Nods ∞

Part I.

A thing of infectious persuasion burrows its way into the far corners of being, and though incapable of dreams, a routine cause of nightmares. A furnace of mechanical fatalism, infinitesimal reason and will inversely proportioned, driven by an insatiable voracity for its own identity recast. When mirrors meet, a mute rhythm is set to pulsate in aimless vibrations, echoing within the tenuous hollow of that living kernel. Inside every fibrous enclosure a factory of effigies quietly drawls away, in continuous, seductive murmurs. It is only when the host amicably offers her own shelter, and as the walls close in on themselves, that in one stroke she guarantees immortality.

Sometimes, daydreaming unriddles secret glances

A forest of hungry eyes, wind rustles the piercing branches,
Scraping the ground from time to time, in a rhythm of abandoned organs,
Nibbling at her cheeks, tracing maps along her skin, charting voyages,
Reverie dangling from the mouth like gristle.
“Isn’t it chilly here?” she whispers, though he doesn’t reply, since he cannot speak.
The great circle, aged leaves crumbling under delicate footsteps,
Withering principle supervening in layers, radiating reciprocal invitations,
Being is a matter of geodesics, hidden trajectories and
Hurried vectors pouring through lattice walls.
“Quiet! The Catcher lurks!” she cries out, though he doesn’t stir, since he cannot move.
Overlapping curved flyways, forming invisible embraces,
A network of glances, hand touching hands that touch, though,
Countless spheres amass on fingertips, quivering drops of dew,
And the Ambler’s gaze unties the knot, and weaves her way among the trunks,
Carving predetermined paths in the moist soil,
All stretching toward the same horizon.

Leaders Today, Vol. I

You (men) and mothers of all nations lived execrably well until you were won by the presence of kings. By today progress will equal life, issued from that soldier low with truth. You and I, rather we, were trusted with my sorrow, but it lay hidden in the advancement of rights. Though her diametrically opposed thoughts are policed by liberty and taxed in the court of Brahmins, the sound of her voice will eventually be restored. Because they who feel according to patient proposals, are citizens taught to love the battlefield. A sentence is upon the women strikers: their bodies are mere land to be labored. The insulted and tardy will of the people, should therefore be decided less by cannibals. I shall have it! The white market will not be overhauled under our boss’s entirely vile foot. That sister Sara and her three possessions fell, like wages, from the country into the streets, where she now dines. One of the sons of socialism works off his revolutionary lungs in sweated malignity. And their brains, first politically contained, then supported by catastrophes, will in time be abolished by work, the day when no corner of the West shall be weakened by the death of just mothers. A feeble Siberian peasant stands like iron by his speech on counterrevolution and the violence of conquest; his mind assembled, the sword blessed, before the theatre of high treason. The mountaineer slowly loses his teeth, imprisoned by the red god: these ain’t unlimited dreams! They escaped their local caste into the night of a new dialectic. A Network backed by partisans of imperialism wants to poison the soil with propaganda of grief. Rise little age! There the new land!  Society marked with peculiar instruments of justice, continents of progress, all embracing the end. You must have my next prophet killed. Leaders form classes, who cannot supersede them whilst firmly deceived by songs of beasts. An almost possible concept: decisive act tears and divides the institution of blood. It retreats. You wounded system that fought reconciliation: separate yourself from truth, part with promise, and we blind people, whose values of sickness and death you defended, will at last obtain the right to replace you. In the land of freaks, her monstrous imagination is not held by time, but signals strength. Sacrifice all our incapable words, every image of origins, to the living language of need. Spirit! Trade my name for the manifesto of the people. The reservoir of time births democracy; consciousness arises from the painful fog of compliance. Your socio-political machines organized our bitter and warring memories. A sole subject destined to power, a martyr of her own will, has nothing but community, so we the rich proceed to justice and sense. On change, and the cultural empowerment and imperialism of the poor: provide people the occupation of knowledge, Capitalism’s field of everyday life. Farewell to this infamy.