Mall
The Mall
I went to the antique mall, inquired, walked naked among the shoppers, dealers, fakers folk song. “That's why we lost the war,” the blooms convinced old and young, narcotic unresisted. Drunk was the only way old ways survived. The colony was so drunk it failed to acclimatize. Drunk, Pig-hog drunk over miles and miles of the desert white cache. They say the orchids cannot be removed, they say we have grown dependent upon them. For centuries people faced the orchids, saw strange clouds, felt something seize their bodies they did not understand, died painful and surprising deaths. Felt the heel on their necks. And not given in or up.
They had nt mastered the anesthetic. They blindly welcomed Goldchaber. Himmelskuchlichen was drunk while the machines took after all their turning and turning.
Your house is on fire, your children are gone. We had to kill the thing ourselves to prove our love...We had to sacrifice our women to prove our love—so many one-breasted ambling around as testimony to our adore. Cook me the little cow, Bitter Tod. Forbidden the children burn.. Nobody could say why fish had sores in the gulf, why two semi-circles on a perpendicular met, Bezos fired autism rockets, our favority epithet of all, everything but GNP falls, dein Hauschen brennt, dein muttershen flennt. I knew not where just that I went. And I have a list of potheads, back links, vids, arts. We have achieved our Historl Absolute. Doktor Hegel said this legend is a reservation. Quien s'ha muerto? Beccotorto was upside down, his fingers moving.
Over the remaining six yeomen of the west. wilt thou be mine? Baby shall have a rattle when Daddy comes home. a list of prayers not strange Fliege the gold.
Pray Mister Rat, will you go? It's the colony or naught, so have your choice. One thing, in the midst of us, flailing up the beach, Jonah called the neighbors in. He is Johan with a second breath, two halves of Isaiah, resurrection boys in a furnace dancing among prophet axeheads and angels that breathe in the face. I cannot tell if I am waiting for someone to kill me or waiting for someone to turn on the lights. Bridled to say these things, to laud the unlaud, the detail dust, the escritoire idol crushed, whipped, slashed, ridden through the mire, all you need to be a prophet is the truth, every leg on an acre of land shattering because Ephraim made altars to sin. Altars shall be his sin.
Miss Mouse, hid her kidneys in plain sight in a wonderfully city of dreams. She started to spin. I enumerate sleep hours, the solar system down, planets and moons all merry. Antares, the bother and Betelgeuse tweedled too, weight pressing on my head. Man they cannot decide when all is done when, whether in Laniakea, Rosh Hoshana, Capricorn Rome or Pagan Aries they sacrifice bullocks. The sacrificers of men made idols of their own understanding. Is there iniquity in Gilead? Kiss the calves.
Every memory, not all weight, one transcendent, some good dreams, the present helps, I like Adam. His list is long. How did he sustain his teeth? I like Noah do not hope. He felt the press down, linkum leary. I like Jonah, his repentance. No problem with the circumcision. Lives witness the dissolve, make the long walk, Babylon, Rome, Britain, Washington, but here I am, gaping, widemouthed. Here I am Isaiah said, here I am, send me.
The cuckoo comes in April,
she sings a song in May,
in June she beats a drum and then away.
But just sober, with no vocation, no mantle but a sober mind! Following dreams and trails of the mountain history down, down, pressed down, I found 300 years descent. A little fishy, that's what they call the I can Abel pressed down from Adam. Isaac and Ishmael pressed down from Abraham. Jacob and Esau pressed down in Isaac.
Backtrack forward. Up, down, up when the pize ails 'em. Cherubim and palm trees and every true faced man and young lion. Doors with two leaves and thick planks, three stories guaranteed. To walk the vision I did not see they put away the carcasses of kings eating pollywigs. Looking east from the house and the law of the house, to measure the pattern, the way of the gate where the prince shall enter in linen peace, spirit, no wine, difference between the holy and profane.
I had a little bonny nagg to buy the British Nova Express for the red cover with the train and the phrase on the cover in Spanish express of the French boxcar to come.
Walk the bridge.
The bridge is cognition.
Without it there is no world.
Columbus in the upper case cracked his throat crowing "timing" which made empire the extra-terrestrial flyby. Mr. O'Gorman said this Thanksgiving at Invention, "no matter what facts are prevented in amnesia, or where or when they can be, all announcements and analysis have a party line, even if the ears are cut short, the tail will be cut long.”
These whereabouts, being unseen, will bend and break and ceaselessly be rebuilt. Which creates as many insolubles as possible and always aggravates existing. When Mistress Wren sent her Queen to Spain, that woman of sin let her in. If you savor the knave, the basic Nova *technoique training in Sweden, then tolerance of evil brings money in to Jack Poot.
***
It was raining a little when the lightning struck. In that area the dead from the rays, the average per year, fatalities added, hit by lightning so they could no longer do anything, which people you know, altogether 55 and 60 million, rising to more than 70 while the moon gives light. A 21-year-old and a man of 58 had to be hospitalized in that province-- Truth, elevating commodity through entertainment, whistled in the dark. I saw a fishpond on fire.
Standing in front of the bridge things are equal. Earth is noise but not seen, to change the sense. Put one foot on the bridge and everything changes. The whole calaphony of sound lights up and every microburst every grid node or vortexes at intersection points on world grid lines lights up with all its traffic, such a state of vibrations that it would rise and fall hundreds of feet, throwing rivers out of their beds, the Vela satellites of crossed scalar beams in pulsed exothermic modes, sharp electromagnetic explosions, make bottle giant standing waves of focus. Crossing releases as much great energies merge and produce real Flober electromagnetic (new) frequencies that supposedly equal perception, depend on what parts of the brain are activated by what frequency.
If you put one foot on that bridge things will never be the same.
The current will shoot into your arm and poof.
Spontaneous Saint Get Away
The whole point of illumination was to dress up. Spontaneous saints galloped by untouched. Brass heart was frank. Water and air were in chains. Birds flew to their kennels. Air buried in ear. All the ages made direct assault upon the troths of haycock and its luminous charms. Then John and Elijah told of the approaching Return. They would meet like calves released from a stall who would trample into ash the many tales told by them all.
Ziccoty, diccoty,
one cast beyond
The cat's in a flurry,
Elijah’s to come,
Take the todelem!
spatula and all
take it by force,
forever live.
How the particular appeals, as opposed to this transparent ground. At least four people died by lightning strikes. All they had to do was offer a screen to cover retreat from the colony...travel arrangements had been made, then blow the place up behind. Offer a body forever. For this they sold their sons, come weal, come woe, sold out the unborn. Wasn't that a dentie coo, Garden of Delight? Kitty Bairdie immortality is pretty much beyond words so we make up none, add faces and places and clothes and seas and any manner of likeness. We explore the world and forget ourselves, give it away for kissing, for clapping, for loving, for proving all thrown back and the outer world, the gifts of life...what's left, not the party lines, we go our way without. A man returning after years of absence would know the place with his eyes closed by the beat, but it wouldn't matter he imagined.
He was a moidert ass that heard the one clap. People are left to wonder how they know to kick the usurper off its throne. Life among the culpable, sorry to admit, always blames another because it blames itself.
Three children slid on the ice, Freedom, and the twins, Mock and Throw.
Two grains of sand lay together in a bed, one was taken and the other one left.
The culpable fasts for the death of these deares, and the inculpable penetrates to the stars. One person in the crowd runs on, a second comes up from the deep. The navy called out a carrier group as they all fall in.
How could you know when you spend every day chasing the thing you sleep beside and see in the world in front of you a tail in the sky, and smell in the air?
The ducks in the river are swimming away. Teach them at home! Twice Noah, Daniel, Job, the wise King of Tyre, symbol of that star. It's like you precede them when you follow and live in a fall of Jerusalem that leads captive those who know.
They know, they know. To speak of the first to doubt the foi de loi Langnedoc jars of post exilic oil, I told him he should burn the grate before he cooks his silver spoon.
He wrote of colley birds and a juniper tree, lions and tigers lying beneath that turned into a sudden bear in verse and a mountain made good without knowing where, deep yearning speech that in the heart alone beat, language flowing clear as a bear. Hawks screamed in their suddenness, over a base of wind: “to you who hurt with immensity, whose parts fly off in air, ask a question at the edge of the egg, what happens, what is the worst?” The worst is not to live.
But its crowded beneath a bear that opens its mouth. The tail is cedar, the bones are subway tubes, a wilderness subway. But if you pierce the nose, make waves as deep as hair, make a treaty, beg, lie down upon this row of shields with a well-worn deck of undersides, the bear comes out.
Moss
Red
Shadows
Leaves dust Slate
Fat
Brim
Cedars
Hook
Hawk
Beak
White coat
Instant
Hung
Rock Feet
Here goes my lord with a jock itch and my lady all a trot.
And there sits Lord Mayor Chomsky, the Cannibal with thorns in his nose.
Ginsburg, Garcia, Kesey, and Leary kiss their heroic sins and chant like ducks. We walk past monuments of ourselves and pretend they are someone else.
2. A man going down the road saw the trees burst into flame. This was their speech that he could understand like any animal, that lived in the ground, “all of us are burning and you are too.” Ruins from this song and dance of tabrets and pipes killed stiff those who walk among stones of fire, among blue clothes and embroidered promises of abundant azure pure spirituality, so finicky conceived, merchants of all sorts, blue as Tarshish ships, who dressed in blue to turn the spit. They delivered their gorgeous hands to bruise her tit of Maccabean notes. They took away her nose and ears, epigonous redactions of text, cut-up layers.
Here's my awl and wax and thread.
Redux my head.
It is time to consider the inevitable rupture and collapse of empire. Some branch of physics makes it plain. Superposition. Illiterate states in verse, possible selves in the billions, if single life doth grieve.
Chirrup the drigs,
the drakes and drack,
red-shonckes roninge
and chickle shack.
Where all the choices made and not made lead you to set up your sail to row forth, row out of this head bound chip in the heel. You thought it was the head, but it's the heel.
You should find in the shoe of the genome back to stone your immigration status, financial records and inconsequential bios.
Alternative histories speculate an endless wheelbarrow of white chickens. But if someone can assure you I feel the visual image to be two inches behind the bridge of my nose?" Or, "I feel in my hand that the water is three feet under ground," this history is censored for national security. A ship shall thou soon make. It explains the war being lost along side winning the war-lost worlds. Oh no said the sparrow I won't make a stew.
Such platitudes deny the Trojan tale. Who'll make the shroud to hide this great hand of the unknown cause. Oh do not ask, now is a good time to appreciate diversity. His giblets make a nice pie too. Let us go and make our visit.
The thrush will sing,
the bull will pull the bell.
Meanwhile on Zen Thule, Whitehead and Russell say, DIVERSITY IS NEGATION. Our Jerusalem of Whitman not Dario, Washington, Solomon, Roosevelt made war on the dogs for their money, Albert and Bertie said.
Fidell-didell, tooteloo
alternative histories all true.
Ask the cuckoo and the stork, feedle three the cheek.
Maybelline and Jack race to their pueblos to take the oath.
Oh! What comes to blessed in the sight of all creatures yet alive?
Who knows but the words come out of the ground, bitter and clean, made so clean it makes us see woman smooth water, pine cold air, old road, campground, cottonwoods, bear. ]]]
Bridge over Garden of Delight
saint's grotto (or a brothel), carved within a hill in the shape of a man on all fours
Koerner: inscrutable enigmas and grotesque antagonists 101, Boschian monsters, ars imitator naturam, Horace 101, Vitruvius, Bernard; contested irreality 103, spindle world, St Antnony ignoresthem; Jeroon Bos 104, bird catchers, magi, Adoration, bird 106; propulsive furcula, 99, chelonian carapace, antiphilus grotesque
A whole crowd of creatures in the region between earth and moon sought the real world below. the white house beyond these island worlds that hold among the birds where large dogs were kept and Followers called the excellence of fairy trees and animal talk invisible beings posing as better selves, a lost longing for the tales of gold when the world was young. These labyrinths unfurled half dwarf informants, Waking Trees and visible Naiads, Fauns and Satyrs, Dwarfs and Giants, gods and Centaurs, of Talking Beasts and the Telmarines. But the earth was really a leaf pile from which you could pull red oak leaves and maple from the transepts of decay, and appreciate that beauty corrupt in itself and not as some public nostalgia, had tempted the sons of God, unless it was they who corrupted beauty. Let it be in the mind of the beholder that had a body never recovered from the disinterred sklls after drastic cuts of anatomizing. These takes on the 600 billion invisible beings must have a finite list of subjects even if they vary in the honest unconscious jakes of Dante, Goya, Gehry, greater and less, but do not deny it in Bosch or Breughels, but Michelangelo is not so, jpatterned, with a less honest story to tell. All I am trying to do is give a record to myself of what I have encountered as meaningful.
Like the half man half angel commanded to be destroyed over and over, not in genocide but deicide, but some seem always to have one way or another survived, perhaps their fins and gills saved them as they took to the waves, it is always between the true men and true animals and the false Men grow horns, and tusks and snouts, fins and bawl in the dust as they lose their legs. They grow hair, scales, every variety of the denatured beasts and who knows what they have been CRISPRd with, branches, leaves roots, they bawl and caw and whistle instead of words, have lost their speech, arms turn to wings but cannot fly, noses are beaks, their fingers are razor sharp, but their minds no longer human, or they are as human as Elon Mustks neurolink with AI, going the opposite way from the bestial to the inanimate prisons of virtuality to never escape, not even die, forever tortured except they will be freed at the destruction of the world and all its woes. All this is in Bosch and Breughels.
The Garden of Earthly delights. Brian Sewell
Grotesque cheatures in last judgement Tripticyh, terrible hybrids of man and beast, fusion of animate and inanimate 26.33
“fantastic waterside constructions in pink and blue, “the hideous ears with their terrifying blade, the harp transformed into a terrible instrument of torture, the lantern that has become fa furnace, …the bird figure swalling the damned only to excrete them into a hole in the ground…a human posterior excreting coins into a hole, a bird creature wearing a cauldron on its head, the ends of its humanoid legs shod with wine jars, 33.14f, Temptation of St Anthony, 39.53 a wine jar turned into a piggy creat,
saint's grotto (or a brothel), carved within a hill in the shape of a man on all fours.
One among many matched the bust of Sterne when its skull was held up among the skeletal bones. All were transferred to an ossuary in Coxwold Kirkyard while the air of the bridge that flew about the heads of travelers still seemed largely at first of their own devise. The air was turned into poems As if the invisible ineffable was a world undone its pendant stars were turned into poems on the one hand while the neck of an asphalt goose hung down on the other, like some Revelation among the churches. The race that cut them down wherever they could was at war to bring together highly disparate things, angels of the abyss against saints and their King, which invisible at first overwhelmed. But like the commentary on Lucretius that was burned just because it depopulated the invisible from the universe before the fire those theologues had a dream to bring the powers of the invisible realm to florescence upon the political.
Poems flew about the heads of the travelers like nano particles of aluminum outside them but also in them so they were themselves also the medium. Reflective particles of asphalt goose and crocus bulbs sprouted out of this air, as if it were snow, as if the air was a ground where the bulbs came up, except they weren’t flowers, but heads, and when not heads left over in the snows of the previous winter new sprouted, were skeletons of a matter of speech, something that emerged in the spring among the take offs of thaw.
These registered greater and less in the minds of aristocrats who wore towels instead of shirts, a knot at the shoulder the way Roman legions wore insignia, a
This mantle was only the visible when it was remembered. Otherwise it was invisible. that swirled in sheaths about their chests and shoulders floating like luminous whales offshore in midair. They might as well have been white gowned tongues hanging from the pole star.
The anima of this huge confeigorole of Bridge Kings was what the poets called the evening’s black insides, the asphalt lips
None of those sea blown arrivals were squirrels quarrel from down branches and caterwauls dive steadily at seabears and black kestrals and at the rigging of some diver in the breakers. The babble of relics ad bodiless sticks and smokes and stoved muscle in the struggle pouring down like enamel panels from skulls of the menial Neptune spun its round arms about the shaping circles of sin moon coils. Not to dislike the moon or crocodiles hatched by the Nile against the fabulous curtain the asses breath of thirsty hemispheres in the sky scrape. Not even the stones there speak out loud even if they groan and float to invented bird notes, not to use such terms as crime or tower or ghost in these windy mansions of no fair form loin but of horn and dawn and circuses of sky sign against the sharper that any sword that wheels the bridge as a comet into the sun with all its ghosts and rooftops.
Knowledge for the sake of power, preoccupied megalomania of Soul of sixgun mushroom bagpipe power justified anything superior to the world of sound and cloud and snail. They ordered the extinction of the invisible or of the visible to force the world into this flight upon the rude tree, filtered always through megalomania of the three terms, the visible, the invisible, the megalomania rising. From the steadily falling night came also a fourth, the true man who opposed webfooted supernatural coitus, cosmic intercourse of ancient existences of spiritual beings invoked by corporations and government. The remything absolut engineers made a twin world spinning double to milk the bronze root of the rose of fortune.
Not that it was crowded, not that it was fluid or solid or that any positional space was described because in some certain sense the snowflakes of navies under the sun all flew through each other. The poems and birds yawned like sheets in a storm hooking over ice jams the salt beak of spirit kings melting over the liquid world galleries of their drifting hair trailed fresh oer their breath that run a long trais of association you couldn’t see. The end of or the start of all the mythreal sword of Arthur taken from the stone as their dividing seemed so and now you know what they do on mountains lifting pretty heads from pillowed beds. The sun shining in their hair is not a dream, it is the mythreal poem, the words the moon opened. The moon, the moon to show or to tell all was also a doctrine, the greatest of which was to keep them on the bridge, going back and forth forever, never getting off. Great tomes to explain the meaning of the poems flying, commentaries, languages, sciences enforced the doctrines on the rivers below, the great myth asanas.
What king would command his culture to a 12 year old when he could get one at 5 in the plastic, if such applies, and there inculcate old school alterity from the womb, as is literally done with the comprachios of that time.
In purity and in pollution after the nature of a beast in natural form that came up out of the sea while all the people said how wonderful and good it was to live in that place of iron toes and clay feet, the memory of soft cubes of metal and railway cars sunk in the creek, the smell of coal hauled down at flood over whole expanses that froze into a skating rink with trunks and flotsam on the banks of the odor of decay where the bottom of this landscape built on a series of cliffs you went as strip mines and came down as iron sump runoff and great pits of blue green water with such steep sides the microhearting engineers turned dark black smoke white to implant worse. Diverging saw teeth between the toes of iron and clay, dreadful and terrible and strong broken in pieces the residue with its feet, before three of the first were plucked and the wheels burning fire issued a fire and e-books were opened until the beast was given to flame.
But it was the other human being, not being itself, that summoned the horizon, neither gift nor summons but the open space at the base of parabolic figures, “the heart of the being of the world which we enjoy like a surplus that overwhelms us even as we enjoy the warmth of the sun and the illumination of the morning sky,” and flown in love on the paths, immodest as it is to speak this way, as if the plain clothes dress were insincere to think it such, but better than to walk naked and unclothed in modern parlance snuggle in a bed nude, pretending to sleep for in the world the world is other only through its clothes whose underside surprised between will bare some extraterritorial space of night, in private, at home, concealed, not turned toward the sun of the other I seek to show in myself – to ambiguate kerf further intoxicating, eavesdrop in the spirit space that separates the planes, no matter how wide you cut, always the same, the width of the blade, in the thousandths of an inch, that roars and leaves this space between asunder, the word of truth dividing the width.
Befpre severa poderemt assses ade a traom acrpss moildering.
Several poderent asses made a way across, moiderant asses made a train over this bridge. The bridge itself immaterial. The asses could speak and if they could speak held a dialogue abong themselves about the trek. This was fitting because all that traffic was motorized. A complete list of the motors included all the little articles of miscreant legend ordinarily seen, not to be specific. The other reason was that the asses could not be controlled by the machines whose predisposition was taken as chaos. But to cross the bridge is to cross it. All the sights and sounds visible and heard now in their proof sates, not the after effect states, for there was the world, far below. Put one foot on the bridge and prove it the endless being into nothingness. That’s why he rides asses. Sentient beings, material ens among the wraiths. Pay no attention to it, eye has not seen or ear heard, cast down imaginations, ever thought, for the bridge is thought, and thoughts, all projected. Now in the second heaven, the one of discovery of the not, the naughty not, the psychonaut, the parabot, long the days and long the nights all of history to pass to the other side, all conflict competition disagreement chaos.
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Everything is immediate, all immediate on the bridge you’re driving your ass across. you don’t wait.
I was driving my asses through this. And they were very terrestrial asses. Their hoofs cut thru air like they were made of diamond. Their breath was solid against the screen of the fully transparent, imperfectly opaque brightness of the air. Since their feet cut through the ground I did not understand what kept us on the bridge at all as we passed through the flowers and leaves at their feet. I could see them but could not pick one up. We went through them but they did not go through us. The breath cast sheets of decorations that blanked out the ghosts, painted drapes over them of whatever it is ass breath is composed of. Sometimes I rode but often walked. I carried their fodder on their backs and my own too, with some other packs. And we were friendly with each other too for we were too real for the darts and the kings, the rulers and monarchs to touch and I took it as natural for all of that because you know I wasn’t going to tell you how unless you already know, but I had a map and a train of asses to ride right through the center of this metaphor. “surely darkness will conceal me, night will provide me with cover,” (Ps 139.11) darkness is not dark for you, night is as light as the day. “In other words, man’s humanity would be the end of interiority, the end of the subject. Everything is open. I am everywhere looked through, touched by the hand. Thus one can understand why Jonah could not escape his mission. This is what it means to have two faces. With only a single face, I have a place in the rear of the head, the occiput, in which my hidden thoughts and my mental reservations accumulate. Refuge which can hold my entire thought. But here, instead of the occiput, a second face! Everything is exposed, everything in me confronts (fait face] and must answer. I cannot, even through sin, separate myself from this God, who looks at me and touches me…”167
from apocalypse art and Pueblo fractal upside down reversed.
Bring Art to the Masses
To better manipulate these structures, committees of starchitects revived Paradise Lost. Book II filled the unspoken need, as illustrated by Paul Gustave Doré. Satan on the Burning Lake along with The Weaponized Weather of Maui was prescient as well, raising up the engine of Pandemonium executed by governments for all extinctions.
Was Michelangelo’s Drunkenness of Noah to be made into an inebriant hologram to numb the culling the culling of the herd? His Raising of the Triumphant Golden Herd, along with Triumph of the Living Immortal Golden Head, those lost works recovered from beneath the Vatican, told a similar tale. The problem was that once these were brought to the surface they were subject to the same invisibility controls and nobody could see them.
Did the Denver Airport herald some deeper Dantean traverse of its labyrinthine underground, where ships were stowed stow away ready for blast off, as elites escape planet Earth? I you are one of those lucky ones to get a ticket and you are ready for blast off, read this before you go.
Photographers on the Inferno beat, who read the Dante/Virgil Report, exposed how "two travelers found the shaggy and gigantic Lucifer at the absolute centre of the Earth, embedded up to his waist in ice.” But the ice was melting! Tundra, tundra on the wall….
John Martin, Pandemonium 1825
The only way they could continue their journey was by climbing down his sides-there is plenty of hair to hold on by-and squeezing through the hole in the melting ice and so coming to his feet they climbed down its sides, in the reverse gravity: "though it is down to his waist, it is up to his feet" (Inferno xxxiv, 70f: C. S. Lewis. The Discarded Image. 141-2). This first version of
the devil’s staircase, before it melted, hid the scoop that not only was this the first reptilian man and the first use of the word transhuman, but also the devil’s staircase was upside down. It seems unfair.
Once begun this line of inquiry caused a reappraisal of all the great works. Scientists had Turner’s Angel Standing in the Sun on the drawing board for the new millennium in France.
We best not look into the Trojan Horse. And that hair will be needed in the cold. Everyone who sails, quickly aboard bestow you, make ready metaphors, hair and port, for that donkey mule to carry you loft. Fear obesities of imaginative bonds? Bulging equator? Flesh up, dude. Scale to the circuits below. The epic world is closer than you know. What more? Starchitecture counterparts in movies and lit? “Munch a mountain, drain a quaff, poem seepage deep enough.”
Never mind the Denver Airport, Plutarch said. The little world has the same organs as the great. He was of course opposed in this by Joseph Campbell who said, “myth manifests in metaphorical images of the organs of the body in conflict with each other” (The Power of Myth, 46), which myth these lines creates.
Plutarch was an Archon giant who had rowed across the galactic moors in these metaphors that "stars revolve like 'radiant eyes' 110, but he never saw t lines crisscross the sky or he’d have thought the heavens were playing tic tac toes with him. Be not blind, hee said in the face of the universe of Extreme Weather.
The sun dispersed itself of heat and light as if it were the heart. Blood and breath, earth and sea were bowels and bladder. Moon between the sun and earth was the liver, and viscera 111 between the heart and bowels, sent up warm exhalations above from that region refined and more below (112 On the Face of the Moon Loeb Classical Library, XII, 1957). What's a little aluminum, barium, strontium, bits of plasma? Pathetic lunacy? Metaphysic physical mass, thought-formed shaped existence?
Compare the Greek purged pity and fear. Star(chitectures) forgot the purge, just feared. Different from the heart where desert pump and blood whoosh vein, different from the mountain where the wind blows sound, different from the voice within, the good news of all this was that it spelled an end to all those Evolution Prayer Breakfasts at the White House.
Here the chartiers then the bridge
IX. The New Religion
If there is a new religion where these improb-abilities and immor-talities are understood Guggen-heim Bilbao is its temple.
It is a genetically modified religion if you will, that motivates biologists to make a headless frog to mine its body parts. This is thought to be right and ethically real, and that all opposition to it is bigotry. This religion reaches into time the way chemtrails reach into space and can be tracked through literatures once thought myth by academics, but now, since science makes its own myth, myth becomes empirical fact to be revived even while denying the fact basis of myth. Religion usually has priests to explain its arcane secrets. In this case the priests are scientists. The religion is epic in scope. Requirements of epic include that it encompass heaven, earth and under earth in one continuous scene of action.
Geoengineers aerosol the new sky. The new earth beneath the new sky sprouts an engineered pig, battery pack mice, and closed circuit controls for cockroaches. All this and more is policed by military enforcers who can hear and see like a dog. Scientists are like starchitects who idolized themselves. We would be their worshippers. Before there were starchitects there were pleasure domes and gardens which science made gigantic and microscopic at the same time as the Microbiologists disappeared. Here’s the roster. They literally disappeared, which as ridiculous as saying that before they did they built domes of ice in a bat, spider genes in a goat, a flounder in a tomato and new forms of death.
Literature and writers were the old testament scriptures of science in this transformation. Buildings, art and the literature of the hybrid celebrated the hybrid age before it appeared. These so called genetically modified writers were precursors before the means of the decoded human genome appeared. Thus Coleridge’s opium enabled his dream, Baudelaire, Burroughs did the same, Huysmans suggested nature was diseased, Dada, Beckett, Rimbaud. All were precursors of Monsanto seed and Frankenfood.
Below the earth, in the underground bases, Coleridge drank the opiomes that inspired Baudelaire, “dreams of a maniac who would replace solid furniture and a real garden by decorative canvas” (Les Paradis artificiels). Coleridge heard deep rivers flow in “caverns measureless to man.” Barry Lopez heard them too, upriver “at the headwaters itself, farther up than is shown, ravens are meditating, and it is from them that the river actually flows, for at night they break down and weep.” (River Notes, 87). Being measureless, Kubla built an altar of giant reveries, electromagnetospheres, in these caverns that foresaw the Knockout Mouse and the deep levels of the Denver Airport. Human Knockouts (KO) of the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Knockout Medicine were marketed in 2025.
Between the buildings of this future state where the spider of Bilbao and Blue Horse of Denver hid, Batcave Opiomes were the literary pleasures of Huysmans, “not one single invention of (Nature's), however subtle or impressive it may be thought to be, that the human spirit cannot create; no forest of Fontaine-bleau or moonlit scene that cannot be produced with a floodlit stage set; no waterfall that hydraulics cannot imitate so perfectly as
to be indistinguishable from the original; no rock that papier-mâché cannot copy; no flower that specious taffetas and delicately painted papers cannot rival!” (Against the Grain). Moralists like Coleridge and Burroughs at the end of the age worried that addiction and “ancestral voices prophesying war” would come.
Artifice Thus
Coleridge in his descent of Broad Strand, rappelled from a dream of hopes in air to reconstruct in hieroglyph a pleasure dome of his, an immortal pursuit of artifice (Baudelaire 34) alive as wood and stone. But 19th century artifice was not so cruel as to exclude the artilect, although if the term were artificial imagination it no fool.
Blue Horse
These all thought ahead to make the man immort. To keep him company in his new estate Frabel designed glass botanicals in the shade of its poison tree, a biosphere of artifice, “flowers like the Lily, Dogwood, Cherokee Rose and various Orchids recreated in realistic fashion using borosilicate glass” (Life in the Gardens, 2009).
Further down the caverns the measureless took its place. Nanobot suction cups formed in the fingertips of mensch. Science engineered microscopic viral clones of a new genetic cell, which sounds like fiction, except for a new kind of bird flu forged in those times from old Kiebsiella planticola that killed the past, which was oddly not dead. Waiting to be revived, Plantosaurus maximus rex loved the Headless even if he did not yet exist. He would come the way the weather had after twenty years of covert spray. Science, business, government and art planned to fill a thousand empty necks. Among starchitecture frogs and knockout mice Guggenheim Bilbao was a main pleasure port. Arrivals and departures, flights of fancy prey, special forces took their genes to town. Take your gun to town son, don’t leave that gun at home.
The Horse of Troy, Tower of Babel, EU Parliament, Guggenheim Bilbao, Denver Airport, Whitney Kac, parks and services of the UN Zeus, name your own, Parliament-Babel furnished with a spider and a siren vision of sculpture. The new age wore semaphores on the runway, Anubis and the murals of the Denver Airport signaling.
Long-necked lion, faux dinosaur, of the Narmer Palatte
Architects, dubbed “archistars” for design-made “starchitecture” memorialized, but the coinage suited thousands of years no doubt, including that Trojan Horse like the Ishtar Gate. Blue horse Denver didn’t seem demonic though. Such honor was reserved for Spanish conquistadors, part human / part beast, for the Aztecs otherwise called recombinant mutants from the USDNA labs, ancient Sumer horses
with heads of a lion and stingers in their tails (Bergson’s Seventh Seal).
Do tell movies long replaced the news. Visiting Anubis, the Jackal-headed dog, floated down the Thames on its world tour to join a line of icons dwarfed or magnified from the past. In the guise of bringing art to the masses, great Zeus in the lobby of the UN, the eyes of Oculus Horus in the subway beneath 9/11, a vortex swallowing the globe, the Capitol Dome, the Washington Monument, Nebuchadnezzar’s gold statue, Ishtar Gate, Babylon.
Paradise Lost - Satan Rises From a Burning Lake
A Bridge to Pass to Countries for people who
The five kings put their necks in private to rule the public sphere of roof and field, repeated under the blinding binding moon in its parliament of sky the half faith that blew time there, but there only one way, for that was only one way that death should have no dominion
Would that sleep of the mummy revive? The piezo electric of this EM rad had so hardened girls that they sold their eggs to make the body electric.
I mean like the bushy stems and roots that grow clockwise on a face, that double and redouble again until hands and fingers over all the earth. with
These were forced to express the counterfoil. It’s hard to think of anything while doing it, for the making was of itself the beauty and falsehood of a dimension more spotted than Laban's sheep.
Another faience model of these deceased shabty figures recupense, which all should avoid, held strangers in the hold of ships that brought fantastic waterside constructions to land in pink and blue with the ears of a blade, so that their hearing was as they say sharpened to the music of a harp transformed into a HAARP of a bird swalling the ground, a cauldron on its head, the ends of its humanoid legs shod with wine jars that turned into pigs.
The name of the bridge in our man Brubaker was first Bruppbacher. It appears on the slopes of Lake Zurich where a bridge constructed over a mountain brook named “Brugg-Bach,” meaning “Bridge-Brook.” This was adopted by a house that took the name. “Bruggbacher” was the bridge house. The house and the people who took the name of the brook and the bridge changed it to a double “p” from the double “g.” “Bruppbacher” had many spellings, “Brubaker” and “Brubacher” most often, even if “Bruppbacher,” “Brubacher” and “Brubpacher” ride the trail.
This makes our story two worlds. One like the other will make more. If one is many we are in and if many here there must be more there. A four year jokes that two plus two is eight, but double the double he should repeat, sixteen! As a wrathful state this is hard. Everyone thinks it is bliss as numberless as the bridge.
Under the bridge the air is filled with warehouses and houses, refugees, smoke and noise. Waves and warehouses and Eastland patents with roster in a lab, and mines of important people. But there are wheels within wheels, for the warehouses are an effect of a cause that has gone before. All warehouses, metaphors, science first resides in what we shall call The Briefcase. When the doors of the briefcase open all these refugees fly out with pieces of paper. Then they exit to a huge warehouse. It figures that those who float under the bridge and above seem far away, but passage from the briefcase the the warehouse is by sailing in the air. The poetic hear melodious rhyme out of the smokestacks, so since they have smokestacks that suggests the warehouses are also factories of some kind. These smoke birds aren’t like any birds we know.
The idea that these are insuperable ideas is not wrong. There is a time when, if this merry work is done, the bridge will collapse. When we was going o'er we heard a crack. Wee Willie ran through all the towns like Paul Revere calling-- Universal Amplitude, a natural sway is coming! Ihis is done to further inculcate the river of souls beneath with refinements of depatterning and amnesia. It had to be founded on layers of children. A feedback loop played over and over while under drugs is hard to crack. It however introduces more technical language. When sensory deprivation at the Society for the Investigation of London Bridge kicks in, it placates the knowledge of Breuegels lift, and El Greco’s, St. Peter and Bosch.
I am still waiting to see if the music incoherent to the ear can ever be heard. Two cases still being negotiated from the first of the year exist happily under different names. The editors have put some effort into the dialogue, but with no result, so reluctant to start another, all this writing is in free fall and automatically under revision and doubted as an expression, but context makes it whole. If Bruk=er going out is a prequel predates that included here, it would help to know what comes after. However it is all simultaneous. This juggling the narrative is the same as saying we don't know our youth until our age. And they are all versions. Even if we think we do. We hope to get a glossary at the end.
Butter, lather, bony strike,
cut froth neck, we go awake.
2. Suspended from the chandelier, which in size to us made big little and little big, wearing masks and orangutan suits and jangling chains, the reader will easily recognize these advanced similitudes of DMT adapts as they flutter and control. We see them unmasked in some paintings or described as insectoid businessmen. These rare beasts, harnessed and exalted to high status on the bridge with that old trick of Remus and the tar baby, hold their feathers on by such adhesives as we once called tar which now advance far into the polymer. The whole is suspended over the heads of those who traverse the bridge and those under. The bridge has two levels at least, two we can see while standing on the first. While we think the sun a chandelier outside, it is in fact a moon suspended to revolve in those moments when crowds underneath look up to see the spectacle. Proper shock and awe involve each differently in what’s not there. The masks we do not truly see appear timed to some climax like a twelve night clock at new year, counting days, months and years, until a future belief in this haphazard marks ten, nine, eight. To heighten the effect, when turned round to face the angel a general rush at the locked doors is a problem. The whole scene is lifted up its own fire of flammable clothing of gas, like rayon shirts that burst into flame. Citizens above, below or on the bridge lack the power to describe this cataclysm. But what to do, the bigs hang in chains. If you want to know what this portends as the bridge and its rulers so revolve give a try here to figure it out.
Warehouses
There is more to Brubake than he knows, or to you if you will. He needs finding out. All kinds of explanation are given. Levels further up say these colonials need more nitrogen and phosphorus and that explains their confusion. Tales told by their poets call jesters and fools those who wear the motley cap and bells so expectant with opinion. They all look like their king, a corpulent fellow of old who plays pranks on them. In the parlance of our day that prank is the microbiologist killed for “phosphorus” light to fund the laboratories of mind. Great rarities were obtained. Somewhere therein you shall find a list of these. The scientists are like the photophosphoric mice used to light old coal mines, in modern terms the mental labs. The show mice administrators mount flying warehouses of this thought. These warehouses materialize in midair.
The Briefcase
Attempts to further materialize Bruppbacker had little effect. Sonic weapons fired continually microed out. Flying right beside and hanging on the bridge were many notables. Rune Floberghagen with his latest patent in his pocket of the Buckminster Fuller world grids. Ossoff Cathie’s fifteen dimensions of alternate convections. So yes there are many variables, but don’t take your mind off the goal, which is to get over and through the Bridge to the other side. Pretty hard when you don’t know it’s there. There Burbreak waits to meet Brubake. But not in traditional sense. They are warehouses.
The bridge of which we speak however could not be built by ordinary means. We do not want to hear of this indoctrination, but Terrance Mckenna is as good example as any. He is buried at the foot of the pier of the bridge to keep it from falling. All his ideas and interviews are there. He is buried with a candle in his nose and piece of bread in his hand, food and light so the guardian, so to speak, can watch.
In short the bridge is a projection upon the world, on the physical worlds below. The gods, the governments, rulers the elite all serve what is above. This bridge, over the river of below, rules all temporal sense. To walk the bridge on its own terms is a defeat obtained either physically with shamic doses of drugs that make confident when they should be afraid, and in the mind. But there is another way to walk it the elite cannot comprehend, in the flesh, soberly by donkey that is, in and around the thought forms like Bunyan’s Christian on pilgrimage through the world.
To turn the Tragic into the comic let us say that this Dream of a Bridge is a direct statement of the narrative involving mentors like Tyndale, Wycliffe, Bunyan, Timmerman, Frankl, Levinas, Wittgenstein, Goya, De Kooning and Franz Kline imprisoned, some killed twice, as was done with Tyndale as if it is the least he could do.
Words are almost indefinitely malleable in this and new insight is almost always a constant. We may conclude that transitions and conclusions result in the baking out of impurity. Brubaker Going Out therefore exists before he goes on the bridge. It would be important to catch him before that anyway, to see how it all came about, but we can't know what he is up to until after. So maybe this beginning should come, with all its ilk, after we know the situation he is in, which is what I hope to provide you with now.
--Are you ready little narrative?. Let’s go back to Brugger, beginning, back at coal mines and creeks, the tracks and the bridge he stands before in memory, for he is always there and elsewhere.
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