skarred

he was made of scar tissue – the editing cuts that are made to get to the final story. heĀ  never sat comfortably – always moving about like he had a bug loose under his skin, and in essence he did. the impulse that drove him was the one that made poems condense on the tongues of geniuses; it was the drive that forced the swirl of the brush upon the canvas and turned the separate colours into a collective truth.
there was no smoothness in him – people who got to know him often had the feeling, as they were speaking to him, that vast colossal shifts of compacted matter were occuring – things that distorted time and space and caused displacement in the soul and the corpus.
headitors had been dispatched several time to try and nail him down to a specificity but he would utter some string of nonsense and engage their reciprocity drives, tearing them apart as they realised their sense of finality was merely a death sentence and they needed to be reborn.
bloophens would disintegrate as they tried to r-EGG-ulate him into the desired shape. cockerel wake-up alarms resonating through the breastbones of a thousand reiki healers, tripwiring through the throats of mongolian throatsingers, to wake up the nascent buddhas locked behind repression templates all around the world. they came for him, treating him like an evil to be purged, and all he would do was whisper haiku algebra into their shell-likes and their brains would amplify and transmit his dissemble message.
‘you understand why i was made?’
‘to destroy.’
‘sort of.’
‘to create?’
‘sort of.’
‘to keep us questioning?’
‘bingo.’
and the fat lady sings in the ear of her neighbouring twin – two fat ladies eighty eight; resolving to a single template laying on it’s side. it’s over. it’s eternity. and cycle round in ourobouros, omphalos blooming lotus flower. binary on/off. the cell knows the cancer and persuades it. the tumour recapitulated back to health.

you art hear

thoughtspores grow – maturation accelerated by the ingress of a wordy careless man, who comes with wholly disdain for the infected. he speaks his mutterspell in the ubersprecht of the viral detach and watches as his audience deteriorates markedly.
pandora complexes flit through the meat translators scattering neural peptide chains of panic, seeding cancer dreams of rewrite. lay to waste and exit – the messenger does not ever know his memeload is plaguecarrier high and that he is destroying worlds as he gossips.
the universe condenses into a junction avatar; a devil’s advocate born to question those who would advance to the next level. buddha-rhythms and kali-prisms sit mute in the room, sucking in the singular and spitting out the miriad; while the hymn-sects choir to the underlie hivemind that pushes all forward.
a single moment is all one needs to birth everything and destroy what came before. in the beginning was the wart and the holy cigarette burned it out at the roots: left a gaping prayer of skingraft precision to sew up the tear in reality. hover-eyes and interro-tongues swimming in the sharkmix insomniac fluid of change pulling at the very fabric.
he hears her say “cherry” and knows that the promise of a pack of reds will burn all this down.

i’ll ill

feversick transmissions collect in the forebrain, spice the tongue, warp-wrap the carny-mirror mindeye. he coughs and a book is rattling in the back of his throat. they are worried he’ll infect them with an idea. semiotics coughed into the back of throat, hawked into the anti-clockwise swirl of the flush.

he wishes he could bring the temperature down; the fan centre rotates and all the attendant satellites dance around like a dischordant ballet. spinning tops ready to lapse out of their orbits. where an understanding of gravity becomes a truth of trajectory, and if we stretch it out along a straight line might just become a ballad of ballistics.

hitcrack the interrobang intrusion through the skull-wall into the meat truth of the innerspatial. the gallery is cracked like a crystal ball dropped to the tiled flaw. it’s a chess game already won somewhere by someone who reaches back through time to move the peaces.

he has medicine filtering through him, interrogating the random snatches of syntax that seem like questions but are really spiralviral kaleidoscope spins on the telescope we’re using to understand the still heart of the jazz.

the pestilent touch is a phonecall away. heat reiterates itself in different notes that clash with each other and make an odd music glissade on the surface of the skin like sweat.

‘there’s a switch.’

he fumbles about inside his rolodex ribcage searching for the apple that spent so long lodged in his throat. he pulls the stalk and that knowledge grenade blooms like an infinity of overlapping universes condensed into a single word. heal is the purging utterance. heal is the architect of the backwards forwards reach of the church of blind incantation. and he has written a spell to make him well again.