The flames enveloping the corpse of the slave are lapping at the feet of the master.
fleeing from the unsayable warm glow of memory and ash i am running sideways through things.
the violence inherent in the flesh beneath his eyes
"Petulance" (September, 2014)
The feeling of pages in my hands. This has become my primary reality. That, and the superior transient joys.
The ants crawling across my body. Eash one a lesson in patience, in compassion. The sun summons a flame that rises through my flesh surfacing in blissful golden-brown.
Our bodies dance 'round and come together intertwining all our contradictions. Words like lust lose their burden. Loosen yourself inside of my, a rapturous surrender. Tower over me, a monument of muscle.
"Condemnation" (October, 2014)
Condemnation pours forth like magma Affirmation it seems cannout be found amidst all the bickering in cinder blocks held by pliers spat upon by fiends imitating men.
The most wretched shadows can imitate men. It is nothing special. But they are, finally, phantasms and incapable of this realness glimpses in dreams and sex and prayer
The spit evaporates into nothingness but here we feel the heat of affirmation in the breath of a lover the exchange with a distant being in a close dream being cradled by the ancestors 'round that ancient flame
And words do not mean much approaching these lightning bolts burning with realness and temporality.
i am suffocating because my breath cannot touch your neck.
Mother i have chosen the path of life Mother i swear to you in this wretched ink that must be waded through like a black swamp That you will not have to bury me.
The gray skies pull the sorrow so gracefully condensed into such a short time to the surface of my face, and in the cold i cough alone Mother i have foresaken you.
Now i will not shed tears which never comforted me But where can i go for warmth only found in Mothers?
In this time of sowing cut off from the womb of Mother-earth i exist on a desolate plain with no fire, no warm embraces
To counter the wretched are of silent weeping i have stumbled upon the fine art of floor-gazing. While there is great depth to this art, the essential elements can be mapped quite readily.
To stare towards the center of the floor, for me, to gazing upon the vast and tranquil waters of Lake Erie. But there is little refuge in all that vastness -- and that seems to be the greatest use: losing everything out there, even your self. Such extremeties are not for chronic practice. We turn our gaze instead to that place where what we see is a wall -- hardly any ceiling or floow. And now the reverse occurs: a sense of suffocation, as if being trapped in one's own skull, no eyes, internal or otherwise. What i have found here is a profound lesson: with only our own minds to know it by, how can we ever really know our mind?
The nature of our so-called "three-dimensional" existence inherently possesses three possibilities: we search for this knowing to the side, where the walls meet; we search for this knowing up, where the wall meets the ceiling; or, we search for this meaning down, where the wall meets the floor.
Where the two walls meet we find a peculiar stasis where, in turns, it may seem we are moving forward to a final point -- Progress embodied -- or at other times we are moving back and away, receeding. We are, of course, doing neither, and therefore we are at a peculiar state of stasis, virtually hallucinating. While there must certainly be lessons in this, i do not care to dwell in this stasis, perhaps the hallmark of the times. Where the wall and the ceiling meet, there is a place of great anxiety. This seems to be a place of the wrathful god, hurtling boulders down upon mortals. Where the two walls and the ceiling meet -- there dwells Yaldabaoth, or rather, the Great Spider, which uses on it's victims (upon being cocooned) a poison which not only liquifies the innerds but also induces a hellish hallucinatory state, which to the victim seems to last an eternity. For truly Blake was right -- eternity can fit within a grain of sand, or in this case, in the moments between being stung and being ingested. Where the wall and the floor meet -- there, at last, seems to be a place of comfort. The impression is that of a toiling laborer, headed down into the place of rest. But, maintaining our gaze, upon slipping into that sleep a world, or more, opens up, unfolding in much the same way as our dream worlds.
here's some stuff i wrote recently.. Hoping to get some feedback.
The sun sets and she sits in a small cell, a modest chamber in the stomach of a world that is eating itself. The sun rises and she slowly dresses her body in a khaki uniform, clearly announcing that she is but a mere appendage in a vast and hideous organism. Some call it god, come call it a dream, still others call it progress. As the sun sits high in the sky she stares out a barred window to a landscape of concrete and concertina wire. She has known this place before, in her childhood, in the form of certain traumas suffered by her soul. A friend commits suicide. The numbness spreads as she discovers that her father is an abusive drunk. There are the boys who taunt her and threaten her with vicious sexual assault. How can she afford to remain sensitive to the world, she realizes, if it is but a freezing storm without relief? As the starless night sky still manages, somehow, to conjure memories of better times, she stares out across the gray barbed nihilism of this world, objectified. She shudders with futility, enveloped by loneliness.
He has slept alone every night for the past three years. Not quite alone, but the only one in his bed. He curls around his pillow in a tight embrace. Sometimes, as he sleeps, one can hear a faint whimpering, as if the pillow were not enough -- as if the vast reservoir of tears refused to burst forth without a warm someone there to receive them. In three years, he has cried three times. The world invites him to forget how to weep. A real man whimpers.
She cannot understand why, yet she has little choice but to accept what she's told.. The water is poison -- don't touch it. That was in kindergarten. In the third grade her mother died of cancer. In the fifth grade her best friend stepped off a very high cliff. Later the same year her uncle stepped in front of a train. In the seventh grade she stopped taking adderal and started taking oxycottin. By the end of the tenth grade she had had one abortion and two miscarriages. She didn't care much if the pill was an upper, a downer, a goner. The world had long since become a gray line. She had dreams of immense storms roiling through the oceans, as a child. Around eight years old she thought of the world as an ocean of suffering.
From: STEVENS, CONNOR C open letter v.3.#madworld May 2, 2013 9:24 AM an open letter from an anarchist prisoner
May 1, 2013
It has been a year of nightmares, of renewed struggles, of rebirth and mass death. The passage of the seasons and the dreams that come with them revitalize the mysteries of time. One year since i was arrested, i write this letter in the interests of a few brief reflections.
Much has happened in these past twelve months. First and foremost i extend my gratitude to those who have supported my comrades and myself, and to those who continue to do so. Without this support the world would certainly seem a totally dark and lonely place to us. Thanks for a little warmth. Also i extend my humble gratitude to those supporting political prisoners, prisoners of war, and prisoners in general. May it not be forgotten that when it comes to prison reform, the only acceptable tool is the bulldozer.
"It's about time we stopped acting so reasonable." ~ Arundhati Roy, Democracy Now! interview, March 18, 2013
We are dealing with psychopathic murderers.
They attempt to control the world, and by doing so only bring unnecessary pain and senseless destruction. Even as the hopelessness of our situation becomes more obvious every day, the enemy pursues the same old game of maintaining monopolies on their illusory control -- thinking they can corner the markets of information and violence. With the faith of fanatics they believe their tools will make them exempt from the list of the dead and endangered. When the course of events shows their fanaticism for what it is, they call it an "accident," an "isolated incident." If anyone challenges their self-declared monopolies, they are denounced as terrorists.
"... [P]eople tend to justify whatever affronts they don't avenge ... " ~ Guy Debord, In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni