alfreda of polystichum

in the border zones between chad and tansothbabya where chairs and horses go to rock i’ve constructed loosely linked helices hoping alfreda of polystichum the polypod an archdruid of east obsidian will recess from its subulicystidius and notice

but the patrols are swarming and seeing my hope handcuff it to a paddywiglen who isn’t pleased and horribly aguffaws ensuring alfreda the polypod of polystichum doesn’t recess

i reach into duffel bags and centuries for spells and hacksaws but cut my finger on an oodening ordering, reciting the manifest of the ferdinand ferdinando ferdinoro on its way to mingulay for war

i’m first attracted to the border zones to escape the fourth extinctions and find respite in loosely linked helices however temporary. alfreda at the time is only known to me through kapetron’s an anatomy of autothanatography which influences me significantly in my youth or whatever we could say that episode of fallen wisdom might be called. if i recall none of which is certain it first appears in the seventy-second footnote on page 318 in the sefer-ha-hakarim edition of the kokang translation for unfortunately i can’t read kapetron

in the border zones corteges, long and mute and faintly green, not in tense or in any sane, parade (if that’s the word and it’s not) slightly closer to tansothbabya though, if the truth be told (and it’s not) the chadites are their greater number. i join them for a time if only to remind me to wash my ibices which have leapt beyond the records

surprised i’m still alive for the third extinctions almost killed me and still might i sneak out to see my hope at nights when the ash somewhat sometimes lifts and the paddywiglen rems, spending a few moments with it though the oodening often follow and their recitations prod the paddywiglen rousing the aguffawing and even if in that brief interlude alfreda of east obsidian of polystichum the polypod considers recessing it doesn’t

kapetron’s of the opinion in some circles considered considered as far as i can tell at least and while i used to be able to tell fairly far now i’m not so sure alfreda’s of the clad that breathes from death. first it is said one breathes from respiration and this is the ovate next it is written one breathes from digits and this is the witch penultimately it is known one breathes from mycelium and this is the bard and in the end it is seen which is the middle one breathes from death and this is the arch. so the point is if alfreda of subulicystidius of polypod of east obsidian of polystichum of the dark arches notices and the artifices of the haruspices’ codices become unsung the loosely linked helices may vermiculize into the extinctions and the ash may lift and there the sun

mad tichalak

here we are – i and i and all the others – on a platform of fog and the display says someone says that someone says (though how anyone can read it who can say or also read) the next one’s in nineteen

mad tichalak’s had a heart attack and it’s dropped its dissertation

here we are – the siffleux and the zazarappi – in a digital display and the conductor says (though no one’s seen one here for ninety years) get out of there you bagbags

mad tochalok talks like a cuckold cock and its tresis theel is pipping

here we are – she and him and none and them and it – in a concession stand in big mister chew big fudges and we waiters munch in terpen time and the next one’s in nineteen

mad tackulik drops its cited dick in a faculty of footnotes

here we are – you if you weren’t in manufacture – on judgments so poorly engineered the conductor calls committees in geneva twaddling in its claptraps

mad tuckuluk on knees and hands groping for its chakras

here we are – and why are they still counting – on platforms of babbleuffionalities and it’s way way past nineteen and the conductor’s drunk and dead and we’ve eaten all the fudgy siffleux

mad techelek’s become a wreck of nanocons and oxyoughtens and drops its conurbations

here we are – i and why and weren’t and it and some remnant zazarappi – nineteen and the conductor gone – we’ve reached the dream and per the texts the dream’s the one inside it

dear peoclaptra

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dear terocalpa

here you are representing the dead and powerful and here i am or something is representing or depresenting the living and patapowered and i thought i’d take this opportunity (for what else do we call it?) to write you

yesterday you texted me when i was looking for coconut oil in a confused and droopy supermarket – an exercise that was strangely doomed as all i found was a mute argentinian amid shoppers so thick i felt i was navigating a dense forest of moving trees in a chromatic and replete sheol – and i was too immersed in thinking that mysticism has always been godless mysticism – it’s just the mystics in a goded dominant culture had to – to varying degrees – encode the godlessness in god (or rather a false godlessness) and the reduction of this apparent necessity without (perhaps naturally) any seeming reduction in the mystical orientation and possibly even an increase due to factors requisite and maybe calamitous has led or is leading to a state (or rather flow) of a remanufactured mysticism often (perhaps quite appropriately) called by other names many of which we’re clueless of to respond

you texted art’s the only true religion as it’s the only one not stupid enough to attempt to agree with itself and who am i to disagree?

you texted compensation has many faces and i prefer to get compensation through void that way you’re always getting compensated

you texted humans are destroying their home and as many others as possible and so themselves through a spiritual defect they’re so committed to they can’t acknowledge it

you texted i never want to work but want language to work in my place

you texted a little story about while and gall in the resistance

you texted news of eightyone shades of shade and a composting so intricate and vast even the most accomplished gardener merges with it

you texted of the hallucinations that reality conjures and their holographic embeddedity in reality

you texted of doubt and desolation and beauty and nonchalance

you texted of running away to find freedom and only finding new forms of slavery and this not negating the moving not because moving's wisdom but because moving’s moving

and no wonder i didn’t find the coconut oil or respond and the argentinian was mute and you’re dead and presents with or without prefixes still live