other than something or nothing
caught up in the scrambling of being and non-being
only where we can catch glimpses
of the joyous multitudes of a life
like fireflies in the dark.

here again
thinking of what could have been
and what will never be
again, never
—enough.

dark consuming thoughts:
cannibals
secreting themselves.
(out of the nothing, no longer,
that was the voice of truth.)

today is a miraculous disaster, like the same before but repeated: something new and undialectical. now i hear footsteps in the corridor of the sanatorium skull sanctuary. thoughts of the proto-symbolic muse have crept in like winter mists over the empty fields as the sun sets again. turning over in bed. deferred, all around me, the dead ones, the days, the exiles. teach me to speak
a language to-come
for the waves of love have long been forbidden from this one. aftermath of machine makers: beautiful, too feeble a word. the notions of self and hatred have become too antiquated and too childish for self-hatred to be of effect. wastelands too have their day. the way is non-lineal, wrapped in complex points. seeking to saturate the atoms of a life: immanence. seeking to witness the vistas of a soul’s minimum of two multiplicities. it’s too easy to spend too long counting your obsessions. the sovereign says nothing again, it’s nothing new, it’s not nothing either; it’s not something to stay silent about. the day is gone; but stay a painting with me a while longer. the day is gone; how many of us are forgotten? i don’t remember
when i stopped counting.

barred
from the body of paradise,
i seek for knowledge.
experimenting, transgressing:
the ethical act—
fleeing:
all the while in search of brick-like concepts
and comrades to throw them with
and build with,
whether it be barricades for the many
or shelters for all.
we'll look back, and say that our salvation was in fact the Fall
or we shall not be:
praise be to Eve, teacher of freedom,
the courage to stand, be counted, and refuse,
and love too;
praise be to Eve, breaker of the neurotic's dream,
my Venus and pioneer of the mind.

the sharp sting of shame, barbed, serrated and twisting,
will be dulled by the long passing of time i will soon forget...
but this is no comfort or consolation for me tonight,
as i am reminded of other days i would rather not have lived.

why do i hate this person so, to whom i have been
so little exposed,
of whom i know no more than a meaningless name?
because they express traits i repress in myself.
traces of hatred remain,
with all their searing weight and strain,
for as long as i, myself, the world's flows-and-structures,
stay the same, in torrid stasis, code, and axiom.