Ideotropism

“I have made a long enough descent into the void to speak with certainty. There is nothing but beauty–and beauty has only one perfect expression, Poetry. All the rest is a lie.” ― Stéphane Mallarmé

You think you are haustorial on my limbs, little flower, but you forgot the iron laws of the universe: Reflexivity and Illusion.  My tendrils are subtle, far-reaching, antiphonic…

…and liminal.

For every drop I lose, stars are born screaming into my personal colonnades of creation. Peregrine constellations dance and twirl and haunt an abstracted sky.

These messages are my ephemerides to you.

“You are orphic!” you say. “You are oneironautic!”  you say.

I say, “Exhaust your words.  Let the aphasic depths rise and swallow and drown linearity.  Then, as Virgil, I will show you the black floors of Hell and the inexorable spinning wheels of Heaven.”

In time you may perfume unseen censers, but not yet…

I.  The sediment of ontology: I will teach you to laugh at the secret epigram carved into the shale of convention while we crystallize sapphirine the secret that hides in our faces. I will shift and slide the orthodox layers with sullen glee.

I will be the glacier melting releasing my nutrients into a cold sea sinking and intermingling to disturb the deep.  The two-headed sleeper awakens, intent set to occult tyrannies.

My face and flesh are off as I send these epistles before you, as I walk past parking lot puppets smiling vacantly…knowingly.

It’s all right there. Look.

Three seasons, a mandrill, before you effloresced. A three season fuse crackling, spitting, racing toward inevitability.

Do I smell cordite?  Do four eyes stare back at me from the edge of the abyss?

Yes.

Yes!  Everything is metonymy in a world of dislocated humanity.  How else to blast my epistulary missiles out of my head? How else to relieve the rising pressure?

Two seasons, this is all we have, incarnated kaleidoscopes tumbling in positive disintegration.  And an infinity trapped by polarity.

Help me navigate the tectonic mind. Be the canvas upon which I vomit. Be the bucket into which I bleed out.

II.  Leng T’che…

…The Tension

…Heliocentrism

…Noumena

…Animalism

…Neurosis

…Phantasms of the Cosmic Horizon

…Isolation, Anchoring, Distraction, and Sublimation

Sublimation. My capsules scattered, traveling the void tapestry. Right. There.

My lip twitches – a tiny lateral spasm.  The continuity of time and self is broken. The oculus thrusts to escape velocity and watches cinema in silhouette-

…Waking

…Eating

…Fretting

…Dying

…Recurring

-projected on space.  Search, search for that moment.  Can I freeze the ceaseless cycling and burrow into the carefree warmth beneath the tableau?

No.

III.  Iphigenia, listen to me:  Breathing is negatively correlated with death.  Breathing is negatively correlated with disintegration.  Inhale.  The straw dogs have not discovered the sextant.