SIDE B

SIDE B

B1 Realm of the Leper

Okay, but what if the whole human realm is leprous? Who will make us clean? My 💀 has lost its shape. It’s soft like a 👶’s. I keep my 👁️ tied in but soon the optic nerve must snap. Song says

I stay in the apartment and eat condiments straight from the jars with my fingers²² because it’s the only food I have left. Metamorphosis consumes ego. 🐛 systematically negating a 🌿. Nobody would recognize this body if it left the apartment which is something that inevitably leads to ego ⚰️ or like, psychic death, if you’re a follower of Jung. Surrendering to the process which is happening whether I surrender or not. Experiencing a transcendence of the idea of self previously so comfortably Dasein²³, located settled in a nest of memory and place²⁴, now not located or settled in any place because all the memories I contain might as well have been experienced by someone else²⁵.

I have eleven fingers and seven toes, an extra lobe to my 🧠, three 🧑‍🎓 in the left 👁️ and when I untied my right I saw it sits in a bed of moving 🐈 👅s like the stamen of a lily. I am a grotesque. I need that 📼. I’ve been calling Peebs. Calling and calling her. She’s looking for it but she’s going to section me if I don’t come out my front 🚪 soon. I said she didn’t want to see what I’ve become and she said what, a dramatic 🐕?

This is sacrilege.

Cover her face.

This is sacrilege. Cover her face.

B2 Symphony to the Black Fields (Movements 1-4)

Art has plenty of terrible angels. “Biblically accurate [noun]” on social media. Bayonetta. The Mandela Catalogue. The Briley tape and other media birthed from Lovecraft. Lovecraft.

These tracks are squealing drudgery. I grip my bulbous head with many fingered hands and walk the black sand. Nothing to see or do. Discolored scrub grass. Walking. Walking. Walking. Blah. Walking. Anthem for lonely small additive actions like exercise, habit forming, practice, writing, sketching, muscle tone, therapy, evolution, cancer.

Mvt. 4 ends with helicopter throbbing. Echoed voices like shouting into caves. In Greek myth Echo is a nymph who can’t do anything but call out to the one she loves. Sometimes a woman’s voice comes through my front door. Briley closes his exhausting symphony with a speech. These black fields, littered with the refuse of ages. Beyond there lies no further hope. I look in the mirror and don’t know what I’m looking at. No love. No more humanity.

Beyond the black fields is ice.

B3 T’ward the Red Wall

I’m not eating these days. Thick glacial crust, blue and clear cracked white. I crunch ice from the fridge door to soothe the fevers. They sleep under the crust. Limbs like mountains floating close to the surface. I walk over them and static furs my teeth. I check my front door for the tape. Someone is supposed to send me the tape. The last track is speech and resonance. If I had been fully primed the last track would be my catalyst, a grain of salt in a beaker of supersaturated solute crystals unfolding violently alien forms allowed into the environment or the primed liquid chaos waiting begging to be transformed by a seed the smallest introduction of structure and transformed I would be the catalyst for them to scream into my world and they would be the catalyst for the world transforming it unfolding it freezing it purifying life perfect and silent and still and extinct, but I am not primed and therefore cannot be transformed and perfected instead disorganized into chaos or garbage or nonsense until the world breaks down my front door and finds the body of a perfectly ordinary woman or maybe a bubbling pile of flesh or maybe nothing at all.

📼👼