THE ALCHEMIST
{{setting– flashes at the edges of the solar system / in a night-blanket warmth / seem to be chattering softly / a soft expanse of little uproars}}
whose secret name is GOOTY– wanderer stepdancing, sends tattletale signs rolling over the banquethall floor, dance steps stomping on the
underworld-ceiling \\ or thundering across the banquet-clean plateglass sky, almost quetzally \\ gooty hand-weaver when she looks like maker,
white-knuckle lightning crackle chuckling through a sea of dull teeth shaped for grazing.
whose secret name is DEMEORGOS– beneath the universe, where the weaver's wheel is curled \\ fetal coil \\ a curtain of hands wraps itself
around the room in a stifling hermetic seal that keeps the smells in. the perfume congeals into solid earth essence. a heavy-hung curtain of simulated
death hangs around the room like warm uterine walls. nicotine flavors the moment with its juice-drip creases. fever-sway tingles just beneath the
pond's still surface. a warm monument is begging to be born.
whose secret name is MAKER– shakes a little rattle full of droplets \\ a monologue of beginnings, gooty says _______ and the speaker and
audience all take a step back like a shaker full of fertil drips \\ who gathers lightning into driftwood stacks along the beach \\ a new lung sings
dents into the juicebox \\ drops of lightning running down the walls of the world [every time james joyce jerks off, for instance]. a rough dance
of drums in the distance of intestines \\ drops of lightning running around with hands full of silence.
LOVERS
the graces make creases around her eyelids with blessed crescents.
he laughs like a manic moon
begging to be filled.
like a field just tilled
or a low-hanging moon
howling lovesongs to earth.
a lonely moon, clutching at the ocean like a sleeper grabbing around for a kicked-off blanket in the dead of night,
purrs out the spouts between their beautiful distance.
her disembodied lover walks the ambiguous hills plucking tufts of the smell of fifty-seven year old books.
a lone lung sings a long aimless path down to the valley and into her window from time to time.
a little worm murmurs circles,
a warm chattering voice deep in the folds of her neural blankets.
it's _________, all she thinks about anymore,
a little witch shaped in oroboros and wrapped around the moon
weaving circular sorcery through her steps. emits a smell of sweat
colored by the faint floral rot of obsession.
–all she thinks about anymore–
–it's in the rain along the gutter–
–in the ceiling fan turning–
–the crunch of gravel–
–a stranger's sigh overheard on the bus–
–a gesture made in passing–
–the smoke of a long dead cigarette hanging around her room–
THE ROOM
the Real Bricklayers,
they are very small,
are running around like crazy
putting the Room together
stamping printed pentacles
are very small, are bouncing very fast off things aren't there.
the way Taste distributes itself.
This coalescence
of pinnacles dangles from fish pinned to the
[Taylor is the Star of This Film]
[puts on a coat made of daggers]
[and weaves together the distan]
[ce between herself and the Wi]
[ndow whose eyelashes hold ar]
[mfuls of raindrop ]
ceiling and for a brief second, just to set the flavor, It Happens
and everything is allowed.
As if by Gravity
this bricks come
together, mortared
with saliva and a
paste of Skin,
weaving the Costume.
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∆
a
DANCE
enters quietly on all fours.
it makes its way around tufts of conversation and distance.
it gathers on the backs of things.
all my little voids are calling out
the unpronounceable name of this dance.
its syllables that scramble in my head before i can say them.
curly noises sprawl around the room on all fours, nuzzling each of the ten thousand things they encounter. an ecosystem of sounds coagulates
slowly in the carpetfiber forest, having reverberated around enough until they finally settled on the surfaces. what happens to sounds when they
stop bouncing? in this case they fall prey to gravity's siren falsetto. but maybe other times they float up like fish until they burst against that
greasy plexiglass ceiling just under the place where the sky stops. later we will list five of the graces together.
WE
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we who can't stand not having voices drowning out our thoughts.
whose heads hurt dirty with knowledge.
whose parents learned parenting from sitcoms.
we who carry a billion little gods around, each one screaming "I EXIST" in tiny font, scrambling for an amthatiam to call their own.
a giant tarot deck set to play on shuffle/repeat: all.
new cards update automatically; empty templates begging to be filled, made flesh; to each assigned its own obsession; stammering
semi-sentient sentence fragments; eager to establish their sapience; stamping insane steps in our heads: equations embossed into the
dance-packed dirt with each people____step;
whose heads hang heavy with the semi-sapien fragrance of a billion little step-people dancing; a dance without movements, begging to be expressed;
an expensive dance.
its prize is life. it's price is death.
a billion little lives blink off and on at once.
the crowd goes blank like canvas.
it's that place between inbreath/outbreath;
a breath whose stench hangs dense curtains of dance-fragrance around the room.
333
at first, H\ecatae's Bolt is heard only as a faint sound
of breathing from the corner of the room.
but soon it seems like this cavern has been the room the whole time.
this prelingual place where flame-shadows grace the walls in
brief engravings.
there is a choice
between two things.
soon it seems her breath becomes the room.