EDITORS: Ken Harris, Jim Leftwich

CONTRIBUTORS: Will Alexander

Address: 977 Seminole Trail #331, Charlottesville, VA 22901 E-Mail: SLeftwich@aol.com (Subject line: Juxta/Electronic)

Part 1

 Again the demons thirst for the will of my unbelief, searching for flaws,
for broken rains in the depths of my primeval errata.  First they will speak
of my blasphemous eyelids, then they will reason against the acts of my
considerable stature, stating my failure to reveal and count my own activity
as stomata.  Naturally, this gives to my ability, ironical breakage, and the
plurality of breathing canals.  Therefore, blank nutritional shafts, and
savage endocrine tilting.  And I have said over and over that I have never
favoured the whirling of listening bowls, the forced chronological panting.
 I have risen above the wrath of my own mental leanings, of my own mental
iodine monsoons.  Because there is nothing more than instinct, nothing more
than scandalous personae evolved beyond hearing.  Cursive forgettable
angstroms, bone pallets, Greek geranium espaliers.  Knowing this I have fully
failed to withdraw into the fount of claustrophobia, and by so doing I have
riddled the fatality of cellars.  I have seen the bottoms, the spells, the
juggled lanterns within necrosis.  And I have squared obliquely the sudden
vibratory gusts implanted within a curious nullifying ritual.  This is
because my face is turned moonward, as if frayed within a fleshless skeptical
biographic.  The squalls, the open nuance deserts, the fiery salamander
beacons.  Because of this, I've opened bottles of sand, and swallowed the
extract of cacti and plankton, wearing as my outer garment a dressing gown of
scabs.  Of course a mind prone to numerous cleaving, to disjunctive
tribulation.  By this kind of measure I can justifiably advance motion by
general freezing and blazing.
 One could say, I am weak with mausoleums of giving, by which I can pledge to
humanity a dazzling oracular meaning.  Knowledge then occurs as accumulation
by rabid remedial impact, like apparitional ozone, undisturbed since the
first grams of genesis.  Listening in my private wrath to the fatal mechanism
of marble, so my limbs illumine and stagger beyond a ruthless monomial
sentiment.  For me, connectives appear between arson and the organic fire of
primitive lightning bells.  There then exists the surreptitious stone which I
toss into the smoke of the air and go blind for deepened aural reasons.
 Therefore I cannot be specified by cage, by debased paternal rote, by
improvement ensconced in a darkened placation.  A merciless riddle spawned,
bone by dawn, and bone by dawn, mixing bone with dawn.  From this accrues a
stratospheric capillary fusion, a free mass of energy, spewed from the
psychic like a conquest of murmurs.  Or say, a speaking fish from a lake of
riddles, spun from its watery cradle of sigills.  As to referendum, as to
philosophical modality, there has never been focus for the sake of pure
anathema, of extracting poisoned milk from a fig, so as to pose in the
crucible of a make-shift celebrity, miming a decadent visual harmonic.  This
could never be my nth of responsibility, to seek in my unsung mothering
habits a diary of fertile reptile colenics.  One could reason that I'm
furtive, tense, galactic, suspicious.  That I've christened a tribe of
spiders, that I've milked from my udders a runway of ants.  But the profane
cannot stamp me as a fallible reflex model, or brand my behaviour as
remorseless animal killing.  I have levels, I have means to uphold and
dissolve abstract liturgies and praying.
 Here I am in the depth of my writhing mathematical salvos, non-attached to
an indolent median eating.  Poring over the neutered linen of factored
imbibing would betray my own cause, would take out the power of my stunning
solar maturation.  My ability to live from filtered light in my organs, my
pituitary beacon aligned as it is with arisen suns in the cells.  I've thus
become less and less the by-product, the singular animal name, described as a
crimson mother who lives and subsists with a deadened helical methodics.  A
mother whose turned around the glints in her pablum, proud of her living
mercenary stripes.
 You see, over time, I've mined nutrients from guilt, I've erected stammering
towers, elliptical diamond towers, voluminous in their spinning sapphire
emergence, the sun therefore a blackened sapphire garment, like a living fish
devoid of palpable sarcoma.  Capable of powerful expulsion and contraction I
secretly spin my instrument as a fabulous imperium of neutrality awakened to
the nuance of treason.  It is not a question of gambling, of playing within
limited circumstance, charged with a series of winning multiples and
abstractions.  I have gone beyond the context of loss, beyond the summoning
of immobility.  There are societies of rum which I maintain without having to
duplicate my ardour, or place it around a stationary substrata.  And from
this, emanates, substantiation, brutality, fire.  And so I have gained the
wicked honours, the tourmaline caresses, so that I detach my intestinal
burning, my tumultuous auroras, as if the moon were visibly shaken by the
totality of colliding, as in, a mimosa of vowels, when the sun like a
traitorous culinary power, trys to eat me, trys to turn the light of my body
into visceras of cancellation, into winding sabbatical riots, so that I have
been able to seize the empty juxtapositions, the steaming earthquake rivers,
as in the way I've settled upon the plaintive girth of my strangled medicinal
earnings, my general coinage of lava.
 In order to maintain the shield of social decorum, the mental attendants
want a culminate reduction of mirrors and bones in my teeth.  They, like
metaphysical satans, want to see progress, want to see fixation, want to see
 I can never listen to such erratic fruition, to none of these rains, flung
as I am into the outer melodic branches, as if I spat up conversations of
prone hyena rumbling, of heartless symmetrical aching.  By inward
perquisition, I have woven through a continent of spices formerly ensconced
in distant ocular compounds, in struggles across a cloud of respirational
diablos.  My advantage is that I have forgotten so strongly, that I have
scraped up my matches with water so as to clear from all carbon symbols
imbued with duplicitous beguilement.  So you see I possess the a-clinical
needs, the Martian building sands, the maximal chalice gardens.  If I were to
suddenly re-dispose myself to cancelled and re-structured totalitarian
purpose, to dazzling limbic grasses, the eye of the past would focus upon my
atrophy, upon my prime tornado rivers flowing and ceasing to flow in my
system.  I would seemingly take advantage of exquisite nightmare edicts, I
would spiral in hated logician's dilemma, I would give as my fermentation the
hounded fatigue of a looking-glass needle, the percussive justification
whereby I wait for primal travel connectives, in circuitous groves of
primeval annihilation.
 I expect nothing, I expect none of the centralized dodecandrian epistles
spelled out in linear ungainful statuesque indecision.  I have always known
that gifts to willful personae cause bleeding, that at bottom there is
gravity which spins in a kind of surbased subtraction, so that one is always
clouded by the portent of seismic conclusion.  Or those lean dysfunctional
reprieves of rum, spun like a cipher between concretization and deflection.
 The loss of weight, the amorphic ambivalence.  There then evolves the
dissonance of trading, of necessity by blister, circled by juggled stalling
missives.  There is no longer the imperial centring pattern, the celless
uranium limitation.  There is then only a sub-dominate momentum which can
only complicate the force of living into a minacious and congenital groaning.
 Not with cannibal's eyes do I scorch retreating classical meters, but
explosion on all sides by a dire and consequential blackness.  Therefore, I
have ground the illusional coils with wasted idling blood.  The old
pentameter scenery mangled by motionless condor's roughage can no longer
compel with the sound of its buried germinal taint.  There is the wilderness
to pursue, with its inspired illuminant mentation, which I witness every day,
with my open skeletal tree, with my numinous rums and rotations.
 To contemplate ribbons of silicate as poverty within the sorcerous plain of
invasive neo-capital, is to have subjugated myself to ruinous emotional rift,
to foreboding as altercation by plotting.
 The former is elliptically unrelated to astral confines, to grandiose
debilitation by marvel.  I'm thinking of angelic ghosts from Venus and Saturn
sitting on both my burning shoulder blades, with their golden interior
brooding, explicit about the mixture of capital, illumination, and fear; and
how the northern forces of the earth ransack the soul, in order to condemn
the intuitive skills of the darker persons of the hemispheres, to take away
each metrical rebellion, and douse its forces at the root.
 This is the source of created alien thermogenesis, of the alien insect hive,
the micro-dot as experimental species.  It is nothing more to me than a fount
of famished storage pustules, masquerading to the common mind as a miracle of
erratic seepage, as a sculpted catastrophe, as a stunning nightmare invasion.
 This is a zone which fundamentally does not exist.  Unlike my angels, they
are created intellectual figments, enemy to the level of true galactic
enigma.  They are stored by the Saxons on a holographic chessboard, because
at the imminence of their fall they will in a rather frenetic degree project
exotic beings and Christian deities as a desperate attempt to stave off the
aboriginal which rises from within.  These are little known acts of the
demons who have placed at their disposal certain frontiers of technology,
which seeks to annul the natural moral stamina of the true electrical current
of the cosmos.  In this regard Saxon technology no longer exists, and does
not exist as far as my own leprosy is concerned, as far as the reflex in my
involuntary blood, which has organically reacted time and again, to the most
heinous of deprivations, to the most egregious multiplication of injustice.
 Because of such power I've cast bodies into bewitchment, I've swallowed the
fright of demonic invasives, hiding my green baby in the dark of my bosom.
 I've survived headlong stumbling through homicidal drainage, through
mesmerized vehicular tumbling, through the nausea inspired by the glance of
my own offspring.  Now, he has alchemically become my greenish stellar
affinity, whom I've absorbed within me, his presence like a heat rising from
pillars of salt.  A moth of arcane wonder, a fluttering vertical nerve in my
psyche.  So I can say with faultless jasmine acuity, that I exist, that I
know the very scales of the demons.
 So how can I wander through figments of warring glacial propensities so as
to feed myself with a cold interior source food?  In a single phrase,
interior discharge, sustained accusation.  I can take on the plots of funeric
social roles with psychic aplomb, with the fiery tentacles of a devastating
grace.  As to the angels from Venus and Saturn, they exist just as powerfully
as the steam that I emit from my lungs.  And those who fallaciously describe
them, those who carry on about the ice of their black intestinal cramps, are
no more than swine concerned with throwing the higher mental levels on an
active bed of swastikas.  Therefore I have given myself a whole series of
tourniquets to learn, a whole series of baleful ornaments to unwind.  Because
I know constriction so well I've learned the various languages of discomfort.
 I've found myself bundled in graphic moray consignment, in spectacular caves
of blinded sangrias, in seismically fouled literary language.  Because of
this, no one can hang me, no one can turn me over in my grave clothes by
giving me verbal relics fraught with empty leper's tonnage.  To seize, to
saddle my momentum in two directions is not possible.  I've long since ceased
to conduct my actions within the sinister policy of nickel.  I do not shine,
yet I cease to disregard a countable outward trapping.  Therefore I summon
enigma, tropical enigma, much like the echo on an invisible gaming board.
 When such necessity transpires my voice reaction will transmute my genes,
where the monsters explode into haloes, which places my habitat in the centre
of green suns rising amidst imaginal asteroids.  From this bastion of power I
can summon the dead with oblong vampire chanting.  As if, in the flow of my
speech I took on the weight of ironic vicunas.  As if I passed back and forth
over prime illuminant heavens, while drinking remedial pints of blood in a
 You see, I ferally conduct my own person, I draw cards against the powers of
my own existence, and I erupt these leopards and shark's heads, so as to
imbibe communal rivalry with each of my nervous despicable flashings.
 Because I am seared with such a level of lightning, that to bleed into my
nerve field one would be reduced to cataracts of voltage and shock.  One
would find the wood in one's mind shattered, charred, with everlasting
deracination.  Say, if I peered across an esplanade, or the smoking
directions of an owl fence, the wings of my body would grow green, and crack
with my thirst a sonorous spider's riddle.  Then my weight would be charged
with the prime fluidity of encircling astral tonic, unlike a ghastly dog
invasion.  Unlike an orchid, in such a state, one never blooms with
fibrillation or expulsion.  It is not negation of argument by polyp, by
ironic Euro-density cretonous with expression.  I have become that intuitive
nerve pit, that ganglia of blank reasoning proportion, possessing at each
moment the thrills of deserted archives, like wolverines mounted on
exhaustive helium graphs.  ambling around like a vulture I am able to count
in a kind of wakeful dysphonia, coupled with minuses, coupled with the
rhetoric of 3's and 4's, neutered in a field of zeros, along a liquifous
flammable spine, living as a flameless fire charmer, spinning my Nilotic
sorcerer's plow through acidic grains and berries.
 My somnambulant and uneven bone, my monosyllabic tumbling ire.  And even
with my fugitive spoilage, there always exists the desire for centrality, for
alchemical nuance leanings, for the finely laid tools of reductive ferocity.
 I'm speaking of dark matter, the encompassing forage which incessantly
spands throughout the weaver's spools of the tragic.  The reductive embryo
bottoms and their culpable transference as regards the hollow Euro-measuring
bell.  As for me, my head swings vertically upward and downward, so that I
mumble, and take on traitorous oxygen glyphs, akin to arcane astral
 I, who litter the sun with my fables, I, who take up refuge in the
cataclysmic sunspot, am able to probe the grafts of the species, like an
angelic beast, astrally battening on ligaments and colostomies.  Or this
could be marked as beautific enzyme travel, as a twisting metrical spoor,
sumptuous with clairvoyant mezzopelagics.  I can say that my zone of grief
has been a fact of tempestuous allotment, seen more and more as beautific
structural bleeding.  I have come to this spiritual fount by forgetting, by
keeping this vertical mental rotation attuned to inscrutable heavenly
addiction, burning and letting burn my addiction for falling heavenly
crystal, standing in the midst of flared Siberian rays, going over and over
the higher intensities mined from weak interior spoilage.  It is my distance
from dross, from deadly bell thrower's drainage.
 So you could say that I play with my fatigue by means of old Carthaginian
axial car.  My life being as strange as an anecdotal rye, with my eyeless
penetrations clearly illumined by asperated candles, sprung from a forge of
higher Tupian linguistic.  As if I had brought from the sun lakeless cranial
observation within the arithmetical scope of shattered monotreme poetics.
 Therefore, I have entered a perfect mental slippage, borrowing from myself a
rivaling mirror observing at all moments the fertility of derangement, the
wicked vascular in-takes, the chromatic flaws of operational lanterns, taking
in the deep microbial edemas, the sacred, yet tortuous spillage, of lust, of
doves designed in fire, in dark ballistical revery.
 Feeling all of this, I am quite happy to forgo eating, to omit the spelling
of my name, to erase all chemical indication of my protest.  In my face, I
see the blank Kundalini awash in periodic ether.  Therefore heat is felt from
finely tuned incest waters, from eroded Venusian cradles, swayed, by an
erotic bell of glimpses.  Brief in the sense they are expanded, that they
engulf the capacity of several solar dioramas.  And every dawn that I expand
through this limit, I face other seizures, other contradictory fuels from
sterility by motionless bruises.  So that is why I glance in odd directions
mining the fumes from the glacial strikes against me.  I understand in all my
aptitude the frightful horror I possess, with its hollow mass, with its foci
of shells.  That is why I have grown with the beauty of blank adrenal
ringlets, with the smell of cherished moccasin vipers.  As for suppression, I
am no longer riven by its targets.  Then to say, at each supreme remove, a
mirage, a baffled flood of coronas.
 So, to go back to my former premise as victim, my debacles, my inexperienced
envy, my misdirection by anti-poise, has been banished, to say, a median wood
roof on Ceres, keeping in my fanatic balance with trembling ocean counts,
with blinding swarms of crab, overcoming their peregrinations with a raw
debility that ruins.  And by understanding this ruinous methodic I am able to
go deeper into a magically filtered disjunction watching the waves in my mind
naturally brew a catalogue filled with a post-mortem species.  And I
understand the transitional electrics as they exist on earth.  The
Trilobites, the Cambrian, pre-Cambrian algaes, the earthly fires from the
first traumatic novae.  Yes, the wild archaeology of novae.  They are worlds
without pauses, without the human strangulation, and its strain to conceive.

JUXTA/ELECTRONIC        #2       OCTOBER 1995
EDITORS:  Ken Harris, Jim Leftwich
Address:  977 Seminole Trail #331, Charlottesville, VA 22901
E-Mail:  SLeftwich@aol.com 
Part 2

 If I let my mind absorb its own cancellation, I will be able to perceive the
original ignescence from my primordial glycerin bones.  My nervous,
protracted, glycerin bones.
 And the signs embedded in my first explosive skull have aligned themselves
with telepathy by congruence.  By biological properties extracted and
heightened and casting new doubt upon a single transfixed biology.  Only
neural complexities would haunt us, would perplex our drowned behaviour in a
schism.  But our life goes far beyond the multiple tone of human impact.
 Yes, far beyond the bones of an old Arabian monarch.  History then becomes a
polished double weight, scorched by a series of chasms, charismatic with
exoteria.  So when I send up glorification to the Pleiades I draw out fluid
from primeval blazes.  Much like retaining an inward blush one comes to
realize intense fumatory prisms which have allowed breakage and flow into a
wise and inscrutable spiritus.  This being the poetry of human content, its
lunar quarters, its power of volcanic inscrutables.
 Because I have refused to speak or eat they have condemned me to this
cracking mental cell, with its fissures, with its squealing notorious hair
rabbits.  The nurses who watch me say that my breath is articulately
fulminate.  That I expel true heat in the cold of the room.  And they say, my
broken lactation is proof of this.  True, I have fondled salamanders when not
waking.  I have slept with all manner of imaginal offspring breaking the
taboos of the universal soil.  Me, the ammoniated recluse who seals cataracts
with her spittle.  Therefore, I have refused the mind, I have refused the
limits imposed upon its currently defined electrical status.  I could just as
easily float near the rims of Olympus Mons like an eagle from a transfixed
jasmine forest.  Cleansed of a gravid turmoil, I have no need to hold myself
aloft with metals, or sift my way through judgement, armed with cups of
bloodless rosary candles.  Nor will I bow or honour the earliest surgical
diagrams of the Greeks.  To tempt me with fruits, with freshly spilled
hummingbird's meat will never give me the urge to relate to an even or
rational topology.  I am through with their emptiness, with their feckless
scholarly dampness.  My freedom is then allowed to complete itself, to uphold
its motionless canticles of fission.  Because I'm scorched with plaintive
levels of semi-insomnia, I am doing no more than crafting my savage mental
bellows speaking in Asiatic sweltering germ.  As to causation, as to
plenitude culled from scattered literary foliage, I have none, and I have
always remained aloof with stormy heretical quarry.  To take recourse to
chapter, to monument by verb, to history with all its rancid pontoon
heightening, would be to fail in wafting through this haunted gregarious
interstice we call living; through this range of swimming sun blows.  I
refuse to lend the wrath of my inspiration to explanation, to dots
apprehensive with discourse.  One forgets that my context rages, that my
spells are like moths of oneiric reportage.
 In keeping with this I have always craved losses, claiming the fiery light
of alchemical morals.  and blessed, always blessed, by the rich body of
forgetfulness, like citron storms that blow through celibate finalities.  If
I named gods to crown me they would remain as beasts of my existential
figment.  They would take on the character of my birth size, of my formless
family annealments.
 So, if I capably plead ophthalmic integer, if I shadow myself with listless
poems about my beauty, I will never develop the power to persist beyond
curious modes of tense psychic corruption.  As to malarial vaccination, as to
age after age of political fraud and misnomer, I have been magically ordained
to deprive my soul of the topical, of the sighted range, of the outlined as
given.  If I burn birds on my breath it is for a cause which kills off
monomial reasoning.  For instance, identification, stoic sapphire imprints.
 I mean, holding one's pallet at a certain coping impasse would be like an
iridescent vulture turning its back on the sun.  For me, I swallow telepathic
irradiation so as to transpose signs welling up from the cells.  As if I were
gasping, on and off a carousel of lightning, blurred by eclipsing demeanours.
 Inflections of the soul by means of asthmatic penetration, where, after
refusing incapability, one mines the ethers of panic prior to total physical
collapse.  Saying this, it is not the perfection of signals, but the
sumptuous angles that persist.  Sonorous bodily songs unlike the x's scrawled
across faceless strontium and belief, with their empire of chemicals, filled
with absence and sudden molecular nuance.
I saw myself once speaking in a spectacular Capathian hall concerning
diamantine injustice against a certain particular tribe of angels.  My voice
by turns was turquoise and blood, giving off a blank reactive wind, so that
the doves to which I spoke were awash in miraculous smoke ceasing to claim
themselves as victims harnessed to a chariot of arrows.  I gave them the
sense of my true watery vocation, seething with electric metrical blazes.
 And these metrical blazes were crops, and these crops were like generic
erasures, getting clear of the insomnific, getting clear of the gall of the
object as usual.  I made my double sides as executioner and victim, tearing
and composing, so that what propelled from my eyes were indefinite dangers,
darkened holocaust entrapments.
 After living through this visual insistence I see at my present remove that
I can never be settled, whether the power describes me as a perpetrated
harlot, or a nun on a barge directing its flow through electrocuted rapids.
 I prefer to spill from my vulva "Orphic" intuitions, like a furnace of
jungle lianas, simply aligned with the infinity of their own consumption.
 Have I favoured the plight of dissection over triumph?
 Have I shattered the capacity to re-invent my own nostrums?
 Or am I seeking the edge of a rocking sawdust current?
 Not the centre annulled by a classical confluence of angles, but abrasive
liquidities, charged with the earned right of transmixture.  And I count from
my expression a vain fauna, a supplemental heaven of rye.  I am speaking of a
food which is eaten by thought, which gives me the strength, the forceful
exile's dyscrasia, so that my hissing mammal's grain is brought to a pitch
which bases its science on fervour.  A self organized fervour which bases its
power on higher mental conclusion.  Not to bring about stasis, but to soar
into a higher interstice formation.  Some of the more damaging amongst us
would say that I plead for circular criminal license, less akin to the
Cenozoic and more bountifully open to the Jurassic.  but you see, if I were
truly a monster could I propel myself back to the ancient foundation of
lizards?  Could I expose the scales on my eyes to wild duplicitous knavery?
 Never.  One could say that perspicacious madrigals were present, or rapid
and fiery lime groves were active, but never could one say that an artifact
had appeared, a killer, with arithmetical typhoid, condensed in neo-cortical
poverties.  As to neural scales you could say I glisten because of saline
individual eclampsia, always rising from a nebula, and tapping into the
emptiness of a fabulous surcease.  Therefore, the high summas of eternity,
the thirst which bickers by description.  As I travel through each
astonishing concourse of heat, there arrives from the distance bony musical
groves, with a clarity of flagstones with power by air.  I am now only
capable of bequeathing strange oracular dice, diamonds which meander like
comets.  Like a sign with continuous thirst for messages I refuse design and
the deep remedial emptiness which lives at the heart of descriptive banter.
 To describe the pure physical instant is life as old defective model, which
turns the face into a floodlight of poses, so that a clearly wrought maze of
design can be followed and turned toward a tortured oneiric denial.  The
realists conceive of a clause which lengthens argument, which alters refusal,
which maps a carapace which burdens.  What you witness in my presence are
blistered sound memorials cooked like an orange and terrible cadmium.  Suns
spinning in the spiritual eye of boiling upper dawns.  And so my dressing
gown dazzles with a raw umbilical garlic, upholding standards of rebirth, of
challenged palpable conundrums.  Because there alights in my face invisible
deleriums which maps the use of a deeper trespasser's ground taking the fort
as my example of wooden angular germs.
 I pick up glints in seismologist's hovels, in attempts upon the lives of
each particular nightmare critic.  Those who have attempted to excuse my
extravagance as being the one who has tested too many times the reddened
waters of mayhem.  They cite as examples the drowned hand rail, the charred
phonemic pyres.  They can never hear my cusps, my horizontal spoilage, my
deep viridian verticality.  So for them, I leave a trail of poisoned food
cakes, so that they sup forever in the troubled voices of my flames.  Of
course, I have breeched every factor of guilt.  I have provoked landslides, I
have willed skillful dioramas of disgrace.  There, you see, a doleful pot-ash
roulette.  I have this power because I never allow myself to falter, or to
lose my insight by means of phenomena and breakage.  You could say, I live in
deep alchemical advance, that I have mortgaged away my precious mineral
disorders, again, as an animal in the Cenozoic at the last living remove
before its desolation.  I'm speaking here of what the dead perceive before
and after death.  And it is a livingness of afterlife exploded and returned
to the amphibious journey of spinning solar trails.  I am not here to examine
each particle of the sun of which I speak, but to see its roots as spun from
sagas at the beginning of the world.  I can partially say that I have joined
the angelic extract, that I have heard the somnific rapture of God speaking
in hermetic sparks and ravines.
 Hiding in a chariot of muslin I have risen to a level where previous
fragments bleed and combine.  Where I maintain that the horrors of saviours
remains ineffably incapable of producing existence.  Why?, because they
derive from a God upheld by precarious political explanation, subject to the
onslaughts of all my sur-rational scrutiny.

 What stands as naked albescence actually stands in my ontology as a
penetrant germinal depth, mixing all the colours of a rudely salvaged
portrait of a meanly implanted Christos.  A Christos who re-implants the
serious squalor of his conquests, who, if I rapturously drag my human fleece
across nails, will alter his perspective, and bewilder each of my prayers, as
though I were a darkened ghost which Europe continues to deny.  To evolve
beyond this serrated logos I must take up the explained catharsis and cast it
as an enemy among wolves.  To live at the true vicinity of foliage I must
open each of my bodily gates to a flare of greenish proto-illuminations
taking place at the core of my floating cellular extravagance.  So, to
continue my nervous impact, to continue my alluvial electrodes, there must
remain in my hatchery a coursing circular boldness, much like the colour of
stratospheric lenses.  A golden moon-lit realia which transmutes a plaza
imprisoned by melodramatics and slaughter.
 So if my new approach to singing in quizzical anthem continues to strip off
the skin, it is because at one point or another I've latched onto brutish
charismas, and I've drowned and bled at the seeming instigation of a hard
Judaic wrath.  As a cellular fortress against wrath I am reminded of my
skills at carefully enshrouding my enemies, who have been chaotically modeled
on the European syntax of God.  Again, God is no more than a syntax, no more
than laws and codes much like the whim of a scholar carefully placed in the
context of propaganda.  If one is goaded by these false scales of justice,
one panics, one turns around in one's clauses and drifts.  Therefore, I have
abandoned indoctrination by elevation, of cholera by fierce competitive
instruction.  Conversely, one must open up the heavenly charcoal rays, so
that one is showered by immeasurable schism, so that one is able to soar
above rainless constrictions as they evince themselves in the tangle of
thought transfixed into lucre.
 And I think of each of my voices as raging in carnelian half-count.  My
suspensions then are elided by droplets. And if I wrestle with the science of
the firmament it cannot be concluded that my brass is condemned, that my
eclipse is failure.  Accuse me if you will of chopping through thrones of
grass, this will in no way affect me, as if the truth be known I've sat for
whole hours scouring blood from a ribbon.
 When a woman has cancelled her offspring, and throws her fugues from random
windows, her obedience withdraws, her implementation becomes crazed by a
bewildering mix of habits.  Observers quarrel as to my present state of
circumference, if such is the beacon, I can say that I am wretched and part
porcelain, that I have drawn and quartered my imminence, buffeted again and
again by carking salamander fevers.
 To tell my tormenters that I have risen within a nerve wracked electrical
forge would grant me for a moment neutrality from their ire.  It would grant
me propensity to sullenly stare into ruinous sensations of limbo, with the
present realia of my anomalous green offspring cast into the shadow of a
deadly ambivalence.  Then they would isolate my mounting electrical gains,
and I would then be electrically handled, and thrown around like a sack of
bodily naivete, to be tortured with swords and metals.  But I have said
nothing, I have given no clue as to the health or disunity of my bondage, I
am simply the shadow, the ruined persona, stationed beneath the crimson welts
of a partially tamed silence.
 And so I sit alone in this blinding debacle, left to stutter in these
invisible ravines, marshalled by an outlook of frenzy.  If any three
dimensional being had the power to truly touch me, I would vanish, I would
call up howling jugular gales with the fire of my absence.  So I play with
beautific mirages.  I am absent, granted.  My fluctuation suspends and
re-suspends itself like the darkened face of a tree, so I am never confined,
never limited, by threats, by oscillations which combine and suspend on the
superior plane.  In all regards I am ruthless in the sense that the first
nerves of absence have flowed in my system as if I had roots in a cold
unthinking fedora, become a calabash drawn by powerful x-ray ponies, only
mirrored by their arrival with matchless eras of dust.
 Of course the demons seek to quell me, seek to open up my thirst with
blackened identifications should I retreat from the field of scrupulous
self-hauntings.  For them, I can only excel in living by weaving the
threadings of amnesia, my body shaking with symbolic schisms.
 But, to live beyond such dense omegas, I continue to thrive in a zone which
washes up sums from a dream.  My eyes like cloud, my psyche shimmering in
hexahedron.  Because my shadows have circled land, and a-lighted in an array
of African counting harbours, each of my sails burning with Orishas, with
amulets, which allow ambulation and farming, in a teeming lake of superior
society.  I mean the fish with their intense magenta darting, the triple
viridian suns shining like fragments and ghosts, combined by double moons of
pre-Islamic lava.
 By breathing fermented herons I circulate immortal indigo in my veins, as I
continue to fuse with the circular flow of my inner nuclear ocean.  Yes, I
know eternity has lived, I know eternity has come and gone, and withstood the
ashes and the gales, and the flames of imperious beings, sustained by the
force at the height of levitational verdet.
 Like Medea, having psychically slashed the fruit of my first terrestrial
family, having overcome and disregarded my initial mating with an incubus, I
have alchemically joined my sullen offspring in limbo, Theophrastus, who
accuses me of cosmic predation, who existentially trys to accuse me of
stealing eternity from his vestments.  I can tell you that this is true, that
we fuse and clash in the void, that our vapours hover in amnesial rainbow.
 But I know from this fusing there is a level of constant life, of invincible
roundelays, of spinning gambles and retreats, or charismatic and ionized
rotation.  Again, there is life, continuing above the thorns of our mutual
witness of deceit, spawning in illuminate icon, that which takes place in
fire, in symptomatic cratering, in eruptions, in stars, in coronas.


An earlier selection from SUNRISE IN ARMAGEDDON appeared in Juxta #2 (paper).
 Please note the following corrections to that printing: p. 21 "famaine"
should read "famine"; p. 21 "lightening" should read "lightning"; p. 22
"foundaries" should read "foundries"; p. 24 "lightening" should read
"lightning"; p. 26 "Ire" should read "I am".