To(ni)xiCity as We Know It
Unseasoned seasons. Grayness is but an optical
sensation. Capricious fluctuation of the air looks like a wind. Buildings hide
insipid void of architectureless design behind seductive facades. Seductive
facades can’t disguise anything. Too ornamental to seduce, too insubstantial to
embody the kernel of the notion underscoring their role. Unbuildings in
unseasoned seasons. Deaf to the stacks of foliage sweeping the surface of
melancholy imbued avenues, dry-licking their uncried tears. Unseasoned seasons
find us unaware within those blurry transitions, indifferent shifts of days and
nights : aloof in disinterestedness, crispy in dispassionate detachment. (like phunk.)
When the star woven blanket softly lowers its
protective touch over the dreamy planet, the thickness of daily tribulations
hindering access to subtler layers is felt in an echo of the attempts of
mimicry. Ugliness of that buffer zone is singularly repulsive. Mucous yarns
smudged over the cityface. Infinitely repugnant. Abhorring. Indefatigable. (like phunk.)
When branches cry dry leaves, everything is and is
not moved by quirky airy trajectories. When branches are clad in the air’s
stirrings, gray rain is a cloud’s fantasy of forestry constellations. Nights
are a cosmic mouth devouring the day eroding into the unlikely dusk, dissolving
into shady traces dragging detritus of its nondescript wanderings in search of an
acerbic catalyzer, crumbling into crepuscular cavity.
: reagent, not reactant / language, not
letters.
hourglass.
/
Once, the present was the moment that knew no
future. Deprived of the past, as well, it was drifting across the universe
designated by its own orbit solely. It knew no past, and yet, it is the past
now. Its future is in each and every moment of the memories asserting their
promise of perpetual return. So, what once was the present divested of both the
past and the future is still so : it is only present in each and every moment
of the recuperated past, each and every moment of the reimagined future
conjured up through the resurrection of the present.
: all being palephotonized now.
like
phunk.
/
i am a cartographer of desire. i used to specialize
in cataclysmic imagery. however, i re-focused on postapocalyptic cornucopia of
desire.
i am a cartographer of desire. i draw inspiration
from archaic maps, archival dust, and huskydusky angularity. my thought is like
your dreams -- a reflection snaking between buildings cloaked in avenues,
licking the facades laced with foamy crust. my dreams are like your thought -- submerged
in cosmic void, imbued with forestry constellations. my desire is like me.
i am a cartographer of desire. i see your face in
rainy tubes clanging with spilling
pearls, rattling with a virulently glistening smile. i dream your dreams along
the traces of memories smeared through the vacuity of interstellar spaces. i
smile your intoxicatingly sparkling smile.
i am a cartographer of desire. i fantasize a phantasmagoria
of fancy. my fantasy is my maps. my maps are my powerhouse. my everyday sunshowered.
***
i cry excrement. i wash my face with a mixture of
tears, molten pearls, and decomposing leaves, rotting away in the gutter. i
drink creamy gelatinous concoction brewed in speakeasy laboratories in basement
mazes soaked in thick layers of ages covered with dust, cobweb, and--patina of
time. i eat muddy mucous smoothie--cooked, not shaken--that lathers my throat
with the warmth of slimy balm, upholsters my lungs with lush protective layer,
and showers my thought with a whisper of the stream of mollycules, as they roam
the airy passages carving invisible viaducts across those archive maps, dusty
repositories of desire, dusky stashes of angularity, huskily dazzling,
crappy/crystal--smile. like phunk.
/
i am a germ in a sickly sanitized culture. igniting
a supersophisticated process of disintegration of the detergent used for
washing the garbage. carried
out via the cohorts of miniscule rescuers in disguise.
disinfectant corroding the water utilized for washing the water. carried on the
shadow of desire. the smoke from unsmoked books. on the wings of the wind.
--tho
wha?
--wow
2 thou three-looking-minded.
like phunk.
kessenem / pleazy.
Verily.
/
i
dwell in the universe called language. within the constellations whose nodes
are words. signification envelopes them as orbits safeguard planets. Their
satellites are connectives within that interstellar void-tissue.
i
speak the language of sparkling forestry. i bathe in the abundance of its
symbolic spanning the oceanic wilderness, plush riverbeds, and airy tubes where
ye exuberance of ye wild midnight ink mane reigns.
i
understand the whisper of its crispy freshness, its sleazy quirkiness,
resilience, sweet angularity.
and
so can you.
language
is elusive. but, it’s also protective : webwiered.
The
poetics of the remix.
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