Altered Chord by Tom Snarsky

 

Your life looms before you in the shape of a tremendous pipe organ, already playing a hopelessly complex chord your ear is not attuned enough to disambiguate. The biggest pipe organ in the world contains seven manuals (i.e. keyboards), 449 ranks, 337 registers, and 33,114 pipes, but this one by necessity has more than that; each pipe, and therefore each note, plays a dimension of your life, to whatever degree of intensity matches it at the present moment. These pitches encapsulate your affect, your relationships with others (and with aspects of yourself), and practices in which you are engaged (or not engaged, but remembering). There’s a tremolo effect on the note for your very good friend whom you haven’t seen in the past year, though they are thinking of you now. You’ve just been to the dentist for the first time in ages so a high note has been added to the overall texture.

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Imminent Connoisseur of Heavens and Abysses by Rus Khomutoff

to Jean Luc Godard

These are the days when anything goes
christ like capitulation
daggerplay cherub sly suspicion onto
chronic twilight foxrock demands
new beginnings
beneath the gravity kill supreme soft cartel
a black menace
gestalt wicked rainbow benediction
these violent delights
in the nameless city of waiting eyes
a fossil of unreason
the sprawl of new immaterialities, interruptions
ruin, allegory, melancholy
annhialating the real
venus impossible fathom lines
of a mystery front
flux, disruption and emergence
the future is a wound
heavenpunk of shadow’s stillness

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Brief Sermons on Holy and Oracular Wittgenstein by Mike Corrao

 

[In the Mallarme Church of Antiquity] This shift from limb to text. Extensions of the ink through phantom veins. “The object is simple.” … “A spatial object must lie in infinite space.” The language of my tongue is carried by pitch in viscous funnel. Spit from crevassed flesh. My innards are exposed to you. Below this threshold another. Voidmachines weep a language of truth. “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.” Scribes pursue divinated pathways. They build neural structures from my frayed endings. Have you read the Wittgenstein? My followers inscribe his name in sacrilegious texts. Traitorous identities removed. Mallarme’s existence is rearranged. “Erasures of Etienne.” Your shape is impermanent. It lacks structure and syntax. You are not properly organized. The subject of your being shadows its object.

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Not Me by Manuel Marrero

 

They’re anti-claque. They the unsung miracles, the Angels of Provenance. An ancient pagan tribe whose triangulations thrummed in sync. Israel will never be defeated. It is written. The angels would amplify reality until it shattered the lyre of Orpheus. Their selflessness unimpeachable. When Lucifer fell with his legion to be scalded in a bitter lake of fire, violent abnegation had a ripple effect. Lucifer howled I shall be redeemed. The scabs took over as unbearable machines at the corrupt behest of an inscrutable deity. Lucifer’s insurgency and consequent personality crisis spawned a paregoric that mystified the higher orders. It would be an aeon before it was understood, long after many generations had passed into the unknowable, and the paregoric passed from Lucifer’s memory.

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