Sketch - (After Gherasim Luca)

The breeding ground is a sheet of black metal stretched within the eye of a frozen cadaver, wherein there is nothing by which to see the abscess of the gilded tooth, the splayed legs of a woman revealing the roots of a blind tree shedding no tears. The eye will never close, there will be no fruit other than the tears of something other than the blood of the jackal’s jawline. All damage has ceased, however, a stillness in the hand of a medicated alcoholic. Blind edge of some distant removal, I find myself in the nothing of some final silence. The splayed legs close, reopen, a stirring in the loins cuts short the breath, there is no secrecy to the filth that must be endured by the revelations of the sun. Hence, the night within the eye is preferable. Echoes of non-speech gather in the throat exterminated at once by deft lack, the virtuous bone of what has never been before. Once cast, into the shadow’s lack, seeking out the harmony of blackened burnt flies or blackened glass, the fingers dripping away as of some foreign waterfall. Ashen the light still claims without responsibility. There is death or the redeem of death, it is said, either way there is nothing left of the world to cling to, perhaps nothing at all. Given the grace of things, the sheared silence and the pennies dropping from closed mouths, or moreso the eye, the shards of razor and the cunt reclaimed as of she, penile eloquence and spit and solace of the acclaimed reward, din of none ever expectant. This is no road. Aching yet all the while, the drapery of skinned animals from the meat hooks of larval nights and the disclosure of the dream. Elsewise there of the here to follow, the breached ghost limbs as if to say what matter, love in turn turned to shit in the batting of an eye. Scattered then what from it, from a precipice overlooking a contaminated desert scattered with animal carcasses and sharded metal, some insects perhaps humanoid, there is nothing there, the eye roves elsewhere of course. All said undone. It returns to the bled sky where a fortress of nothing still drags prayers kicking and screaming from the depths of some redundant well. Even the screams of which are of no origin, the taste is speculative, there are ovaries in given eye, the reek of decaying silences, the flowering of absent flowers and the meat of damage. Here or there the knowledge of the ocean’s cunt, the filigree skin, a placement of mouth upon mouth and the break of snapping roots revealed by said given. It runs amok. The landscape is of no importance anymore. She, having been unseen before, clicks her red heels and wishes for…Yet it is forever night and the rip and tear of flesh rends in the pestle and mortar of the blind man who has sits patiently and waits for a little more. He will not be forgiven. There will be little tolerance, yet in truth he is as blind as the next, it is just a matter of non-seeing and blindness to the actuality of sweet nothing at all that does not come. I must pare down the broken lung, the bankrupt precision of the pulse. I skin the orchards of my mind as of flayed cadavers and all locks are rusted with semen traces. I understand nothing else. I dream undreamt. There is dust upon the surface of my skin when I awaken, this cocoon of nothing I cannot shed. I lack the impetus to scream yet I am bound by voice. Beneath my eyelids the waters of the world dream forever of the body floating face down, the wrists slashed or the rope-snap within the silver fish that slowly devour me. Am I? As if to say? Razors bite across my skull as my flesh explodes in a vortex of mutilation, the lights extinguished they glint in the darkness reflected by the moon, which of course is as dead as I is, yet I persists, as full of vagrant knowledge and the rapture of blind teeth, cracked they sneer into the void, where nothing but obliterated foetuses spit the venom of blackened waste. Or shall I gather flowers for the dead, as if to say? I say all is shit. It is. Even bleak does not cover the translucent skeletons of this nothing…