The Molting Table



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Subspace Suppression














Les Choses d'Espace




     Ignis lay atop the molting table within the cubicle, his form dressed by a Vector brace, congealing his skin forcefully to it.  It radiated with an intense current flowing through the superconductive ties which generate a magnetic field over and around the vassal.  Ignis was the terminal of Vector concentration, where the fields crossed and the energy sapped, wars.

The strangest sensation
flaunting me like a storm
suddenly halted, held in check
          suspended
in time animation until
that last cry where it all escapes
in a rich, rush of frenzy,
And I grin a little more sourly.
 I've been double-crossed
by figures in the shadows
unable...unable...
     My brother     (I do this for you so
      my friend     that we will never know
                             each other again)

     rivers go untouched
    rivers of madness
    of plain blind murder
          the pus of Vor
       of deranged forms.
I know chaos & its intrinsic
designs upon the unconscious
In the House of the Unreal
I met them
I've been double-crossed
because I'm no more
I've seen incertitude
work its wonderous disaster

Bavarde, I've been double -
crossed & left in the road to die
bleeding, spraying my intestines
 spilling into the ditch not
even.
   In the middle of a wet road
slick with reflections of the
night.
     because I'm no more
     your crazy fool
Double-crossed & sliced
     'fooled the fool' you said
The people I know cannot always
see what I do nor do they
want to; The blood that floats
on the water, that soaks away
between stone.

                                The Plunder of Civilization

Give me a dose of radiation
make my body burn in a million places
you fornicate with the essence of my life
causing it to putrefy & slip away
to start its own life as a deformed mutant
I am the cross of a thousand energies
released by your hand
The light of decades has been absorbed
in an instant, what would take
by my own psychological force, a lifetime
to complete & destroy, you have done it
in seconds flat after centuries of plunder

          -                      The Plunder of Civilization

     The psychological realism of the stage of events makes it clear that mechanical resolution is over-precedented.  That the being of the nature of knowledge is antiquated to the present day terminology of science & that the science of the day is dominated by a self-served purpose of functionality: That more or less, science is not an absolute, but a series of rescinding contradictions and treasons and by overstepping these foundations we reach our goal, with practical limitations.  The curious do not hesitate, but are boarded up by these contradictions from an ethereal swirl of sciences which would create a vortex in the psychological attitude of the professional world and would ultimately vex their sanity.

     No, they refuse.  To remain safe is their plea, meanwhile shutting the doors to mystical liberation, liberation of the senses, and instead focusing them into machinery and enclosed regions where the machine interprets and takes over.

     The effectiveness of the machine relies upon the operators intuitive sensibility and the design of the machine must encompass this factor.  There is no machine as complex and easily manipulated as that of the human. When the machine dominates man the result is plain to see. We function like a machine. Is that why, or what or all we can do? Responsibility masterminds our control.  In what direction and of what amplitude is our responsibility capable of? It is a question we must allow the mystics and philosophers to decide.  A question of concepts and politics.

     Society proclaims contradiction as attributes and those not strong enough or lucky enough to out dodge their slamming doors find themselves tightly entwined by the paradox of a civilization which reveals itself as politics and necessity, or completely smashed by its composure, leaving the nerves damaged and unattainable to personal desires.  A psychological whirl-land that does not cease until psychic breakdown or affability.

     Affability of the senses is the major, important systematic process of our culture.  Hinging upon the surrealist perspective of ceremony is our freedom and our enticement unto decadence. Replacing calm with symbol, symbol with symbolic structure, eradicating the behavioral reflexes of the individual.  We can permit ourselves repetition only with symbolic forms of structural importance.

     The revolting constituencies of civilization does not permit the gradation of symbolic effort to pervade its frontiers, only in rare instances of artistic genre rebelling against the political order of the practical minded.

"It became too safe"
The toothless phantoms we are
   radiation soaked

& nervous in artificial lighting.
The insides of the increasing whirlpool
     of our personalities
     is amaze.

     Coffin burial meant so much
     when we were lovers
    No one came to our door to yell through
        the forced, harsh cries
          of alien terror.

     Each moment is a swelling
       agony, engraved on our tongues
    though blackness haunts our sleep &
       peers into collisions
       to extract truths so ugly as
         to leave us giggling frenzily.

As if there could be more to offer.

What word would I use, torture; horror; torture; horror...

          There is nothing left, here, inside of me.  All has been dried & killed.  Only heaped up rubble is left.  Stashed in the corner where it may stink, leaving me empty space to stare upon.

There is no more to keep us
       alive
The weight of running
under overgrown skies
has penetrated and pierced me
       no more meaning
       no more reason
nowhere, no-one
   The desertion
I am like they were
     retreating, crawling
   back in away from all
  light, into the dank, thick
mud, to get away and
  forget. Only not to lead
the life I did before whether
I must die to escape it

     It's coming on - the languor

I smile, my teeth have been
           knocked out.

Subspace Suppression







Les Choses d'Espace














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