whose history, ha!
Thick liquid rolls heavily around yarns which hang
loose and reconfirm gravity’s stubborn
refusal to allow disorderly floating, drifting, levitating, flying…or, some
such bullshit. You gotta fucking drip, as if it were saying.
And drip that sticky gelatinous mass does. It is
grey…decorated with pale brown patches. It is laced with a semitransparent
saliva synthesized with moldy formations mimicking mushrooms nestled in the
stench of stagnant humidity, awashed in a putrefied dream of synergy. (streets
are buzzy cohorts of suits, beehive of a staccato of sleeves, collars, fabric,
buttons—streets are a fuzzy flow of blindingly blinded suits.)
Rolling heavily, it sucks into its grinding flow
rancid, decomposing cobweb marinated in diarrhea jelly, whilst cherishing the
consistency of the odd chunk in its midst. Rolling heavily, it devours gigantic
dollops of waxed whipped darkness mousse spread across a distorted oneirscape
like an indigo carpet would were it not for the clouds hindering the vista
through which moonoiling whispers sunshower. (how long is the step? how
many of them can be crammed in a cryptosilicone day? what are they made from? how
many times does a vurtual card need to be swiped so a step can be launched? what
is the name of the orbit it is normally launched into? can a step cry? can it
hurt? how do you spell the word friend in the alphabet of a stiletto? what do
you call words in the vocabulary of speed? what’s the name of the substance
that constitutes steps? how material are the ideas of habitat? how elusive the
world run by the aversion to bonding is!)
Molten snot slides down the window pane. It smears
the vision. Lulling the eye into hazy brooding. Greenish outpour anoints the
glass, blurs the glimpse of it, summons the mud encrusting the soft core of the
balls rolling down the screen absorbing the reeking code, emanating it into the
abyss of an intramural olfactory agony, limbo of viscosity, inferno of density,
pandemonium of nondescriptness. (strings…flows…beads…pearly curtains…covering
the frame limited by its two-dimensional deprivation of depth…ironically
suggestive of the metaphorical level the situation portrays…the irony of
(self)dissolvement, the power of metaphor: tales of disgust, tales of solace…of
that what spreads.
kessenem / pleazy.
***
Verily.
--like
fuck…like phunk…like manners first, for mafotherphunkie sake, yo!
--first, second…ordinal, cardinal…mimicry of
distinctions, like manners for phunk sake, like fuck, like mafotherphunkie, yo!
--when order imposes itself as a self-sufficient,
self-evident category in its own right, when that very notion prevails and
outplays the significance of the phenomena whose orderliness it should ensure,
then it subverts its own very nature and is but a droplet in the ocean of
(self)dissolving noise.
--A good book, whose title is silently praised
alongside its content, indicates an occurrence of such disguised trickstery and
rightly focuses on one of the most provocative, most challenging, and dangerous
instances of distasteful attempts of what is to laypersons known as
expropriation.
--once upon a time, campfire was like a wellspring
of tales. people would sit around it, their faces illuminated by orangy
titillations, bathed in the pale crimson glow. their bodies warmed by the
proximity of that source of energy, their whole being immersed in the totality
of the juxtaposition between the intensity of the radiance and the depth of the
abysmal indigo background.
--back then, the germ later to germinate into this
intriguing guide through the world of literary undercurrents was conceived. night
in, night out, people would drink from that fermenting seed pod. night in,
night out, they’d be fed on the stories they were told by each other. by the
fire.
--the abovementioned good book offers a revelatory
tale chronicling an event that occurred during one such binge campfiring
episodes. namely, what one learns from that source of the hybrid dialogue
between history, presentness, and reimagining is that part of the knowledge
acquisition is the synergy of words, colors, and mollycules.
--objection! U had too many unsmoked books to
unsmoke!
--objection! i read a good book!
--same here.
--the source teaches that one of the slimiest
examples of the dislocation in question has been adoption of the features
pertinent to certain social segments…say, counterculture…and using them as an
oppressive mechanism of control under the disguise of oppositional thinking,
ha! like fuck!
--ha! like
fuck! Sure enough, the good book lists a whole bunch of manifestations of that
shameful aspect of cultural realities. Some of them include tattooed stilettos,
suits on harleys, cokeheads hypnotized by strings of figures.
--like phunk! sparkless, mucous flows rolling heavily.
--like phunk! heavily rolling, totally unaware of
the moonoiling river in their very midst.
--the good book makes a point that irrevocably
reverberates with the mindset of the disciples of campfiring: we don’t buy it!
--damn NO.
***
Snaking through the gusts of wind, meandering
through the meadows, dashing through dry reeds, through a desert populated by
wrinkled cacti, scorched thickets, burned shrubbery, arid grass, silent echoes
reverberating through the cold of the lingering heat, through the clouds
brewing steamy tales of wandering.
Whooshing through the traces of leaves, smeared contours of branches,
croquis of trunks, aura of roots…swishing through the murky greyness veiling
the scenery silently whispering tales of solemn words, angular verses, poised
tropes. Soft touch of poisenous poetics. Warmth in the midst of cold windy
curves scribbling along those air pathways shadow kisses.
Each crossing of the ghostly air moves with spiky
remnants of the flora, a clanking story of reverberating words from afar, from somewhen.
Each bump of the airy mollycules into the exhausted stems, a subdued sparkling
refection of tales of wierdness,
tales of comfort. Like streams from another era. Like flows from other places.
Phantom flows. Phantom streams. Like memory.
: it’s not like.
it is. memory. and not just any
memory. and not just anyone’s memory. Mannerz first for fuck sake! Those are my
memories of me-good-self as a three letter old little fella dreaming about the
words to console me on my melancholy overdrive, to kiss my dry tears away, to
suck mucous drainage out of my pumping glands. My memories swish golden
foliage, rolling lightly through the fantasy of
the forest. Apparition of the
stately castle. The world immersed in the reign of unsmoked books. One of them,
entitled On How to /Phunkie/ ReadWriteRemix (øøøø), speaks in a dragon’s breath of the intersteallar cold,
speaks of light sadness amid the exuberance of a spring day. Speaks of dark
green nights by the river (told me a
story) sunshowered by the smiling constellations.
Like kessenem. /
Like pleazy.
Like phunk.
Verily.
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