifegiving nutriment of excrement, scat, viscera, manure, decompositional materials, through which the soil of the earth acquires the lush, giving fertility also manifest in the abundant, jetting, propulsive energy of densely packed, frenetic, tarry, fiery oils; gases from the core of the earth from and produced by deep fermentation of ancient flesh of the earth and soil.

This real language is encoded intimately and ineffably into the genetic codex of man, beast, plant; all organic life which cycles and siphons through genetic formation, formulation, and reformation through space and time as in an atmospheric, nutrific container; closed and contained ecosystem of the production and consumption of essential fuels; a primary earth giving, life giving, natura giving vessel - which itself gives and takes in the creative and destructive force and cycle of consuming viscera; the catabolic harvest of death; the spring plumping of the anabolic growth of the muscular viscera of nature which passes through the fallopian tube of all things which must live and die and live again through the perpetual container of genetic passage; confluence of the book of ingredients of nature which exist as in the individuated genetic codex of each microscopic individual.

All of nature is essential constituency and constituents of fundamentally permeable cell membranes existent at each micro and macroscopic scale, shape, form, and face; this essential permeability is the perpetual, continued, acquired genetic countenance and recountenance of the shifting face of nature as in time - a face that through the reconstituation of the language of the book of nature manifest as in the organic form, or organa, the subject perpetually, ineffably, microscopically, at the level of the cilia and scales and constitution of the language which writes the organs, brains, and membranes of the cellular and multicellular and molecular organism into existence - shifts, mutates, terraforms - based on the epigenetic encounter of the organism with the multifarious, sheer, en masse jungle of nature and natural constituencies; the primary and primal magnetisms of electromagnetic nutrition - which is the single most and foremost powerful cellular generator and regenerative force in existence.

This reality returns us to the primacy and primary fact of all organisms as embodiments of the epigenetic system of natura itself, or the constituents of a massive, cosmological, universal level machine of energetic production and consumption; an essentially unified furnace which manifests in the homo sapiens at a mind-body furnace of not only sexual, or physical, intellectual, or mind, or emotional, but psychological metabolism - unified at the level of spirit and spiritus itself, or the essential indivisible aspect of Nature, or natura, at the highest level and dominion of the whole of the unfolding, in a timeless, universal sense. This mechanism unfolds, until it is awakened by the unification of the organic contents and constituents by the draught of time which suckles nature upon the bosom of itself vis-a-vis the unfolding of genetic winding and unwinding; the codex of organisms which acquire enhanced, nuanced; interrelated neuro-physiological systems culminating in higher brain activity and capacity for sophisticated abstraction and metacognition as to the interrelation of subtle psychosomatic processes unfolding in and as the physis beyond the subjectively conceived borders of ‘subject-object’ - that the organism itself acquires direct experience and apperception of the purely unconscious forces of primal, primordial, and primary language which constitute the entirety of the bio-mechanical processes of Nature herself, as she unfolds, winds, and unwinds the genetic recombinatory chemical lab of the cultivation of increasingly complex, sophisticated, biochemical organisms, compounds, and chemical reactories - by process of perennial recombination vis-a-vis time - time which is nothing more or less than the sedimentary unfolding of the essential cosmic, primordial fire; the creationary furnace of the Big Bang, explosive and expulsive principal thrust which forms the entirety of the furnace in which, of which, and as which all beings, organisms, and natura materia are constituted, digested, ingested, expelled, reconstituted in the nutrification of the expellation of the soil and grounds of being manifest as and in the core of nature and earth itself; arising again from the essential recombinative grounds of sex, death, reseeded composition as in the distillation and reduction of genetic materials, organisms, compounds, cellular memory and information; particles to their sheerest, most essential, elemental, atomic skins, forms, and essences.

This ash that is shed is the primary catabolic principle conceptualized linguistically as ‘death’; it is the ash, detritus, disjection of materially driven material to forms which achieve status as independent beings, natures, and constituents with half-lives; reactive spans of existence through which they wear the essential forces of nature and time as evolutionary pulls, drags, gravities; metabolisms of the essential furnace and furnaces of material which burn through statuses of complexity and simplicity across scales of being. This scalar status of evolutionary complexity is and signifies nothing more or less than increasing degrees of wiring sophistication as in the coding of the genetic material; additive and subtractive compounding of chemical and molecular bonds which constitute the structure and status of basic information moving through and throughout time and space. As in language, this combination and recombination of elemental forces and forms; replication and reconstitution and reshuffling of genetic cellular information is itself the speech of nature. What is requisite in and throughout this linguistic process is the catabolic staying power of eventual corrosion through the essential principles of de-reaction and sexual and asexual production via reunion and reconstitution of and through seed and ground - both of which, metastructurally, are a reduction of the constitution of complex organisms, forms, information, and genetic speech to microscopic elements in order to be reconstructed, reconstituted, and reordered and reorganized in new forms and degrees of increasing complexity (as in recombinate, genetic sexuality), and decreasing complexity (the reconstitution of the earth and soil and sedimental foundation and fabric of the rock, stone, and burning core of grounds by way of and vis-a-vis chemical dereaction and decomposition into primary materials and food of the organic body) - that the organism itself is in constant states of simultaneous chemical deproduction and reproduction; the increase of complexity of language and the decrease of complexity of language - which returns disjecta and excrement of materia (language holding information) to the nurturing grounds of food production; the essential nutrition of the furthering; continuation of the chemical reproduction process of the fire of language, which is the ascent and ladder of the genetic body of nature itself as a whole. This process of the burning, is again manifest in and as the life and death of stars; furthermore, is manifest at a local, solar-system level, in the most literal sense, in, as, and of the process of life itself - through which all power, essence, energy, sentience, and bio-neurological systems, mechanisms, movements, and processes derive their essential, fundamental energy of loco-logos-motion.