"...with the origin of the spark of life as it merges into the powder of time, the cuneiform pulsations of time become a triplicate cosmic mirror reflecting itself to extinction, then life begins wandering into inner tunnels of light which appear and disappear, it becomes a cord of flame stretching tongues of lavender into transparent dragonfly tundra, alchemists' liver, cannonball sensoriums breaking into the ground of flowing lightning waters, what is called for are heroic butterfly spindles to twist turquoise treachery cycles into permanent non-existence, which means the artist mines the fractures of this creative compost instantaneously, or with the protracted laborious flux of a slow motion hurricane, I'm thinking of those two unmistakable distinctions, Andre Breton, Bram Van Velde, and I mean outside society, outside of its heaving novae of conformist wolves, the creative truth, the trigger of fire punctures the unclean canopy of dollars, into the pure, into the unbounded, poetic bullets in the name of the grand amalgam of justice, too much blood under the bridge, in over 3,000 years of rational skull-capped western biology there's been a litany of internal revelation, forays into those flaming utopias where the sun spreads magnetically into the perpetual succession of eternity, life, continuous explosion, it is the piranha that sucks on the core of the innards and calls the pain the psychic offspring of internal number, it is the poetic spur, it is dynamo concoction, down with the bland goblets of sobriety that they tell us we should be grateful to live with, down with rhodopsin sockets of deception and blindness, again the call is for enigmatic hell fire to sweep away this mess, for a confused polyphony of fire flowing in all directions, a scaly claw pops up from oblivion sparsely covered by a stunted crop of ochre feathers, and I think of Putman on Van Velde, "Doubt, ambiguity, contradiction are the only proofs of authenticity," if I say typhoid candles, if I say flightless coal of fissioning leopards, I may as well tell the conformists that I'm worshipping at a temple of moon grease, of necessity, life must speak as a wound bursting like a tourniquet of roses, an overflow of energy creating itself as a core of unravelling electron footage, or, as a human geology of imperceptible millimeter motion, I'm speaking here of the most raving, feral kind of combat, warriors from the realm of upper luminosity injecting cosmic sputum into the odyssey of life on this physical plane, this cultural conspiracy against revelatory patterns and internal signs is what I would call photon lockage, a block in the vision, mundane phantasmagoria, sticky corrupted patina reality, irrelevant questions of how should I step? how much pressure should I apply?, but the poetic search is for deep disrupted laser beam ore somehow freed of all poltergeist activity swirling in the wires of the skin, the poetic thesis: assault on high geometry clouds dressed up in deception magically exploded and recollected non-corporally vertically rising above a sun of plural negatives, the 20th century artistic hegira, one giant hallucinated triple push of the soul, the mind, the body, looking for immortal experiences outside the habits of man as we know him, even when we are told by the reputable revolutionaries that there is nothing but the body, nothing but the ceilings and walls around the body, that the empyrean can't be touched, at this point in history a declaration has been made by the golden blade of the poetic angle and the words begin to "flash" with a blinding light of transmundane origin, a torch of magic wands in the eyes, and everywhere that you touch, you look, you write, a basic change takes place, a light breaks forth from people and things despite a natural hesitation, a bridge of glimmers emerging from a series of suns exploding in a metaphysical core which is unnameable, infinite, which can only be gathered in the experience of itself…”
2087
germansingergirl
gracieabrams
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
