The Crisis In Delirium...

Celestial behind a note, its great wings flap open for a brief second before crawling back through the mirror...

On the table, an enormous penis, its veins a luminescent tributary that devours letters and numbers without mercy. It whispers to me, softly, across the room, 'The Buddha is somewhere watching television with the ghost of dada,' then resumes dreaming of stolen nuclear submarines. Also on the table, photon mandalas designed to weaken certain psychic parameters, a pleasant smile from the filthy, decrepit women who wear the vast array with no shame, an hour-glass, its eyes expertly removed. When the hour-glass is shaken with any force at all, art dies in the void, its resident technicians having failed to express any genuine human feeling at all, or, alternately, photographing the invisible lattices until people learn to finally see them. A more neutral observer would wonder at what point exactly the reprieve had been granted, when the keys were placed suddenly, unexpectedly, in shackled hands before being snatched away again just as quickly and with teeth somehow teleported into the nameless street outside the jail?

The synopsis, we recalled later, was emptied of its scarred fields, coeval with the waiting starship, beige skirts laughing their upside down. Blue suits thinking about radioactivity, the shrill ambience created by gunfire next to smooth, nude bodies capable of disappearing into another, more spiritual, dimension whenever Empire decides to impose its idea of avant-erotica on those who have the least need of it. There is a large body of water amidst all this senseless grasping after, starving and open, but only to those who can sense it bouncing off asteroids and greying chest-hairs, another lonely anti-entropy for voice and chamber orchestra.

A vampire's cunt will always appear hairless to the eyes of an angel, my own black and white photography assures me before sleeping with a wet kiss at the door. Airless dualities, a talon's glacial touch mistaken for an action painting, these are all memories to my stomach now, clotted enigmas on their way to be burned. The hydrogen jukebox sees a white circle opening onto a new gyrating destiny and waits patiently inside it, as if there is any love lost between a question mark and the endless rows of alloyed skulls hovering directly over pure logic. Nacreous and flashing red, new messages arrive via great fistfuls of rain, monads clashing wildly with the dwindling evening light for no apparent reason:

Lavender is the new myth of reality, a puzzle to be solved
by the 1960s. hair that fails to download properly chokes
at the sight of a felt hat. The bourgeoisie detests delirium...

That kind of thing.


At the behest of metal throats tightening visibly, the music from the next room sails into the gently curved channel between here and somewhere, stopping only long enough to admire the large slabs of granite and quartz sprinkling the landscape. They swoon with delight at the attention they should be accustomed to receiving by now, even going so far as to transform into a fine white mist that swirls through the verdantry's original sentience, each variation a disembodied voice prattling on about breasts, nine-figure diasporas, time curated by the devil.


Long ago, when my spirit was darker, heavier, there was a certain equation, its outlines long since confined to the to and fro's wet oscillation, a long, lucid dream of unicorns and abstract decay. Kaleidoscopic evenings discernible in profile, paradoxes lingering just below liminal awareness, always on the verge of being coughed into the same breeze that wafted in through the half-open windows to keep the moist earth piled on our abdomens cool and alert. A few blasts from the smoky metaphor and a 'can you cure my psychosis' at the local act of sodomy with a television set later, and the staccato gambled, took luck by the tail, and visited with paisley bikinis, wandering around the afternoon's teeth, keeping the CIA away from the intellectuals dangling in the corner, who thought reverent thoughts about the name of such and such a whisper, despite the merciless teasing they took from the frail curtains. By then, I was the last neuron before the people in the map of the city emerged, shaking in astonished disbelief at the sheer size of the words in my interior monologue, seductions that would fill the hymnals with sand, like frost begging a fast-approaching horse-drawn carriage to flee into voluntary exile with the tittering, curious ladies still aboard the right answer to an incorrect question.