Wednesday, November 09, 2011

Logomachia: The Altar of the Real


Consecrate then desecrate the whiteness of the page:
a film noir murder scene
erases - replaces
and fills in the blank
with sacrificial crimes committed in the name
of the Verb, upon this stage.

Traces of logomachia inscribed in lingual debris
struggle sans origin, sans end writes the script
from which I read
voicing and enacting my ownmost role
in this parody
of "liberty."

Silence, Spirit these words away (from me)!

Sacred lines written in secret and in silence
can only be dis-connected - fragmented
by all-devouring Time.
Never erased - Never effaced,
but by the turning page of History overturned
whence, without recompense,
white sacrifice will ever recommence.

Secret Agents Desecrateurs

A sacred conspiracy of secret agents desecrateurs
effect a luminous profanation
of the divine dark night of the soul
heir-apparent, a shadow government
the shortening shadows of the gods' sepulchers
and exposed to the failing, fading light
of an exhausted sun of man -
-  Enlightenment
The light of Reason extinguished
will never dispel the shadows
of dying fugitive gods
on the lam from the relentless pursuit
of vulgar g-men on the payroll of our
most profane and prosaic desires

For the luminiferous profane
in their pursuit of a track at once eternally hot
yet already growing cold, yet harbours this fugitive
The earth unchained from the sun, hurtles toward and
grants new life, imbues our psyche with burning desires

And such desires drive toward a scarcely perceptible, perhaps imaginary end
An end illuminated by the pellucid light of the faculty of imagination

Shadows play upon our theological hangover,
a hangover but once surpassed, in vats containing the end.
Our theological hangover animates our world with signs and portents
upon awaking that glorious morning after
That morning which came hard upon the heels of that night
during which the divine underwent autolytic self-dissolution

Our agents of desecration, our exemplary humanists, dissolve the divine
In the moment they make manifest the dementia of the superannuated divine.

Upon The Altar of the Real

could have made a world
could have been a world
in modal Plenitude
Essential, eternal solitude
in a becoming of worlds
Words enduring
would bring forth a world
becoming real, would have made a world
(im)possible worlds
   -- not one --
            rather a limitless multitude of worlds

How many have now ceased to be possible
meeting with identical ends
Both festive and funereal
worlds sacrificed upon the altar of the real

Our Suspended Moment

We never recoiled from
the brink of this suspended moment
Never sought solace in solidarity with
the solidity of the past,
Neither in the soporifics of a foreseen
and thus forsaken, future time
A future forever stillborn,
a future never to come -
a doppelgänger time-twin
of a past from which it is futile to flee

There is no time we do not traverse
This suspended moment -
- this absent present without presence,
which is our proper home.

We are enjoined to envision our future
through the lens of this fleeting paradoxical present
This present-not-present
-Neither absence -
is that lens through which
the light of the radically new
can penetrate the depths of our hearts

We will never recoil at the edge of the future's abyss.
Rather we walk suspended upon wings of a moment, on wings of time,
And upon the far side, the openness of an unforeseen, unforeseeable future...
...into which we walk without care
with eyes at once clear-sighted and blind

(blind to the torments of the ever-present past) 

Our Temporal Pretensions

The wind at our back carries us onward through the ages,
as pages from the book of life
turn, come loose and take to the air
In heedless flight into the vastness of future reaches,
in accord with implacable Chronos, to whom these owe allegiance

Through and beyond our horological disputations
we glide upon winds and wings of time
Ever onward, without the comforts of beleving our soterological proclamations

How did we dare give measure to the measureless?
Ennumerate the uncountable infinite?
And enclose with prophecy the boundless?


Messianic transparency
reveals the self-martyrs
in loving--loathing
carnal self-relations.
nailed and bound to
their uncrossed-crosses

In the Sadomasochristic
suspension of erotic intimacy
Bound and gagged apostles'
Killing time before the coming
Drive themselves  into solitary ecstasies
of post-something porno-Messianic wankery

Penetrated simultaneously -
While the erectile obelisk
of that most narcissistic fetishism -
the self - plunges into your depths
the abomination of desperation,
the spirit of despair,
creeps up from behind
and holds you fast from within

Apostles in bondage self-martyred masochrists: would be exhibitionists
Doubly fucked.
At every turn
Fucked by turns by despairing autoeroticism,
and by desperate efforts to plow forward,
to turn it all around (again)

Desperate messianic penetration
Demanding absolute servility and "love"
Puts on a puppet-show imitatio
of this supernatural - that is, unnatural - love
Inverse Transubstantiation

Coextensive with the limitless abyss of existence
this coming neo-divinity,
this latest Sadomasochristic messiah
Apophatic whore; a wet infinity who
Throws wide the gates
and rides atop these desperately fetishized
tumescences of the prophet's mind
the martyr's life
and the apostles fleshly self.

We call this whore God. God will love you in just the way you make God love you. The divine is thus what you make of it: it's your personal bitch.

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