(Furnished by the Uncertainty Principle Cabal--Poetics and Propaganda Ministry)
The New Book of Desperation and Ecstatic Resistance -a work in progress
A text by Omar el-Sabbah
Chapter(1) Finding the Zero
Chapter(2) The Confession of R. Lipspil (Partial Fragment--found in a used copy of the Corpus Hermeticum)
Chapter(3) Out For the Evening
Chapter(4) The Nocturnal Slave Caravans of Dreams
Chapter(5) The Apocalypse of St. Rover-Sol Invictus version
Chapter(6) The Cold Voice of Metatron
Chapter(7) The Absurdist Fee (in memory of Diego)
Chapter(8) Tone Preserve Safari
Chapter(9) See(d) the Stream
Chapter(10) Manual Recipe
Chapter(11) The Sound of the Water of the Air
Chapter(1) Find the Zero
1.
Make a fist stare through it, motion as if to get its attention, as the soft clatter of a rattlesnake makes its way up the spine of the unbeliever. Never underestimate the intuition of mercy, but leave unharried the crocodile tears of pity, as the no man's land burns with the fervor of an aging mystic aching to experience the blessed virgin in a blasphemous way.... never look when this happens it will embarrass your soft parchment sensibilities. A crack in the skull of reality lets in rain through metaphysical trepanation as the soft hum of the generator sighs against a trembling thigh in the disinfected fluorescent scent of an evening outside of time
2.
Walk through the fist, slowly and with an even gait... you never know when your heart will swallow you up. Tides of dust make the journey seem as long as the time in the pining hours that you bottle, and turn into a potent but foul smelling tincture that tastes of a bitter newsprint. It makes assaults on the fist from the outside, moving in and putting up its feet, never leaving, but, attracting the granules which feel like railroad ties lodged under the eyelid in the clear mucus of the potential vision which you are uncertain you may or may not be allowed to have.
3.
Swallow the fist in order to julienne the mundane, access binah consciousness toll free, limitless numbers falling like a hail of frogs coming home late from the ball, slime on the gowns, working towards a unity of prescription thought embolisms. Now you are learning the secrets of consuming the living heart while it beats tympani in the chest of others, while they stand there going to purgatory, flaking into the dust which swirls in humble dervishes chanting into ecstatic trances around their feet as their mouths hang open
4.
Wave the fist, as it hums in transparent glee, a farce, a small joke among compatriots. You have a strong sense of what you are searching for, the listless whistling of the pre-siesta revelry, a holy man sings narrative words like a mutated violin, sonorous, and in thick/thin tones. See/feel the vibration of mundi, erstwhile nomad emotions roam on a thin bitter foam chord, humming like a burnt out socket shorting in the rain of years, you feel the transparent glee in a fascinated patience, for the coming showdown on the glass trauma plain makes you want to sing.
Chapter(2) The Confession of R. Lipspil (Partial Fragment--found in a used copy of the Corpus Hermeticum)
......it's probably too late......you see, the silicon builds up like a crust and infinite lists of consumer preference guides are cluttering up entire city blocks, voracious blind paper afraid of extinction in the throes of a lust brought on by death in the thin glare of the monitor......it's probably too late, there are thousands of black market photos retrieved from ATM booths in secret raids by old men in stained trench coats, the intimacy of the mundane, the sex in the details the orgy of the everyday routine, brought close in the marketing dossier, sold in packs of ten on the street......get close to a stranger and suck their image off glossy paper, just check the profile on the master list.......it's probably too late....they know how much toilet paper you buy, your life is not your own, it is a series of transactions, recorded, and because they are recorded, they are real......but ecstasy cannot be proven by receipt so you are shit out of luck my friend, and that metaphysical experience, while reading some damn French novel is of a highly questionable existence........I am almost sure it is too late....
Chapter(3) An Evening Out
The clerk showed me to the end of the line.
I was unintentional in my thinking,
But he pushed me into the mass of hari krishna.
I was disoriented by your indentured earrings.
Your forms were out of order.
I knew they would give you a hard time.
Your orange slicker was damp with champagne,
I slowly eased my wallet into your mouth.
The pelicans in the aisle snapped at my feet,.
My grimoire was emptied, a perceived berserker,
Your sushi was warming on my arm, a dab of white,
The hobnails dug in to my strange aphasia.
You are a kabbalah to my synapse connection,
Where in the transient smoke haze did you strip,
I watched your etched silhouette permutate,
I was converged on by the pelicans, they tore me to shreds.
Pertinent lip profile, capital sucks,
I hate the peeled lacquer of the government,
Their felt fedora hands on my sensitive skin,
Trenchcoat my feeler antenae, rubber glove similiarity.
Small gerbil eyes, the clerk had small gerbil eyes,
He shined them in my general direction,
I ate the spent particles of yesterday,
Where were you when the metaphor came crashing down?
Chapter(4) The Nocturnal Slave Caravans of Dreams
They speak in lowered tones, harsh whispers sounding in downcast eyes, as salt crunches under the wheels in vain allusions to the suffering martyrs of the past. They hear a disconnected tone through the wires attached to every seat, unidentified, charging their obscure mentation. Out into the void, the tone (which is not a dial tone, and not a busy signal) lulls them into fitful half sleep, the passengers on the nocturnal slave caravans, traveling from dream to dream. A robed figure in a hood flows past the compartment door, gesturing to himself like a street corner confessor absolving millions with a wave of the hand. Kali glowing luminous black lights a cigarette and drags sublimely, expelling new universes from fire and ash. She grasps the monkish figure with a free hand and lifts him up to her face, giving him a smile, which grays his hair and induces 23 orgasms, then sits him down limp, lifeless and smiling. The caravan passes into further reaches of dripping sand, the kinetic environmental control boxes manipulating the shape of the terrain which shifts soundlessly under the team of 144,000 camels pulling the linked carriages. Voices echo in the gloaming perpetuity, disembodied and lamenting the small things that they miss, like a hot cup of coffee or a kiss on the cheek.
Chapter(5) The Apocalypse of St. Rover- Sol Invictus version
The world may implode on impact, and the divine levitation device is surely improbable but none the less it is there before your three or four eyes. The smell of moldering books becomes a re-created memory and the sickly blue solution is pumped directly in. Masochists snivel and hum party tunes as fear sweeps across a humbled earth. The print is gone leaving only light, the hands are gone leaving only space, and sound does not travel in a vacuum. There is no hope but ascension, and it leaves you parched and thirsty, a working hypothesis of drought. It screams covert ops, their thought beams magenta on a cold night in June. Slowly the words inside scramble, cut to shreds in the space of consciousness, but the hairless primates are not afraid of anything , save freedom. The multitudes are fed by young shiny prophets, loaves of glass and spiny fish, still alive, and they are happy in the course of time, for they seem to have not forgotten everything, and know just enough to get up and go to work everyday.
The moon fills up with antifreeze one cold night in June, where everything is wrong at the same time its right, and a strange captain hums a counter-melody to the pump organ fantasy of the masochist drones. Chaotic, counter-melodic, in packets episodic, the load bears its own weight in deft, defiant tones of jubilation, at being set free to play in a universal vacuum of fear and misunderstanding and hope smashed on glittering coral shoals, in blue-magenta-yellow, sickening the viewer on retinal connection. The images of light in the brain disfigure the saddened clown, whom, as we have seen holds the key to all survival in the post-reality age of mutant angels with silica wings. They flash in a large collective memory of a stupid young man's war with the sun. The print is gone leaving only light, the hands are gone leaving only space, and sound does not travel in a vacuum........while in the end, as always, the sun, has won.
Chapter(6) the Cold Voice of Metatron
There are heavy white-noise barrages as I find the finger in the monkey pie, evidence of loss gone brown and bitter like stale leaves at the bottom of a cup. A thin dripping sound sparks my fear of thick bureaucratic cobwebs, insular combine, keeping them all "real". I say things out loud that no one can hear but me, they echo off the inside of an imaginary dome. Corrugated monkeys in the wood work, are not seen except by children, keeping out of sight while they bake. Loss, in the hollow sound, the tinkling of glass somewhere in a warm night. My hands are shaking, the fear is on me, the glue will not hold. Heavenly massacre, the pikes of Metatron's multiple eyes, arrayed like missiles on translucent wings. Mercy is a newfangled bastard and the "real" will have none of it, no traffic with weepy pleas for understanding.
Metatron, megaton, ring around the regulator, my alligator bag, escaped to freedom and is killing cats in a quiet suburban neighborhood. Lifting the meta-ton, the master archangel smiles at the amok valise. "Kill the monkeys" it says, "leave the cats alone."
Chapter(7) The Absurdist Fee (in memory of Diego)
Afraid of coming down but never going up again, the worm hangs on a string banging an old radiator trying to get some attention while illustrating the great existential dilemmas. A noose of words slips lightly around his neck making it obvious what the choices were, but no less painful as to the choice. A law degree and slavery, or the hook and some large mouth bass, he saw no difference between the two.
It was a raw day, murky as the fog set in early at six o'clock. A serious undertow played out as the hour was struck. Making it, that is not what he was made for, not a peeled grape of a chance. This third planet from the sun had it in for a worm with a masters thesis and the fishermen had finally caught up with him, quelling his two month rampage across the southwest.
Thoughts of his mom in the earth and the first human who had ever been kind to him played on his mind. A slight delirium pulsed through his dual sexed legless frame. The brown dirt the tasty peat the sister/brothers the gleaming world beneath the sun to which he had become accustomed through the ministrations of a young girl. And when she had tired of him he had found ways to go on, the books of the large pink ones, the scourges and the redeemers. The books had held him fast. Peering over his coffee can into the light flickering through the cracks of the house above him from his niche in the basement, the books made him think he was more than a worm.
A nice one, different than the first, took him with her to a university and there set him free. He learned quickly and realized he must be a chosen worm. The words were like intoxicants freshly turned earth. And he took their exams in his head and graded himself by memory. The world was his. After graduation he stole an 82 chevy and left the university for good drunk on the fruits of his own tiny nervous system. He robbed twelve banks in ten days, seduced six different women, killed a man, and thought he was going to get away with it.
But here he was, the rod snapped back and sent him sailing. The sky was blue blue blue and there was no sound as he rushed through the air. He saw the wake of the bass, the one which would swallow him, and knew it would intersect perfectly at the very spot where he would land in the water, where he would finally come crashing down
Chapter(8) Tone Preserve Safari
Turning away from the salted, jerked flesh, smelling the fresh meat, the tones move in undulating rhythm over a thin landscape of creeping vines and fire hydrants waving in a gentle breeze. Sometimes the baritone vibrations can cause a slight nausea if the frequency is right. Sometimes the bass or the soprano tones can kill a man. A conference of scholars, milling about drinking cheap draft beer, is suddenly engulfed, swallowed by the ground leaving only disheveled notebooks and the occasional name tag. "Nasty, brutish and short," grunted the guide, a rude dwarf with a sawed off pump action shot gun. "They don't live that long here, especially the scholars."
A cluster of vines begins to make rude noises and waves its thin green tendrils at the guide, who gives them the finger. You, by now, are quite worried about this vacation. The brochures touted its harsh, sometimes fecund, sometimes desolate, beauty but neglected to mention the flesh eating landscape, insolent fauna, and delinquent gangs of tones.
The sun is beginning to set and the dwarf, after checking the ground beneath him carefully, sits down and oils his gun.
"Be dark soon," he says "watch yourself kid, I'm off the clock, if you don't like it call my union steward." With that he rolled into his gray-green cloak and began to snore fitfully.
You are now alone. And can hear the tones gathering on the far side of a knoll. The vines seem to slither. The fire hydrants have their heads under their arms for the night.
And the ground shifts beneath you.
And briefly, you think about calling your travel agent.
Chapter(9) See(d) the Stream
A creed floats on sticky air, not quite summer
still making outrageous claims, in the cavity of existance.
With heavy hands, you cannot hear, the carping
of the night dogs, slaying the fractals with comfort and peace.
Left without direction, feeling brick, saying wind,
not knowing what you mean when you speak,
the prisoners of consciousness, leak thoughts like
fluid pictures poured out of a can.
Steeds of light apparition, photon steel, thoughts
on floating rails hum, but quite uncertain of the
general thread, the vein along which run the meanings
of the dreams and the night sweats.
Fierce dense homilies, a thick book of air,
lays on your chest at night, and whispers heresies
into your funnel shaped ear, and it does not register
it does not meander, it does not breath a sign.
And now the days seem to last forever, the unmoving
minute hand blinks in the rust, the stream runs straight
through your head and the sweet hum fades into the
the background sounds of life on the eve of the end of time.
Chapter(10) Manual Recipe
First, form the vacuum arm, interpolates the outcome, of the plane, of the radial vision in the sqeamish sites from unsullied hermit metaphysics programmers, slowly gilding thin layers upon themselves in a far-sighted fog, this is not screed but infinite glass in the yardarm, a treason which is fully understandable, as these things go.
Now that you have the key ingredients take the eternal mix and add water, fixing arson scores, for cartoon hoods, nuking the fried chicken into well done, and mercy goes to no one, like the drowning worm, which if not sent to Davey Jones's locker, is eaten by a carniverous fish, pi sees nothing but continual decimals and the loaves leave everything to chance, to be desired by random perversities and fixations.
After dampening all the ingredients and mixing, shake the bake in bag paradigm, into small pixel crystals, coating every tongue and tonsil, "you never let go", a mission of bulljawed interconnected tables of infirmity and gigantism, sits lurking at the bottom like menacing dregs.
After the cooking completes, the finished product is a beautiful work, something to pride over, something to beacon in the eggs of the past like search light suns slurped down into the esophagus of the living culture like some shellfish, freshly dead but still very juicy.
Chapter(11) The Sound of the Water of the Air
The languid notes in the thin arbitrary atmosphere, smother them
with a humid kiss.
The Madman's Local #23 choir harmonize along,
vicariously sweating in the airless fall
of the cinder block hospital,
as the smell of antiseptic gives way
to a lasting caress of tone.
People walking on the street are dripping and shivering
and the hair stands up
on the back of their damp necks.
An overripe flower secretes a strand of drone.
The air of autumn is now thick and heavy
nearly crushing them with a shimmering
trumpet's bell.
They rest under an ocean of water
suspended in the engorged air,
engaging the respirators to breathe.
While the choir politely, but insistantly
screams for more.
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