syntax of(f) syntax vs. masks off masks
When i was t(h)ree, i thought my name was the smell
of the gentle rain evaporating through the seductively steamy early summer air
enveloping the whole world in the softness of the pearly web.
I thought it was the smell of the story the river
told me every time the ink empire spilled the moonoiling gleam over its quirky, capricious waves rejoicing in
their mischievous play.
I thought the reflection from that sparkling
rhapsody was the whisper spreading through the magic of photosynthesis, through
the interstellar cold, through the smiling constellations.
***
--They say the language of theory is somewhat
parallel to the role of Latin in Medieval times. Specifically, it is introduced
by figures of authority and to experts who are supposed to use it as a tool for
delivering some kind of message. Luckily, it is not impossible--or, not even
difficult—to detect the tyranny of proliferated discourses of hypostatized
worlds, vocabularies, and what not, simultaneously unmasking the chimera of
exchange and ensuring the immunity of dedicated acolytes, practitioners in the
service of language.
manners
first, 4 fuck sake!
Verily.
--wow to tho, t(h)ree looking! wacth yo tongue. They
say that with each virtual card being swiped through the machine vomiting
fiscal fantasies of trade, transactions are made between the bank account linked
to the card in question, bank account of the entity procuring the goods
purchased, and the cosmic server acting as a repository of gold reserves. Each
party involved in the transaction participates in the act of a radical
voluntary suspension of an oneiric apparatus. Because in a dystopian world, you
either dream or you remember. Those transactions thrive on the memory of
monetized galaxies long sunken into their own dream of gold reserves. There are
no gold reserves in a dystopian world. There are only either dreams or memories
of them.
manners
first, 4 fuck sake!
Verily.
(we’ve been pieces to each other’s puzzles.)
--They say you either acknowledge chronology and
reflect it grammatically or you mess with tenses, thus demonstrating denial of
chronos’s empire.
--They also say that discourse ate words and now
disseminates their recycled debris disguised as speech.
--wow to tho, t(h)ree looking! That fact entitles you
to use verbal chunks like containers to be filled with content of the nature of
your choosing. It also entails a belief that the void one encounters might be
the linguistic situation either before or after the content is provided.
--wow to tho, t(h)ree looking! That fact may well
imply a possibility of verbalization being always already void of supply. It
might also indicate the futility of the attempt to mask disintegrated verbal
content and forge its perception as the currency of exchange.
(we’ve been pieces to each other’s puzzles. we’ve
been ethereal mirrors to each other’s stolen images, stolen desires. we’ve been
grey skies to each other’s rainy days, indigo blankets in eon long nights
hiding from us each other’s orbits.)
manners
first, 4 fuck sake!
Verily.
kessenem
/ pleazy.
When static saturates spaces that fill the mighty
castle with the aura of the reason why one thought when one was t(h)ree that it
was one’s name, you’d think it’s summer.
i
breathe static. i isolate it from the cloud formed through the magic of
photosynthesis. i plug an electronically enhanced retort into the cloud and suck out of it a gaseous
concoction that fills the inside of the chemical prop. i watch as it smears the
inside of the glass walls with puffy stains. i watch those smoky curves twist
and—snake. i fill my eyes with that meandering enchantment. i breathe dreams of
memories. i breathe static.
When amber melts over the smell of sticky petals,
galaxies softly vibrate with the warmth of their own smiles. Smiles they send
to each other through interstellar cold. Smiles they exchange. When sticky
petals sag in the frosty amber veil shielding them from airy currents, you
bathe in the shimmering gelatinous dollops dissolved in ponds of stale liquid.
When the sleazy balm mummifies you, you’d think it’s a memory of the crust caking the crest of the waves
shaped by the lazy winks of the river.
i
bathe in the bacchanalia of milkfish fantasy charging my whole being with
oneiric memories. i dream of the indigo blanket embroidered with sparkling
cornucopia of golden nodes dispersal. splashes of golden on the canvas of
desire. i distil static from the vaporous tumult in the retort. i place it onto
a petri dish. i observe it with my microscopic lens. i fill my pupils with the
traces of the composite from which it was released. i breathe static.
the milkfish jelly skimmed from the crusty lace and
softened, crystallizes in the orbit of my iris.
A man walks slowly, holding his umbrella firmly. His
hat is elegant. His coat looks expensive. His shoes are waterproof. He doesn’t
open his umbrella, but he holds it in the way communicating the piece of
information that made him take it in the first place. He passes by a woman
lying on the mown along the pavement. She is wearing her favorite bikini. Her
nose is sprinkled with gentle droplets of sweat, as it
discreetly glides down from underneath the plastic clutches of her sunglasses.
She is overshadowed by a figure standing nearby. His shadow casts cold on her
sunbathing extravaganza. He is bundled up in his mink fur coat. His feet feel bulky from the pair of heavy
duty boots. He has a sledge next to his calf. His eyebrows are ornamented with
frosty microweb. The woman asks him why he is dressed in that funny attire. He
says he has a weather app on his device. He asks the man with the umbrella why
he is not using it. The woman remonstrates
saying that she has a weather app on her device, too. She asks the man with the
umbrella why he does not adjust his outfit so it reflects his conduct being in
accord with circumstances. The man in the fur coat is agitated by the site of
the woman’s wardrobe strikingly opposing the information guiding his reasoning.
They both decide to obtain justification of their respective clothing by
testing the validity of it against the man with the umbrella’s device driven
choice. They ask, if not in unison, what kind of weather app he has.
The man with the umbrella walks slowly, holding his
umbrella firmly. He dreams of letters that transform his umbrella into amber
elucidating petals’ mucous kiss. He dreams of steamy screens buzzing in
milkfish clouds. He feeds on the memories of the nights clad in the halo of the
cosmic gland’s dried tears.
Snaking on, memories of dreams of unsmoked books
fill the space curves within the mighty castle.
manners
first, 4 fuck sake!
Verily.
kessenem / pleazy.
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