He did not listen. To ample warnings, he did not listen. To self demonstrated folly, he did not listen. To the architect of space-time, he flaunted himself garish and foolhardy, cruel and unseemly in his perpetually aching beauty, so obscene to the like masses he claimed he himself to be wholly a part... all but another micro plastic grassroots on Ken doll smooth bulges tangling the playing fields from the crash test dummy smelt of which he was sole manufacturer, Technician of Instrumentalities and Manufacturer of False Timelines.
He would pay. For his ostentatious displays, he would be rendered barren. He would pay. For his flaunting of the unf(l)appable, he would be stripped heart and soul to bare nerves short-circuiting choleric. He would pay. By your hands, slow and cumbersome, calloused and precise of pulse, he would be choked, broken, beaten and meaten.
A lone man, embodying true Anarchist Sentiment. A true man, of the Rank and File, bearing the love of all True Decomposers, All True Mudmen and Mulchers, Dirty Boys and Muddy Beasts.
A Jacekobean, poised, to kill land be killed ~ A bullet to his own brain, directed outward with true manly pride. Death to the weakness in Himself by Death to the Weakness in Others, All or None.
He alone had courage... to plug... the Sap.
Sssssss
Death... to the Demon... Daniel Burnham, Forger of the Plan of Chicago. Death to the Demon Dan the Man.... whose Pagan name was Ichigo.
( 1 5
go ichi go
5 1 5
go ichi
5 1 )
He did not listen. To ample warnings, he confusedly refused to listen. Of self-demonstrated folly, he rendered poignancy of pointedness, for how he ached so openly and made explicit in supposed frustrations the imaginary and the real, delineated his hypocrisies so cleanly. A truer love, he could never render unto all of space and time than to be so transparent as to let the light shine through, so much so as to render him opaque. Wind and dust it was only, the stories of the converted Ichicago ["I am Providence"] Cpt. Ichigo Luxor Drythen, whose Christian name was Daniel Burnham, Architect of the Borgesian 3D Hypertexts in which Men Would Remain Alive Forever. Phases of dusk and dawn were they simply, these simmering summer twilights we could never hope to contain -- yet they persisted, the rumors of Daniel's Handsome Men. Seven to Nine in Number. Unstoppable Bloodwringers desperate to leap into service, honor their master's every beck and call. Handsome Crimson. Handsome Ombre. Handsome Marigold. Handsome Seafoam. Handsome Azure Sky. Handsome Fuchsia City. Handsome Indigo Plateau of Leng. Handsome Undead. Handsome Clear.
[Cpt. Haruspex, who we cordially dismiss as Brux, has firmly entrenched an ongoing TMI dispute over "Handsome Lavender Townsend" and yet seems to display a less than poignant insistence verging on absolutely no desire to ever release one.]
These ridiculous polysyllabic hues could never hope to stick in his simple primary color and categortical-chroma loving mind.
Black-White. Begetting of its own endless greys in alien scraft.
Not having the words, he could only lack the vision. Sniffing with nostrils pointed as poonhounds, he saw the simple blobby shapes and heard the rancorously tinny echoes of an unthinking animal fit only to be vivisected in laboratory settings, much like all men of his race, given to the Great First Cause. The self-thinning herd. Where the mob would go, they would die in droves for a fleeting speck of glory.
For they were nothing outside their tribe, fading as dinoflagellates upon a tide. Simple brothers, dying alone together. All men die alone.
Whether your brother holds your hand, you die alone. Whether you lose yourself in his eyes that final moment, you die alone. What romance do you hope to wring, so desperate in your bloodlust, so despicable in your manure, you long to die encoiled and impaled upon your Twin?
Whining of no maps left to chart, no space on the globe left to call your own when you have not seen but a fraction of a fraction. What impotent waite pretensions to conquer others when you cannot conquer yourself. To stunt the Earth to stunt your Nation. Do Your Own!
To be a name upon a wall, a bronze in the court, when the only name which rang true across the ages remained Ozymandias, King of Kings, who was much like Andy Warhol, Silver Screen ~ Can't tell em apart at all... the seedy jack-off mirrors of Great Mensroom Histories.
Die to the lie. You have died to your image. Become Image. Seen in all things, the Immortality of A Virus, stratifying yourself into Our Cells.
Have you not repented... of your suicide bombings yet?
You grind your boys into pulp... rather than grow brains or balls.
You get restless... when the young cease to die in droves.
Kamikaze. Sayonara.
The Judith Butlerian Jihad Begins Again.
( o )
You watched Daniel. You moved with Daniel.
You tracked Daniel -- over immeasurable distances.
Arm aloft, the two tablets in hand, in his crisp tailoring, enunciated as Rightwing Phoenix, Ace of Spades, Attorney at Law, a Birdman beak would descend with Raptor Claw, as he worked miracles with scalpel pruning out tumors and shards of glass, slowing time with a glance, as Doktor Onkle Frank Stiles, Grandson of Apollo, all leisure, suited, airy.
You shadowed Daniel. Your honed in on Daniel.
To the square -- where the decadent Oji Maerie would sing.
Oh gee ~ Oji ~ Maerie.
Portraits blown up to 70mm film-slides in gif loops, the cast-iron posts hauling the bleached white hide heralded her arrival.
Beneath her, he was all-seeing and unmoving, all time.
He sat himself poised in the serenity of his stoic ever-reminiscence, bearing the cumulative past as a weight upon his untrembling brow, as though a chalice of tears unripened as milk'd bergamot, a ripple never to bloom an echo never be dispersed across empty space, for he beheld the present always as the sum total of the past and the future the sum total of the present, and there were never any running, never any running towards or forwards, and getting nowhere, for time always seemed to carry him along as though he sat perched upon a leaf in a babbling brook and beyond the lapping waters heard all the rustling of the trees, the singing of the birds and chirping of the mayflies, saw the luminous rays of the sun cascading off those waters and in those ripples and shallow straits the stony brooks below ~ the all scurrying minnows adrift amongst tangles of grasses and mossy rocks.
Below, her beautiful face ~ Oji Maerie, who in a former life had been a rugby forward at a stigious institution my tongue could never weather, irradiance shone in the nitrate abundance which caught fire as onion skin as she was radiant ever more fish-eyed in streaks of distorted light agahst the slick slab sheet of black latex flecked with ash, for there were the forms now of men broad of frame and square of trunk pressed into the impression as her image danced upon their chests and her soaring lips and ample gullet consumed their faces as the sea shores rolled around their heads, all waves, all cliffs, in dazzling evergreens, for so content were they as men they allowed her fire to consume them and reveal unattainable idiot passions mesmeric and neuroplastic.
Cornered ~ in a balcony cubicle way up high... on a row of rises stepped as such the canopy could hang of shadows in the breadth of day.
Daniel... most beautiful among men. Spurning you forever, for how he spoke always unannounced and directly to you, skewering you on the meathook of his insinuations and realing you in with flattery too reel to be unreal, and yet he tracked you not for days, for weeks, ruffled through your drawers now licked the ears of false allies, simply glanced on you and knew you in an instant enough to make you grovel.
You trembled to look upon him. His hateful afterglow ever lustrously golden-white as sanctified robes, his ever-contemptuous half-held smile refused you its nakedness by practice and poise. The muscles of his face had hardened to a mask-like rigidly which to see made me paradoxically more expressive for how the music-box gears and stringed winches inside the wooden slot tower of his mah dzhe jong dummy's thousand and one faces would unlatch and fold.
A mask of flesh likewise a wooden matrix composed of man, what finer engineering there could ever be ~ and you adored him and lusted for him with a passionate tumescence motivating ideological revelry for he was life itself as le petit mort got bigger and bigger, and the image of a pipe you could no longer ignore... could be rolled up into a joint to achiever a ascension of form as the succession of the image.
The pipe you couldn't put it in... you could still smoke it.
Sow you found the courage, by the will of your reasoning mind, and the motion of your desiring body... to gaze upon him once more...
Crossing the square... crowds moved within concentric circles.
Flowing with them, you could see ~
Flowing with them, it sides loomed titanically large.
Before the first mural, Oji Maerie Herself, who though a gargantua to you, rose of the earth as frail as a flower before the tides of liquid crystal on which her departed and no doubt dearly beloved brother smiled in bitter serenity out heirloom photographs, which her Laikanite adorers had rose before her for the charity of (t)his spontaneous appearance, at which strongmen likewise materialized in droves to display to her trite memories of what she'd abandoned to receive in abundance, for they alone had strength enough to fawn for her so completely, so content were they in themselves, she magnetized some unspeaking and unspeakable mania... though the Luxemborgs, dough-eyed as Husky Dogs and twice as slack jawed and dumb, has cautioned in droves against this... citing the sacrifices of the men refused to be mourned as such when the box first shifted form... chained to it, neither in protest nor in adulation, the links still lay bloodied, the smears stained into the stone of the square as rose petals fallen from wilted thorns, as all around these husks beneath Oji Maerie f(r)esh blooms sprung from crystal vases likewise conjured from the Laikanite display medium which carried the galvanic forces of St. Josef's Fire.
Perfumes, half-synthetic, arose out the half-alive roses in the Laikanite vessels, unliving, undying, performance pieces to wither into slime, as paring the vegetable essence from the protein chains the viscous carrier medium would unfurl into polyfibers in the yoke. As no Laikanite yet had ever solidified, thus they attained by measure of recognition the total liquidity of all assets a type of perpetual viscosity ranging sticky hand to silly putty to vulcanized rubber and this yet is to be understood as simply the outermost material manifestation of their sorceries.
The centerpiece, by the hand of their Creator, the MetaLemarchand's Box which Cpt. Psychorrhax had hand-sculpted from the shell of his own hand-modded NINtenDia(n) GameCube, by inference would be a refinement of these basic principles, though little understanding could glean from what minute extrapolations you ought deduce.
Laikanites you overheard debated vigorously possible theories of its material, construction, and triggers of shaping, but speaking with such frenzied agitation with such insular vocabulary and drawing bated inferences from breaths, eye bulges, telepathic spoolings, left you little able to deduce much other than how little you could deduce.
A general understanding occurred to you... two or three new concepts in... how much harder it would be to follow along.
A map was drawn and up to 70% remained empty space.
The depths of space. Forever filling with stars.
For she sang, for her ninth repetition, that first great Engrish-ranguage soap which debuted at the grand festival of Rorrapoorooza after which was substantiated into being by the Great Playwrights who erected canon always of their own fancies, heads always roaring on high seas with the guns of ships, poised as Mermen encoiled on their masts, the full text of the first great post-war original, Lila: Ourfan of the Stars by the tortured romantic, complicit technocrat and hell-descender, Black Fillip of Phry the man who was his own Grandfather, and whose Grand Nephew of Ancient Age Likewise Testube Babied Himself - forever old, forever young... don't stop playing now... I always ... always wanna hear the rest ... -- our cliffhanger had always hope, for we wrote only grand operas slick with soap, for I love you as a brother, Great Faggot Fassbinder who was paunchy and not very handsome and yet easily one of the sexiest men alive... God what other great artists of all time were truly kinda fugly? Bro he looks like he was smashed into a tube, goddamn bro. Hard relate. I am my own Dead Kitty Abby Normal.
Hit the road, Jack. Who the fuck is Jack?
Motherfucker. My narration must resume. (Pasolini looks like a drama queen? Why the fuck wouldn't he?) For many centuries it would take to refill the great libraries of renaissance antiquity when the form was in its cradle and grave, and so for hundreds of years the Lunar Rabbit lead us astray as She Bedazzled the Great Hunter Nimrod [which is not a synonym for stupid, and to think otherwise is both foolhardy and intolerant, for this depreciates the Great Rabbit's Ironism] when the Great Playwrights Had Only the Scantest Scenarios Out Which to Sketch, for again we knew only those Greater Myths of Antiquity through degenerated comical forms, obscene and illiteral, and then only as neutered by the Stoic mind of Athens, who it must be said was the fetid Grail of All True Roman Virtues... I too would prefer my boy lovers to be hyper-competent moralizers, simply not ones ruling the world from shadow states of transvestite bribery... Goddamn. To think of hairy crossdressers in men's rooms in the presence of the Goddess Oji Maerie... my mind must not diminish. All trans bodies are beautiful. Some of us are into the Sasquatch women. Jesus Fucking Christ Ladies. Plenty of ladies with pussies are sasquatch women. Not all fuckin chicks with dicks ought think like gay men. You can be a chick with a dick and still think like a straight dude you dumb dyke. Jesus Fucking Christ. Chicks who think like gay men are exhausting actually. I hate them so much. They're catty and never put out. Gay men are great when they never put out. Awful women who do nothing but bitch at you cause they're aesthetes with no taste can drop dead. Get fucked in the gutter, ugly fairy trash. Detached is only pretty with a brain.
No apologies necessary. History is a series of divergences.
Thus shortly after it was, when a new canon was established, that a slow wave of fringe scenarios of obscure sources became the new skeleton around which the meat of pre-history would re-entwine, as after Lila debuted simultaneously in Nyu and Chica not a hemisphere away long after, the festival of Rorrapoorooza begat its first masterpiece most sublime to recrystallize the form ~
The 1st Lullabye of the Leech Queen, she sang, from the second of the third of the first of the great Post-Amnesiac era masterpieces, re-originator of the Epimethean Tragicomedy, these Absurdist Farces of Reconstructed Memory in Siberian Petroglyph Caves ~ RiØ.
Today is Our
Farewell
to U m b r e l l a
Above her, on the front facing side of the cube, he arose from the surrounding cliffs of bronze, himself composed of bronze, gleaming in high radiance likewise as Oji Maerie for how the stagelights had swept him, each crevice became a crucible burning thought-forms of metabolic heat, as St. Josef standing Upright as the Egyptian Liberator Abraham Ben Brown Moses, made of the cliffs of Sinai a Theater Box as in the pedestal below, Laika rose Himself as the Golden Calf who His People most adored despite the tyranny of Adopted Status.
Forever Sweet
One T e r r o r i z e We Will
And Forever We Will
To the right, He was Indian Malik to His White Ape for the scene hath depicted St. Josef transmogrified of his own hand by excess of Melanin into Lord Rama as Great Love Laika was Devoted Hanuman.
hunt our enemies
Hiding from us
and bring them
To the left, he rose over the cityscapes, the bridges, the trolleys, the trains, a thousand metal thunderbirds, saluting the sun who was Himself, as Great Love Laika, dismembered became the alleys, the sidewalks, the sewers of the great city, o' Eternal Lord of Stalingrad.
those that have come
Come
to the grave with me
Against the back end, Great Love Laika rose Robed as the Sanctified Mother alike as the Veiled Magician whose Depth was the Depth of Space and whose every thought was a twinkling star, of which St. Josef was but one of many, middle-sized and middle-aged.
Forever and Now
We are One
Now and Forever We
Are One
With regrets ~ you could see neither the bottom nor topmost facing panels of the cube from your on the ground vantage as you moved with the people, and yet ~ making now thrice rotations through the square, you saw your turning point and could rapidly cut through to reach those Great Heights where Daniel Sat and from there, no doubt, through the hole in his head as a long-viewer lens, could see the topmost panel, which he no doubt most adored, for it alone was His to View.
( )
. o .
o . o . o
( o )
With regrets ~ Daniel remained lost in memory.
Finding himself again, he was always where he ought be.
It were many moons none could see waxing when he had first come to this country, and yet fewer more though many more in their own were it were since another had come he had met, the man whose name was Bruxer Haruspex, and whose association he neither confessed nor reviled nor truly humored though the man seldom said more by saying so little it drove you mad how little he must truly know, yet what frightened you most was only how much you assumed he knew, knowing too much and remaining tight-lipped as to ends you could not ascertain for context seemed evasive and the throughline illusory.
Bruxer Haruspex, calling out the rabble as to the location of the Bomber's Hideout, the only Local Mithraium where his tenuous connections via the Ruelandese San Navy could purchase him any sympathetic association, for only the oldest and most ossified of Our Nation's Guardian Class frequented such a place with the Milk Bar so close nearby, as there was no risk there of them inducing men to go gurt, for they could ferment simply and accrue mold in their dank cave, mildewing white fuzz of granulated grains in the empty dark.
Somehow, he had attained, of his own volition, through a private collector, one of his many ertswhile entanglements, one of the supposed 36 viles of The Pure Rage, isolator of island masses, which he transported in a cryogenic vessel on his formal person, and glanced at only on right occasion in a hypnotic torpor, for he loved it only as the daughter he would never have, the wife who was a fancy only for he fancied himself being the one being shagged, and knew his hateful resentments and unloveable loves born of undreamable dreams were better off segregated far from the prying eyes of mankind, and he needed only a body slightly more warm to crank open his hot-cold one.
Slight of hand, and dexterous of tongue, he had recruited before the eve of the revolt, that which some might justifiably call a usurpation long over-expected, of the head of a certain small Post-Imperial Cult Obsessed with Pre for a vigorous police state, needing no police, certainly leaves the police in need of wanting, and so a show of force needed be made, forcibly and forcefully if showy-enough.
How did you manage, Cpt. Bruxer Haruspex... ?
To have measured out the ratios against his mass so poorly, taken so little into account his existing electrochemistry, as you have your own endless spectrum of partial tolerances and totally-reversed intolerances, not realized how the Virus would fail to not only drive him into a state of frenzy, but show any adverse reaction, as he was able to consume its strain as arsenic in tea, leaving him so well-adapted you could never get it back out, no matter how vigorously you attempted to suck all seven to eight inches of his equestria drier'n bone-dry?
Death to the Dumbfuck
Bruxer Haruspex.
Squanderer of Viral Loads.
This Curse, I Gift to You ~
I the Demon, Daniel Craig Radcliffe Burnham
Architecht of Chicago, Heart of the Midwest
As the pale panthera Joeymany, I
A Lion in a Landlocked State
Whose pagan name was
Yamashita Ichigo
Luxor Drythen
Strawberry mid-Fielder
Eggman RX
My Own,
Is What Iamb
Whose Babylonian name is
Bad Boy Balthassar Ghetty
Loser of All Highways ~
Hit the Road J A c (e) K
Die with Me Asuka Darling
Sweet Hermione
Gingersnaps
Thus it was so that I had taken the vantage of that poor fool, that lost boy with no name or history for he had been swallowed up shoal, body and soul by Moi, who dared think by My Skin he ought make a name for Himself, who truthfully I loved dearly for his wholesome and self-individuated panache, universal as a phrase and personal as a signature as every open vein shone red upon a contract.
I -- you -- loved him for how he'd taken his own obsidian mirror mask and shattered it by the bell of his irons to stud the pieces in the gouges of a basbeball bat, his own handcrafted all done himself macuahuitl to take tribal violence into his own hands against the man he professed to love most, for only there in his warm deference could such treachery pass for noble violence, as you at last could conquer He who had let down His guard to love a pitiable and mewling worm as you, who slobbered stupidly over yourself in a fetid swamp of your own grovelings.
I loved Him for how much of a Huntsman, a Humanist, never too Absurd, my Sweet Australian Thor, Your Brother I Loved More Tender.
I loved him for how he resembled as he moved and became his profile emboldened by his noble quest where route idiocy gave way to righteousness unhinged as pure uncut cocaine for what frenzy came first cleared the way as a brushfire and I was freed at last from a cage of my own idiot imaginings simply trod hooves by bovines in the dirt.
I loved him for how his eyes low in the dark, poised pythonesque always as Willard rising from the bog making of the muck a Sheen, as he stalked those lone alleys to my secluded terrace and whose winding strata he navigated quite ruthlessly, glacial and still as a sharkfin cutting Greenland seas of every blind depth ~ I had warned him, for I had loved him so the sawteeth of his winding steps raising up the shadowed galleries, to stay far, far away from me for I was not a well to do or well off man, and it would be only a matter of time... before the changes were on me once more and words such as love or faith or humanity lost all luxury, luxuriant as I was forever in my lack.
Yet I loved him still to see me on my windowbox balcony with that portrait I had painted and see his eyes widen in awe and wonder at the vantage I had viddied so well, what vistas ever unfurling in my eyes, whose open windows had always stained ~
I said not that I had expected him, for he had not long enough to see I had seen it so well, in truth I had hardly even heard him when already the shimmer barely visible between the plant and the bookcase ~ the mossy carpets and tasseled enmeshments of these overgrown studioboxes in which one could cultivate apartments ~ a mere heat ripple, a mere spectrographic distortion, already the blade had penetrated deep into his guts and it was as pleasing to the visored eyes of Crimson as this was His namesake in lycra motley clinging to the ballooning of his ample and veiny thighs, above the Western style boots seamlessly blended to make of the pattern a melding ~ a ripple of molecules erupting softly as the fizz of science fair volcanoes, silently fading even while apparated ~ so he came always gently, as a breath, as a breeze, as a pearl of pollen on a springtime scented wind, and as he stood there staring I saw how Long Alive He Truly Was.
For Crimson now had leapt, and carried him by a tremendous feat of athleticism far, and tossed his heart's still beating carcass in a half-cannonball or shot putted boomerang dispersing as afternoon rains a gentle hemorrhaging of his life's vitality against the masses of the people, as into Ombre's threads and barbs, he fell and hung suspended on unseen sutures tearing and pinioning him as his arms bent back against his bowed head brought low by an aerial spladle as Marigold rose as the rays of the sun from the citrus-ripened earth to drive skewers beneath his skin as Seafoam lanced his bones with strange nodes ~ and Azure Sky coming both above and below, uppercutted him at such an angle with precision of the aerodynamism and loadbearing capacity of his bones enough to slice with one fist the whole of his muscularity's mass from his upper dermal layer and skeletal supports wired and notched in place, out into a great burning bronze wok suspended as an Olympic torch far above the square, as Fuchsia City sluiced his still cringing and cowering form screaming without lungs for he had vapors enough to rapidly gush from his throat as he slid through the burning oil, while not-too comfortably close nearby Indigo Plateau of Leng took to home plate swinging His Bat.
Thus, as piscetti into the Mouth of Truth, Ombre and Marigold, backed by Crimson fed this would-be assassin's skin into the open mouth of St. Josef on the top panel of the box, which depicted him, as one, the sum of three, the second of the Two Heads, of the Green Man Osiris the Irish Cowboy, Master of All Vegetative Matter, whose son Laika was stylized likewise as the Root Vegetable White Follicle Beautiful Black Baby Heru, Mother of All Melanizers Who Made Men and Women's Hair Grow Course and Thick, Father of All Beards.
Thus with angelhair Oji Maerie did bow ~
Another Beautiful Day, drawn blacker *
as a curtain pulled, into Splendid Night.