SOUL-STOCK
Smelled in Svilon but were ortive portraits of the claim to moss. Blade in our amberlin fashion now has touched the ground. I was re-read on the portis-sense, given due legs and allowed to walk the mindral scanctre. Where arb me-thaws, onto points of valent noise riling about the vehicular world, cloistered little lemon shells open up and why-they their own maws. Rictus shambles in the O-sound. Clay fermi pigeons getting shattered midair subtonic flights, too. It will at some point maybe make sense. But right now. No I know. Right now, not so much. You can only know. So much, yes.
Endral Svilon smelled like wild daffodils on fire slightly, on fly lyre sounds while the lemon shells sang a song in falsetto was what the scent was like. Lay me down said the song I was hearing as I wrote this, putting the present into past tense. There are pages to line. One of the angels of the AW whose insurgent hands reach out for the reader is lined head-to-toe in sticky pages. Words in another language thereon which you can’t decode. Couldn’t if you wanted to. They are the in-tongues encrypted spellsong of a lost ancient race of writers left to the reader’s discretion he or she or it the angel is. And I know not too many of us know where, but there is a ladder that leads to The Next Level, I hear. Somewhere. Surrounded mostly by water. A white ladder, like that line from Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.” One to take us out of here, to the next….
When weepwill wants you, does it enthuse e-ate the nausea? Do you wake up in a blanket, still, and wonder what you dreamt of? Do you wonder if the drum-n-bass you listen to is a signal, as you write, to be flowing? You can envision animated figures dancing to it in your mind’s eye. Doing arm-flings and leg-pickups and -smack-downs and turning axially on the pectoralis plane. Going wurthmer of a long-classed gossamer sheet. Telling the proof to someone you left behind, there. So that it’s just another secret now you’ll never hear.
“I wonder what was let go of.” Hither despond you, the camera floating back and up away from your enlightened body as your skirt sways in the wind the camera’s vector serves as an emulation for the updraft of. To the DnB song off YouTube you’re listening to now in the present tense. Where you is me and you’re being presupposed and superimposed onto the writer who’s me who’s writing this right now, though you are…
The reader flanks a smirk on whatever timetable he or she or it might, catching a glimpse of this. Whatever fragment of a soul could be considered them. You might think I’m… yes, you are. We float out of time out of sync of mind and space bereft dimension, yes we are….
Are you, too, becoming the scapegoat for the praxis? Losing words to a flowchart with a better name and reputation than your own, maybe, though isn’t that at least partially in your head if not all? There is a delivery to someplace you haven’t been to, yet. Before you crashed your car into that guardrail and blew the front left wheel.
Can you pertain to exit? Over these windchimes? In a highspeed car-chase with the cops in your head with the cocaine in your wallet in your pocket on your gums’ numb surficial expanse twitching silently in your backheaded slink-driving wild-eyed dive. Totaled out the brain’s not-rum too-ethereal state of sprees. Slot in the disk and see:
Above the clouds where a spirit’s body’s left and it floats there like a prim sector on the cotton swaths of the cumulonimbus beds, does it halt? Rain. No, does it—halt? Rain.
Combing over the hair in your face with your fingers so it’s out the way stylized. Not in vain saying your higher power’s name in exclamation, going dumber still. Prioritizing the selfish wordflash over the presence of the main text getting dispersed here, not a lesson in crime not a lesson in anything, just lime-flavored loss gone untextualized between the lines forever for all time. The redundancies of wording not lost on you, losing ground on who it is is typing even now, who may be the facsimile or not who may or may not be typing, now. Clastic urn in transit over the clouds like a magnetized plumb line hooked up to the soul’s shifting shape, wallowing graceless in unkempt manners all over the visual field, speeding up toward God in goodtime. Lay levers—lay levers down.
Who put us on this planet? I don’t know. It was all part of the text all along that we’d wonder this way what was going on that we’d use the words we’d use and misspell and delete and retype exactly the every way we do. To not comment upon the sanctity of the shallow-ended wade of time and life and experience and unknown to ourselves even losing ground, losing ground. Even as we are speeding along, losing ground. Toward God, together. Losing. Ground like plus and minus wires to the fresh Soul-Stock Simulation Box, giving grief to the engine he’s patroned for. You know I am not only here, now. I have written the thing in ways so that I instantly forget. It becomes another morrow on which all bets are hosted and then off. We become we become we become singulators going ruddy fish-eyeing the world’s collapsing inverse spherical crawl to a stop of apocalyptic timelapse. We say, Oh dear, what now, oh God. What.
And nothing gets answered, or so it seems. Nothing gets answered, but in our dreams some things occur which cannot be explained even awake. How like an ongoing fire the seams curl up and do not hesitate to rouge their smoldering edges. We and in an attempt to bake some understanding of the oft-wrong contextless bray swim out like poor divers to discern for ourselves what of the water’s blue is holy or not, realizing something like it all might as well be. We do not fully understand.
And that becomes part of the beauty of it as you recline, in bed, and type, on your laptop, these things, to yourself, to be true whether they’re true or not. Wholly different worlds come into contact with one another as their shapes merge and surfaces ice.