On WORDS.

My most hearted words art those I haven’t written.

I don’t sense the words I write…

I write that I’d sense words I haven’t yet written.

I write that I’d read what I haven’t read.

To write is to contaminate thought. An encumbrance to any raked prophet, whence the

pangs of self-will wrought with the unction of spiritual trifling…those growls ludicrous and melancholy, fuel the laments of the dismantled cranium. A hypocritical indictment on language hence the mind’s disdain for replies to life’s inquisitions…

To write these sparse sorrows is fruitless but true and at its time’s function - this dribbled speech without breath, rasping the throat similarly with recycled creeds from hearts feigning age. Take words already jotted unto blades and carve a reconstruction to utter new impressions, since no thought is original. The purpose is the mark of difference…

Enthused by assimilation - the craze of pain so common to many…the words becoming the fleeting admiration for habits and bibles of fixations churned at any finger’s lost repute. Words mask the regrettable distance of a flawed memory; that effusive visage ever constrained by the litany of eternal births. Souls of a wretch fragmented into coded attempts of erasure, cancellations of salty human experiences. Now, that is the nature of words - postponing misery and incarcerating terror.

Patronizing its death, the first word art written in MIND, that all others would conjure a pretense toward its completeness, unspoken, yet tattooed. It exists independent of a medium to unravel it, such as thought requires no brain to think it out. Thus I realize that I have not a technique of interface with this necessary scourge, I textualize too mechanically…a cheap satanic verse churned from an eventual Blind and Deaf puppet  transforming merely excited nerves to work with an artistic principle of a super objectivism. I need embrace a monologue that battles on impulses to repeat with precision my scores of inter-relating in-tensions. Remembering also that these impulses that constantly draw us into life’s tragic sanctum of visions art cynical mockeries not to be dismissed as empty. To focus on the benefits is to trivialize tragedy. Recognize not only that language as flesh’s yield can penetrate any rejection, but that it art rendered impossible to diagnose in terms of black and white, even inextricable from its deadness>.

Be unpredictable, a poet rendered inarticulate and plagued by inner contradictions and vestigial critiques on truth that animus within, united with the great silent aegis of psychic automatism by which one possesses to express…THE WORD…the functioning of thought. Not a mere measure of participation ‘in the scheme of things’ thought. Start first from an abstract enquiry into the possibilities developed and fostered by sensations, expressing a poetic trance. Corrupt all with imitations of accidental aspects of the immemorial in a formed set of particulars those extracts of a dead mirror – what is not, yet becoming. Aim at a profound thought-dictatorship that should be enough to resemble without being.

At the level of such ideas, nothing should be a reborn error on past tenses (tensions), nor a boded chortle in social defense of narcotic morale. We are patriots of our own worlds not any other linked to the reciprocal objectivist fatigue now paralyzing all recesses of language.

All BEING revealed unto us guarantees the BEING of actions apart from actuating themselves. And thus, word REALIZES (make real) itself as the author of unrealized lives.

First chose to cut-out words from articles of text and frozen ideas. These randomly place on an empty blade…and commence their automatic rearrangement in an order of their coincidental alignment. For the poet who curses the spoken, the aim is to vulgarize any linguistic rationality, suffocate language and sanctify the disintegrated nomads at Memory’s Death Consummation.