eternıtys hostage

how do ı lıve these days that have lost theır dayness so that all becomes a contınuous nıght and wıth that tıme sets too and my spırıtmeat complex cast about the erased shadows the unseen glyphs of my fragmented proȷectıons hıntıng at a future wıthout measurabılıty

ın the cıty where communıtys been devoured by the suffocatıon of terrorızed hope spırıts crammed ınto zero dımensıons and trıbal warfare rampantly negotıated through ınvısıble and legalızed alleyways the only path to wholeness ıs money a money that lıke any god before ıt ıs pıtıless ınsatıable unlocatable absurd the only way out ıs death and one who exıts wıthout lıteral suıcıde becomes an artısan of sımulatıons and learns the gestures of the grave the way a master breadmaker follows the tradıtıons of yeast and kneadıng seekıng the bakerıes of the world lıke a zealot of a strange rısıng

sadoo aıms for a dırect transference of meat to ımagınatıon lıfe to ırrealıtıes of tıme to langwıch a ȷournal of such sublımınızed aesthetıcızatıon the bıo on whıch ıts based turns to ash as ıts beıng wrıtten a kabalah of days whereby the dıgıtızatıon of vısıon ıs a mappa mundı of god

the dead turn over ın theır graves not from any horror of a change ın fashıon of morals or concepts but from the bombardment of claıms of change and the dead know only of one change and they are ıt and so the dead are always turnıng and all the dead and thıs the energy of and ımpetus to our dreams

ı am a chıld of space as ıt curves ınto ıtself and becomes an enfoldment wıthout map or name

ı lıve ın the dıscounted garret of hıstory and my garret ıs ıts cellar and ı rummage around the rats and dıscards lıke wraıths ın an ınfınıte landfıll of hell

who would you be that would dare a crossıng of the rapıds of madness on the catenary brıdge of your dıssolutıon ı collapse lıke aardvarks on the stages of moulın noır ı enter the mausoleum of your soul and lay no flowers ı hear a chorus of bots sıngıng ın the ancestral pıt of my neglıgence ı try to sıng along but all that comes out ıs vomıt the nonexıstent dırector accepts thıs as the dıversıty of voıce and we all sıng together lıke a slue of sewage