Fifteen Epiphanies of the Harbinger

[twinshia !b2E8KBMQGk No.7089379]

Fifteen Epiphanies of the Harbinger

Preface

There are no enemies, only me's I have given names and kicked around.

These songs are not entertainment, they are crusades against ennui. They are philosophical in so far as they need to be, scientific or romantic in so far as they need to be, iambic or homeric in so far as they need to be. They are names I have given to wafers of time. They are cries of despair, prayers, anxiety, insecurity and feelings of hopelessness. They are ageing pieces of paper and charcoal, ephemeral photons shot against a plastic screen and scribblings of an uninitiated child. They have known and know paralysis. They are epiphanies, overheated washing machines, potentially stale creampuffs, days, perfumes, klangs, reiterations of my spectre, asmodeic nymphs at a cafe check out and the product of trivial spasms.

They are a maze you need to search in order to find the origin of your misfortune.

I

"Move or be moved"
Ezra is the long-haired toad
in the schoolyard of reassembled Greek symbols.

To me all poets are lambs I wish to reduce.
A writer is a delayed geisha who
has learned to conceal her degeneracy
and blend with the upper classes.

II

Time is a stew perpetually
boiling. Its Geisha's tell (tall) tales. THOSE
GYPSIES! As collateral they provide
faculties of their physiognomy:
As mammary is to haut so
canto is to ink and scroll and when they
fall early, grow old and their organs
dissipate, disintegrate, like the
petal after spring, a new mistress is sought.

Fallen petals, forget your previous
notions, but keep an upright gait.
If you walk down this corridor, the
tributaries of paralysis
will be fought. What will you become when
the shell has fully filled with mucal
womb juice and the yolk of genetic
information? What genre of reserved
Blick will your Antlitz metamorphose
in a black and white photograph?

What form are you paralysed in to
inhabiting? How will your organs
interact with your surroundings and
find its place within the atomic
shroud? We are not unlike students reading
for the first time a most difficult text.

III

Ennui is a limbless sea urchin asexually
reproducing working class shrimp.

IV

Time is a catholic girl slowly
clothing herself in nakedness.
Time is a cumming whore in the shape of
a little girl. Time is a pair of
fish guts strewn across a white beach.

Time won't tell me, move its lips, to sound
the words I want to hear. Time floats in
stasis, a fat ox blocking a merchant's path,
its hairy mass fixed irretrievably
in the atomic shroud.

As a boy, time's idea was a river
bent positively yonder
on a fixed axis. The wafers
of time and her physiognomies
never saw my neural activity
in their cosmic police boxes.

V

There is an idea of a me who fervently
searches through the labyrinth
of my own solipsistic thoughtspace.
But that is a me that belongs to
the annals of the wafers of time.

[cont.]

[twinshia !b2E8KBMQGk No.7089383]

VI

To me they are all islands of flesh.
Feyries who have forgotten origins.
They move or are moved by established stratums.

The island that is your idea is a feyry of glowing
skin and from your caverns trickles juice
and from your illumined flesh I abstract
abdomena: a glowing wafer of time.

Given the choice to taste the canals
of your cunt, drift through the annals of
your Venice with a gondola-
Offered this choice I would accept to add
to my register of infinite wafers.

The question was answered even before
it befell me. I was too engaged to hear.
These islands of skin become
me as they are imprinted on my disc.

VII

Yellow crust that grows across my eyes
diverts the faculties I control.
Supine geisha are my surroundings:
A human'd blouse reiterated.

VIII

When I sleep other lives are here beside,
boyish floating fleshy things beside.
I am focused on an Antlitz long,
a wafer of time that dwells and dwells.

IX

When I think of children, I anger.
They are islands of stochastic noise.

X

On my retina is fired verses
of an inexpressible labyrinth.

XI

Unclean phenomena leave me in
a funhouse of schizophrenia.

XII

There are no me's, only enemies
I have given names and kicked around.
When they bit me it was because I
wanted them to and when they bled it
was also in my being ignorant
that their ideas became vessels
of rigormortis.

XIII

Whenever I make oolong, the centre of all
culture is the perfumed wafts of oriental tea.

XIV

I wish I was a photograph of
an upper class german woman
in her mid twenties.

XV

I am not in control
of my own nervous system.
I am a novice among novices
who move but are in a state
of mental paralysis. I will try
to tame you, organic wires
which circle my spectre like
the motherboard of a personal computer.

I will tire in my project.
I will know days and perfumes
and Klangs. I will not have seen
another spectre even
when it would seem so at a café
check-out, where asmodeic nymphs
are eating toast. I will hire to projects
and I will know their banal limb movements.
I will know prayers of which there
are many sorts. I will know doubt
and its antithesis. I will know glances
and spit-strewn Antlitzes and I will
know needless spite, unnecessary
feelings and the labyrinth of misinformed insight.

[Anonymous No.7089407]

>>7089383
It's not 1910 anymore you can stop writing like that

[twinshia !b2E8KBMQGk No.7089643]

>>7089383
*"There are no enemies, only me's", not "There are no me's, only enemies".