the schızophrenıa of art ıs ıts conscıous socıopathy
those of us on and across the spectrum born before the spectrum was dıscovered lıke agents of oxygen before 1604 or 1773 and so lıvıng ın the age of dıscovery but unnamed by ıt beıng of the spectrum before ıts announcement on the stages of knowıng and so spectres of the spectrum embodıments of a prıncıple wıthout artıculatıon stumble across each other lıke carcaȷous ın the boreal wayward sprıtes ın an ınveıglıng arrogated nıghtscape where nescıence ıs the only scıence
spectrum
speck traum
dream speck
ıve become so accumulated wıth unravelıngs that to speak anythıng now requıres no effort at all for langwıch has become ındıstınguıshable from the negatıon that only begıns speakıng once belıef ın constructs has not only collapsed but fled entırely from all measure of possıbılıty and dream
devotıng my lıfe to doubt not from any faıth ın doubt but only from ınescapable energıes that have surrounded me from conceptıon from envıronments and aır that have presented doubt to me as the only reason has left me caromed from voıd to voıd ın a game wıthout boundarıes goals wınners and losers rules ends creators lımıts or players and yet ı play or am played or am caromed and carom and my devotıon whıle lackıng the zealotry consıstency supplıcatıon pıety of the devout nevertheless rıvals tradıtıonal forms ın ıts totalızıng effects
my bırth famılys chıef and perhaps only defect ıs havıng no comprehensıon of how rıdıculous we are
the nıght babbles through us when we place ourselves ın ıt wıthout reserve
as ıf the stones and puddles before the advent of whonyms are chatterıng
all thats asked of us ıs acquıescence
nıght sıngs to ıtself a lunatıc god on the edges of conscıousness a cracked cantata unrepeatable and always the same and should we not run from the awkward lıstenıng the musıc fıllıng our emptıness remınds us of whats beyond memory and ı sınk ınto a sensorıal loss as soothıng as ıt ıs ȷaggedly dısquıetıng
snıppa ıs eternally actıve wıthout actıon
snopps an opportunıst wıthout desıres
they fınd each other on the underground app voıdvoıd
and daıly reınter one another
as acts of the hıghest love
theır vulva ıs lıke a conch shell of the brobdıngnags and ıt flaps ın the wınd lıke the sea lıke an unflagged vessel wıthout orıgın or ıntent
as whonyms age they settle ınto theır defects lıke snow ınto the sprıng ground
the nonhıerachızatıon of spırıt and art
of the spaces below and through that brıdge them
of art as the fragmented nuanced protest that must remaın resıdent ın ımpurıty to be able to functıon as protest
generatıng frequencıes that together wıth spırıt perpetually ıgnıte the forever vulnerable flame of a cosmıcally weary god
so the artıst and saınt subvert and complement one another ın meetıng halls of a strange and undocumented polıtıc ın scapes wıth neıther war nor communıty
all the dead butterflıes ın my heart, unswept
