Eerie and cold, like arctic winds sweeping, I hear muffled voices… murmurs of bleating… ecstatic… distorted human voices, as if heard through a weird filter; like tampered with, pitched down to a bizarre disfigurement beyond the chords of both man and beast… the humanity of it was kind of raped out of the hoarse throats, and pounding distantly, like an underlying pattern, or a fisher’s web, was a monotonous sound of primeval drumming, like a framework almost, to the extravagant atmosphere of the night, fullmoons luminous... Only slightly above the threshold to what a human ear possibly can perceive, it was, like a carpet covering the whole of the forest. I could hear vague dialogues over the dim noise of sparkling fires and locust choruses, but I could not, to my dismay, discern a single word; as if they spoke, but without meaning – as if their pallets parched by the second, like shoved with the dryness of whole deserts, and they merely tried to form words. It escalated to a jumble of human voices, a hobo of strange words and guttural vociferations; a crucible – this black grove became – of weird tongues… I could hear violent outbursts of bestial-sounding grunts, like the primitive moaning of aroused apes molesting their female kin, but it was so suddenly cut off again and again by acute shrieks, high pitched, charged with desperation or ecstasy or both as to rouse curiosity and intimidation coupled; I follow, to the greatest extent of my ability, like a dog sniffing trails of blood back to the slaughterhouse. I collapse; schizophrenic oracles preach the end gospel, and I hear the psychiatrists ripping their ears open – they listen – and the psychotic mania thrives and begets a virus, and fuck, not even gods can challenge such a paralyzing darkness, the nefariousness, the profundity, of language... the mystery of the human condition, cornerstones of the temple are the words birthed like babies on our tongues...
I hallucinate lucid paradox, I dream awake: I see parched lips sewn together with speechlessness, the oracle shed tears... teethless wanderers, pilgrims, prophets sell their silence for the price of Yerushalayim gutter prostitutes, hoarse mouths raped to reticence, children of sloppy whores hung from ropes of regret, cloaked by the black smoke, the scorching ruins of reason, human coal in the life furnace... the stench of the vapor of words aflame, set aflame, by pyromaniac boys living childhoods on the threshold of matricide, patricide, fratricide, sororcide (they build their temples around these fantasies, ruinous basilicas of no-thing-ness and truth). I wake up and find myself walking paths that does not really exist; complete and utter hopelessness befalls every wanderer, so now I am also here, and an unutterable sequence of words take hold of my throat; I witness anti-clockwise and chaotic evolution of written and spoken language; this will end in confusion at worst and total death at best. To the left of me, oceans of trees, to the right, the yawning abyss of possibilites; Kierkegaard talked passionately about this; I listen! Dark, endless oceans of neglect and of pain spill over the shores of redemption and logic as I tear out pages of millennia-old diaries: my prayers, my wishes, my ceremonies, my poems stick on my tongue, my confessions of love, terms of endearment, clog like semen in my throat; I revoke literature! It is a cancer. Scribes become property in brothels and on the fields of cotton, price tags mark their necks... carved in the stele of dementia and abandon is the concept of unable-ness of verbal expression: All. Known. Languages. Deteriorate. From. Within; such is the nature of the spoken word. They collapse inward, dilapidating like fucking N. Y. towers, stumbling on their own chinese-bound feet which is grammar...
So, I confess and I proclaim – I am nothing – the changeling born of the mother of anti-tonges tucked soflty in the crib of phoentics and grammar, supreme abstraction and springboard into realms of mysticism... I want to stir revulsion and dissentment between man and language – such is my goal – I want to put to exposure the fragility of it all... the hobo of existential sophistry veils life in static and noise; the golden rhymes, the prose shot from the dirty needle into loins of love addicts... I walk, and I walk; astray, lost in psychotic monologue, I can no longer discern a path, and my feet splash in a puddle of my own urine... God can not carve words on your canvas of flesh and blood, so why do you ask him, or her, or it, to beshrew himself; herself; itself; over your worthless life. I do not think your god can speak at all, let alone understand english, or your sorry excuse for it; divine omnipotence is a hoax and a string without end, and solace is a land mine planted in the yard of the home of our upbringing: language is a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow and I, the terrorist, plant bombs at its foundations!
It is a measure of coming of health to question the absolute truth with nausea; it is a criterion of autonomy to doubt the genuinity of language; it is a sign of confusion and disorientation to take for granted the intrinsicality of the qualia of words, and it is the eternal feeling of perplexity contra the weirdness of language that is the measuring rod of intellect and numinous potential. Language is as much the crucible of logic and emotion as it is the washbord of our spiritual fabric, and it is with the boiling waters of this melting pot the individuist transforms his muck into his cleanliness; I am the wanderer, alas, I am the seer, I am sovereign, I am nothing and I am all; in death as in life I am nothing and all - an analphabet hypergrapher on the brink to madness - i am the bestial poet, the mungoose battling the Jormund serpent in a fierce, stubborn struggle over pride and prey... I am just a mosquito on the body of an obese world, sucking the old blood drawn from its achilles tendons... the blood of the wound inflicted by the dagger of lovepours into a chalice crafted in clay by amputees and the raison d'être of parasites is the being of an appropriate host, but in my case, the host lies dead in my backyard, shot in the back of the head in a very emotional execution; the funeral is due, you should come.
Much as the snake which once encircled the world, I throw my bait - words - into the shoreless sea and I bite my tail and when I let go, bad things will happen. I, the sovereign, the spiritual hermaphrodite in a cloak of religious and linguistic fascism, am nothing, and yet I am the culture that is becoming the civilization in which my children would thrive - but I refuse.. how can we expect to find a word to describe the everlasting nothing from which every word in the beginning emerged?
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