Alright, so be it, arise. Find a roof to climb up on, stand, arms flung high, and screech —— yes, let the sound bounce off empyrean, that dear old thing —— Year is the lover. Day the lover, the hour. Love begets, lover draws nigh. Dammit, drop reason. Time's droll. Every event inexorable, finally futile. Thought swirling in circles like a dead leaf. Losing savour, then lost, forgettable. Metaphors have the appearance of something stood too long in the sun, infinitives split right down the middle, the way trees are when their time is done. Driftwood on a river in spate —— and the person still on the roof —— broken, naked, disintegrating, doomed.
And I dream I walk on water.
Superimpositions arrive in eddies colliding and shattering and the flow rapid and muddy. Endtime, endgame, everywhere whispering, a hiss from behind: Someone slouching towards Bethlehem, post-avant garde ectoplasm. Also suspected a likelihood of surreptious uncoupling. All the coaches of all the trains that ever were on the rails and everyone with everything somehow inside, rumbling across plateau and ravine, unhooking, each car from the neighbour, one by one, precisely at the same time everywhere, finally engines chugging alone on the rails. Constituents dropping, what engine to speak of in the nowhere.
And suppose that picture is painted on a wall, hope and strategy the scenery left behind in passing because the picture is already painted. When in a temple the worshipper comes short before the shrine, the sanctum retains the look as she turns furtively, one more time, one more glance, before leaving, door open, tread heavy with the dreadful realization that image exists, impossible to imagine what does not. There is commerce of fictions in fiction!
No escape from image, a shape seen is. Hemped in and corroborated, the image retains the look, heaves a sigh, in imagination, of complicity. A buzz going around that is confidentially advising each and every of a universal cuckolding. It goes like this: No fucking place to go so get off the treadmill of endless. Expand into nothing. Exertion of trying en masse. They're shooting stuff straight in the vein and sipping ayahuasca tea besides —— what can happen that is not supposed to!
Images sucking, squeaky bog where whatever is thought puts up a head, like the new ones which appear on the demon everytime the previous existing is decapitated until the Goddess gets in and stops the whole show with the pressure of her magna mater single toe on the chest of the self-replicating, head producing, dreadful and raucous assemblage. Armies are also imagined arising from the teeth of a superhero brought low, rooted in the ground to be seed for a harvest.
Swing a spider, draw the thread from within long and shiny, swing into a precinct of magic, calm the thread, stay connected to the web in case things take a turn for the worst. So she now imagines a spider.
