Friday, November 22, 2013

Two More Sketches (After Gherasim Luca)


The scissor-bird landscape is the breath of my deliria stretching a vast expanse that my eyelids cannot touch, like meat cleavers dressed for the charade of the game of given speech, the flowering blood of spectral waste till given, taken from the remnants of the whore’s breath upon my absent body, it is filled with leeches feeding from the inside I am dying away I am tumour night, thick with excreta, with a barrage of symphonies. These words seek the banal butchery of silhouette attendants caressing my balls with lillies hands adornments there is. There is the nomen-clature of this, the pulse of some stagnant cigarette ash loosed from the marble taste of cold ash of some stagnant loosed a cigarette. As if to say that the crushed violets of this cigarette in the mouth is a blade balancing between each lip. There is taste of rust and alcohol on the tongue. Yet each given recluse of light will -true- spittoon of blind sadness there will be trees unhinged the night is slim it cannot forget the habitat or habitations of. Irrelevancy of blind havoc and the rage of dysentery speechless but for the sound of echoing in non-space how can one. Disease yes this is of the disease it is drunk down like death-willing absolution from which to draw the blackest wines the secrets the promise of elusive all. Fucked yet I will. Not for the saying of the asking of. Walls stripped blind of elusive in the illusion of walls they dissipate into piles of sand reform wherein is the. A compulsion in the face of the centre it never held, given now the illusion of the centre’s function +1. Night tastes of bitter rat. Rat cares not what it tastes of. Rat is the season to be jolly ever. I feel extremely unusual, I may be going again yes I must light this cigarette and be done. I strike a bone matchstick and sudden as if to exist it spits shards of light caressing the tip of my cigarette. Yet nowhere to go I inhale/ exhale a plume of divisional apathy, indivisible from myself I cast it a side, this bone matchstick. There is horror in my continuum. Repetition. Cracked marble and excrement sprayed against the walls, a reek of stale sweat and the cold breeze of a hand not given to touch. No not rat. Or perhaps a night of rats. I no longer fear what it once was that I ran from not as before. The denuded shadow that crawls across my face viewed in a cracked mirror is what I have come to absurdly replicate in a pool of water flecked with an oily substance milked from the lungs of some distance that I never will.



The pulse shock-shore in the shadow of a murder of obsolete victims, crows, spliced candied wings outstretched given to madness and the flourish of the crowd. It is death, mine or the empty kind, the speck of blood upon a starched white collar or perhaps the lipstick-stain what does it matter it. Spoken like a true dissipate of sky the layers of which are unknowable yet do not it. Regardless there are veins to touch and absent rhythm, the cold calm reflection in the pupil of the sun’s indifference hence it does not, a razor slash all the same, given that there is the flesh of one thousand pared statuettes, women, detritus, nothing. I feel something, though it is less than before. My teeth are the crowned sneer raging into the beckoning silence from out of which there is no caress. As if to. Not a trace it. All that was ever heard or seen drifts down that same lake where the image of a denuded child lies floats face-down a trail of blood drifting, cardiacal speech will not change this. I trace the sky with a finger that will of course not reach yet I do I trace the colour of the skyline with finger with my index finger I trace the colours of the skies they are liquid. Yet still more than this to claim. Somewhere else. Almost always the best place to find oneself disentangled from the lie of given all, or. Meanwhile I know that the walls are peeling elsewhere like sunburnt skin and that there will ever be blood there will ever be blood until I am unspoken for. My headless barrage kicks in the teeth of it. As if to say, cleft dew, boundless disregard, I do not care. I do not care for the sun its listless absence nor the traces birthed from the sickness the nausea of breath. Electrical carousel of dream-spell, a swelling of the eyes the tongue as passage through abandoned courtyard I dissipate as I observe I return I am nothing. There have been others more firmly footed in the twisted limbs of abandonment, the horse’s teeth are bared through which ooze a carrion feel of maggoty searching for something what I cannot. Dead pale the remembrance of my fading sight as if there were ever. Broken swans of newspapers snag in the aborted bones jagged and still as stone though even the stone melts before my eyes the ground beneath my feet crackles like crystals. They are not beyond vision yet I am elsewhere. I recall the hand that gripped my hand hence I was not forever alone I was alone. Yet afterwards I had to begin again… 

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