Sunday, September 16, 2012

Language Images and their Haunted Cross Roads

The below text depicts similarities and overlaps with the previous post, mid August notes.  The flesh has become more flesh.  A poem goes deeper into the lost cave for articulation.  The path may be fractured.  The path shall always be fractured, yet the path is a path!


Please enter the corn maze.  The minotaur lurks sordid somewhere inside.  The corn maze is on fire.

I am Orpheus.  I am arriving here an orphan.

Oblivion.  Oblivion is haunted.  Language is doubtful.

I arrive with visions in the kingdom commons.  I have jokes that are not entertaining.

The Obliteration of text shattered and disfigured.  The text is not shattered enough.  I am supposed to communicate.  Text is a communion.

Action has occurred.  Action is occurring.

Day to day common realities mislead through spells  resting upon a foundation language is definable.  Language, everyday language is a banality with weakened magic. 

How does one cleanse from the residue solvency of words that wrought the wrong actions?  These wrong actions prop up a normalcy, a social conformism/misguided comforts/ stupidities grandiose.  Vision as a museum piece or procedure is demanded.

 This is a house of rain built upon a shifting river delta. Ultimately, the essence of language and what language actually accomplishes remains indefinable.  Language is an obvious trickster.  Language is oblivious.

Language requires faith.  Myth and the kinetic action of communication twine spirals through language/word DNA.   Myth is the shamanistic healing medicinal.  I am Orpheus.  I am arriving here an orphan.

Stating the obvious does not help.  You have been deceived into being a moving shadow.

The reader is oblivious.  The reader is a contact.  The reader is oblivion.

Pay attention to the man behind the curtain who holds a gun to his head with his left hand whilst aiming a gun with his right hand at you.  He is divinity’s sniper.  I have become a ghost to avoid bullet wounds.  Words are daubed with gun powder and raw meat.

God is a drum beaten in the forest.  Language is generating through the chants.

At one time in the fog shrapnel past, dogs and wolves traded places and roles.  Wolves left man for the mountains while dogs took up with man.  Barks-howls-chants-yelps.  Languages---Ones recognized and ones not recognized.

Woman should have killed man.  Women and men kill each other with language.  Out of murderous fires, they resurrect with phoenix wings speaking new languages.  This is the ritual.

I am a coyote with crow wings.  My heart beats with southern blood.

Language makes you a liar.  Who is the liar?  The rain is eating the house.  Memory is a dirt basement with brown recluse spider infestation.  Loxosceles Reclusa.  The violin spider.  Venomous is the music of memory.  Memory has language and words.

The written word, perverted has made language forget physical detection.  Language has become pompous.  The internet has made language completely arrogant turning humans into a collective monkey dancing to the organ grinder. 

Humanity is pompous devouring their share of Prometheus’s liver.  He has cirrhosis of the liver and sings country and blues to the mountains and plains.  Please focus on the invisible words.

 The written word is an abstraction, meaningless in the digital realm  through gluttonous abuse and amusement heat seeking.  Heat can be freezing cold or scalding till bursting fire.

Utilizing archaic symbols.   Native American symbols.  The re purpose and return of Christian symbols.   The thunderbird image.  The sign for joy through the passage of suffering.  Then there is more. Always more.  Morose and uplifting.  Grace can be attained.

Language returned to gesture.

Language is secondary to gesture.

A hyper textuality somewhere between Jake Berry’s Brambu Drezi and Antonin Artaud’s last notebooks.

A search for accidents. A search for Disaster.

The copulating frictions of validation and invalidation incoherency deliriums to clear clarities.

What if Artaud has succeeded in destroying language through his incantation war fare?

Deliberate Incoherence. 

Illustrating text  through the carpentry of expressionistic mysticism.

Provoking language’s shortcomings of holistic description dialogue.

Return to the inscription.

Return to the picnic graveyard of childhood.

Pursuit of the non-linear.  The soul’s true states of being.

Inviting the ghost through the front door.

Tom foolery Mysticisms whilst casting Ritualistic magic.

To snatch the visceral (flesh) back from the defilements of language.

To offer severe acknowledgment to all ghosts and souls.

The empathy, methods and evidence of the hermetic.

Creation-devout obsession-transmutation.

I am Orpheus.  You are Orpheus.  We both arrive orphans.  Let us pray in the mountains, plains, valleys, street scapes and barbed wire city limits.

The physicality of certainty pertaining to geographic location

Return the non returning  to MeadoR Avenue   
DriftY eyes time
Cloudy, river rolling glows white
    Jailbars metal burglar bars slash verticals and ventricles
Economic protocols and         pr o t e c t I o Ns------

Language is locatioN.

    YoU can’T go hoMe agaiN.    You can onlY be against location.  Location exists only through contra.  You are breathing Thomas Wolfe’s Tuberculosis of the soul.

In sullen red places where wolves howl silver howls.

I imagine these wolves with phoenix wings and they are real---galloping through a sky -----A sky galvanizing and clashing---converging copper--brimstone crimson blood copulating with silvers

I drop my teeth in confederate dirt
Loose limbs, I have wings I can take the air and make slashes
    I exist in this, thistles in tha fur,  I have fur and eat words

The singular of waiting!  Tha carousel goes
R O U N D I   N      G

        SunbeaMs croooo  Ked-------tha backyard
Veils with voices cloaked in veils

        HeRe, Here, HErE, Now!  The street is existent. I promise.  Real things.  Real things. I cannot promise you real things!.
Real things! I suppose, with
S U S P I C I O N       (resignation)s        SUSPENSION  (S)

Tha old farmhouse I live in, then the post war (two) brick buildings, things called homes called houses called housing market and neighborhoods, called the hood.   SomE with windows broKe.  Even tha broKe is even broken.  Neighborhood children play chant plaY.

    Two black skimpY 12 yer olds rounding tha midnight doing tha old mating rituals and learning as theY goinG.    Midnights mating.

TheN I am existent hot concrete porch.  Humidity took tha air into a solid displeasing friction.

    HIS LIFE drunK in the twisted vines
A caSKET Made of kudzus, ka ka ka zooo. Hear tha kazzooo plaYeR.

All guitars are irrelevant and silent.   Go to hell.


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