Meandering under a greasy moon
An unctuous lunar ellipsoid
Baleful and buttery
Up: pustular corpse-eye
Down: polyvinyl fondlings
Rubber bullets; wobbly bass
(Read: pert tits; glitch)
Blue attic nights
In which the blue glows sexily
And drones ecstasy
We know weaponry
We throw destiny to the loups-garous
Sensors and metrics and Fidel Castro
Are the future
Arm the neutered
Sepulchrally reboot spongy gray operating systems
Or snort rails of Haitian zombie powder
While watching Roller Blade
Or The Undertaker and His Pals
Or Peter Scully’s appeal
Fuck the lot of them
Their sad sacraments
(The blue of video stores circa 1994)
Barthelme smeared the moon
He had issues with the moon
Our only jumbo night-light showcasing
– illuminating wanly –
All nocturnal earthly horror and miracle
Waves and menstruation
What a meddlesome cosmic ovoid
Coffins rattle around inside my skull
Like a maraca of bone
Let us prey…
On our natural satellite
[DONALD! FUCK YOU!] Star reference: 27 and 1/3
Diameter: 3475 meters kilo
238,900 miles from the blue attic
And still a motif
At that distance
About the girl in the attic: she appears ageless
90 or 9 – who knows?
Anemic and elfin and polyvinyl-hoodied
Likes kitchen-sink magic realism
From Massachusetts probably
That’s only speculation though
She could be made of porcelain for all I know
Green brie/celestial bod
And elegiacal brooding
Brood king elegy
The gradations of an outsider art –
I would read suicide notes as verse
Natural disaster aftermath as organic installation
I would read a schizophrenic hobo’s lice-mealy handscrawled autobiography
I would watch amateur porn and look for fluky symbols
Unintentional abstruse subtexts hiding in rutting creeps
Do not suffer pitiful mannerists like Lin Tao
Anyone can do Lin Tao: e.g., I need to check email… this is stupid… a koala ate Chris Penn’s chin off… I laugh and feel bored
An antidromic hike into an ahistorical past is needed
Aikido for rapists; destabilization happens, essentially
Campy blue UFO light
Looks like a straight-to-video erotic thriller from the ‘90s
Fafnir roars in UHF
I want death by band saw
I demand death by band saw
Goodnight, you pursuers of jackal delirium
1) Ich forch
They are like my choosers, the world is a cup of hellfire
It is my church, my clientele, my bed, my family
by the talent of and patron of those skilled in
The master of the furies holds his guns, with his paper’s
I kill these people and I keep them alive
for the tricksters, for the artisans and every day
David Rothko’s Remake of the Bible
You might remember how within hours of David Rothko’s Remake of the Bible being released, everyone was asking each other who the lover he had named “Melissa” might be, this openly acknowledged pseudonym weaving her way through the rise and fall of each chapter. All the sensitive young men (as well as a good number of shit-headed ones and more than a few lesbians) were ready to fall in love with her, which felt like an implausible but statistically mentionable possibility for those in social circles adjacent enough for her to have been cast into, since of course Rothko had had to promptly shed her the way a red carpet dress must be discarded once the commoners have glimpsed it.
You’ll want to be able to Dr. Frankenstein a few of the more prominent takes on this matter together into something resembling an original one, so as to perpetuate the smokescreen the whole affair serves as, but should otherwise attempt to remain fully unconcerned with the gossip.
Your attention will need to be focused on posture. Whether on the bus, in the cafe, among socialites, in the bedroom, you must be able to optimally frame* the book’s cover, its wash of blue, green, orange (each in several shades) and most of all the incredibly chic reflective pink lettering.
*“Optimally frame” here doesn’t mean to simply draw attention to the book (it does that well enough on its own), but to direct this guaranteed attention in such a way that people notice how you’re reading it. The way the lettering brilliantly ricochets light may also be used for hypnosis or as a weapon, if one finds the right dark web tutorials.
Once you’ve fully mastered the work’s distractive properties, you can begin to drift through those subtle passages where Rothko threads associations between the crush of objects we all find ourselves surrounded with, building not quite a hierarchy but something not particularly distant from one either, undoing 1) Jesus’s dissolving of Hebrew law into an existential demand to love and 2) Peter’s subsequent ecstatic vision where he reinterprets this dissolving as invitation to consume every part of the world at leisure.
Colossal lifeflown forms hang
decomposing just below cloudlayer.
Needle scrapes through spine,
(Felt in teeth, soft hiss of administration,)
breaks vision into messy viscera.
Januarys voice degrades to tatters,
a static slush in your ear.
Eyes shutter to black, red sand
rushes to meet collapse.
January is a hollowed icon imprint.
He wavers in the heat.
Head a cracked mollusk shell
blooming raw flesh.
Gore dripping up towards heaven.
Messy splinter of smile.
Full ironsmoke night when you wake.
The Emitter now glowing on the horizon,
teeming with life, slow bass pulses:
dragging sand behind them cross plains.
From every icy dot torn in the skies flesh
god stares hungry, pearl light batters clouds.
Start moving shaky towards heaven.
Small pillars grow larger,
jut from the desperate ground.
Grow into a forest.
When you reach the other side
Dawn is bleeding up into cotton fever sky.
The Emitter lies before you.
Great hollows in its flanks catch the sun,
intensify it to melt-dripping glass honey.
White hot drool sears through eyelids.
Bent light, smeared gravity.
Isotope washed pulses pass through you,
feel flesh ripple, gods hand through
a curtain of beads. Your shadow printed on air.
Far above you the sun is grated
by lacy-thin fibrous lungs.
Each breath causes the shards of light
to flow across your skin, the stony landscape.
Each breath sounds like icebergs ground to slush.
January’s tongue billows behind shattered teeth.
Sloppy iron drools from the holes in his neck.
Words bubbling, messy clatter of ruined throat.
Your boot embraced by splayed ribs.
A circle of wings in the sun above you.
See the hollow light flickering above his eyes.
Behind your eyelids the Emitter blooms.
Quivering, a multitude of taut strings, high tension
Silver pearlescent tongues strumming flesh:
Ache, phosphorous, wet muscles writhe round bone.
Icy light envelops you, pushes desperate
through grain of iris, snakes down optic nerve
Sifts through you, your past, the belt snaps,
lays visions out, spinning disorientation,
tangled snapshots bleed color into the air,
moments hanging to be tasted.
The clouds pass before blank eyes.
Long moments stretch on the sand.
January’s voice still in your ears.
I was stepping off the Ferris wheel when things started unraveling. Amelia noticed it first. She touched my shoulder at the turnstile like have your arms always been that long? And I realized I could touch my knees without bending over and my elbows were slipping downward under my skin.
I became concerned and said holy fuck holy shit what the fuck. Amelia sort of smiled and I wondered if maybe we had fallen asleep or snorted three hundred milligrams of methoxetamine. But really we were just on the pier which made me start to panic. Meanwhile my shoulders were oozing past my nipples and my fingers fell lightly onto the damp dirty wood by my feet.
I got sick to my stomach and I needed to move or else I would die. I pushed into the crowd, slipping to the end of the pier where the waves were screaming over the railing. It was a cloudy but warm Saturday and the pier was busy enough to make me insignificant even though my body was rapidly assuming a grotesque morphology in defiance of all known anatomy and physics. A caricature artist with a Nick Cave mustache smirked as I passed, dragging my wrists behind like coattails; to him it was maybe not so strange. Another person pointed me out to their mom and said hey haha woah look at that. I tried to bury my face as more turned and stared but I couldn’t quite get my nose under my sagging drippy armpits.
By the time I reached the end of the pier I was mostly arms. Overall I had shrunk but my arms were at least ten feet long. I could barely see over the railing. Everyone was watching me with a look of bemused curiosity, like the faces people might make while looking up from their phones at a dolphin show. I wanted very badly to breathe and process, one two three four like my therapist said, but I was trapped between crashing waves and onlookers, both menacing, both sucking up the world and all the air with it.
Amelia caught up to me and said are you feeling okay? I jabbered something back at her and jiggled my limp appendages. I said Amelia you have to help me. Amelia call nine one one call an ambulance call a fucking helicopter get me out of here. I shouted these demands with great intensity even though the last time I used emergency medical services it financially ruined me. Amelia looked up and hopped away. A rogue wave exploded over the railing and soaked me head to toe. Head to finger. My toes were inside my hips now.
Now I was all wet and my eyes stung. When I opened them I was shorter than Amelia’s waist, my clothes had slid off and my arms were basically long as fuck. It was almost impossible to breathe and I wondered what was happening to my internal organs. I wondered if I would keep unraveling until I became one very long arm with a hand on either side and then I would die. I felt exposed so I spun in a circle and coiled my arms around my shrunken body like the spring on the inside of those nice pens. I heard everyone giggling. Amelia was a giant now, smiling down at me, and in a damp shaky voice I cried Amelia, Amelia what do I do? She rolled her eyes.
Another wave came then and knocked me onto my arm-wrapped stomach. I was small enough to see under the gap at the bottom of the railing. The ocean was very close underneath. The crowd had come closer, eager to see what I did next. Their smiles split their faces in two. They laughed and shouted and chanted, louder and louder.
Somehow they all knew my name. They knew every name I had ever used: the ones my parents gave me and the ones I gave myself, my failed bands and gamertags, the ID that showed me my bank account, names used to hurt me and names used to hide me, every slur and @ and AKA I’d ever known. They shouted my names in a vicious cadence, stomping and clapping, splitting my skull it was so loud.
Amelia whispered in my ear asking if I wanted a push. The waves rocked outside the railing and the crowd was stomping closer. Yes.
Hitting the water was like being born and murdered at the same time. My new form was not buoyant and I sank slowly in the cold murk. My arms unfurled from my tiny frame and trailed behind me. I found I could pulse them in such a way to propel myself forward, and though I couldn’t see much I felt them brush against fish and slimy kelp as I swam. I didn’t need to breathe and I wasn’t thirsty, but I opened my mouth and let in some water and it made me feel calm so I gulped it down. The sea felt cool and holy passing through me.
The crowd continued their chant on the pier, the cacophony muted by seawater like club speakers from inside the bathroom. I could just make out my name in the rumble. All my names, over and over, drenched in noise. I kept swimming and after a while it faded away.
Before we can lay out the blueprints of our future we must first deal with the particular question that arises when speculative concepts of a new world are put forward now in our boring period of time. Why are you a utopian? This seems like a reasonable question because years of propaganda have thoroughly sanded the brains of your average person completely smooth to the point where they can not tell the difference between a utopian and dystopian project. In fact, they believe that all utopias are dystopias as anyone who is irrational enough to stray from the perfect platonic ideal of liberal capitalism must be a genocidal monster. The USSR and Nazi Germany are conflated into a gray blob of totalitarianism by mediocre intellectuals of a “free society”. Of course concepts of totalitarianism are nothing more than a mechanism by which the ruling class cancels thought crimes among the masses. If we were to judge the utopian project like the Soviet Union by the body count it has then wouldn’t the same standard also apply to say the United Snakes of Amerika? Can we judge liberal capitalism based on the mass grave of indigenous peoples and dead slaves that it grew out of? It is a well-known fact that Hitler’s open-air Holocaust of the Eastern European peoples was directly inspired by the settler Colonial genocide of the U$ so should we dismiss the sanctity of liberal capitalism? The answer is yes. The bulk of Soviet Union’s body count comes from Noble but stupidly planned effort to industrialize a backward Nation whereas America’s body count comes out the settler Colonial genocide of Conquest and Global imperialism. The Grand historical mission of the Soviet Union, utopian in its character, is what separates it from the equally “totalitarian” dystopia of liberal Amerika and Nazi Germany.
This totalitarian consensus of totalitarianism leaves us with very few people willing to talk of Utopia. The minority that remains are academic schizophrenics like Fredric Jameson who are only capable of writing and speaking infinite patterns of jumble Jargon that mean little to nothing. That educated junkie James has sentenced himself to the cruel punishment of wandering the empty halls of the once Grand Hotel Abyss mumbling to himself aimlessly about utopia and emancipation as literary Concepts. We being neurotics of a different kind should pay academic schizophrenics nothing but pocket change, being professors they probably need it. Such academics have far less to contribute to the discourse of emancipation than actual schizophrenic homeless people, who at the bare minimum are proletarian in character.