Dementia

 

Where am I now. And now? Once there was no other shore.

                                                                                  Now I peer into the other shore.

One day in my life the halo of event appeared, re-

                                                                                  placed event. Dolled up and un-

darkening. Something too open opening further. Swept clean. Night round

a lamp, street empty, street gone, the white of this thought whitening

further, a wave sweeps it away, the clenched fist of the present instant—right 

here—this one—tightens (I am here) then loosens (where am I). Where? The

                                                                                  clutching of this thought, 

cinching further—am I in life-movement, forward—am I the lack of

question, something that can be remembered from much

later on, from afterwards, from tomorrow, is it slow suicide this having thinned

to what will come to be seen as an introduction—were we the first introduction

to what might have been a species—a first try a failure but full of nervous sparks—

                                                                                  we called them vision or

                                                                                  thought—

technopoesis—accelerate, drift, drift— 

undetermined, intermediated—all aftermath—spectacular creativity (though just

first draft)(who knows what is to come)(what came)(what could have come)—(if)—,

surveyors, tuners, someone who knocked at a window and wanted to come in, so

 

violent, these fingersàwhat they have done and madeàso nervousàclawing and

caressingànothing was left to us but touchàno stories but those of touchàin the right 

hand in the leftàthen torn apartàinàbetweenàjust to see inàto hear it  

squeala ringtone? a devil?always returning to try one more timeto hear it 

one more timeàthe sound of the ripping apartàthe inhale of the seeing-inà

perfectlyàis that perfectlyàdo you think we really saw it as it is this timeàpulling

aside the heavy baldachinàbrocades from the East, tassels from the Southàno

Gabriel anywhere in sightàno choiràdevices that broke down the human skin, the

human mind, now there is

 

                                           another mind, prefigured by dronesàalgorithmsàimage

vectorsàdistributive consciousnessàhumanoid roboticsàwhat is required nowà

isàa demarcationàwhat is artificialàtechnological end-times now only just

beginningàalong the watchtowersàpleasures of nihilism, speechlessness, 

incredulityànot knowing what do to with these hands, theseàhow they want to 

inflict pain on the powerless the weak the pooràthen the passionate complicit mass-

resignationmasslook there they are in the ditch the means of productionyour hands 

have been cut off and cast down in the midstàsoon they will hand your stumps a

shovelàyou must cover it with dirt the centuryàaction its dialectàand if you bury

itàyou come to the end of actionàthe hands will move for a while as they are wont to 

dodown there in the earththe thousands cut off each daymillionsthen they are 

stillànot even the animals go to themàmiles of ditches, countries of handà

all the action in them stilledàmarkets stilledàexcess fetish vertigo stilledà

 

So now go back. Touch yourself. Take yourself to yourself. In anger in need. Re-

member your self. Put the hand in, and from the bottom of the sack cast out the

seed, the pesticide, the pests—twist the cap of the pipe—let water flow—combine 

ingredients—try for that first time the plasticizer—how loathe—a butterfly 

just emptied itself into untraveled air but you couldn’t look up—a butterfly so rare 

but you can’t look up—the reaction has to work—the retardant the photochemical 

the imitation transformation where the molecules—(now you remember them 

from school, the first time you knew of them, you drew them, the world, its

secrets)—must make you lubricant, stronger than anything in the 

known—and everything non-essential dies—curling, subtracting, coating, re-

combining—your plastic-laden ocean bearing grief inside it too. Once—

 

Once is a place I visited. A flame burns it up. Just looking at it burns it. Once.

A lot of coming and going— flame where legs run thundering along the cave the wall

where many of us run at once, hooves in the way of escape, and those are not drones

that chase from above, that will run us off this high shelf because we cannot stop—

once has a taste over the precipice is the taste it’s all becoming darker is

the taste—this minute is pecking at your shell—that’s the sound—percussion is

our mind—this torrent of us pouring into day the paradise the day. I know a day.

                                                                                            Now where am I—and

now? Running and raining I am. Carrying my face before me.

Here where my mind drops down to the stubble of grass—where?—revelation

blinding as a fat stone in sun, my body desperate for concealment—think of

                                                                                           something

else, do you not feel it, this total expression hides you further, 

lays itself down over the scribbling of me, the

dream of me, of having me, me stilled and dragged, opened, shared, meat—till all

this bright mind makes what you wanted so to feel—or see—or just take in—dis-

appear. I lie by the stream. Grow accustomed. Have hooves ears rich flesh hide.

Am hunted. But you knew that. Hunted by the once. Hunted by then. By when. By

when the time comes. By time comes. Time. There you are scribbling me again on

the walls of the cave, my sideways-leaping to avoid you when you pass me,

come around the other side of me, to cut me off from mine, such a small decision and I

am suddenly yours, hide hooves ears flesh, such a small hesitation—where am I now—

                                                                                            in this

representation—as you stroke me onto the wall in flames, unreal, unreal, you can’t

have that I want to say, that is me, that is what I am, this given, just this, running and

free—you will make towers bridges tunnels hangars wonders, you will have

stone marble cement bustle haggle in doorways—doorways!—chronometers, 

managers, mercury in thermometers, saints and virgins—I don’t remember where

we are again—we became more—now I am in a cubicle, a tabernacle, a festival 

                                                                                            again say the 

leaves in quick wind over my face even though I am trying to go still, grow in-

                                                                                       à     invisible, take

instruction, excuse this diction, especially here by this fallen tree, scraggly, hung

with webs bees peripheries entropies love

 

 

                                   Incarnation

 

 

What shape am I? A vote? An invoice? How much do I   

count. Am I a verity. Run your hands over me. There.     

What is a lie—hurry—make meaning—liquidate tense—

outwit the wind—no, outwit intimacy—harvest it—fake a 

common dream—say touch me to the failing grip—of time—

it fails—the sound of decay also exists on skin—your skin—

are you all covered—is the residue wiped off, is debt, waste, 

love—feel it, this awareness of your shape—what’s left after 

the comments-section shuts—see what that makes of you—

or is it me—when will the fade begin, why this eternal close-

up, this wiry sinew of gaze threading into each pore, the 

meeting place—where you are most speechless—most—

there is no word for it—don’t know any—say house—say 

don’t go one step further—say don’t turn around you are all

 

front—smell it the scent of time, it is skin, is all this forward-

facing you cannot back out of—I’m going into my name—I’m 

touching my cheek-bone—draw me my outline—make the 

skull very loud—the chalk on the sidewalk quivers 

slightly—once I had a father—I touch my face it is wet—

there was a year I forgot to look—I was a child—my shape 

seemed a brushstroke—a thing about to be said out of 

respect for something or someone who had to arrive soon 

because we had built a system based on waiting and every 

thing—love respect fear—was based on waiting—

so then you would be given your shape—and so be 

honored—there was a racket but that was childhood—

everyone was screaming all the time but that was words—

the past tense was like a bolt of cloth you could touch and

 

lift and it would float in the air for the briefest time as if it 

were time—or the curtain—teaching you to see shape—

wind in its muslin—filled with light, with turns, then sucked 

back in—flat against the wall. Then dropped. Like that. 

Nothing more. Can a gazelle hold as still. Oh accelerationism. 

The thing in you now able to be not seen. And so there you 

are. In the lull you can not be. Or not be seen.  They began by

merging. A thing penetrated you, then it withdrew. You are 

something’s thing and it grabs your shape. It yanks your 

hair. Pulls back your face. You take its shape in you. A forced 

occupation. A patient ministering force inside. We must be in 

common. This is our little market. Dark, dark, we are making 

our own futures-market, organizing seed, oozy excess, in 

thrall, unstoppable, breaking into the sealed-up skin-thing, 

 

minutest interview, burning with love, detained, breath 

obtaining, yes abstract but not so much there is no    

torture. See. It is small and private although you can still 

scream. The crucial parts even here redacted. As we come 

together. Like this thing you are holding. Life inked out of it. 

Its true shape escaping you. That is how meaning works. 

Holding this place in place. Cosmic nihil. Chemsex. Extended 

peak. Death in hyperdrive—that shape of yours—we have to 

blur it—sand it—pixilate it—rush, froth, dismember. Even a 

stickfigure is too much. Even a cartoon in which you bend 

and rise, bend and rise, to give invention its pleasure, is not 

full enough of all the seed-in-wind body wants. Oh little 

revolution. You must come to an end in stasis of course. 

It is not pleasure but you will think it is. In these notes from

 

apocalypse feel the shape of becoming machinic. How it 

holds you in place.  Go ahead raise your hand to your mouth. 

Taste it, the stagnation. Bring it upon yourself.  Accelerate. 

Immediate. Be incessant. Be disindividuated.  When you 

were born from me I heard in your cry the loneliness. A wish 

came out. Was the first thing. All my decisions have been 

wrong. That face of yours just come from me I will never see 

again. Everything subsequent was flame that could speak. 

Wanting and empty. Full of purchasing power. Glass shatters 

in my mouth as I try to say this. Here said the light as you 

entered it. Here is more. Gauzy light surrounded you 

and you were gone, you were in, you were unwrapped from non-

being, it was the last I saw of you, I saw a line of elms out the 

window and they went on, you were raised up, white wrap

 

of belonging, instant addiction to breath, I watched it start you up, 

too late too late I was thinking in the laughing light, 

make her whole again, put her back in the unshaped, make 

her nobody’s business again, invisible girl how I would have 

cast the light off you, pushed your hollow chest back up, 

head first, got you out of the mediation. But a tube was put 

in. You lived. The body you were sunk-into washed up on 

this shore. With its urgent message no one would ever hear 

of course. As if you were the waste product of some 

unstoppable subtraction, some buzz the stars thrilled in 

messaging their absence, their methods of absence, their non- 

irruption from shapelessness, the place without war. And 

the nurse’s chemise she covered up, to keep the stain off. 

 I wanted you to stay inside, my life, you, coming out of un- 

 

shape, you, permanent now, dying and permanent. What 

shape does lie take which is not the right shape. All shapes 

of lie are its right shape. The star’s edge, the orchid’s rushed 

rim, self-empowerment, the breeze just now—the day I am 

in—the shape of the trap before it snaps shut, the calm 

keyhole holding its key not quite tight, that it lock us in, that 

it let us out—what shall we be let out of—into what shape—

I don’t fit—don’t fit what I think—sturdy little wheeling, 

going always forward, glaring, whose picture am I, terminal, 

not quite terminal, over-expressing cells, overwhelmed with 

self improvement—then something goes wrong—this will 

not fit—I do not fit—in place—am forgetting my shape 

again—must remember it—have to be a clean fit—good 

fit—true fit—a truth—no—how can I be that—they kill you 

 

if you don’t dream—make sure to dream—that’s the point—

it’s a shape that won’t fit in you, that’s why it floats and tears 

and wakes you in terror—it is your dream—dream it—

whimper a little ok but touch yourself—feel that hip bone, 

the soft of that belly, move slowly, your counterpart is 

somewhere you will never find—the one place it is not is in 

that horror the mirror—that delirium put before you—look 

how it waves—you stare again—what shape am I—I have to 

get it right, is it possible we are alive to get this one thing 

right—you peer in, is it a collection of notes just beyond 

hearing—what were you to makethat shape—and how 

you would love to sit down again about now, right here in 

front of the house, where the dogwood is making its million 

shapes—oh dogwood your stars are not dead—you would

 

like to sit and have no one see you—get rid of the baggage,

the footprints—the small blue god that accompanies you 

everywhere, saying make sure to be you, be true to your 

outcome, your only shape depends on it—am right here it 

says, don’t think about truth, would be a mistake, think 

about nothing but where you end where it begins—what is 

the it I say—I plead I wait a second to see if it will answer for 

once, the small useless god—it sounds like 2000 miles of 

shorebreak at once, but small and only around me, given me 

that I be here, the one thing that betrays me every day, what 

you imagine you see me by, the thing all round me so full of 

future, like a lining, furry with minutes as I walk through the 

waiting, the waiting for the end—so much forever to be in till 

the forever stops—a line all round me you take to be me, 

 

you take it, you take me, the me you take is I agree a 

possibility, but it is just one, a surmising, a guess—but you 

touch—you reach out, touch, say it—you say the one word 

which attaches to me, which has from my first breath—my

name—put down there, certified—proof of live birth—it is 

so persuasive—really I have to go, I have to go now—I can’t  

stand how it tries to hold me, get your stickiness off of me, 

you are something they put on a piece of paper, a 

momentary idea they had in mind, they put it by my only 

time, my arrival time, I am awash in it, they hooked me up in 

it, rinsed me clean of me and shaped me firm in it—look 

they signed for me—they dated the purchase—it was a good

price—the perfect price, the shape of my price—the making 

sense of the shapeless thing I was—which was pushed down

 

through egg and cell and faith and today’s shopping spree—

and all this waiting—and limitation braiding clarification 

thinning me out, stretching me out—there was an old friend 

I would have liked to have stayed with but I was taken, I was 

cleansed of shapelessness and plasmaed and celled-

up and moleculed to death till I started to sprout and divide 

again—pushing pushing pushing are these minutes—I feel 

myself in the dark as I must have the very first time, when 

these fingers formed, just enough, who is this, why is it here, 

why can I touch it—and I move across and there is bone and 

silk vagueness forms on it—I would brush it off but it is now 

part of me, no, not part, it is whole, it is becoming one thing, 

all the parts are coming together—a perfect market—

everything in its aisles before the doors open, the opening 

 

bell upon us, any minute now, the chute will open, I will be 

received, I will finally be what I am being assembled for, the 

parts all slid in till you can no longer tell them apart, there 

are no parts, there is a whole, here you go, you have to be 

this skin-tight thing and then something celestial barely 

skips a beat and that beat is you, you are the next note, they 

want you to think it’s a song, a great aria—someone hacked  

in to the non-existent and introduced this mutation and the 

mutation can only grow, now the limbs have formed, they 

can touch each other—and there are two of you it

seems—but you must hold them together and say I am one, I 

am, here I come now—pigswill, mix, motion, eddying, curl— 

original expression, bellied, bald—yards and yards of cells 

strung so tightly in, starting to express, disturbing

 

endlessness, disturbing unceasing: here. Come in to end. I 

snip you off. Come in. Who are you. Begin the ceasing now.  

A big inhale. Fill you up nice. And then the other part.   

Which exhales, lets you go. Easy exit. Running your hand 

through what’s left of your hair. In yr privates. On yr head 

where it flames. Forgive me you say to the creature in the 

mirror—I wanted to make you happy. I slip my glasses off to 

try to see. I really mean it. I don’t know how to transmit 

meaning to you in there, mercurial. A redbird flits through.  

Look it is gone to both of us now. I would have had you keep 

it. I would have had it be in your hand, had it still you, had it 

make you have—as it has—arrival, shape, meaning—a say 

in things. A say in things. In things. A thing.

 

 

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