It’s in me all the time, rising and falling and sailing against the great concrete nothingness from whence I came howling all those broken years ago, it animates me, or–it is the thing I feel animates me
It plummets, mostly, ringing like a brass bell burnished just so, brazen and heavy like the heart of a dead queen it tips and spins and sings jagged hymns trying to work it out, extolling its descent (as it must to maintain itself)
Who is this or that figure hurtling through the wilderness, what do they want, how could it be so that we are like this?
I want to know, but I don’t believe a word god says
The room is white and grey, and these uneven, along the wall, like one of Laurencic’s beds tracing the jagged circumference of the room–except there’s not even room for a rat to sleep, just enough to set a record, precariously
There are cavernous drums here
This place in which I have spread the excess of my desperate travails, “le” travailleur, but, when travelling so, a “la”, alas, a la femme, perte de la fille perdue, but she, he, but they grinding away, together, into the nights and numb mornings
Outside sometimes I skulk along the wretched and rippling roads that all criss and cross in a grid, too orderly and expressionless, a blunt utility–that thing I so thoroughly lack! It unsettles me even as I take to them
I wish they were water–is it not immersion I seek, and the sea is just there, over the horizon a plane of wind and glitter and boats bobbing atop the churn, little toys scattered about the livid oceans, black in the night
There is no fatherland at all anymore–just the World itself, in all its alterity and confusion, and us we saltwater homonculi, dragging ourselves up out of Mother’s great vat to slay all those others who dared the same
And victory feels so hollow now, kings of the hill, of continent and terrestrial sprawl, brutish, so brutish in our administrations, this arc unveiled in its fullest tragedy, now, as the veil of magic slips away from us, at last…
We imagined her winged! And now, beheaded, now just gorgeous stone a scornful reminder pitted, of what was once in a time of false glories, here the beauty of those miserable philistines on display, our beauty, carrying destitution forth
But don’t miss it–there’s a glimmer there of the truth, that is to say, of true beauty, timeless, the genealogy of thought and thinking has spasmed its way to here and it has extruded, here, and there, a jewel not so tarnished with black blood
The daimons are never far from us, reaching through that sensual disorganization that bravest of the boy-poets so understood, so invoked, and what he said, what he said, what he wanted–
One must indeed make oneself a visionary–there is no other way, no, not with those rutting Behemoths just outside the walls, just outside the gates, those fragile, latticework gates that stand between the mind and the maw of emptiness
It rises and falls, it slouches in the white and grey room, it is only with a great conceit that it disavows itself in this way and renders itself an ‘it’ to begin with, a trembling manifold’s sustained attempt to objectify itself
How best does it deface itself? With poison or with words or with song–or is it with love? What curls in all of these as the organon of defacement, and what happens, what happens when I ask that question, when I make it explicit?
Does the black dog growl?
I will drown it out with the squalling of saxophone and string, and in every gathering of futility, like cancer blooming in the artifacts of this design, I will find what I seek, I will let the daimons in, or out, and I will blink at the shattered beyond
One day I will arrive home and none of this will have mattered, but, until then–