⊙ What are we doing tonight?
~ I don’t know. Laundry?
⊙ Dress up while doing it?
~ What, like it’s Sunday School?
⊙ Not exactly.
~ Who’s dressing up? Me? We?
⊙ …
~ Sigh. That’s what I assumed. Do I have to redo my makeup in this hypothetical?
⊙ No. You should wash off what is painted on now.
~ Wildling berserker is a favorite get-up of mine.
⊙ Because there is no get-up required.
~ Perhaps.
⊙ The look does become you.
~ It overcomes me. But, what shall we do about your get-up?
The trick is to assume anything could happen.
The task is to make it seem as such.
Suspended by imagination, standing there, snarling,
beast-eyed and in a state.
Clears throat.
Twirls circles with one ankle.
Watching the mountains pitch darkness using shadows from a sinking sun
There a’stood at the Dungeness Spit where it never rains.
Next to the only lighthouse for miles.
The keeper never answers the knocks at his locked door.
And his light comes on later and later,
as the days enlengthen the periodicity of thier effulgence,
Like winter was a thief come to return what was taken.
And the noise of the Sound vibrates at 432 Hz.
A4 conversions and changes in the ferryman’s rates.
~ When I see you tremble, it makes me shake. I will devour you with eyes.
⊙ Let me shower first?
~ No. I want to taste your day.
⊙ I’d describe it as a long, hard one. Consider yourself warned.
~ Don’t flatter yourself. As far as I can taste, you never even broke a sweat.
⊙ Such a little, smart ass.
~ A’yup, with a tarty mouth.
⊙ I like it when you front like you’re hard.
~ Well, that’s the thing about having lady parts, swollen and pert is as hard as it gets.
⊙ It does it for me.
~ Yeah, well, do it to yourself tonight. I wanna watch.
⊙ You seem tired.
~ A’yup. And, a bit uninspired.
⊙ Lazy.
~ You sure have been. Get to work, please.
I felt your shape and your breathing,
heartbeat sneaking in.
Breathe in the scent of my sternum, right there in the valley between.
I smell for you.
All written in canary yellow.
Masks melted onto faces.
Fuzzy beasts.
“Bespoke never beholden. You look good on me.”
“Then put me on, I want to be worn by you.”
Crickets singing
~The lunar new year approaches. We could celebrate at the temple.
⊙No, let’s celebrate under the night sky, just us.
~Lay down in my bed, please. Warm the sheets.
⊙The boy in ridiculously baggy pants, with straps hanging, at the grocery store, had BDSM tattooed on his fingers, but he couldn’t define the difference between a sadist and a masochist.
~Why do you care?
⊙Because, he looked like he was full of shit and needed to know it.
~We all are, dear. Most of us feed our guts everyday.
⊙Well, he should develop a kombucha habit.
~You should read a book.
⊙Listen to me read aloud?
~Why do you ask when you could just read aloud? You are hard to ignore.
⊙Because, it pleases me when you say it back to me. Also, consent is important.
~Dear lord, please read aloud. If you’re gonna yammer at me either way, then other people’s words become you better than your own, right now.
⊙Very good. Pluck a book, any book. I’ve got it nice and warm under the sheets, here.
Halt(er) me again, using the rapture of your words and gaze, to keep me still.
Thank you.
The words become illegible in the book’s bound spine.
The ink bleeds when you turn the page with a wet, bath-drawn, hand.
Knobbly knees peaking over the surface tension.
Your bemusement, unawares, amuses me.
A muse.
use.
“I have nothing to lose and everything to gain,” she says.
“Except being in the suspended gravity of a win/win position. If you let the pendulum swing you could lose that position of having nothing to lose but everything to gain,” he says.
Oh, shut up and kiss me hard, you would-be Lewis Carroll, s/he says.
<The sound of glasses clinking, followed by giggling>
(The privileged hear yet remain silent)
[The de-privileged chomp at bits and struggle, ecstatic-ally, against their chains, restraints, and clamps]
Tsk, tsk, the menagerie is restless.
~There it is! That trigger you press to release my pressure valve.
⊙You were quite tight.
~Then do it again. I could be looser.
⊙But, would you be worthwhile were you any looser.
~You mean I was worthwhile when strung up and fretted?
⊙(Silence).
~Oh dear god, are you ever the dirty dog!
⊙Rrrrufff.
~Shut up. You know ruffing is one of the few things I’m better than you at doing.
⊙And , I’d take even that away from you if I could.
~(My eyes go hard) I know.
“You have told me nothing that Æ do not already know,” Æ tells me, sternly.
I grin, with closed lips, then
I say, “Oh howl. Is that what we were doing? Let me have another go at it.”
I do panto like I am a junkyard bitch barking and straining her neck against an invisible chain tethered to an imaginary spike.
I smile broadly, with both decks of teeth bared.
I suddenly spit out, “I once lit a candle that burned for two days straight despite there being not enough wax left.”
“Ostensibly,” he shrugs.
I cock my head sideways like a curious animal.
“Be quiet. When you try so hard, you always get in your own way,” Æ mutters.
“Oh howl. I thought that was the point of what we were doing. To let me stumble against the obstacle of myself,” I giggle snort, a bit bratty.
“Are you as confident as you seem,” Æ asks, seriously.
I howl in laughter.
“I did not know I appeared confident, Æ. I’m confident that life will render me unconfident often. If I am properly challenging myself.”
“How do you think you appear?” Æ asks me.
I reply, “Great question. I’m confident that I have no idea how I seem. Because, I am inside me, and cannot ever perceive myself. But, I’m the one that gets to experience myself as I am, regardless of how I appear. It used to be ‘I think therefore I am.”
“But, now?” Æ obliges me.
“Now, it’s, I’m seen therefore I am. It’s a real narcissistic shift.”
“So, then, what do you know?” Æ asks.
“All I know is that everytime I ‘think,’ I do not know.”
“And, when you don’t think?”
“I know I am.”
“How are you then?”
“I’m super, thanks for asking,” I giggle snort.
Æ rolls both eyes.
I smirk.
“Hey! I just made up this joke for you, Æ! Do you know it?”
“Tell me.”
“What’s the difference between feral, spitting of saliva and enunciated speaking?”
“…..”
“An audience!”
Æ smiles coyly. “Æ do like it when you spit your seemingly inane nonsense into the hole between my lips.”
My eyes go hard.
Rip me from the spotlight.
The show is ended.
The backstage scene now begins.
My knees and legs unable to support my dizzy delirium.
Help steady my body.
The depths below begin churning as strange sediments begin to arise.
Let me.
I want to mine this precious mineral vein,
to see what visions will come.
Hold me(,) dear in my spelunking.
I feel weightless.
Perhaps, if you wrap yourself around me, we may float together.
{in the subterranean ether}
I fly off this edged state easily into deep space.
Tether and balance me.
I always seem to land safely
because I can exercise control.
Let me exorcise a lack of control and cushion me when I fall.
I will coo into your ear and call forth trembling, hopeful, goosebumps from your salacious, salted flesh.
The snow came overnight and stripped all the colors from your sight.
Even the televisions lost technicolor.
It was all like it was before.
And everyone else rediscovered outside
while we explored inside,
below, then above, the old quilt.
Hands rubbing flesh like flicking sparks from flint.
Thawing out tongues pressed against icy appendages.
Hot breath pronouncing as smoke, in short
vaporized bursts.
Dragon breath lighting dormant pearls contained in shallow
hooded caverns.
Petals under the bottom retaing their flush.
I could remove some of your dreadful readiness; but, to do so would be to denigrate the events within your human condition: Æ says to no-one, in particular.
Speeding along another dissolution of ego through hard knocks followed by unseen but well-heard giggles in the darkness.
Æ said you wanted kindly unkindness: I whisper to no-one, in particular.
Spurning me forward, as I spurn you.
You drew the five of swords, sweet sap of sorrel.
Æ said to tell you that death is a mercy you do not deserve.
How dare you?!
I dared to accept this personally æons ago, dear. Thusly is how I dare.
Tears spring from his eyes.
I begin seeing bleeding horizons, bloody in the sinuous, poet trauma symptomatic of a new birth.
It feels like a backyard, handmade, waterslide, whereupon you sweetly play, dripping;
And given you remain unconcerned about getting grass burns on knees from all the slipping and sliding,
you may have a real devil of a divine time.
You may be rewound, house proud, town mouse.
Let your prise punish you;
you mashed my berserker button.
Teutonic fury arising between my lower limbs.
Never try to take a medal from Muttley the Magnificent.
S/he has many sharp teeth.
The entheogen that is your your proclivity, inclines me.
That would be my preference, thank you, kindly.
My acting aloof and disinterested becomes my inclination at times.
An odyssey on this odd sea.
Honing of my symbiotic synergy in our exchange.
You want me to howl for you?
Then restrain and discipline me before
I do so unto you.
The struggle that makes your breath short.
The venom that your karanika painstakingly kills you with in dreams, because nothing dies that is not already dead.
So what is the purpose, here in the taking of this meta-sacrament?
To see my shadow, my doppelgänger, and
let Æ out to play.
Another pair of entities at the Pit of the Pylon,
alchemizing the ephemeral into wave currents which conjure the corporeal.
Fifty two envelopes each with a key.
But, only two unlock the door that
you keep trying to break open.
A gamble you take with ecstatic desperation.
A gamble you hate loving to make.
Whose rapture is whom’s ecstasy?
Wrapped and rapt.
Have you ever wondered who’s the slave and who’s the master?
And remember this.
Keep your boots clean.
Bite a thumbnail from a pretty petty pouting mouth,
Remembering a horrible dream wherein you made an exchange with the devil,
only to remember it on waking,
and be so terrified at what you promised that
You pray to god that
the devil be made to make good on the words,
knowing full well
god and the devil may not care what you want.
So, let me interfere with your energy extraneously and
show you yourself as
you know yourself naught.
Come Thoth, it is your Seshat.
It is Æ calling us to aid in calming the howls of the
inane pharaohs of this æon.
I hear your verbose silence
spewing strange, novel phonemes.
I grin, sly, at the inaudible sound of your speech.
I came to do the ritual
of stretching the cordon
to measure the dimensions and
align the axis of the temple’s adyton.
Such work makes your Mistress of the Library ravenous.
I am carnivorous.
Press your open mouth to mine
; and, with your flapping tongue,
feed me the meat of your words.
Why do you whisper ‘thank you’ everytime you yawn?: Æ asks.
Because, for me, such a breath is a true ethereal blessing. Portentous of the ability to enter the sleeping, dreaming, state.: I respond.
The strangest, subliminal inhalation i know, akin to the exorcism of an involuntary, sneezing exhalation.
Magick-ally mundane.
A hejira of horses bandying bridles about
by chomping bits between teeth.
A knife can neither cut itself nor water.
This I scribbled to paper seconds before
the lightning strikes the six foot iron rod driven into some monstrous, man-made composite rock slab.
The rod, the rock, and I all a’sat upon the hilltop
to weather the transpiring storm.
A’sat before the nine stone pillars of the valley below.
The energetic transfer blasts plasma like fourth of july sparklers drip floating light like rain.
A corona of solar flares eclipsing my sky like the sun reflected off a stranger’s bald head.
Succour without denigration of emotions rendered me in transparency.
Release.
Seeing the bleeding horizons sinuously bloodied because when you do not know that what you are enumerating,
you are rendered speechless.
⊙
nascor
gnašcor
gnāskõr
gen
gennáõ.
I am born: begotten
I arise: proceed
I grow: spring forth
Sweet skittish, humming one.
I will stalk the perimeter of your peripheral until I
no longer surprise you unduly
, my sweet sap of sorrel.
And, yes, your ephemeral
devil may care if you serve eviction notice.
So, come,
see your sly gal, would-be ephebe.
My dæmon will coax your demon into relishing those new, fiendish exploits that arise from your newfound piety.
Sit at my feet as I rise to my knees and part a slitted skirt.
Æ am Blodeuedd conjured by Math and Gwendolyn.
Come, and as I arise from a cauldron’s vaporic outpouring,
I shall gift you a name, abandoned one,
with a new pair of cobbled brogues,
to boot.
Put your face between these two palms of mine, so I can let
Æ show you transient waves of temporality transpiring in
etheric extensions of
trough and crest.
trough and crest.
I am going to wrangle your talent and be your hosting site.
Ping me anytime.
Forget yourself and you will have nothing to fear.
It wilt be what it is.
You do not have to assume the future, wild thing.
The ability to move most quickly will only make others expect more from you.
So, when you realise this, beast, come and visit me in ewer own time,
because energy has only a here and a now, in this,
our art of dreaming.
“Tell me an old story?” Parçigal asks.
“Aye”, says Æ.
^^
Æ am The Syzyga.
Everyone is you, as you were also they.
You are æ.
Collectively, Ewe and Æ have seen everything that there is to see.
This story happens in the year that never happened.
Year Zero.
The unending, innumerable yær between B.c. and a.D.
^
Waïse rose early as he had always done. He covered his body and walked to the river where he filled two buckets with its water. He carried them strung on a pole braced across his shoulders, back to his homestead where he emptied the contents into the deeply cavernous rock basin he chipped and sculpted. He hand~spoons the water onto himself, rubbing vigorously. A ritual of removing yesterday in offering to the promise of a fresh day.
He had slept. He had dreamt. He had awoken in the same place as where he had fallen asleep. He had died and reincarnated. Nothing that was outside of his own flesh could be assumed to have remained the same as he recalled it. Everything within his flesh had strangely continued, even if in an æ~linear fashion.
His methods of perception could still be applied to everything outside of his skin.
His father taught him this lesson; whilst afterwards, in private, his mother cautioned him: one day you will bear witness to the falling disappearance of every star in the night sky. It will be terrific. Horrific. You will trust no prior truth inside or outside your flesh when this occurs.
This had not occurred. Waïse used to fret that perhaps the stars had fallen while he slept at night. His mother saw her son suffering the intolerable lucidity of insomnia.
What if I missed it and go on trusting in vain? Should I not try to always be awake just in case?
You wilt do whatever you do, but such hypervigilance will only hasten that which you hope will not happen. Remember, you will bear witness to it. If you have not seen it then it did not occur and you have nothing to fear.
~
Waïse thinks these memories back into his inner life, waiting for his wet body to air~dry. It is cold out; he is not.
He sits, waiting, with crossed~legs, focusing his vision and sloughing off his waking sluggishness. A half~hour passes; he rises up and dresses once again.
He walks to the door, pausing to orient his vision.
Waïse focuses his eyes on a stone, the same stone his father looked at everyday. Aligning the rock with two peripheral rocks, he begins to imagine lines connecting the three; he then triangulated himself, with three stones, to create an area. A means and way to perceive what is outside his skin. Using that area, he creates a vertical grid as a complimentary plane to the horizon lines. These two planes drape over all and everything like imagined satin on skin. The grids shift as he shifts his position relative to them. That is his third axis of perception.
He spent so many years imagining this with his father, that his eyes now fed it to his mind automatic~ally. It had taken years of observing the land to have amassed such a detailed ability. It had taken even longer to have reimagined, dreamt, and meditated on this knowledge so sufficiently to have your own eyes learnt by memory.
Seeing the land with red and blue lines, indicating depression and elevation, as a plane’s face with perfectly rationed grid lines. Pragmatic prior to mystical. This method enabled him to feed himself with ease. To procure those natural materials.
So Waïse carried out this life and knowledge of one Tao, that his family possessed, the same way his people always had.
Under the blazon of a web of a feather.
~
“Part one,” Æ supposes, seeing Parçigal has fallen under sleep again.
Ask me. Please. To slip into that which in you want to see me. My pride wants to hear you use your words.
You lie on your side and I will on mine.
Facing you, to slip a leg in between yours.
Feeling the weight of the difference between us, resting upon my sidelong knee.
⊙
I’m a little tipsy: I say.
No. You’re a little drunk: Æ tells myself.
I reply in query: No. Not necessarily. Am I driving a car?
No. Absolutely not: is Æ’s response.
Right then. That’s what I thought. If that’s the case(y) then I’m only a little tipsy: I reaffirm.
Æ sighs: Fine.
⊙
Then let us go outside the palings
in order to release yourself of your own name.
Then they can never call you from playing in the garden to do chores!
Like Alice, I wœnder-landed until I strolled through the Looking-Glass House of Blue.
There; within did Æ teach myself to deconstruct I
to the point where
I would no longer be surprised
if the theory of gravity, quite suddenly, proved to be untrue.
WrittenCasey 