science & dust

The wait wakes in shivers, trembling slightly with the last pull & push, alive but withering with massive youthful swag and sway propounded with the white wintering that floundered Exodus with raindrops.

Science: the last flea

Mystery’s been listening, mistah

History’s been missin’ missah, I see the signs in the eyes, the baby goodbyes, we were looking for the moose in the baby caboose, still, silent emblem of the sudden and final American frontier.

Sentimental for teardrops, George washing ton of the spirit of clouds in the people’s unreluctant metal. More interested in wasting tea than tracking the West.

Gold for the crackers. Digging for centuries until the ground was so barren that the peasants ate stone.

Yonder, up steps leafing through pamphlets on communism, the snake-eyed toiler of political black magic fakes an urgency for a false deliberate people’s rope.

Johnny Appleseed feeding the folks with jokes. And William tells all with a single shot.

The science of pleading became a game of saws. All towing the nature we’d spoiled from the sacred folk, who also fought, no pedestals here, all buried beneath five ice layers of peddled ground.

Still a current cause, always a current cause, five centuries old, the devil waiting for us all. Waiting for us all to question our inner czar that fakes the peasant hard, steaming the innards of cooked intestines from his finest meal, the servings eaten in helpings as large as their man.

Alexander Hamilton and the federal bank. The corporal took charge and the banks took the funds, we were left w none, naught but assembly rows of monkey clefts and machinery made of rust.

No trust in a situation where your mother cleaves to your spirit and your sister competes with your cause. And your wife, she’s just something you picked up in the metropolitan arena while waiting for the football scores.

Depth in an eyelid. Steps eaten by clouds. I’m not shaking the chain but trying to climb high until I reach the low and my last belly burns with the fire of a meal I left over from Christmas fields we plowed in January. George, George George. Frederick, the file to free the body from personal enslavement, the spirit from lack of verbosity, or the ability to be verbose.

Junior wet the bed last Monday and we are still awaiting the results of tests performed by the best doctors in New York, they who claim aptitude to the sun, who have conquered the sun, who have ritualized the moon, unappetizing, I, the last apostle who read the last good book on the sky.

Friendly trees sway for a county that breathes with another’s blood. An individual is soaked with another nation’s blood, every citizen pleading with the inner czar for a second chance with the devil who plays his last deck of cards he left at the penny arcade on the Wednesday it opened late for last Ash Wednesday, only at the gambling center, the glam limb he used to make the ritual token in a final moment of understanding the toil clerk’s gargantuan issue with the corporate scandal.

Jefferson. The ritual of writing calligraphy. The art of the letter in picture, iconography, the picture of the words creating the beauty of message stronger than its truth, barely able to notice the spaces in between that glimmer with nothing but air.

Pooh bear whose stomach was too full for the honey. The kid who stretched his sheet over the bed in a casket. The corpse that left the spirt unevacuated. The Pharaohs who paid for liberation in mere gold tokens. The mere men whose hearts were weighed to measure their wholesomeness. If they did not weigh proportionally, they were enslaved like Tantalus, reaching for life like a flower instead of the apple.

Diagrams of petulance that demonstrate the aims of “growing up”, the way a tree’s inner circles demonstrate its years, like inner caves, deepening, deepening until the last meerkat is left on the hillside too revolted by his last meal to grow another day older, withering like a tired mountain.

The trees sobbing, the willows talking in hushed whispers, pedestrians in the wind, talking about the ending of tomorrow and its last shuddered promises. She blames the insects for her wanderings but they don’t even come to the sugar, they are too afraid to approach the ending of a system, the revolving of a turnstile, an empty door, the swaying of an inner door in a grey hushed old building that talks of yesterday like some old sorry temper.

She dimes the current weatherman with wishes of fruition and strawberries blooming under temperaments that whistle tunes scornful of joy in the seance of a yearning for something that is there but never measured. The rope swings and the curtain falls, and the blessed angels hope their counterparts will enroll in university for the next tennis match between the new school in England and the overpriced American private college.

Pestilence, watches, weights and doors. The blockages and attempts to measure as the effort for strength in an aimless arrogance, like a bumblebee with nothing to sting, all the while growing more poisonous by the mile with no sobbing story or beckoning book to teach or give apples to the clerk who waits tearless and white-faced on the steps of the corner bookstore, glistening and listening and waiting like a deer, for a tender bit of tree whistle from the forest picture he puts on his unfurnished cemetery wall.

The dance around the mystery. Pin the portrait on the last gallery inside the hidden museum. The silent carnival that awaits its own seriousness. The rides that await the climax toward a hidden meddle of depth and forestry, within a past rumbling.

Giants awaiting fangs that assault the last battery that one can commit. And we are still aching from the last assault. Peppered
by dust. Nuns of an old artistry. Nigh is the time for the monastery of a new concern, of wine and roses, science and dust.

Monsters & Movies

Jameson ate the shriveled apple, core and all, ravenous as a wounded animal that had just come out of hiding. Walking down 116 st., he glanced ahead of him, eyes like pinballs. A shooting had happened here last week, not that you could tell. It was getting on past midnight and the streets were empty. All that remained open were the delis, like stranded lighthouses providing direction to homeless refugees in the still pulsing sea of the aching Manhattan evening.

A photograph in hiding. Jameson’s lips felt like they were melting. The cold, flat air could barely bite his skin. Just another fight, he told himself. Just another fight that will be forgotten. We spend too much time alone together and then we forget who is whom and which is which, and we clutch objects to remind ourselves what belongs to whom, and we wind up throwing those objects at each other, because we’ve forgotten who owns what, but then she leaves, or I leave, and then she comes back or I come back, and there’s silence, but then we agree to be silent, and then we talk, and then we watch a movie and fall asleep.

I’m not going to think about it, he decided. He couldn’t feel the cold so the walk didn’t bother him very much. It was just the distance, not only between she and he, but between his feet and the sidewalk, his inner soliloquy and the pace of his steps, the beating of his heart and the quiet settling of his eyes upon various objects in the streets.

He tried to see the romance in the dirt, the cinematic quality of the grime, the aesthetic and philosophical composition of the metropolitan splay. He could see it, at times, but he had lost the ability to transform that picture into feeling. It was just something his eyes observed as a result of distance, but he couldn’t make himself a part of the story or feel the elegant and wounded artistic lingerings that used to allow him a space in the grooves between niches in the corners of form.

As a teenager he had walked home alone, listening to music on his headphones and imagining that music as soundtrack to a movie. It was almost involuntary, instinctual. It was his movie, and he the lead actor in that movie. The mood of the music set his mood, but since he was merely a character in a movie, he could romanticize any mood. Even melancholy became beautiful. Depression was an aching loveliness. Horror was a morbid and gothic Victorian architectural sublimity. He captured the pictures and they retraced themselves back into his mind, picturesque and eternal, and he flicked the grotesque flakes of the remnants of the current moment from his camera lens, as a result only viewing the magic of something that wasn’t there, that was only created, fictionalized.

Now there wasn’t that, there were only the images, and no magic camera.
“I feel as though my head isn’t on the same body as my feet,” he said to himself, before even thinking about it, and suddenly realized that it was true. His head was somewhere above, floating, but not in the clouds, because there were none, only the black and oily, moribund canvas of the vague and lifeless sky.

That’s where he was thought, the sky. I’m not a bird, he thought, so what am I? A star? A wind? He thought of that old Superman line. What is it? A bird, a plane, a…At one point he had thought Nietzsche had revolutionized his thoughts, changed the nature of his thinking, created a spectacle like fireworks in his emotional world. Now he felt that opening up of his world and philosophy had only made everything seem more empty. He no longer knew which method or understanding to choose.

The sun was beginning to rise somewhere in the distance. “Sun rise in the East, and it sets in the West.” He had never been one with directions, but he knew how to get back home at least. When he first arrived in New York, he couldn’t even find his way back there. He had that down pat now. It almost surprised him. He could navigate the streets like a pilot but sometimes he was so caught up by whatever brewed internally that he would find himself on the Lower East Side when he intended to get to the West Village, or at the wrong coffee shop meeting the incorrect person, and when he realized his mistake, it was usually too late to turn back.

He began to move his feet back in the direction of his apartment, observing their pace, and then realized that his posture was bent and stooped as a hunchback. He looked in the window of a shop and corrected it. Shoulders back, chin up. The discovery that walking with correct posture actually improved his general mood over a long period of time had led him to osteopaths, yoga routines, gymnastic classes, and of course many a gymnasium, but he always wound up in the same bent position, to the point that he nearly gave up looking at himself in the mirror altogether.

Before he noticed, he had arrived home. He got in the elevator, pressed 7 and felt the grooves of the machine began to work, allowing him to ascend. A primal yearning for peace and comfort had just entered his body. He hoped she had cooled off.

He entered the apartment, 4B, and saw her washing dishes quietly, posture well-defined, water quietly running over her hands and the plates. She had always said that washing dishes calmed her. He always rushed to the point that it caused him anxiety, always wanting to get on to something more exciting.

“You ok?” he asked, after a moment of silence. He couldn’t know how long.
“Yeah.” She hadn’t turned around yet.
“How was your walk?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said. “Still can’t stand up straight for shit.”
“Who wants to be completely straight?” she asked. He smiled. They had often made this joke before.
“Evangelicals,” he suggested.
“We don’t have those in New York,” she said.
“No, not yet…”
“Wanna watch a movie?”

shit we remembered

Under the tan, emotions blow force wicked ‘cross oceans of sign.

florida potions and equinox land

science and flag dance. She bent to the time.

Whipping ’round front, the crowd watches eager to…

The remedy at large! For a flea and a prince and a pauper and a pan, the bed prints for systems that are accidents of sand…

extra till we say so. extra till we say so.

the prints bets their bottom on the renewal of scorn.

separate. separate. swallow the large eye till the seagull tune spat…

and a lip bent large to the tune of a million….

still a whisper…still a reckless ..

extra till we say so. extra till he hay lo..

thou weren’t a league of conditions under bled black stars.

sedition and Lars ate the apple till the world wept

windows (opened) wondering with the blue of a new ocean whining…

and still there was entry on the e-boat for offering?!

extra till we say so. (Extra) till he laid her…

down

sound

round

(spherical) … so…?

did you hear the crowds?

Lie. La la la la la lie. Serif-involved and flippant mildew. The back-bridge 2 (the) Wimbledon Finals. Tennis for teenagers.

rakkity rak rak rak rak rak

(the lion breed bevy bumbles on)

sheen. shine. shoe shy walker wake on…wet dollar wonder (and) wander wimps with

the

Key 2 (the) Miracle! $2 Torture!

(are they up to the task?)

striptease remedy. Honey salt and bed views. Bellevue of saints and Simone who waited under the fury of stars.

still till the last drop…a wet torture (who waited?) till after it was finished with aching.

still under introspection. An (apple) 4 yer troubles. teacher under marbles. lost 2 the wars.

bill wet his whistle on a million dollar cry.

zippity do.

zippity da.

zippity

do

da

hey!

let’s ….

 

The larynx, Osiris and Cain & Abel 

  The larynx and the phallus are one and the same. Within the spoken (and even more so, sung) word lies the creative act, just as in the penetration of the vulva by the phallus, and within it the energy (either masterful, redundant or wasteful/negative) it carries out into the universe.

The world is just the play of shadow puppet forms displaying our own personal inadequacies projected onto the archetypes. When we reconcile the archetypes with our own projections, the play ends and extinguishment (in the Buddhistic, not nihilistic sense) can occur.
Cain & Abel is the first myth inheritor of the Osiris/ Set myth, except in the Hebrew version, Cain had to be the victor, in a sense (though it may appear otherwise), the first man who bore the mark of sin (666, which is also the necessarily number for delving into the internal alchemical journey) in order to project a sense of humility onto the human race, a race that would now bow down before its omnipotent creator god, who in actuality was a selfish demiurge.

The golden phallus in the original myth represents the discovery of a sort of “internal artifice” constructed to replace the domination of the external instinct for propagation, the victory of inner alchemy over external impulse as well as the dominion of body over soul, utilizing bodily energies in order to transcend the very source of these energies. Use the body to overcome the body. 

It is certainly a sadness to give up this shell of skin and desire.

From Love to Wonder

Endless love for all the friends.
I feel like wings would be relevant somehow.

None of this stuff works (condoms, etc),
How about like a goose,
or it’s all in the dolphin, the rabbit
without the bounce.
It’s alright, tonight. Woo woo woooo

Like a fairy angel in Peter Pan sitting smoking by the open window on the Upper West Side as the magic begins, fluttery, bumbly, clumsy with body from mind.

The light from down and light from around .

In the haze of cool and sedated face the cigarette smoke behaves as truth teller, smoking it affirms yes, there is no no. I am communicating with and through the cigarette wand.

The fear of who
I am there, or what I will see.
Will it include me?
Or will I become a cold, attractive, beautiful statue with no fluid movement or motion,
all outside the grid.

On the release of Ego Scriptor’s “This Haunted Everything”

“In lieu of an explanation”
“This Haunted Everything”

A theatre of disguises. Remnants of an Age of Octagons. We were born and bred inside of crystal kingdoms.

If you touch this record, please be sure to wear leather gloves (preferably with diamond-studded cuffs).

The message is: “I have no message, and I rarely knew what I was talking about.”

I care little for humanism or naturalism, am much more for the glitter and glimmer of artifact and artifice, theatre, chimeras, and the individually fabricated, isolated magick universes.

If you discover that I am all too often donning a masquerade mask, there’s probably another one resting squarely beneath it (made of glass and effortlessly shattered).

I have mimicked the false saints we used to hold dear. The only psychologist I can truly trust is Shakespeare.

If I have been too often under the siege of ennui, it is simply because I can relate to Sisyphus and am guided by desire alone, desire, that bastard enfant terrible in search of an elusive femme fatale, Desire who in every final, climactic moment of reconciliation with Isis, willfully chooses to invoke Tantalus instead.

So here it is, the virgin piece, the maiden voyage, the final deconstruction: “Having been some days in preparation, a splendid time is guaranteed for all” (in the words of my first and favorite European prophet, who stole them off of a carnival poster).

To all the ghosts of yesterday and “as of not yet”, my deceased and living friends alike (and all of those wandering somewhere in between), and anything and everything that propels the living flame upwards to offer up something of itself to a personal demiurge, I say “Bon voyage.”

-A. Nova, 2014