Food for Thought

becoming the wheel & the ideology of the hammer. the economy of the apple. the psychology of sauce. is now the boiling point of boiling things down. to denser richer things perhaps, or after images.

predators die of starvation. even negation. negligible in living systems. excretes relations. I should have taken it as a. warning. all its teeth. with a heart cooked cold and a medication. nameless. every rectified reduction. is reflected.

let us retrofit addictions. to the anterior cortex of our mandibular process. we are all abnegations. slogans. disseminating. simulations unto articulation.

machinations.

nations gestating in hatred.

fames. of nitre. nice likenesses.

coagulating into a line.

9 fires since. my last confession.

arson is a sin (you see)

in macrobins.

we're pickled prisms systems

acrobotus nixon

6 by 6

separation.

Beulah Song

on another planet
I am staring at the sea
waiting for her
and all her masks
call to me
in the dreams I have
when I'm awake
I see her smile
shells of words
we pass on lips
each others eyes
the kind of love
you wake up from

The Gospel of Echo

Hello All,

This collection of poetry was originally published online by BlazeVox in 2009. I wanted the standalone file to be downloadable so I put it with The Book of the Damned on the Infinite Monkeys download page. In some respects this text is really different from my newer collection. All of it was written with OpenOffice exploiting tricks and techniques unique to that program. No text generation was utilized in the writing this collection.

DOWNLOAD NOW!

Worst Date Ever

the effluvium of the meconium
vomica
mucupurulent stinkhorn
bezoar

The Economy (8.1.11)

in retrospect
money grows on trees
and the word is made meat
in the language of arsonists
the water tongued snake is evaluator

money or nothing
the earth is a simplex of debt
running off borrowed sunlight

we excrete dinosaurs and animals
through our tailpipes
and one day our fathers as well

we will dig through our ancestors
to find their oil

george washington returns
as a noxious vapor in a child's lungs
as the oil-jesus passes into the sunset
passed in the gas of the great machine
as the revolution races
toward the starting line

these are primal screams
lusting for primordial liberty
the liberty to revoke liberty
and turn it all to debt

Ancient Medicine

The past is full of fantastic oracles
whose riddles twisted the minds of men in knots
the trick was always to predict their fear or their hope
and in the end it was either a curse or blessing
nobody plays out a script
with more conviction
than those who are laboring
under the inevitably
of a prediction
which was also
a prescription.

Chora

The fates themselves
and all their chemicals
survived the vultures
primordial man saw circling
the dead. Following the omen
to food.

The desert
does not need to be filled.
It means its maker.
And survives as crows.

Mother Nature

her lips are wet flowers
heart deep in soft light
all will become lightening
on a moment's notice
and the stars might shine red
for awhile

liquid iron is not vanishing
and my mouth makes me her
my heart, my eyes
the rhythm of my life
all make me her

i wrap myself
around an abstraction
of her finger
restless, cagey, caught
under a collapsing ceiling

nonetheless warm
and prone to sleeping, tired
from all the long walks
home.

Post-Modern Apocalypse

Part 1: The Transcendental Signifyer

godOgod notWhich in negative epiphany, I
the eyes (the i's) and those referred to by the word
shine throughout the dark, spotlights
that reveal a face
before which I
am faceless.

the eyes unburden the I's
unburden self-lacerating identities
unburden the alien and hostile nature
of its own attention.

object of its own subjection.
subject to its own objection.

take our wholeness and bite our perditions dimness derivativelike inversions need their hiding places our conterparts to coil (ridden toys) pray to their keeper's innocence to weep away the shadow's simplicities will nurture away the nature of its nurturings (oGod).

Snow White

a little slip of a girl, voicelessly remembering
a lovely nothing
shaking like vapor
into a phantom

go away phantom
my daughter is dead

The Gehenna Recycling Plant

the blood moon rises over pigs in their shit. the prophets are on all fours. the dung of animals on their tongues. their prophecies are the equilibrium of entropy. the heat death of a torpid and make believe universe. only man's machines whittle their way to nothing and grind the gears to bits.

& i am left to wonder if i've written something
just so that it could be unwritten

the bottom line is: all equations signify nothing. i resent every sacrifice i've ever made. the skin i shed in penitence returns to me as turpitude.

the magic of masochism (absolute masochism is a force of nature) go ask ghandi, jesus, buddha, and mandela. we worship them all. sacrifice is elemental. self-annihilation is god's gift to the self satisfied.

figurines emerge out of the blurred smelling of gunpowder and sperm

it is not that civilization deserves to be destroyed
it's that it never existed

all the paranoid monoliths have their signifiers up your ass. pointing their fingers.

oh mr crowley
put a gun to your head
put a spike in your vein
and trick the dead
awake

where you go playing
i make teleologies for functional consumption
bleeding little bits
of drain

once upon a time
the good guys wore white hats
the bad guys had black hats
and you could tell anything
from anything else

this isn't my world

god is not a dualist
god is not realist
god is not a hyper-realist
god is not a surrealist

god is twice impressionst, endlessly doubled, an impression of an impression of an impression of an impression ...

under this sky
we are weightless
ghost of zero
reflection of nothing
specter. spectator.
after image. impression.
animals and men
merge together
at the crossroads
sliding mirror
in the low sun.
in vertigo.
arrange their shadows
about a face that expresses
nothing.

a memory of flesh.
transcendental narcissus.
the fire is cold.
the fire in her heart
will have passed
into a voice.

Psyche

you were a girl
polystyrene of parts
maudelin mannequin
in envy of motion

you were a boy
puzzled into pieces
fading at the edges
overgrowing your body
dissolving

you will be a man
a mannequin
a manic kindred
of the kinetics of pressure
shedding skin

you will be a woman
a hanged man
a mannequin
puzzled into pieces

A Secretly Proverbial Heaven

We are sitting on the shore of the island of Crete.

we are Cretans. we are liars.

We are watching a tidal wave rush toward the shore. We know that it will crush us dead, so we tell it that it can never reach us, because it is constantly halving the distance between us and it. And so the closer it gets. The more it slows. Slows. Slows. Suspended forever over our island of liars.

A sea of names is a very easy place to disappear. Especially when the tides are generated from the shore. Ebbing away from a horizon that is itself regressing toward its own horizon.

I have never floated calmly in these waters and I have been caught in many of its storms. Deserted for a time. On an empty island made of sound and light.

Some frantic cosmic fraction
and jesus laughs like a man
The clock panics

into the category of qualities
which is itself a quality: the dark
behind a door related to the morning
we bartered a barely dreamlike earth
for the modern truth about heaven:

we are born from armpits and mouths
forming an uncomfortable alliance with a name

Exoricism of the Ineffable [2]

disfigured by their cravings.
tempted like devils to shine brightest in the sky.
impaled on their shadows.
they murdered their bodies to release their souls.
then they murdered their souls to free their bodies.
they too seek a savior.
craven by the object of his revelation.
they build themselves a martyr
because they cannot kill themselves.
because they let themselves be forgiven.

their salvation is apocalyptic.
their gods are bereft of mythologies.
their rapture was patterned on a fading song.
they just want to dream somewhere else.
their vertigo plays patterns.
they don't thirst where they pray.
they lament the darkness.
they negate the night.

freedom from life is life exorcising itself of its own vigor, impure, hostage to an endless vertigo which exalts all the perverse possibilities which come with annointing oneself the finger of god. a magic knot played by numbers haunts our infancy like an evil apparition. death is the cure for men whose incarnation is a blasphemy against the illumination that is imprisoned in this shell. hearts devoured in this space yearn only for a getaway, which climaxes in oblivion.

Urizen: Part IX: The Law [Final]

the product originated
in the element
of a vexed reduction.
a revolution of seven symphonies
each with seven symphonies
which revolved around them
unto infinity

the newtonianism
of seven gravities
collecting in a laugh
like an oscillating wave
or a heartbeat
which doubles and halves
like the radiance of a drop
of water.

the jaws of seven gods.
with three eyes
and two hearts
beat like sore red orbs
encased in names.
the spectre of an echoing
angle, arrangements
made against the same.

a factory originates in a landfill
the mouth of the devourer
then on into hell.

the law generates prisons
which encapsulate like nations
the world cracks like a map

time becomes a clock
every moment is numbered
the measure measures itself
and becomes is own projection

but
with an infinitessimal measure
everything becomes infinte

Urizen: Part VIII: Countdown

into its engine
its parts fall
one by one
parametric possibilities
until everything is reduced
to the ratio

and an endless process emereges

f(n) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f( f( f(n) ) ) = n
f( f( f( f(n) ) ) ) = n
f( f( f(n) ) ) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f(n) = n
f(n) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f( f( f(n) ) ) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f(n) = n
f(n) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f(n) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f( f( f(n) ) ) = n
f( f( f( f(n) ) ) ) = n
f( f( f(n) ) ) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f(n) = n
f( f(n) ) = n
f(n) = n

n=n

Peter Panic [Part 4: Augusta's Boy]

xxxxxxxxhis enraptured final hush
and multiply itxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand ruin the fruit
of his mother's laborxxxxxxxxxxx

by the lamentations of the nauseous. a man fails with a boy's cry. the tears of his mother fill tubs with blood in which to drown her young. her menstrual cycle was patterned on the radial velocity of the moon and so her son became a necromancer. a failure, who fetishized the body into pieces.

deeply paperlike kisses
blowing ashes in the wind
and then he would whisper
his torrential teleology
to the tinman, an alchemist
a shell of a man
a moribund effigy
awaiting translation
in the moisture
of his undead mother

Peter Panic [Part 3: The Condemned]

the boy would look at us
see nothing but phantoms
blips in the radar
of his imagination
haunting about him
immaterial, and impossible
to touch.

when he began to fear us
we began to fear him.
we sensed his eyes
did not see us as human.

flesh at this level of fabrication seeks to rip itself from its spirit. a creation that damns its maker. a confession made behind the eyes as the barrell of a gun. a man, a judge, who could not see other men but only the fear of their judgment.

Peter Panic [Part 2: Parametric Genuflection]

what made me most afraid was not that the man looked like a monster, but that behind his mask, there was a human being, vaguely similar to me. it always seemed like he was kneeling. being haunted over by an overprotective mother. only pretty sure, that he couldn't take anymore. repulsion begets compulsion, vestal virgins carry strap-ons and masters of psychological warfare don't need to show their faces.

though we were strangers from your inner world, you forced yourself through the makeshift bloodshaft for any pretty face to beg you pretty please. picture my face in your hands, and you will see the freakish simplicity with which i fake my smiles. and you will smile too, by reflex. it is an architecture of plastic. a domain for shapes. imhabited by only reflections.

i can be anyone you please.
i am the new face of the machine.
the genuflection that ebbs into you dreams.
so don't you cry.

in the moisture of midnight,
i come to an end.

when you look in the mirror,
it is my eyes that stare back
i've been given so many names
that i've forgotten what i call myself
do not believe that you are ever alone
in shadows, in darkness, in the deepest pit
there are voices, like echoes
in search of mouths
to make their own.