Storystyling : Unseasoned Seasons (foYr / 5)

I don't

Like a droning brook rolling a slimy, muddy stream along meandering sylvan pathways across the gentle grove, those moody seasons pass us by. Like indecisiveness swaying the uncried tears back and forth, those commotions in the atmosphere remain outside the scope where engaging in communication occurs.

Those unseasoned seasons are contained in the aloofness of their unlikely caprice. Titillations, oscillations, vacillations, tickling, fluttering, flapping…all of it is just not that what dries scars on the skin of the trunks, licks the mucus dripping down the branches, and the mighty moonoiling encrusting with the golden, sparkling film the surface of the river.

It glistens at dusk. It glows at dawn.

like orangepurple trajectory. like phunk.

The language i can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.

You walk eonlong jungle days. You drag your feet along snow dunes in the midst of a desert. Your walk silences their muteness. You persevere in moving through those dense piles of noisy muteness saturating the everyday with rancid acceleration, putrid distraction, nauseating predictability of bewilderment, static hindering wavelengths, breaches on the signal lane, obstacles on paths of photons’ bouncing, stink of exuberance, annoying fluctuations, thick stacks of platitudes zillion light years away from the innerness…subzero interstellar spaces…interstices of time, vacuity of space…u name it.

i don’t need a distraction from sadness, solvent to nostalgia, antidote to laziness. i don’t need an ocean to wash away snot from my pearlshower, to sanitize my dreams of unsmoked books, to oxydize gland infused staleness, to depathologize cotton candy pollen cobweb.

It glistens at dusk. It glows at dawn.

like hourglass /  like yo cymbalness : like phunk.

The language i can understand & speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.

/

do tho believe in freudism?

who da f*ck я u to lay any claim regarding denunciation of such stuff by virtue of refuting and/or rebuttal of it—it is being rendered obsolete anyway: by law.

do tho contend that law annihilates the credibility of a theoretical stance?

who da f*ck я u to imagine the society that builds cities according to the maps found deep inside one’s visceral projection of gut/wit—by law or by imagination is the distinction that is being rendered obsolete by virtue of visual cosmetics economix.

do tho hold that the raelity of reel is a reflection of cultural realities as they manifest themselves in the fantasy of the t(h)ree looking one?

who da f*ck я u to presume that names are that what one worships—the reflection of the weirdness encrusting the surface of the river as it listens to the whisper that sprinkles inklets turned into golden sparks over its mischievous crest.

 manners first, 4 fuck sake!

Verily.

***

i don’t know why this outpour of dried tears saturates my whole being at this very moment. sometimes i think it is because the spring looks like an early fall, feels like unseasoned seasons. sometimes i think it is because the effervescence it both exudes and inspires is just not that what the sweetish warmth of moonoiling is : reflection.

***

As kaleidoscopic pixel galaxies flicker and photon waves splash against the shore of cosmic bents, icicles melt in blossoming buds. Snow cries rivers down the mountainsides as the petals breathe in the tonic of photosynthesis. Lakes glimmer with frost teardrops leaking into the melting crust as it merges with the undercurrent that was for months wearing that icy crown. Nectar slips through the heat whirlwinds. The anchor. Orgies of unseasoned seasons. The radiance of steely skies and smiling constellations.

/

Ink spilled over a mountainside. It glides down the rocky face. It necks the rough texture of the relief stubbornly unmoving. Irresponsive. Inkwaves roll down the mountain slope. Slowly rolling, upholstering the scenery. At the foot of the mountain, it forms a delta. It branches into myriad tributaries. They merge as the confluence plagues the greenery of the meadow. As the meadow sea flickers kaleidoscopic dreams of an ink empire. all being palephotnized now.

Indigo  carpet of ink dreams spreads its wings over the pearly cobweb. Seabed immersed in a rhizomorhic rhapsody. Its pebbles nodes to the webwiering, its corals riffs to the strings vibrating as the indigo carpet spreads its wings. It pulls a star-knit blanket over the driveway submerged in pale milky saliva of a silver moonlight kiss. It clothes the orchard in a foggy cloak. It smears a snotty pearljet spat out of the petal whisper over the façade. all being palephotonized now.

Interstices on the mortar skin conspire with microdroplets soaking the architectonic specimen with the ink ocean’s tide. It flows through the hallway. It meanders around the curves in the labyrinthine interior. Embroidery from the indigo blanket scattered like pebbles along the endless floors, thirsty walls, dazzling ceilings. Rooms upholstered with crappy cotton candy. Web to the star-nodes, cushion to the snotty balm dripping from the cosmic glands. all being palephotonized now.

wow to tho, t(h)ree looking one.

Verily.

kessenem / pleazy.

like phunk.

webiered.

***

Each blossom breathes a croquis  of a cold fall night into the dazzling vivacity of brightness. Each petal a cell in a crumbling kaleidoscopic comb. Sticky carriers of whispers swept from the avenues inhabited by an immobile look of glass eyes staring from shop windows (all being palephotonized now).

Each bud exhales into the fuzzing effervescence a kiss of gloom. Each petal a wave in that solemn saga rolling dusty whirlwinds alighted from the concrete face of the avenue mummified with the echo of subzero interstellar spaces (moonioiling).

Each whisper a nanosecond of pollen’s trajectory carried on the wings of invisible steely skies. Each wave a particle in kaleidoscopic tunnels of memories—wilderness populated by a web of dried branches and wrinkled, rough-skinned roots encrusted with dehydrated mud…landscape abandoned by dreams, dreams chimera to their own habitat…reverberating through ghosts of leaves (it’s called the poetics of the remix).

Hiss from the table—milkish ocean buzzing. Screech from the socket—optical fiber cable humming. Symphony of liquid crystal screens. Stately castle.

Its seductive chambers saturated with ink cornucopia. Meandering corridors usher the indigo specter snaking along mysterious bents. It brings the breath exuded from the glass eyes’ stare. It brings the bleakness of the halo brooding over the barren scenery. It is an apparition of a memory that never was, an oneirscape never dreamed.

Each petal a thought, each blossom a whiff from eonlong dreams. Like there has never been anything else but the oneiric drift. Like there could never be memory because there is no present to revamp the past, no past to haunt the present, no fantasy to fuel sketches of a future.

It is  a dystopian world. You either dream or remember. There is no intersection between dreams and memories in a dystopian world. Because it’s crime.

I dwell in those shady spaces where smuggled chunks of oneirstuff meet the memory of themselves. It is a phantasmagoric bacchanalia. Cosmic endocrine ambrosia pouring into the chalice -- repository of the universe’s petrol -- bubbles fizzing a foamy serenade along the golden rim, wild streams gliding down the walls of the vessel. I phantasmagorize hard. Because it is not allowed in a dystopian world.

You either perpetuate your own disappearance through a persistent mind-emptying trance-inducing inhibition or sustain your own oversaturating spatiotemporality through the illusion of ubiquity. You indulge in an imposed, false sense of content. I don’t. Because it is permitted.

like phunk.