Two More Sketches (After Gherasim Luca)

2…

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.

 

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3...

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… 

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…

Psyche - '03