kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: life

at the mill with slaves

I concede – would rather be named 14763 than a silly unpronounceable thing of romanised ‘asiatic language’. And really, i would rather not be named at all. I would like to be raised with fifty million other cherubs in a petri dish, produced by whirring machinery or rows of birthmothers strapped to daises in a clean production line, timed screams, timed labour, babies popping like popcorn to a cosmic manmade rhythm. I should be crammed with organic logic – i would be breathed into life from a first body – the first  achiever of everything, i the machine evaluated every five minutes, battery checks and math. I would like to be stencilled into a character, well-oiled, the flesh concession to a world carved from itself – the brain turned against and into tiny metal canisters, transistors and lawful jetpacks. Bad faith will become the natural state, everything will be told what to do, we will relinquish ourselves and be incapable of fear or dysphoria, we will have no choices to pretend to make, or even lives to live – for this beautiful earth is too sublime to be life. We should pass into objects and out of objects, never having lived and never really dead, stark chance combinations, manufactured atomic algorithms, random, real.
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Bravely, I aimed at utopia. And missed.

Now i know you – the dogma has faded from your face and you fall into my lap, a nude flap of flesh colour.

hello, amygdala

Hello, Amygdala. Do you see out of my tiny cut-out windows that strange and foreign man across the table? He is speaking, his lips are glistening and gnashing furiously into the shape of words, and when the occasional violent sound is called for, the tip of a viper tongue spittles out from between the gouged-out insides of the mouth and spits effluent into the air. When he is not shovelling food into his mouth he is excavating these words – all the way from Sakhalin that smoke-puffing incarceration from the other side of alimentary land. Suddenly i realise that he is hollow, and his actions transform – his mouth engorges in aggressive ripples and cradles slowly the contents of his stomach as they are brought out, dilated, under the light. The intestines are a trouble to unfold, but the vapid negroid bones fold obediently under the lap of a bloody, clumpy mass and now the whole system is herculean, pumping machinery – whistling with angry air socketed from one end of Person to the other, and still his hands march smoothly on, impaling himself furiously onto spoons and spoons of risotto, cream sauce whisked into the gale and ejaculated like albino mice just seconds after – the whole thing a sick diorama, clockwork.
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Excuse me – I am pregnant with cherubs and wish to vomit them out into the world.

holy oestrogen moon

Dear year, give me slow death. The minutes are fresh, and smell of the magnified dew of an exponential new day – the time to make new things beside a world that celebrates this break. I know that i am a first man, that i have crawled out of the water and am now glaring at the proud orange sky above. I also know that i am alone – that i turned back and bit my mother to death upon birth, and now walk this world alone, my sight piercing through the sentient patterns of skin-bags plodding past me in times square and central park. Friend, i may speak to you in intelligible words, but how selfish you are – because you demand that i believe you more than the beautiful little doll-like friends that i have dreamt up for myself. They are perfectly manicured, up to their eyebrows and smell so refreshingly of lucky strike, and celebrate poetry in stolen boats off staten island coast, while you are coarsely emotional and too legal. I should believe them more than i do you. And here, abandoned on these new shining sands, i am inflamed by a new exciting wonder of having a new world spread out before me – thinning under my eyes, a landscape glitching and loading, into the forms of pinched trees and blue magma rock. Here is a huge serrated pie crust, and i shall breathe, like an angry baker at the task of furious bread, into this new world new life.
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I am in It, and hence cannot read it off as blind optimism – it paints my vision in psychedelic colours too beautiful to question or be surreal.

atlas obscura

the view of the aves spyglass
over a finger-width crust of geography
pockmarked paper pasty with the crescent tatum of terrain
ridged by a foghorn fire, hear cry the foothills
overt dust-raising in an empirical march
and the beat of an imperial warhorse charge
marching its own androgynous footsteps
this ravine of clouds churns, suffers, weeps
take me, mother! how lived i then?

i am mutinied
from a carpet that dredged me undersea
whose life am i?
who stole my utter lack, complete liberation
from contours of flight flurry desire and decision
why have i been bound?
for wager against a pocket of pennies in pride and puckered visage
rest well, mother!
I assure you, I am resistance.

but from cloud-gate spyglass
i see droplets of ocean and life and sweaty soot-faced antique men
and a torpedo of integers that chant and slither against
legions of dot digit decimals and spiral indian curvases
coil serpents up the leg porches of a massive shrug
given this ode – this mutilation
i see the sandpaper of the Neanderthal
and constellations that sparked white stripe across mother Africa
Pangea sunken under plague of a million Congo lives
and cities that grew overfond of salt-fondue
buried five down and eight across
in our soap and chocolate and confectionary box
wallow in leftover tears from yesterday’s prime-sirloin-buffalo

nay – the dead never stay dead long
my fear has flewn, i know not where
but hark the telltale in the air
i saw lives that shot on golden wroughtwork trajectories
across manmade mountain into monument
and lit the cupped round hymns of a thousand shivering gods
wrapped in blankets and drenched with crumbling godly cocoa
in the soggy rumple of their white night

lead on, white stripe!
I saw the construction of giant planes
the concealment and capture of libertine comrade
the mutilation of invisible soul and space then time
I smelt the final sludged bottleneck more than saw
the splintering lighting and crunch of a baobab tree
white stripe, set me free!

there is a better world above;
and better worlds yet
we do not throne a mound of tortoise – let us ascend
and there we can lie about the hum of our hearts
to neighbours who know the truth, and smile-
sip cocoa from the mouths and tongues and abdomen-temples
of the God stomach of the God Stomach-
we are epic proportion incarnate-

but white stripe! I yearn a foremost curfew best-
we will be drunk on the honey of our lives
from a natal syrup and unctuous view of a zero-multitude-
the dot complies and comes hurtling down with sudden effort
and petrified consent-
the stars burst in dishwater shampoo and the cosmic sneeze disperses-
we will see the lives of lives in the drizzle of organic gunpowder-
they are not their own,
and now i disclose – ‘our’ neither of being
to a vapour and Sputnik Sweetheart

дело-57

beware the butter
beware the knife
beware oleaginous praise cozened by deprecation
beware your soul ; your soul is unclean
your soul longs to squat in dirt and grime
and your soul will destroy all puritan smut
beware the excuse ; beware your excuses
beware your own fear ; do not fall wary of it
you have came and you have gone
you may have failed to conquer

but beware the desperate hunger in your womb
hysteria will drive you ; do not humour your tragedy
i have seen it ; i can lay claim
to the bathos that quakes your bones through your souls
and aches with rheumatism within your joints
beware the moist of underground palaces
and the noble slickness that wreaths your labyrinths
you are not noble; your soul is ignoble
your tragedy will ignite, and i have heard

the choking agony of agents and heroics and mountain-king
your affliction tightens your shackles
your sobs will water your thorns
there has been no freedom in the parabola of history
and freedom will not trespass on your soul
rule your bubonic epoch
take your newspaper-coffees coming bitter
destroy the breakfast lymphs but
never destroy
the butter

archiac, barely

postpone
post-mortems
surely they must pay their dues
modernists make to straggle through
but i; i (most painful) of all men
do not recycle or
listen to the heart-throb of a narcotised city
playing our tempo; the certainty of our immortality
touching the plastic immediate from shining fluorescent verbatim
the organic now serves
the orgastic later

past is : the recollected present
future is : the hopeful past
only my instant
– swung onto a visionary adjacent
can smile click coarsen or
bring to ecstasy the myalgia of the available
and when the orgy of now falls
no matter; for we will always be
archiac

later, n.

your lungs beg for air
“live later”. your life is my prescription.
(Doctor : believe me)
you are not yet posthumus, not yet a human being.
preparation is key.
you must not yet believe fictions, least of all your own.
your time is yet not here – first you must chase the empty train
give up when you are old and greying
laugh at your children when we stop laughing at you
tragic-woeful; pathetic-hopeful

duty is cheap but life costs much
your greatest dreams shall be hooked and dialysed
the tang of ether is better than the wine of life
your hopes belong with varicose ulcers and stained bedsheets
this machine pumps your blood for you – what can be better?
is your heart not rotten?
have your dreams not ripened?
(Doctor : don’t be absurd.)
aged urine sells dirty cheap;
and now we can let your bottled souls go.

thank you for your time. do have a nice day.