...let us be content with the three newborn elephants.
Lautreamont
This non-project is in the last instance theological.
Claudel, the Tempest
Sister, that impossible cry.
Your Presence is the Ultimate Surrealist Object.
An Excerpt from The Adventure of the Organ
The ocean view caressing my feet, its sound turned me to a priest from 1503. The ocean is a tendency that denies immediate physical presence.
Photographic, phonographic, oceanographic; only the oceanographic matter, cosmically, from the freedom of the asylum, you and I have conjured a world. The revamping of the city through the pineal eye, I once claimed and yearned for the murder of the city of life in ‘tongue.’ But now I am mature enough to understand the call of the angel between the concrete, a call in to the lantern of the zero-level of madness involved in the built. What is the built when I have assumed the impossible position of a lover lamenting his love to a queen from the manhole of one of the greatest sewage system of Guye; he would probably mistake a roach for a young women. But I have grown out of the menacing pure power of being dead to electricity.
Words are more lucid when coupled with one of his favorite objects religiously constructed, capturing the ultimate movement that would trap him if described. It is the only thing he fears, description, the enemy par excellence.
—This is the object—
One can’t burst into description of this object; one must take his time with a deliberation that amounts to its making. One to one correspondence should exist, if not I would fail to capture the laughter that is endowed with the riches of a sight. This returns the dignity stolen by the doctrine-surreal to the one that measures and calculates, for they cannot re-close the opening made possible the female. And this is no enemy but a helper in the journey to speak of the third term and of Automation.
The Law and The Ghost
I couldn’t handle her;
she was the wall, the bed and the corner that eulogies my disappearance with a laughter. I could see the phantom orchestrating my veins in the name of that planet, populated by the unknown, embracing Bataille like a metaphor, where my sister dwell. My beloved sister, you are my body, with the grace of the master I shall come to you in broad day light and expose the cunning face of the normal and the grass that the sun affords them.
This will make you test evil, in its righteous act, it resurrects what love names. My beautiful sister, you are the double of all organized knowledge; it is only in you, fingers might appear as a gateway to that vision I lust after, where our shadow is the law.
On Love
The history of acid burning bodies at the top of mountain Marcos; which ritualized every minute of my existence as an ode to her hair, through which a rite announce itself. How can I tell her, in her presence not only my speech, this so called body, this so called relation to other becomes a chora; not human yet, dwell in what madness name and caught in Shuji’s soundscore of deliberate obscurantism.
It names tears, what Nerval saw and retreated to himself, back in my century, a century I would like to drag you to. On love is on Artaud and modality of existence and that inversion quoting Rimbaud “Ah! my lungs are burning, my temples pound! I see black in this sun light!” The sun is evil, my love, it sedates us and dilutes the intensity between me and you.
The Body of Life
Lucia Aqua Gloss hug me, not the slugs; candy, my eye, eyes, the afterlife.
I name blood, Its architecture,
I crucify my enemies on that mountain, right over there, next to the giant teeth, preaching the virtue of the egg, whose daughter is Le Diabolique.
Why does the phallic-sky condemns me to lust after the base and the strangler. I think it is the desire of the rope, singing in the random words of uncertainty.
But then, I say, I love you, your body is my wall, I am your repeated bone, but my flesh is Lautreamont’s, Le Vampire de Montevideo. He is the cat from Mars, not the spider, Bowie was wrong. The passion of the burrow radiates from him, attuned to his body in its disunity, scattered on that beautiful apparatus, where the judgement of God approaches him with a delicious singularity; this sits at the top of the typography of horror.
Let the impossible reign, and bleed through the ultimate enemy, the sun.