the flawed geometrıcıan

 

id always wanted a large wardrobe of ghosts and now that ive got it now that its so stuffed full i cant fit another one in my childhood dream of having a ghost for every occasion ghosts of mourning favoured ghosts ghosts of celebration betrayal ghosts ghosts of rips and stains ghosts never worn but only thought every few years or even forgotten entirely until one day im thinking of that time at lucianas party when galadap spills the jade acrylic on me and it pops into my mind like a sartorial urgency and ghosts are my witness in the absence of witness for who can believe anymore the living can stand for one another or even for themselves

youre covered in blood and paint take them off and show me the ghost youre wearing underneath

when i was at oyingbo waiting for the red line to okokomaiko and a whonym from oroghoro whod been missing trains like a sloshed assassin drew a lovedart from its attaché like some crazed snail misplaced from the memory of itself and inserted it into me like an esbeltomaester they dont behave like that anymore these open sacrifices the linear displays how quickly they grow up

dont want to talk about mosquitoes lay your necessary meat behind elascensora ellevantamiento on the island where we cant see those cool vitalities bashing the old man haplorhini around like horseflies in summerboreals stuffed with their own buzz dont mind them go horizontal seek god together neither support life in its basic savagery nor stalking prosthetics piled to falsely bury blood if we agree on anything which is unknowable its to be no witness to the world for the witness in its attestation pays tribute to the very thing it purports to deny

flies double in size every hour but whonyms halve their weight every decade it used to be each century and before that millennium but things speed up soon itll be every year then month week day hour until we become our true size in the universe and disappear by that time each flyll be the size of a galaxy things change string my ass to the beginning of your love so what im sayings and sayings never as they say just saying thingsve become separate from their families words stories moments places now just shape without meaning not shape of meaning or meaning of shape or even meaning or nonmeaning of meaning but just shape of shape to pretend that stories still exist that names arent lost forever that meaning whether created or preexistent has any validity that we have any place in the world other than a placeless abyss that when the ways lost names become

yaw way war raw doom mood dam

whats left to do but forage for fragments and shag like spooks we always knew it would end like this the is the jizz gaps among potentiality and capacity so cataclitmic what could somehow have the means to bypass these chasms discounted words were in the badlands now honey and alls sticky with erodings

find a death worth living legally steal as much as possible love hypocritically have no regret in proportion to having no memory maintain rebellious despair fondle your poo refuse the names never lay

dying diversities roam our dreams like witless shamans while habitating offal in the manners of media and janatā can give domination and virtue simultaneously what else can with the combo of so great cost and so little social acceptance provide me with lifelong loss and here it is in the mask of everything a little deeper warrior and everythings alright

saguero de bustamante transit security put the old man in a garbage trolley and passing the bonkers ask what they might be doing on such a fine day in the underground of argentina and what rights do they proffer to the authorities and what are their destinations on the known cartographies of the world

im heading to díaz prima junta on the ı line and moanings like a child of an abattoir and countrycarnival who crawls along the trenches of glory seeking anything that might have sight

and i to neuva barass on the ñ and whod judge these hoodoo outlaws who among us speak their hearts

and security watches and some take selfies post to hungry markets as if the flood of flesh is eternally a drought and our two friends in the infratránsito of macedonios bajos fondos weary and sarcophilic on their blind commutes and in the stories and through the names our grappling we great meatbearers of culture here now in these fifteen seconds of fame