On The Substance of Disorder

Walking on a spit of ether into the void.
-Will Alexander

"...I've made a series of little objects in wood, where I start off using the shape of the wood itself. Starting like this ... is, in my opinion, similar to the process writers might use starting from a certain sound..."
-Joan Miro

If I count myself as one who functions through collapse, it is a collapse by which all the known exteriors are fueled. It takes no great leap in the mind to know that exteriors are fueled by that which no longer contains the visible as exclusivity. Of course, I’m speaking of the solar fray which burns from within. Those dalmation interiors, those suns which extend themselves by means of azul or amarillo.

You see, I am simple in the sense that the lamp burns beside me and I speak. This is not a coronation that I’m announcing for myself, with its burned letters, with its eroded pontoons. This is an era when I look askance at the sunlight, as if I were a tiger suddenly buried in his backdrop. As if I could blink and witness myself on a stage with two caftons burning, like 2 mirrors face to face with some untoward moon sparking its heat by means of its dire rotational centigrade, advancing as a form within another blue profile in the nebula. I say this because there are other systems which self organize by osmosis. By means of other dusks and suns. Which becomes a double sun that one can no longer distinguish with the eye. In this regard I speak of a solar or opaque treatise. Saying this I am not giving life to a winged burial, nor am I advancing that realm where the soils explode and grow. It’s as if I painted a king with burning locust feathers, with grammar exuding from his eyelids, always having kept to himself the idea that the tundra was missing. As if grasping my own forces by potentia, by celluratic compound, which spins inside its phasma by means of ghostly ampersands, by means of unlit chimeras.

I am telling myself a story as if I were ¾ carbon, as well as unembrangled code charged as uranium and boundary. I have been told that I am a king who could never form himself on a dais, perhaps a form which consists of opaque geranium and ash. Or perhaps a social leper who could never bring himself to be.

I sit here in this tumbling carrion chamber, in half-lit condition, handling a lobotomized mosaic, rising from etheric kindling thrones. Thus, I am ¾ throne, and unlit embodiment, working my way through 3 or 4 levels of disinclined embodiment. Like flickering, like aphasiatic shadow, as if appearing as part penumbra, part calliope, and part sand. As if, I were a zone of interior compost and writhing. As if I could appear through glass, or rhythms of glass, all the while attempting to transfix a visible mean by dent of voluable counting. Again according to complex intercession, the way the mind dispels according to partial implosion and blinding.

I’ve only been left with a single letter in my mind, with one state of assorted or infamous chronicling, as if I were nothing more than an acidic state of frenzy. Take the letter I’ve come to accept as I. To me, it is no more than a hovering platform, a nomadic transposition, where its upright epithet is coming to terms with its glacial laterality. For me, the letter has the meaning called transfixed and interior walking, a mesmerics which flows from sleep. I have never taken a step from the iota of my interior trembling. I have never divided its spoils, or sung to myself as a toneless imprecation, attempting to work inside my soils as if I could count on myself as a prone or lasting exhibit. I am no more than fumes, no more than a feeble verbal glance coming to view through blue and meandering cartographical example. This condition by which my advances project according to spoiled utopian trees, with a leakage of grammar that gives the mind flames from a wavering chimerical intent. Thus, I irradiate from damage, from the splinters which leak an inevitable and sorcerous contradiction. Because of this my mind seems immured in cleansing, in tragic clockwork interiors. There can be no advancement other than the mind that I’m given which masquerades its law through debility. I admit, it remains the sigil as evil, an approach which bickers with self-governance, which no longer appeals to itself, according to the form which hides in itself the inference according to a syntax which bleeds or is self-missing. I can tell you that I am proof of different reversions, of an errant climatology, which dwells by magnetic erosion. It is all I can do to cease my bewildering cascades, my flawed sisal, my makeshift amplification. Therefore, as I scatter lenses in my mind, I can sense my throne as a series of imploded gurneys, or a thread in partial flame, fueled by a dicta of waking anger or motives.

Such are my responses at this stage, perhaps a sun on a magic or volatile emblem, or a great or wizened charcoal particular. Perhaps the sum could be stated as a rapid or direct ambrosia, or a brazen embodiment of mercury, or a partial gladioli, as floating hinge, as ghostly mercator warren. Mine is a mind according to neutered fermentation, to that which exists over and above the dialectic known as habitable breathing.

True, I am a fever which exists, which spells backwards 4 names without listening to my signals focus on any seal or abstraction. Of course I ask myself, am I this sudden cellular inferno dazed by in-derived electrical transparency? Am I the anti-figuring charged by collapsed trap doors and pulleys?

I have evolved from amnesiac insufflation, never brought to my own dazzling intermittance, evolving from space to space as if I were an interval, more and more pronounced as my effort recedes to the scope we call infinity. Such is the power of interjacence, of the wandering mongrel victim transposed by a sought infinity. So you ask, what is a sought infinity, how are its amalgams encrypted, how are its spells suddenly shifted so as to solemnly bear witness to a pre-condition as postulate? Certainly not the draught of laborious narrative, or written technique carved from stark grammatical exposure.

So how can I be perceived as a stark or lower personage within a kingdom? Perhaps an exhibit to be listed as a source of non-parameter? Am I seeking to amalgamate my own ratio as substance, developing my power by geological droseras?

I could condone such questions as stance, seeking to locate my source of intransigence as fulcrum, as burning in the midst of empirical arrangement. So am I grafting dimensions making of my mind an inflamed personal storage of symptoms, or perhaps a disembodied provocation? Language has returned to my terrain so I emit myself as a broken nebular exhibit. Perhaps a confused or stuttering pylon advancing itself as compounded report. This is what I’ve come to endure in the vertigo garden. A blank or cellular harness like scattered birds as example. And these birds remain a strength without conclusion, without bond or notoriety, being a lost or anomalous glissando. This remains the crux of perfect yield. This being the fullness of a rigorous ampersand, like a code of circles in my cranium. The circle for me is aloofness over and above the traitorous. It is not a religiosity which provokes me, but those elliptical cells where unknown suns are burning. This is not to focus upon the darkness of childish clepsydras, but to peer into those instants where fabulous curiosities are encoded. Where under another sun the mind I have would be expanded inside itself as the code of a sweltering tonic. Perhaps its light would be a marred or debatable fuchsia as if watching a blurred lantern swinging inside an alcove. Or perhaps, a blurred lorikeet in flight. This is not a stark or corrosive tenor like a cool equational shark at twilight. Thus, my soma has shifted neither right or left of my equator. I can never retrieve the slanted prismatics, or the one degree of blinding which shifts backwards in any mental addendum I’ve accrued. So if a sun spins backward inside any mental addendum I’ve accrued, there can be no understanding that I can relate as regards personal claim or erosion. It would seem most likely that I would be claimed in terms of a spectral or curious erosion, since, as I’ve related, the phonemes cease conflict and remain shifted at the level of heteronyms. If one could introduce into some form or predicament the centripetal square as if one had mastered logarithmic ether. Of course I attempt to equate the bizarre and logarithmic as chronicle. A chronicle which refuses and ingests its own damage. Aphasia remains analogous to the swirling loam on Jupiter being mass as quaking stasis.

Therefore, my voice poised at corrosive limit, being nothing more or nothing less than riddled probity as action. Not a riddled probity as parochial, as flaw, but heavenly agrostology as whisper. Because objects whisper to me as if I am withdrawn inside a spinning optic ravine, as if, I had drained my own inertia as plasma, as a stark or umbilical darkness. Darkness as a code for umbilical slippage, for a slippage not gathered by dreadful pointedness, or a watchful dragon, or a claw. As if I could reveal degree by degree a secret through scattered acorn postings. I can only come to inconclusion, to rife or malarial wavering, as the tortured mean of speech, like a dozen or so amalgams being the body as glass by symphonic lecture. This is the mind at different states of withdrawal, stated to itself as discontinuous cache, only allowing itself to breathe by revelation according to a blurred, or de-candescent systemic. This I understand to be the obvious, for instance, claustrophobia by integer, by fumes which cease to hesitate according to composure by deafness. Odd, very odd in the sense that I have never been brazen enough to speak, or until the vapour of aphasia seemed lifted. Again, I am lifted by means of emptied ampersands and bells, sailing contiguous sun to contiguous sun on a dazed incalculable mental ferry. Or, sailing on a boat to a star. As resistance, my dialectic implodes over the scope of 3 moons, yet each imploded moon being resistance as circuitous ray. So if there is a sun within 2 rays, and yet an absence of rays, how does the sun exist beyond its double extension over and beyond itself projected even beyond its spore which optically registers as a blue and green photino? A palpable double ray? A concussive central ray beyond its own admixture? And if this ray were its sole or principle contradiction, would it not be the same to me in that it makes a conundrum unto itself, in that its double light is absent as in a maze or a stroke as doubled lightning rejoinder? For me, this is how the sun works, how the months fall dead in their mesh marks.