Two Girls Kissing
Presently, my red blood cells are petrified in the centrifuge of the universe. Frozen in Energic-Memory-Eternal ecstasy and pulled in thru lateral earth pressure, the plasma milked from every star in the cosmos nourishes the blood. The sound of cat-gut heart-strings glass cylinders and drones emanating from the empty page clashes with the size of my eyelids as everything is spun into cotton candy order, analyzed by machines fed thru a bass guitar. I grant entry to the entheogen. Minuscule particles of What Can Be and You’ve Finally Done Something Properly as I lie to the government about an encounter with a prostitute and cheat on my taxes. I change the hue of the line. I put on another song by Diane Cluck. I begin to write. Everything falls exactly into place, eventually, when guided by field recordings of radiation on the moon. Aggot B. Otto is dew on your shoes in the middle of the night. When transferred from analog tape to the physical routine of communicating celestial bodies, it is necessary that they be fed into a paper cup connected eternally to the imminent receiver thru unwavering rod of linear time manipulated by crystal fingers soaked in honey, gentle stroking to the pulse of interacting quarks.
“Hello, quark how are you? I’m fine thanks I’ve just been falling exactly into place.”
Unfaltering beam of finite perpetuity glowing softly in an airless cube. Picture this painted on the surfaced or, rather, floating above every surfaced with which you interacted yesterday. Read the line that hovers in constant over a pool of chicken blood. I’ve slaughtered one today and I’ve slaughtered one tomorrow. Prescience, as it was understood by your unborn children, is only achievable through a certain amount of bloodshed and senseless acts of beauty. Draw graphic notation for every decision you will ever made and do it forty years in advance. Retrace your steps and start yesterday, if at all possible, if the tones are set and your iron levels are strong. Constantly stretch your neck for to maximize blood flow into the heart and for to shock the entire system into subliminal guidance from the sound of rain in Nanaimo. I’ve walked through halls with ceilings mossy and overgrown with the skeletons of birds and with carpets made from the hide of dead moths and those who died in the maze of jigsaw puzzles and busted electronic equipment from the set of Finally You’ve Done Something Properly. There is always a door open at the other end of the empty hall. The door is a golden rectangle. Walk on the walls if you wish, and melt into every nuance of the complete silence as the direction of time is but a phosphene imprint scraped into your eyelids or, rather, scraped into the dead air roughly a centimetre from the surface. Feed the powdered plasma into your Revised Omegum Flegum Device and mix in two quarts of a path that has a heart. Realize that direction is ALL-ENCOMPASSING and simultaneously everpresent in latitudes and longitudes unfathomable to puny Hu-Mons. Aggot B. Otto is a whisper in your ear. Aggot B. Otto is didn’t it rain.
Loose cheesecloth made of carbon and vibrating membrane of collagen and infected follicles is easy to pass thru when tuned by perfect pitch of rustling leaves in the illuminated canyon. I bring my guitar and lower my pitch until it is inaudible to all but telepathically receiving local flora and play the notes for to induce growth exponential and loosen the fibers of the stems to allow easier digestion. Stick leaves in your ears and get a close friend to blow on them. Death rattle of serpent fat on mouse blood and poison sumac and the hole that violently shakes or a noisemaker in a sea of potential silence. Coil the sound on my ring fingers and have She and She marry me, star players in the cinema of my closed eyes. The ceremony will take place in a car in Cambridge and rows of pews will materialize as organ notes begin to spill from inside the trunk; to the tune of What Can Be. Surrogates for my seed they will immediately disappear at the sound of the flickering pipes and wire two hundred dollars into my bank account almost instantaneously. They will periodically manifest themselves as trickling water in the back of the room. They will play catch with the son and the son will have a daughter and the daughter will give birth to me in the beginnings of certain past centuries over and over spiralling into a certain red dot in the centre of time. Long flowing red and blue and black hair are decisions along the circumference.
Blood only begins to make a difference when it hits something white. I have learned this today and will learn it again when it becomes necessary for thoughts such as this one to be born. I can not fall asleep for fear of staining something beautiful and can not leave for fear of barking at the Moon. He sleeps and I anticipate cascades of indelible thought and possibly some laundry as well. I need to cut my hair tonight, further, and to bury the locks and remember why I am hiding them from you. Come to the ceremony and we’ll kiss and the thoughts will flood and scintillate and refract a strong and strange mood. I must, therefore, shave my head in order to locate the keyhole on the back of my skull, hovering inches from the stars and shut the fuck up Alex and look upward. Your nose will then stop bleeding. Strands of black and green hair trickle down my throat. A noseful of Cream of Wheat, breakfast of champions, as I stare at myself in the mirror, ubiquity slowly oozing out of every hole in my face. I think there are specialized doctors for this sort of thing and the government of Canada will pay for the surgery or at least reimburse me with a bag of breadcrumbs and a spoon.
I experience vivid memories of Trak Mesa. I remember them crouched on the curb with cigarettes in their mouths and their fingertips miles up North hammering the keys of endless forgotten pianos as my mind picks up the encore and uses it to set the sun. When the black virus had finally overtaken the circle, I found myself standing in a crowded room where a white handkerchief was being slowly thrown in my direction.
