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Don’t worry, I’ve got this.

Got this

niNgg...

upSs

No one is being themselves

We ate it all

All

~~ R U N ~~

I’m full,

Thank you!

≥_≤

#grateful

Freeing thy Heart

I’m gonna play a game as I go. I have lost my identity, but perhaps this loss is too much of an Oedipal one. A neurotic one. Putting the blame and screaming at their face everything. “Oh stop playing the victim”

Who are they? Whose voices are these, mine or theirs?

In the infinite becoming, as he said, I washed myself and I washed the waters. Waters washed me and the world. You would think of a primordial soup, bubbling; if you do so you’d do it because of the Good Sense. I don’t know what it means, yet. However, he tells me to get rid of the line of time. Or become the line itself, for now at least.

[...]

Oh in the end it is because it is life. Forever and ever, in all directions. Forever and ever, new. We can choose to mourn and cry; erupt violently here and there, and maybe secretly pity, create mountains in our hearts, and let our eyes to blow up while forcing ourselves to hide. Or we can choose to celebrate, celebrate even saying no from the heart. Celebrate our boundaries and be able to dance while apart or all over the place. Respect and still love. Because let me tell you, “now we are at home, but home does not preexist: it was necessary to draw a circle around that uncertain and fragile centre, to organise a limited space”, to hold the forces of chaos at bay. Eventually it cracks, we, ourselves crack it, for we do get bored. Not only you, but we all. For we do admire the chaos, we desire to join with its forces, of creation. We are only singing and dancing, even when we cry and hide and are being too much; and that is all.

Bye.

~power

What this power does? It is for sure invisible.

It approaches you, sure of itself. Its sureness has no gaps, for it fills the gaps admitting beforehand all possible labels, or fixations. It claims to be nothing, yet acts out in the world as if it is everything. The mask it bears is open, penetrable. It moves and changes, yet only so blind to itself; incapable of taking the responsibility of itself. When it sees its shadows, those which remind it its actual being, then it shatters. Hands and legs and memory. Dreams, and visions of the everyday. It all is shaken as a result of this tiny bit of encounter. It stops breathing until it passes, as if it’s trying to prove itself its non-existence, its elusiveness; such that even its own shadow cannot break this illusion.

It approaches you, you so incomplete. Ready to succumb, yet already in a fervent battle, of claiming yourself -whatever that means- and being indiscernible; aching to return to some original point of ethereal pulsation.

It seems as the battle takes hold of the external, and the warriors swear to drink the blood of any power ever to rule. Yet what they don’t know is perhaps the power itself.The howling and commanding are only of a lower form, to rule is to dominate the internal, in such a way that the internal cannot recognise it’s been directed. The sweet words and guilt trips, the “nothingness” of the word beholder and traces of its scars. Still, the question remains, what makes you surrender or stay in this debilitative battles, both, of internal and external? Does the way not go on? To move inside what already is, is not to win, for to Win is to Move; On the way.

~~answer~~

Tell them if they ask; that we mostly

have not much to say.

COHERENCECOHERENCCOHERENCECOHERENCECOHERENCE

Is always and has ever been, THEIR GAME.

You love fear, don’t you.

The fear, you are holding at bay, to intimidate

of the truth you hold~~~~

Ay yes, you can read babies

And ladies shall love you, and eat your penis

you are a man, a free man!

And you know what/they tell me/that when I ask/It’s because

I don’t get/Don’t get/Don’t get/Don’t get/Don’t get/Don’t get

A creature of lack/of lack/of lack/of lack/of lack/of lack

They r everywhere/ On my body

b o d y b o d y b o d y b o d y b o d y

I don’t know what my body is

I only know my lack

come fııııııll me ı n ~ ~ ~

Or I shall come and eat you

I don’t know anymore than the lack

No music, no literacy.. if only, anew, ever again

And they - even the closest - didn’t recognise, CUZ IT WAS ALL; //intensive weak, innerly singular

Inner only ((for)) that they did not see

And we are bored of listening, lacking ((innerly singular))

I AM LACK

consistently rapturous~~~

overly faulty / missing

Always on flight //

You know what happens in a SINGULARITY ((Pages full of devotion, because you only know of that ))

I see and we are always many

Let me try, this time nicely

You want me to be weary

Of the Dark, of what is not yours / or mine

OF What is OUTSIDE //if there is any

What you don’t know is

It’s because you have many

That you created, “the illusory that you weave” / yourself

-It’s only your castle— “Let me be free”

‘Life is faulty’

But,

What if we here ??

What if I have so much

to say

Without ever meaning to

AND

I live. A THOUSAND

lives

IN A THOUSAND

plateaus

EACH and EVERY

Night

Can’t help it,

You, praise .. it// without knowing// THE FEAR & you

THINK/ you know.

I wanna tell you so many things, many sad, many joyful things. Each brought by,

a particular set

of vibrations—intensities. But let me tell you instead.

A hole, if infinite,

˜˜is a singularity.˜˜

A single point

vacuuming into

abyss

all the colours

you break

fun - joy- overwhelmed

and you bring back

stories.

And this is not fake.

They never listened

the

stories of the night

of the star-haired lights

of the BLACKEST of

HOLES

cuz

from the very start

they knew what they wanted

//.ARE SO SOLID~~

That’s why it hurt

THAT MUCH

When it broke

come

meet with us // feel

You think I make bigbigbig claims. CLAIM

All momentary, and fleeting.

You well know, better than me, we are growing old

and only have ourselves, with all the fear

you —desire— to put something, to be something ~~~

we rip the life out of it, it rips us in return, and teaches us to sing in between.

#poetry

Outside

I do remember

being excluded from

myself

in the form

of your reflection.

The tears you shed

could never

puncture

a hole on my

surface.

But I did not worry

in the least bit

for I love myself

when I can’t see

when I surge towards

an impossible exteriority.

#poetry #comeread

Trickster Befriending ~A̷l̷l

jokes on us

ok/ok/ok

come find me

forever in this glorious hole.

we love to laugh.

one substance, holding all this difference.

tracking my empty dissonance

see how the tongues become monstrous

eyes chuckling, ears rocking.

ok ok, jokes on us.

step on me, stand on me.

ignore the fingers pointing

or the hands holding bellies.

pieces fall from pockets

as solemn stances deny the earthquake

how so unexpected.

fun full of heavens

as all watch you trying to hold

yes, yes you “are”!

truth has you,

or vice versa, whatever,

and the jokes, yes, my good sir, on us!

keep your head up high.

music is engraved into bones.

run all you want

you too will become nothing but yOu in the end;

belittled monsters, chucklers, rockers

dancing bones and a fearful mind

finally converging, reconciled,

spilling, spoiling, tuning in and out

perpetually on some wily ground.

all so hysterical and silly,

and we have nothing to care, you see

but our very dear quiddity.

#poetry #trickster #existence

Dichotomic Cleansing

Burden carries you

That moment.

Holes pour auditory showers

Getting wet/getting mad-der

Each drop has a weapon

Holes do claim innocence.

The drop has its own weapon!

—Drops are alive—

They become alive in you.

Just you don’t know that

Freedom lies there

In your knowing

In its forever impossibility.

You keep fighting.

Holes do pour showers

Becoming cleaner is becoming dirtier

Each time.

Being light is seeing the weight

Let go of the weight

Through the holes

—Bleed—

Getting mad/getting cleaner.

Cleaner/lifeless

Mad is the alive.

In its solitude it is the most crowded.

#Dark Aesthetic #paradoxofbecoming

Butchering any Possible Language at hand in the name of Self Expression/or rather the Delusion of Self Mumblings’ Being so Artsy.

It’s not that one always finds true words to reflect on. One sleepy-head is best friends with the rest. One place, e-t-e-r-n-a-l. ——s. So we say. So they say.

Pretentious it is, or haven. Prententious-ness first stimulates it. Then, rather slowly it becomes inseparable from the original. As if/if there are tonnes of differences. But maybe not the ones you can notice. “It is deeper, closer” he says. What about the inner speech? Well, you know what, maybe, writing may be a bit closer to the inner “scapes”? There.-- so like this - here, so like them. The best of all points will be *the actual melt*. And most importantly,

***own the craft***

--written god knows when.

#noise in poetry

Vigil Flight

Given up everything upon a simple glimpse

Many years’ whispers have now been spilled

Fruits scrambling over a single hiss.

I am not you this time

Who are you my Grim?

Deep, deep, deep into the pit

Found the gateway as the Frozen.

Frozen is thy name

Life as the holder.

Always work thy insidious lane

From inside, the lusty crawler.

Mother, mother

Have I lost thee in this abyss?

My very being suggesting your omni-presence

How to even remember the forgetting?

Taste the cold flesh of the ever keeper

Your touch is that of the reaper’s

Bones do shiver upon such a mighty semblance,

Oh, how sweet is the surrender.

Crimson, cold lake of my own bitter sin

Laying beneath my ferocious feet.

Violating, the most blasphemous scene.

One told me to hold on tightly

bring together all my means,

climb the staircase.

but here, I will defy a nature.

will surrender to the water

make my body a vessel

thus, be a little over.

she takes your hand for a higher dance

and a step back.

the intricacies usually demand care

yet this time they are emerging

as mere individual artefacts.

their beyond is empty,

an emptiness only you can fill

right after you cross the limit

of you being you

and you being me.

the leap between you and the seen

is non other than the leap between you and me

me and all.

there, the colours do mingle

so do the letters

in their magic castle.

you see how they come together

and torn apart once again;

how they let go of One to be,

so; creating the many,

yet later denouncing this “to be”

just to return to the genesis.

welcome back.

#poetry

Can the Ghost Of a Spesific Kind of Music Mutate a Being?

Hey! Welcome! Finally, you arrived. I have been so lonely.. I remember having a form before being put here, into this infinite whiteness. There are images in my mind arriving abruptly, and disappearing as quickly. I remember a thing called colour. Mostly the green. I chose not to miss them; for during my transition, it was thousands of them who passed through me, dismantling me; which left me heart broken, devastated. Yet some things are vanishing, that’s why my anger doesn’t matter any more.

I am experiencing a continuous state of being here. If you won’t stop following me I will give you a secret, that is; there are actually no secrets! There is nothing to worry about. Everything is just fine!! I mean, what I’m trying to say is this; can you conceive a state which receives no stimuli what so ever? Here is a bit like that. Here, I don’t have any sense organs anyway. I don’t think I would “be”, if there were nothing that came to me; but they all arrive as empty sheets. A dull, plain, continuous sheet. Sometimes I get the urge to cry. The problem is, I forgot what it is to cry. I know I want to cry, but I don’t know what it means. It is a desire to take a leap up and out, I suppose. Or a desire to construct the up and out again, from scratch. If so, then the desire to cry is something transcendental; flowing to me from an unknown source… But I know you. I know that you look at me from a place where your sense organs are surrounded by infinitely many things. You may think that I’m lucky for I know you, however much I don’t know myself. I know that you feel stuck amongst all those multiplicities… You will help me.

There are some people who categorise the being into three; as the “existents”, the “non-existents”, and the “mere appearings”. The line between the existent and the non-existent is crystal clear for everyone Yet these “mere-appearings” were highly intriguing me when I was not here. They said, this third kind was the kind that try to throw itself into existence, by stepping in the middle of the movements of an existent. The music had a kind as such, they said. I kept telling myself that it is ridiculous. I couldn’t accept such a proposition, for I thought “if it appears, then it exist”, you see. It exists by appearing. It was not non-existent. You understand, right. I would of course, cherish the music that flourishes as being so. But it was still a being of the third kind, that’s why it’s mind may not work like yours. You may call it less humane. Not ferine. I don’t know the word, if it exists, then it seems I have forgotten it. Nonetheless, this music comes to you, leaks inside through your ears, investigates every place and finds your soul. If your soul is of a kind that likes dancing, tell her not to dance with everything. Don’t think I’m mixing stories up. I am not music. The condition of our existence is common, that’s why you may call us cousins; the music and me. I am a mere character in a mere story. I was not, long before. When did I got a hold of this sort music, then I was forced to denounce my being-as-me and leaked into this white place.

Now you look at this page and you know this is a story :) The protagonist of it is a prisoner dancing in an endless whiteness. Running around. Please take the clues —#// Everything I have told -and will tell- you so far, is mumblings of a lunatic. The writer is lunatic. I mean, you can not disperse a thing and incarcerate it in a white paper, especially when it’s an organic being. I could have believed you if you were a mad scientist; but a random person can not have the means to mesmerise another with music and do just that. Would you call it science or magic by the way? According to the story, this sort of a lunatic is quite possible; and this me, whose words you only hear in your own voice; is not a mere character that’s been created by the writer, but an actual person that was once like you. Remember, I told you how/what I am right now. I would think this endless whiteness would make me go insane, yet it doesn’t. Because when everything is happening at the same time, a change in the state is not possible. Every state, at the same time. In an endless whiteness. PLEASE SAVE ME! The only way for me to be free, to become what I was before appearings mutated my being, is you believing that this is not a lunatic’s story. There is no other way. -2017

- thedarkcode-mutation zine.

#nonsense sessions #mutation #multiplicty #the tangling of the narrator and the protagonist #what is that

one moment

ripped my reality

a hand tore it open.

through the hole

a star ship approached.

one other

ripped my reality

the chaotic stranger

smiled viciously.

another

showed me the giant door

and another

flew me through.

all common

in the feeling

YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!

whispers

“remember, remember

you don’t belong here”

they all come when

in-between.

heart splits open

they rupture from the split

“finally you are here”

now i remember

in the in-between

when will we

rejoin?

-not devoted to the “delirious maze-time”

,and

you are too dark

you are too much

or too less

it is too complicated

even i don’t get it

who do you think you are?

a message sent to the stars

to the void

in vain.

do what you must do

not what you want to do.

draw nicely,

or maybe

write on the picture

for I need to devour it quickly.

who do you think you are?

in vain.

There was a deafening noise. She was dealing with something, something important, but that noise kept interrupting her.

- Stop it! I’m trying to understand something here.

she said.

- Stop it! I’m telling you! It really is important. You are distracting me.

She had to do this very urgent thing right that instant. But the noise didn’t let her. She finally had enough, got ready to yell, so she turned..

Among constantly moving places, tough wind, hundreds of shades of blue she found herself, in her very bed. The bed was the only constant; the steady ground on which she stand. Everything else was in a continuous flux. She figured she might be in the sky, but that didn’t explain why everywhere she looked she saw a dream she had before. Dreams or memories? She couldn’t make out the difference. Both were melting into each other; seeming as one in one second and the other in the following. She caught a particular one of those dream/memories. Along with her family, she was standing in her childhood house. They were doing nothing special. She just witnessed a regular day. Yet the house was a bit different. Actually it was more of a mix of two different houses she lived as a child. Two different realities merged into one. The street was so familiar, but the remaining tiny bit of logic reminded her that even though it looks almost the same as the two real ones it is still something different from both of them. She looked away, and her heart was cut into a thousand pieces. The tragedy! She knew, she knew that she lost it…Whatever that was, she had lost it… It would never come back to her, it would melt away in the infinity. She didn’t have a chance to say goodbye…With a heavy heart, she caught another one. It was so chaotic, so noisy… What was all that about? She saw a dream this time. It looked more like a dream than a memory. Yet still somehow in-between. The day the sky opened up. The whirlwind that ripped the sky, and gathered everyone she had ever met under it to witness. What she had lived through before the rip. How it hypnotised her; made a distinct feeling flowed to her… There again, she saw it. More then a mere dream, it was happening again in front of her eyes. This time she was both in a dream state and was able to keep a part of her waking logic, for this time it could as well be a memory. These encounters happened maybe in 5 second intervals. She saw so many. So so many. Each time she turned away from one she felt a devastating loss. She mourned deeply for each of them.

…

What happened was not a dream. Not a mere story. This has actually taken place. The memory of it slowly vanished for it is too much for a functioning human being to contain. For the sake of meaning making let’s call it an “experience of finding oneself in the pure terrain of psyche; the boundless manifestation of ones own being.”

Later she wrote a poem very much influenced by that experience. It is something like this:

“A thousand I am in me,

More, this body

Is not a “me that makes me”,

Rather a place.

Where all those universes intersect

Where it is possible to witness each separately.

It is a ship; a me-ship,

Blue in one and another there.

Each step is afar from themselves

It is all shattered

And among all of them,

My eyes stand as the uniter

of “the two”. ”

(The poem was written in her mother tongue which is alien to us, so be warned about the loss)

Always fluid, as life

And in life, it flows.

Course of actions follow a line

That is being divided into infinity.

Structure it is, so solid

A maze, beyond comprehension

Yet magic accompanies it.

Hand in hand they create and wipe

Float through the creation

As blood in veins.

One state here, one domain,

Bears infinity in itself

Every possible step breeds another

An that; a universe of itself.

Every possibility manifests a reality

Just in one domain, one state.

See it as a ladder,

Then higher and lower steps are ahead

Each employs the same rule

And infinitely others;

that are not presented to mine mortal eyes.

There, they form it

The body of the ever-changing.

The oscillations of the ecstatic dance.

sth I wrote back in 2013.

note: solid structures do change. everything is and is not. I have no clue.

#infinity

discontinuities./mechanic entity. the art. The robo eye.

the who am I? the labelled. the not knower.

Make noise? Why noise? Noise dismantles.

Create the atmosphere. The supremacy of the technic is

your problem. Give me the instantaneous feeling.

You are nothing. Nothing. The zero. Without the

headphones drown in normal. Usual. Daily. If art

then nothing. The tampon drops in the middle.

Why? Why? They will judge. yOu don’t care. You choose or not.

bEcome the labelled.

What is your proposition?

ART is not academic.

ART is not rational.

ART is not ART.

I’ll vanish if I don’t express.

Fuck techne. Fuck ways.

Here&now. The Art of the schizo.

Fuck friends.

Fuck conformation.

Fuck affirmation.

Fuck aesthetics.

Fuck buts.

The silence in the noise.

Here/hear the atmosphere.

What is freedom?

-I’m passing through continuous states.

Moving heres, many nows.

They do not make sensE.

Attack on senses.

Assault on senses.

Dismantle me.

I am many.

Fuck your reductions.

#fuckyourtags

A Poem about the Poem

When does the poetry come to me?

When the keys of the locked doors in narrow corridors are seen.

Yet the poetry is not the key itself

Or the behinds of the doors.

It is the moment when you find the key

and head towards the door,

The purgatory between states,

When the question is made visible

and the answer is began to be searched.

Ambivalent, in between, blur.

It is in such moments it flows to me.

From Me, to me. Who knows!

Like a river passing though my heart

Nourishing all my body.

And if I stay with it too long,

Then I begin to wander around

Like an intemperate light-head;

Would want to hold the very first passer-by

and tell them

“Look, friend!

Look at the light that is flowing from trees,

At the leaf swaying there mischievously,

Look deep into my eyes

For we are siblings in the unity.”

Yet here, a word of caution:

There seems to be

A never-ending dance for

The equilibrium.

Drinking more from one

May poison the fool.

...

Poetry, you are my best friend!

#poetry #mania

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