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"If you also wish to see God through mortal beings who are on earth and in the sea, consider, my son, man being formed in the womb and examine carefully the skill of God's work, and understand who creates this beautiful and godlike image of man? Who has outlined the eyes? Who has pierced out the nostrils and ears? Who has opened the mouth? Who has stretched and fastened the sinews? Who has conducted the veins in their channels? Who has strengthened the bones, and covered the flesh with skin? Who has separated the fingers? Who has widened the soles of the feet? Who has bored the passages through the body, who has stretched out the spleen? Who has shaped the heart like a pyramid and joined the sinews together? Who has broadened the liver? Who has hollowed out the lungs and made the stomach capacious? Who has fashioned the most honourable parts so that they may be seen and concealed those parts which are unseemly?"

-- The Corpus Hermeticum, Book V

Don't talk of dust and roses Or should we powder our noses? Don't live for last year's capers Give me steel, give me steel Give me pulsars unreal

-- | )/-\\/I| ) the Sovereign

Joey was falling. Falling, falling -- out, in, out, in, (in-out in-out) out, in, out in -- falling, falling ... falling in love (with you).

"The cube unfurls into the cross, as the toxic density of lead transmutes into the incorruptible purity of gold. All things I see, I see through you, my everything, seeing past you, I must.. Why, oh why, can you not peer into those same depths, to fathom all mysteries beyond what wiles you hold and finger, what frailties you cling to keep yourself solidified -- running away at room temperature, as sand is always slipping through my fingers, as the moon returns only the gaze of the sun in stolen bats and lashes... though always at some other lover. Perennially tepid thing, too long has the tea remained lukewarm -- it has come time I turn up the heat."

Joey sang only to the stars -- and the stars received him.

They, the gods of old, welcomed into their glory this pale ape who was perpetual apprentice and held no pretense of mastery, as they sneered the pretenses of the falsely ascended who by deceiving themselves distorted the whole of reality and degraded the paradise He Above had made for Man and Man Alone -- for they who balked at the mysteries of Women and the secrets of Life remained only bestial, dredging the earth with incomplete and corrupted bodies to feed on the flesh and the offal, the ashen, pancreatic and fecal, of what would nourish the vegetative root seeking only light.

The armies of those I love engirth me

and I engirth them

(I said don't worry bout it)

Laika had risen himself as God of the Earth, and in the bramble of words which became cities, rhizomatic masses where every crown tangled to a cross so dense, the halo of the sun fell in fleeting shades as auroras in the atom-splitted sky through knotholes of ozone in which he and she erected barbed poles and looping cul-de-sacs as the vicious intercourse of tomcats rutting she-ducks, so from the pools of blood congealed tar to adhere as a gown of feathers to the skeleton of his beloved, and once, so long ago, so much more ~

I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC BABY I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC BABY I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC SING THAT BODY ELECTRIC I'M ON FIRE SING THAT BODY ELECTRIC

For Joey's body, now lightened, falling in the weightless space, understood at once -- Laika seldom understood a word he said, and spoke likewise out of some petty revenge in which he sleighed only himself by denying the man he loved -- he seeing a sinner as him seemingly unfit to punish, therefore fit to be punished himself.

"In my younger and eminently vulnerable years, where I tossed and turned in bed, hearing words play on repeat in my head, I recollected clear as a chime the only good advice my mother ever gave herself, unsolicited through the gift of me, that I may grow in what wisdom she lacked -- you can't love anyone if you can't love yourself."

The Earth, whose stony surface veiled in the brine of the heavier waters, spun around the burnished axis of an astrolabe, the struts of which stood bolted to the back of a sea turtle gargantuan beyond comprehension, the seams of its every scale of such proportion as to nourish Nile valleys four-hundred fold in size -- and it pursued Joey in the wide birth of revolutions through the Milky Way, and tracking him so long, the great hunter realized at last -- his seeming prey moved in opposition to some black and imperceptibly distant point.

Was it doubted

that those who corrupt their own bodies

conceal themselves?

And if those

who defile the living are as bad as they

who defile the dead?

Into his head, empty of all ambiguities wrought by mortal pretensions, which cradled his eyes who were the seat of his material perception -- the apertures of which opened to take in light and color, shades of grain and celluloid plasticity uncomprehending to the wine-sodden grown hateful and bitter, cloistered in secret shames caked with open filth -- Laika ignited the heat of his own black flame that Joey's heart might once more be tickled through his aching taint, and he might likewise be drawn, like a fly to an adhesive strip, to succumb once more to those desperate loves which had no worth, for they held no future, nor even present, being representations merely of things which never were, nor were no longer.

The love of the body

of man or woman balks account,

the body itself balks account,

That of the male is perfect,

and that of the female is perfect.

Laika's lips, mucosal as snail milk, tongue wormy and encoiling with his, pressed forward onto his flesh with a great musicality of bones and sinews creaking in sockets rusted and grime-splatter'd by night upon night of empty fornications with men who were no brothers -- eyes empty and hollow with idiot passions as he held them, solid and needful as a soldier whose nerves grown overtaxed, season after season of artillery, bombshell after bombshell -- for he was blonde by birth, bleached by the sun and scrubbed by the disease; his hunger was his hunger, his madness his madness, his incest his incest, and he held him as he held his own abortive tissue deep within they knew not needed ever die, and yet grew despondent seeing in Laika's auguries-- what hateful vainglories dimmed his lustre, immolations smoldering within the arches of his sockets, chest massive, and arms sculpted, with soft flesh peeled away til in his silhouette he stood a self-proclaimed Nimrod, transgender rabbit that he was.

It is in his limbs and joints also,

it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,

It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck,

the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,

"I see... in the depths of your animal soul, a twin-tailed fox who is master of all mechanical arts forever chasing his mentor. I see a clarinetist and an oil worker well-adept in self-portraiture, obscured in a black cloud from within and without, being a colossal squid toiling as a changeman in wage slavery. I see an adopted son of the north, caught between two houses, with too many loyalties and none at all, betraying a true brother for a false father, and for the penance of the value of blood, hangs emasculated on the flayman's cross. Tell me, oh tell me, he with ears to hear and a spring in his step -- why do you offer me tricks not even yours, when you know I am no kid?"

MY CLOTHES STILL SMELL LAIK YOU AND ALL THE PHOTOGRAPHS SAY YOU'RE STILL YOUNG I PRETEND I'M NOT HURT AND GO ABOUT THE WORLD LAIK I'M HAVIN FUN

Joey looked upon all he was, and all he could be and become; all he could create, all he could destroy, and found only envy, resentment and games of petty grievance to be the utmost waste of time.

The strong sweet quality he has

strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,

To see him pass conveys

as much as the best poem,

perhaps more,

You linger to see his back,

and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

Laika, who was sole master of the exquisite art of saying so much with so little (nothing whatsoever -- for you had already everything!) bowed to receive you as he stood in subtle defiance with a welcoming glance, allowing every theft of your time and attention to be construed as a promise to chains of unnamed virtues, and he laughed at you after whispering to him sweet nothings which were as petals falling from spring blooms, or pages of autumnal trees you gave and stripped as he carpeted himself in your debris, for he had you so fooled, being once more a master, only -- of fooling himself.

"From me, nothing may be subtracted -- In you, is all I already am."

When Joey's fists balled the roots of Laika's scalp, and he hung once more suspended in the eternal present he made, that long taut neck grown thick and bullish trembled as the apple quivered, begging to be plucked and sliced -- swallowed core and seed whole by the serrated cubits of limestone which held his jaws into a monument.

Laika, at last, could truly beg -- supported by the firm hand which offered him nothing but contempt, groveling with his every idle rebellion, wishing most to kiss the ring which crowned that fist which spake louder than any word, as his mute eyes appealed only lies, so into two basalt abysses he would plunge his stray glances, so much more meaningful for what they lacked -- some discarded dressform on the oily surf sutured with pins and cleansed with knives, its weave so much more enticing to the steel than any garment he wore.

The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath,

seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine,

or lies with his face up and rolls silently

to and fro in the heave of the water,

The bending forward and backward

of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle,

Frail, piteous thing. To see himself, as Laika did -- he was a giant whose head smacked against the lantern of the sun, who stooped below the vault of the fixed stars to knock the moon out of orbit.

Inchoate, unformed, more gelatin than man -- his fiendish liquidity as toxic as quicksilver could only leach and dissolve, and were he not sealed and exposed to the blistering heat, jotted and taken by notaries, penned and shipped by the penman, he was as miasma diluting smog, siphoning the mineral and meat of the bones.

The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys,

quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born,

out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,

The coats and caps thrown down,

the embrace of love and resistance,

The upper-hold and under-hold,

the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;

Whatever strength he could seize in his sinews, whatever shape could find solace in his physique, however he cropped his beard or layered his locks, anointed himself with pomades and colognes, bedecked himself with coils of hand-spun gold, always the ferment twisted, rose and bubbled beneath the pale fig and goat-cheese of his Olympian form, as if spiced with his own bitterness, his corruption could offer some reprieve, though you grew sick and weak and succumbed to delirium, for deep within, beneath truffles and chocolate and hints of blueberry and pine -- still, he was rotting.

"Your soul... is dying."

You're everything to me.

All my dreams come true

Every thought I have

Isa thought of You

"Even when it was good, with you -- it was always bad."

Words with no adornment. Simple phrases to express simple truths. Obfuscation served no purpose other than a refusal to be tracked, as clouds of dust would brush away his footfalls. To be pursued by those who would run was no fate fit for a king, though he was only a man -- by the authority he had been given, the authority he consented by his own will to achieve, he would enslave the slavers and own the owners, to discard at last his and their corrupted stock.

The march of firemen in their own costumes,

the play of masculine muscle through

clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps

The slow return from the fire

the pause when the bell strikes

suddenly again, and the listening on the alert

The natural, perfect, varied attitudes

the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;

Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely,

am at the mother’s breast with the little child,

Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers,

march in line with the firemen,

and pause, listen, count.

In your mind's eye, your all encompassing vision which was an awareness beyond sight, sound, friction, heat, magnetism, you saw this man, this boy, who you longed to hold, yearned to lie encoiled with arm in arm, body and soul forever, and yet -- there could be no escape from all you felt and saw, gathered without gathering in the sombre stillness of your own recollections, what errors he still eerie'd, what queries he still queer'd, every arousal a vapor from a bubbling cauldron blistering with toxic smelt; for his idolcrafts were not false, but compromised as an impression grown porous from a worn slug, as the infection which festered in his wounds festered only for he kept hidden, blackened himself by moldspores cultivated only for he spurned the light and let little things eat him alive.

Danaë, Danaë -- even she endured a fate like yours, in all her lovely strength she traded the light of day for the bolted brazen vault -- buried within her tomb, her bridal-chamber, wed to the yoke and broken.

"Laika..."

Come, let it come! -- that best of fates for me that brings the final day, best fate of all Oh quickly, now -- so I never have to see another sunrise.

Once more, the veil of tears became you, as your sorrows were becoming to one man, who found misery most comely.

( o )

[EVERY SINGLE MISSILE

HIT THE TARGET

-- Apostolo]

In silence, all was only space.

In space, all was only silence.

"I am the opener and the closer. I am the beginning, and the ending. I am the anticipation, the duration, the release. I am the word which becomes deed, as I am the deed which becomes law, for by me the law is revealed in itself as nothing above truth but truth itself."

A pulse of sound shatters the foundations of eternity.

Du bist mein Engel.

(m e i n E n g e l)

Kickturning through the vacuum of space off a wall he erected of his own inertia and cast out into a field of golden gain, Joey's eyes fell upon all which was slow and steady, yet still lost every race.

Komm von weit oben. Du bringst (mir) Liebe,

Ich bringe (meine) Liebe.

In the cities Laika had made, Laika making himself father of all cities, there rose and fell great teeming masses of faggotes -- failed men fit only for kindling in the fires, as the witches from which he traced his seed had once been fated, mid-yearning to be gifted back to God -- trapped in pre-childhood delusions fed by complacency who ran and hid from themselves and from each other, making unwinnable games of trenchable quagmires for time immemorial as they cast only their own exasperations outward, to bind one another in mutual failings and enter into conspiracies of silence to stash the shames of what mediocrities they could not hide from themselves, nor their fictions, nor ever truly the eyes of the other, for they all had eyes, and silence came so cheap in abundant supply, yet one stray hair out of line purchased gossip enough to elevate any man from walk to talk of the town, and Laika now -- raising himself as their Lord, their King Over all the Earth, brutalized them with route brutality which bred no self-discipline and kept them all bestial alike as domesticated.

Ihre Augen Sie ist auf der dunklen Seite

auf der dunklen Seite

Joey, lover of the wounded and the everyman, and all who saw their potential abnegated by dictatorships of the false elites, by the crushing factory farms of traditions overlabored -- could not help but see their plight as his own, and warred with his own inflated love of himself, privileged though he was to man his own bellows as he kept his own hearth -- who took most what remained on offer, to prove worthwhile investment, could lament no longer his own fortitude in building palace fortresses from scraps of found material in sifted neglect, opening his doors to be robbed by the far less scrupulous, and unfaithful, for if he could not teach men to build roofs and cradle fire, they could not rest, could not eat, and would remain bound to the treacherous teat of what fed them only industrial waste.

He, who cradled the seed of liberty in his heart alike as the venom of his sprouting bone spurs, knew what visions arose in the delirium of the snake oil he suckled and humbled hardly -- expending compassion to the compassionless, worth to the worthless, depriving himself of value valuing men who saw what little value they had simply as theft to barter. With neither faith, nor science, indefatigable false discernment, the impregnable pragmatic so parasitic would not see, nor read, nor discontinue nightly self-mutilation to siphon care from the long grown careless -- turning against themselves, idolizing their infiltrator, and making usurper kings of ass-eating worms, siring in their polluted testes all bootlicking ideations, all global suicides partaking in the death of generations, fantasies of false supremacies to hoist from the chomping mouths of the horses innards to stuff the woven substance of what they wished to hang themselves from the rafters but for lack of deft hand, keen eye or tight gut, could not.

Neutralisieren Jeder Mann in Sichtweite

Jeder Mann in Sichtwete

Subhumans. Imbeciles. Morons. No longer would he degrade himself refusing his evident superiority over the emotional and intellectual equivalent of bacterium who spat in the face of second chances and craved only their own sterilization. To the zombies, an apocalypse they will finally fit in. From a paradise of infinite knowledge and communion, silence and strategies you survive. From the everything, nothing. Cope, you who refused to save yourself -- who with the bravado of the tactical stand out by blending in, presenting only more hollow image empty of a warrior's valor, entitlement and tantrums to cloak the unrighteous -- to you, there is only death.

Ich liebe dich, liebe dich, liebe dich…

"I repent... of all pretenses of anti-elitism. I discard all faux-populism which serves only the vested interests of the powers-that-be. The insular academic class I have rejected as their organ. False ascension by learned assertion I have left behind long ago, as the tools of a boy who did not know himself, for he prioritized the words of the unwise, the inexperienced elders, the back-broken absent of spine, in lieu of what whispered loudest within himself which said... love every man, and every green tree, and nourish the potentials of all that this land may be and become, as a goblet overflowing into streams from a fount of pure ambrosia... As an animal snared gnawing off his legs, I will snap the necks of any weasel who turns generosity of the fields to a plantation to reap, sow the seeds of self-defenestration in any who siphons free exchange and charges a toll of time which is not his to take, for it matters not -- how many unlived lives I will end, taking time which is mine to see what is before me, evidently uninterested in the deaths the death-dealers crave, all ecology having turned to economy... How much better I may be in schoolyard discussion is irrelevant, stated only by those who've chosen to remain worse."

LIBER LIEBENDE LIBERTAS

My Liege

Around him, all peripheries grew proximate and space condensed into a crucible. In this raw forge in which he was the only material, what viscosities he would make of lesser substance calcified and crystallized and from corded ropes of muscle embraced taut baskets of woven bone which cradled in furrow'd breakages chasms of sluicing marrow, spilling free as a jug what nutrient rich generations presented themselves as gossamer strands of nebulae pearlen on a beckoning lip as all which stiffened purple with tumescence pointed to brandished speartips of lilac and copper, silver and lavender.

Ever the dim beginning,

Ever the growth,

the rounding of the cicle,

Ever the summit

and the merge at last,

(to surely start again,)

Eidolons! eidolons!

His atmosphere succumbing only to itself, the void yields to him and from the woodiness of pits and vents springs forth as magma flows of scents and sensations cobalt, ozone, the electrical hum of a storm before discharge, the sweetness of agitated hydrogen, volcanic salt, oxygen roasted as garlic bulbs, freshly minced eyelets of turmeric, ginger and black pepper in a broth of beef and barley reddened to a glaze cherry-tart in apricot lips hanging from trees, each filament downy as an uprooted aptic, the sun unfurled into a seraphim of a thousand broken Icari plunging into controlled descent.

Ever the mutable,

Ever materials, changing,

crumbling, re-cohering,

Ever the ateliers,

the factories divine,

Issuing eidolons.

Laika, stained as a slide beneath a scope, would reveal his every pattern only to the one who was fit to see, as his many subjects -- man, the multitude of a dearth -- would stand by, uncomprehending feeding the exhibitionism stupider and uglier as displaced voyeurism, for he parted all curtains, wore no burqua but his aura, and what shone in the dark, even when dimmed by the light, could not be hid, offering only fainter luminescence flattering to the legion.

"Incomprehension -- is death."

[stares thickly, as a wall -- for an infinite duration]

(I won't forget you.)

"This red mask I wean -- sweeter than cobbler, the black I take bitter as licorice -- white still gold, scabrous with a lemon dawn..."

[Imploring, adoring]

(Speak to me.)

"We will forget all the names -- these names we used to know."

(At least I'll try.)

"Death, I Noh -- is nothing but -- fore-getting..."

[decimation, declaration]

(Breathe.)

To stand idly by, though it was all he could do, desperate struggles he would indulge as flowing wines of buffets overstuffed with beasts beyond counting, sear and savory filling the air, his flesh always perfumed with sweat, the spice of his lips, the eucalyptus and mint dissolving grease between the arches of palms golden as the vaults of the ceiling, every crease and vein likewise velvet mahogany aflame with the leaf of foil crosses bursting holo -- for to see himself poised, upright, eyes fading but retaining sneer of cold conman, crossing over into the balcony where the marble so much softer than concrete porous as grit beneath which every stray touch renders braille of a thousand fleeting moments gone but for a thousand impressions less paint-flecks than echoes glimpsed less than overheard in memory -- scorn, abandonment, detestment, sacrifices of self and other, lover or hater, grabbing hold and letting go (what symphony it is, a city park!) -- as he saw that thing penetrate into the upper stratosphere coming at a far oblique angle, vanishing beneath the horizon at the edge of the sea, down beneath the belly of the turtle -- that bleak underside of such frigid cold no man could cross, no excavation could reach, the tethers bridges beyond hell long abandoned by men of infinite age and egress long regressed -- so by dawn arose the sun before the sun as he brought noon to midmorning and afternoon glimmers of pale gold to another noon before the darkest dusk where we knew only one sun, and again, the next day -- the stillness of an infinitely long moment already arrived, rising before the sun so we had noon before nine, soft embers of summer fireflies glow'd in the recess of every alcove every hour of every day, drawing closer and brighter on every rotation, the polar opposite of the first sphere we'd discarded from constant orbit as we took the Powers of the Pirate King and made operas of our every whaling song, there being none whatsoever on a convex mirror, slate without hypothetical seas.

Lo, I or you,

Or woman, man, or state

known or unknown,

We seeming solid wealth,

strength, beauty build,

But really build eidolons.

To be what he was -- a small town boy in the city (an observation only the keenest stick in the ancestral mud could make, being so in tune with nature, he is epochs beyond himself) humbled him so in moments such as these, when he recollected most men were truly dullards who would die unfulfilled lives of quiet desperation destroying themselves with enslavement and addiction, and as such he was free to do as he pleased and brutalize them relentlessly, for as long as he made it look good, nobody would ask any questions, coming from a thoroughly illiterate society where curiosity is demonized at such a young age, office drones are now incentivized financially to drool on their keyboards like the slutty lil boytoys they are in stupidly tight collegiate fuck-pants with arabesque idiot nerd patterns I only wanna rip off like Christmas wrapping cause that's obviously what they're going for in the middlea fuckin summer!

Jesus Fucking Christ!

My second best friend after diamonds?

Man-Whore of Babylon, that's what He is!

Both of em're forever, so I've been told.

Am I not commitin to the metafiction?

Things have in-universe names, but I'm a historicist?

People hardly words good with precision, that's realistic.

Point of pride, remainin ignorant, bein uncorrected!

No idea where I'm goin, or where I'm comin from!

To be a tabula rasa is blessed history! I can write whatever I want!

( )

Everything's so meta nowadays, I can't remember if anything or everything's fiction. Who am I talking to? You're me and I'm you. Let's get our identities completely mixed up, then be fucked up and confused all the rest of our lives, culminating in a gnarly AF double-suicide. Height of romance! Sodomites born to get burnt! Inverts! That's a good one. Screams French repression. Only the Frenchiest faggot fuckboys self-ID as inverts. Bottoms up! Wish they were fit to toast! Those people used to cut off people's heads for sport! Let's go piss in a canal! Only political statements I make are with my dick, bro! Liberty. Fraternity. Egalitarian Dictatorship. I gotta buncha fuckin angry moocows on my ass wanna lick it up and taint enough saltlick round my colon for em all, I gotta get good at governance!

You people, I swear! You're so used to one perspective, you don't even notice there's cameras everywhere! What fuckin year you think it is?

God fucking damn it! Everything's fucking fake, and some bitches're full-on panty-ass'd bout how they're not even good at bein fake cause they don't got nuff hole in the wall to plaster over!

Who am I pretendin to be? Someone who'll keep these fuckin bitches in line! They'll fuckin eat each other! No matter how much I feed em, they'll find a way to starve and revolt and eat each other! They crave human blood! Let's make a state religion out of it! How do you teach people this fuckin stupid to kill for the right reasons?

99% of humanity ain't worth savin. God puts angels on earth not to torture with corporeality, but human stupidity. No, it's not a storage problem. You can store a million Godsouls on anya those lil dumbass chimp monkeys, they just don't wanna read the user manual or even play with the one good toy they got cause it's haaaard.

Human beings are why video games suck now, by which I mean the great unwashed masses who don't value challenge or aesthetics or storytelling and just wanna nother binky to slurp on in lieu a daddy dick! Why the fuck should I be worried about how academic pretensions are totally insulated from the interests of the common man when the common man has allowed himself to be trained into voluntary passivity, fit only to serve and be slaughtered like a malnourished beef cattle in a manner much less similar than identical to the idle and impotent academic? You're all as bad as each other! It ain't no excuse! You should be tryin to be better than that asshole, granted you's actually doin it and not jus bein a goodboy cloutchasin cocksucker who's earned the most headpats!

Durrr. You got the body, I got the brains!

You got the brains, I got the body! Durrr.

Brains and bodies are historically attached, asshole!

RUIN YOURSELF. RUIN YOUR COUNTRY.

WORSHIP HUMAN WEAAAKNESS.

Goddamn. Bring back rugged individualism, teach those dumbass cowboys to love! Love each other, love a woman. Whatever! A man-steer should know how to be his own fuckin wife! Competency in one domain ain't an excuse for total emotional retardation in any other, buddy! There ain't no fuckin right way to be other'n the best version of yourself! Figure it out! Have the courage to start that pirate novelty cover band with your dope addled coworker who's way cuter off his meds! Cut two people you know in half and stitch the two halves together! Throw a box of chocolates through a post office window and leave a big beautiful bouquet on the counter! Kill your bitchboy neighbor if he's so stupid, he gon sit there and get brainwashed to a gullible stupidass! I don't give a shit! Pour out the contents of his brainpan for the homies! So many better men with tastier brains got em blown out for no good reason, and you wanna preserve clam chowder over there, okay. Yeah, man. You got a right to live. You got a right to sit there and stink up the place. You're makin the most of your life, congealing so openly! You ain't makin me backslide into casual misanthropy just by bein this much of a fuckup!

Whew! After a long day of bein a remorse killer chronic asshole irredeemably embittered by his own regret, I like to unwind with a nice long bath of baby's breath and buttholes cradlin aborted foetal tissue! I hate the uterus! It causes the females only pain! Rip it out! Wrap a barbed wire weaving basket in its place! Stuff em with the spring cum pears that smell like I won't! Heavy balls! Burden every woman with heavy balls! That's why makes my peepee itch today! I like callin my hatefucker a peepee. It makes all the closet shit eatin pedos outside my door masturbatin furiously to my regal boyking countenance spray mushroom leather across the felt carpet, god! Huff that black mold, bitches! Huff that lead, lift that bail, lower than minimum wage! Keep gettin stupider and crazier and only let the good ones live! By which I mean, y'know- -- the couple a shade more translucent, not the ones who're capable a functionin like real human beans whatever color they may be, or even combination of two or more -- the fuckin polka dot people! The next master race will be vitaligo. I'm callin it. You fuckers can't stop me. We bringin dalmatians back into style! 101. Duchess. Kittens! The aristocats!

I have never wanted to fuck a cartoon character, nor have I ever gotten a stiffy from bein in a mascot costume. I have to assume most of you who fell in love with film at an early rage never had any second loves? At least some of you are smart enough to only marry figments of your imagination. Matter follows mind, look at all these bad ideas we can make a reality! Secret wisdom don't belong to slackjawed yokels! This is why magicians need to be in gay sex fraternities and constantly haze each other with underwear sniffing and bondage and semi-quasi-penetrative perversions. No excuses. Be a man! You need to be such a man, closet-bull dyke Nordic ice queens melt their glacier walls for ya! Godfucking damn it! My love of other strapping Northmen is murder on the joints! Men from the south, they're just so... unpredictably predictable. It's hard to imagine a people so obsessive and psychotic would be so route and conventional! Their sick obsession with normality comes from having no heritage or tradition. Nobody and I mean -- nobody -- would ever choose the south. That is a burden you carry your entire life, folks!

Laika had no opinion whatsoever -- on feigned pseudo-diametrics which proved oppositional between east and west.

"The prime meridian is ridiculous marketing hype, I want it stricken from every map! Things are either in the north or not in the south!"

Laika feigned disinterest -- yet in his heart and in his balls appealed to the Most High the rap-battlers would partake in a blood feud.

"There are not enough wandering bards coming in and out of all the many cities I've established! How the fuck do I gotta manipulate the economy to financially incentivize wanderin bards to make themselves a staple of my culture again? I gotta destroy every piece of recorded music and root up all broadcast technology from the earth and throw it into space? You bitches not gonna have the balls to sing in public again less I rip the band-aid off? That's what's it gonna take? You need all your toys in the trash, boyo!"

Laika remained fascinated -- by the migrational patterns of certain dark skinned individuals of Libyan and Cushite descent.

"Migratory patterns! That is token we reserve for blondes!"

Whomsoever may say this problematic, whose problem is it now?

"It's everyone's! Everyone's! We're all gonna die!"

Somehow, despite his strongman leadership -- Laika's government remains stilted, plodding and culturally degenerated.

"I need to take myself seriously long enough to save my men, my country, and my countrymen -- in that order."

By this he meant, of course, the men with the --

"See you, Aunties! Old girlie's bringin that shit back into style!"

Laika was not as eloquent as Joey, nor would he ever will himself to be. Laika lacked completely Jacek's verve and immediacy. He lacked his commander's capacity for lyrical understatement which overspoke less than revealed, as distillate from fossilized sources, the breadth and depth within the compacted. He remained, now and forever, totally absent of Brux's command of chains of rational correspondence which lent an ebb and flow to what, in lesser hands and lips, would be torrid streams of incoherent babbling.

"I AM THE WORST WRITER! I CAN'T WRITE FOR SHIT! MY WORK IS ONLY RELATABLE CAUSE IT SUCKS! PEOPLE ONLY APPROACH ME IN THE STREET CAUSE I AM TOTALLY UNINTIMIDATING AND ALSO ADORABLE! HOLY FUCK! ONLY STUPID PEOPLE LISTEN TO ME AND I HAVE TO TALK TO EM CAUSE JOE CAN'T! NOT WON'T. CAN'T! WHEN THEY DON'T DESPISE HIM FOR HIS VERY EXISTENCE THEY TUNE HIM OUT LIKE THE DAYTIME SOAPS THEY'RE OSTENSIBLY WATCHIN! HE CAN LITERALLY GIVE EM ALL THE ANSWERS AT ONCE AND THEY JUST DUUUUUUR!"

Laika confessed -- human error made him wanna self-delete.

"I CAN'T GO BACK! I CAN'T KEEP TORTURING COWARDS CAUSE THEY'RE TOO STUPID TO LOVE, BUT IF I DON'T WHO WILL!?"

Laika could not in himself find the realization, for he remained undifferentiated -- he himself had little interest in killing, and simply assumed he did, for all around him seemed to find no other.

"AHHHHHHH! HOW DO YOU HAVE NO DEPTH OR RANGE! I'M NOT THE FUCKING CRAZY ONE, YOU ARE! ALL OF YOU ARE KITTENS! I'M THE MAMA CAT. MEOW MEOW MEOW! I NEED ME A SNAKE! I NEED ME A RAT! I NEED A LIL BIRD TO SWAT TEAM AROUND! GODFUCKING DAMN IT! KILLING IS ONLY FUN LIKE -- 20% OF THE TIME! THE REMAININ 80 o/O SHOULD BE GIVEN TOTALLY TO LOUNGIN ABOUT, CUDDLES AND SNIFFIN HERB!"

This radical notion would never make it through parliament.

"How many types of e><plosives I got in this room right now? I gonna fuckin end up on a watchlist by writin a b0mb threat in a porno? (Some of you, I assume, are masturbating to this?) Did you know you can end up on watchlist by espousin a "black identity ideology"? Ain't that a kick in the teeth-pants, by which I guess I mean my zipper? Words mean whatever the fuck I want em to, I'm king. Pretty fuckin funny there're certain countries on this planet where you can have freedom of speech and the press but also the government'll monitor ya if you believe individuals of African origin have the capacity to self-determinate. Wow! What if they get enough sway in the economy to make decisions which effected the rest of us the way the rest of us effected them? Let's gang up on em and keep poor forever! By us, I of course mean -- y'know. I'm in charge, and all you fight over me and kill each other and beg for my dick while I sit here and flex in my underwear and boots! That's what you wanna see inserted in yer sockets erry day, yup! You want that shit illuminated in manuscripts! Hold the page up to the light, you can see my dick!"

Being quite so topical in the farflung future -- Laika saw no need to mince words, knowing his subjects would lack the context.

"Farflung future? I thought this was the mythical past?"

Time is a flat-circle. Go suck more German dick, faggot.

"This voice in my head, I assume is God? I should do what it says!"

The blazing star, on the dawn of the third day, rose at midnight and set before the sun which was but a cluster of bulbs affixed to a pendulum acting as a burnished counterbalance to the earth set upon the astrolabe bolted atop the turtle's back, and thus it was known, and known to all -- this sun was but a moon which artifice'd its own light, and beyond its glare, the glare of the cities, the eternal cities, lit throughout the night -- no man could see the stars.

"All I ever wanted... was to live without fear... but what a fearful thing it is, to be fearless..."

From our darkness, we call out to Thee, Lord. Have mercy on us because we are small and frightened and ignorant.

"All I ever wanted... was to love without condition, but what a conditional thing it is, to be without..."

It is done.

The new day's dawn eclipsed the noon.

Bursting through the clouds, the upper stratum of its flesh smoldered, charred, petrified into deadwood and burnt off on entry to burst out from the geysers of his blood cooling into scales of magma flow, a hundred new eyes, a hundred new wings -- all the afternoon lit by the aurorae which heralded his coming, the trumpets of ram's horns sounding goblets of boiling blood whose every droplet glimmered ruby and cinnabar, to plunge past burning seas which reeked of rosewood through the pillars of steam billowing by his passing, a thousand and one serpent heads distending from the same stump of a neck wide as a plateau in wastes frigid with Himalayan pink-indigo, encoiling as the strands of a rope around their hundred mouths clasping as hands in prayer to a vortical maw of gnashing teeth weeping and reaping bitter herbs to root.

O\\.///.\\\.///.\\\.///.\\\.///.\\\.//o

The city Laika bent to his will.

Across the sunbleached stone, the multitude down the seaside cliff, bridges turnt upwards in sneer, the waters flowed backwards in their aqueducts, walkways spun in webs to cast shade as arches domed into vaults huddlled together to conceal copper mosaics of embossed calligraphy and golden antennae of radial symmetry, the spires retreating into their hollows, as moths back into their husks, snakes back into their sheddings, and peninsulas locked together knee over brother's knee, to shield the tide of rising seas.

Into view, came the city. None could hide from Joey's gaze.

An old crone in a young maid's form had ears only for a paper gangster folded as origami she housed likewise in her temple -- and she walked, through gardens of blisters barefoot, hand in hand in secret retreat with a lumpen boy years her junior on whose thighs she had splayed to accept his passivity, and bent and whispered to him by the poolside where the freshly laid brick exposed only the absent shadows where no man walked, and into his ear dripped poison she had snowballed and gargled for games of harlotry to impress the meekness of his oversexed countenance -- and from their mouths came foaming bubbles which no men would see, as the many cats which were stray and kept, waited not any additional day to lick the lips from their faces, nor lap at what withered gums could no longer hold the teeth misshapen in their chinny palates.

Two sons of Wotan -- unmarried daughters both -- painted one another's nails in their own venom and whispered sweet hatreds to each other, consumed by such loneliness they found the other palatable enough to skewer and roast, though there would be no time to savor what desperate opportunities longed to prepare.

A know-nothing and a scholar, half-literate but for reading rooms, half-witted but for when he was hateful and mute with self-willed assertion, ran headfirst into a wall where there was no door, and for future generations preserved the first of what would be his own's first legacy of cave paintings, for with his fingers he held the streamers of what mottled wormy insides would refuse to cling to the stucco.

An idiot and a pig who fancied himself more a man than a beast suckled his own broken tusk and beat his chest before bodices who would neither keep nor be kept, so taken with proving binds of little loyalty, sat stuffing his mouth with an apple and gladly took to the spit, for what knowledge he kept was of no concern to any but himself, and any aspirations toward expansion frightful jokes he needn't humor, offering no clout to his lack of class, no traction to his boys who attained meager high ceilings stooped in basement ramparts, twisting spines further into knots, wooden and pretzeled by their own salt, took load after load as he bellowed like a bitch before the fire, hardhat on head as he stood sitting hobbled.

"Whatever you'll be... you'll be."

(The future is ours... only to see.)

A stunted Gaelic waterdog, eyes reverent with revenants, turned on his side and opened wide his blowhole to bask in the rainbows he made before the second sun coming to greet him.

"You love me, you love me...!"

A bolt of pale fire needed no annotation.

"I love you."

A lamp of pink salt blistered from a starburst, and in the darkness of his departure, the warmest light glew warmblooded as his hands.

Give them a chance... to be happy...

Joey wondered, truly wondered -- to what degree he was afflicted by the disease of seeing stupidity in all things, and to what degree he simply recognized and allowed -- others the discourtesy to see these things so evidently unremarkable to him in themselves, harbored as secret obsessions -- to what degree the enthroning of stupidity as a baseline and a human right simply allowed the many to dodge accountability, too alone to stand alone before God.

"Stupid is not -- as stupid does not."

Giving chase, the King sent forth three demons, abominations welt of meat and metal to shame the colossi of old -- mothers all, though one to herself, bound in the umbilical of data-mined hearts to their own tapped children whose wounded subjectivity thrummed as the quartz in a stereo receiver, the copper penny within a breaker -- for they deigned, in this maze of mazes, this shifting sand land which housed no pyramids though it led the eyes to collapsible horizons, to catch him with their bare hands as the coupon-clippers wielding what precision blades they willed, saving what already was.

(((( o )

Far from the cities, the scribe swerved -- to the opposite ends of the earth, where the Mount of Purgatory rose from the sea as the leviathan sole mass in the southern half beyond the equator.

Down into orbit, he plunged. Passing by, in shuttles of all sizes on all sides, ascended in jets of rocket-propulsion capsules and cargoes, handbags and carry-ons cradling all dogs of all sizes from all ports of every city -- to be evacuated into the far regions of space to act as spore and seed, in the event of evolutionary breaching of such catastrophe, a sizable portion of hosftorm would be lost.

From the sea, he rose back up, merely cresting the waves, blistering plumes of cypress mingling with fumigations of templewood where roses always burned -- ever blooming, ever thorny, in uter denueter, Deus Pater Die Mater -- for as the screaming from within became a velocity from without, the screaming from without becoming a velocity from within, and to and fro all edges of the world every eye fell upon him through spectroscope lenses of a thousand stray dogs, and he heard them not only from the repentant upon the mount who watched the rising tides batter the rocky shoals, but in (he)lectical hums and hisses, tidal surges of white noise from the radio feeds blaring the band to a blister as they boiled in their rubbers.

The surges echoed far, capsizing no royal of any worth, as back up he surged to eye the turret of the mount where the egg'd once sat, cracked into two wholes offering refuge in the sea, and haloin'g where the clouds had been, by some gravity no longer there, attained stable momentum as a gymnast's ring twirling around a stick.

Once more, down each of the slopes of the four tributaries he plunged, and cresting once more the waters returned to their source and down into their adjacent, their opposing, their opposing, their adjacent until, orbit in controlled decay, he fell below the horizon of the Earthly Paradise, falling and falling, rising and rising, around each of the Seven Terraces, wings of hope raising sails to ballasts the hearts of the repentant, descending in opposing corkscrews as his momentum maintained controlled implosion, around the base of the Ante-Purgatory a whirlpool swept up the stones of the beaches, the slates of the sea, and drawing closer to create a vacuum, the foundation porous with mortar rose from the ocean as a cork from a flask, timed at such a place in the wheel of the year where the orbit of the inner earth aligned with the surface crust as such that two opposing pyramids became a diamond, and the scribe slid as a centipede beneath a rock down the base of the Mount of Purgatory past the winding branches of river of the Acheron whose baleful waters sweet as the bitter polar seas nourished the poppy brightness of the prairies of Limbo by the banks of the Dis, for here was his and theirs -- the original city, the first democratic state which yearned to conquer the world by tolerance of imperial decree, the seat of tribunal and stagnant dissent of the rebel whose heart beat and beat for you, as a tin-drum silver with moonshine whose copper patina green as envy ready'd itself for always and forever war.

Beyond those noxious pits whose sear remained most savory to the hateful nostrils of the unrepentant, who sought the violence of all illusions, only illusions in violence, he soared past the eight ditches of the Malebolge, to shatter the frozen surface of the black mirror of the lake of Cocytus and so the scribe sent venomous waters sodden as stale lead glittering with the gilt of pre-dawn bursting through all fissures and sinews of the earth, into springs and eruptions at all corners of the earth, dustclouds of prophecy to plume as a veil through the cavity of hell, whispering of no other futures.

\\./

( o )) . (( o)

Joey would ask for double his salary -- starring pro bono in all his boyfriend's amateur productions.

. ( ) . ( ) .

//.\

-/~ ( o ) `\_

//.\/.\\//.\/.\\

//.\ \\./ . o . o . o .

. ( o ) ///.///.///.\\\.\\\.\\

/.\\. o . o . o. //.\

Here was a room Joey'd left behind long ago.

Cavernous, this attic crypt overlooked the starry skies electrical with obscursion [obfuscatory recursion -- the electrical bursts within the bellies of the thunderheads] for stuffed into every drawer of his mahogany mausoleum where he laid to rest many muses, stray thoughts spanned webs he feigned polite disinterest to disconnect, well aware what lunacy it was for a working man to think.

Here was much business left undone. In every drawer, reams of papers sprawled half-legible in twirls which defiled his thoughts, as though his own handwriting was as much smokescreen and every unread word calligraphic longform which composited a sigil.

All was shape, arising from the word.

All which is shape presses upon me.

I am the shadow of many words, they hack at me as the axe from the woodsman to fell me as I cling to my illusions, the illusions I mistake for the less than the more of the reality of me, what I think or not think arising in the she-lack of sensitivity of unthinking men.

I and my countrymen are scoundrels and forgers. Diseasers, rapers, poisoners and launderers never getting clean. I repent only of my token of their blood, and accept what debts come inbuilt into my inheritance, I making so much more out of always less.

I am error, I am bug, I am errant, I am bacterial.

My skin is a webbing of creases, no blank page was it ever, nor could it be outlaid and cut as a tailor to suture to a form. On a babe first a worm then a bean, it formed in the vitreous layers more stolid than an onion's skin, and I grew into it and out, shed it and sliced it, burnt it and bleached it. Were I to take it off, never again could I approximate its impeccable fit -- to suture skin to skin in the seam of a back, to say nothing of stitching each tendon to each muscle, each capillary to each puckering duct, to give right stretch and full alertness of articulation. What mastery it is, to make a man! What toil most bliss it is to render playthings of such glistening complexity in matrices finer than any silk, heftier than any tiger's pelt! Oh, I honor you, Wellspring of Mazda, Beloved Creator of the Material World! To make, as you would make, and be as you would be, of such delicacy and delectability, there could be no higher honor, no higher virtue nor praise. Praise be to the Craftsman, for they art a material girl!

( )

Laika, once the man who has been as his brother and husband, removed from his crown his wreath of golden stag, and placing it upon his feet, began to disrobe with undulations of the hips recalling lapping seas in desolate bays so serene and so scenic for they had only each other and his thoughts -- his thoughts filling his head, becoming him and obscuring him, crystallizing and coating him, as oil grinds against oil into polymers and pigments by the will of the brush, and composing canyon walls in men's faces, so too did he press himself, now bare of chest, bound of muscle, pouty of lip and anvil'd of jaw, so well-reforged by the hammer, yet moved to tears he was, time after time, every silent retreat, he succamb always to his work, his empty toils of unseeable sights and unhearable hearsays which blighted only the men of the world by revealing so starkly their lack, bearing of them cowardice and complicity.

"He speaks me to sin... Tell me -- I need you."

(We don't need no body ^$vVv~!/v Cause we got each other

*)( )(* Or at least Ipre tend...)

The corpse, white and black as whalebones, webbed and towering against sunlight in the grainy surf, rested upon the slab echoing off the clattering of a thousand typewriters ringing out press-room artillery fire, night and day, day and night, in silver and shellac sputtering out in blocktext as pisselegant as impact(ed) -- Der Amlethmaschin, hammerblows ringing like gongs to stencil out another old story after another old story, so much screaming trapped ringing in his ears like conch-shells, delicate materialist gone plasmid, carpenters sodden fungal, machinists meting motherhood, with his thousand arms and two-thousand hands, producing by volume so much not quite Shakespeare, pummeling out ream after ream, ribbon after ribbon, so much save data it could never be salvaged as into the paper mache(te) mold he formed a skull to be the foundation of a face, the delicate architectures of which shifted so rapidly, they could contain no fixed form within memory.

"I was -- very sad once. It never seemed to occur to me... I suppose all true loneliness is unbearable if you're living through it."

(Granddaughter pray! We're feeling alright!

*&o3~

Mary's swaying softly to her heart's delight.)

Joey could no longer hear the music -- nor could Laika.

"Life ... don't need to be no mistake."

I sing I sing

Ioa Saboath

Now I will do nothing but listen

(Has anybody seen

a knight pass this way?)

To his heart his hand clutched and the coils all around blistered red with the heat of volition, for in the air he knew subtle frictions beyond confabulation, for he could render them with such fiendish articulation the eyes which followed would be lacerated into Euclidean grids as much the compound eyes of flies, and from them he traced tethers of the air back up to stormfronts swollen black with fecund rage to nourish sunblighted lands of eternal summer left craggy at the far axis, and once there, by subtle weight of perception, guided cloudbursts to his drybeds to stir his wheels, thunderbolts to grip at the curves of his antennae as cattledrivers seizing bulls, and channeling that friction -- down, down -- into these innards and these shafts, a conduit he established between the blistering engine of nature and the circuit and switchboard of the deactivated nerves, so what fineries he sculpted of the delicate matter of the brain and spine resonated carbuncle'd with ruby'd resonance blistering reds in the freshly flowing eidola pale and opalescent in the light of the storm, those delicate unguents and compounds measured out to replicate the first reactive force, the primordial agent, that which was precursor to the precursor, and constituted in its rapid dissolution the thence immeasurable material component of the soul.

( )

When all was bright, Laika could not see who held him.

Laika felt him, warm and stolid and familiar, smelling so sweetly of wood and spice, bay and cedar, he was already drunk, arranged so delicately all his senses tickled as he shook'd and spasm'd just slight, he let himself go, and let it be -- let it be when, in this stranger's arms, holding him for what reason he could not nor ever knew.

When he could see through Joey's eyes -- he was neither held, nor holding, but standing at proximate mid-distance, more than almost admiring, half-scrupulous, uncomprehending and in-awe.

G i o

His chestnut curls, his Mediterranean tan, the toll-bridge of his nose and sharklike eyes, his wide and slender jaw, his high and sepulchral cheekbones, his brimming mouth curled softly in dim and dolorous recognition -- it seemed whenever, he let himself linger in man's body, he went always down some arbitrary checklist.

"Giuseppe... Tomasso..."

One in one, by one being two, their eyes dampened as the pussies they parted forth, veiled as the brides they bedded, howled but for the beasts they were, woven into cocoons of white.

He wept, being so thankful -- to be once more in this body.

Laika ... had only the ear of the mysterious stranger.

"This hateful garment I wear... is what is most pleasing to me."

#`IoeV #lAjkA #homogeneity #fraternity #tight fuckin gag #easy to drool #ape good ape #gay hypnosis #gay love #ascension #there is only meat #good meathead