THEE THROTTLE
11-01-2011 15:27
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THEE THROTTLE
No fear, except thee fear of leaving. Death is like each other. Life has only
dreams to recommend it, and thee security of being inside. To be part of a
group, to be INSIDE, is to enter thee body and partake of sex. We thrive on
violation. We attempt to recreate thee excitement of a first moment's
intensity by deceptive means.
Happiness can give you fear. Of course thee fear of it ending. Thee only real
fear is fear of ending, and thee only joy is violation. Unhappiness gives
insight cruelly, happness makes a death threat.
As time passes thee addiction dwindles. Always a jolt of steel. Thee orchid
and thee metal. Muscles, no longer as loose as childhood, ache in memoriam,
stiffening with age before beauty. Age before lust, or love. Demand outstrips
supply, we congeal, fixed in parables and fantasies.
Thee past controls through people. Little girls becoum young ladies. They
attract by their lack of experience, unaware of thee spell, more coumcerned
with being inside than observation they accept thee host. They create a ghost
that haunts forever. Thee ache for reclamtion.
Perhaps, thee story goes, if you recreate that first moment, passed, you can
travel back in time. Or by creating a stranger, replenish lust. Violation is a
form of breaking thee rules, a necessary act to exist. Conscious deception and
threat of oneself and one's security affirms existence, makes real. Sexuality,
getting inside, makes real and once inside we can make anything happen.
Eyes shut in a coffin, a world of darkness, we travel into that darkness to
reconvene our emotions and listening hard we see every detail of every
sexual act. Little girls masturbating about tomorrow. Every second losing
intensity, creating thee need forever to go back inside and feel safe, to travel
back and feel alive. It really is so difficult. What we have creates our need.
Restrictions are removed like school uniforms, we discover eroticism in both
manners. And manners maketh man, and woman. We enter our bodies.
Inside is quiet, scarcely a solution in sight. Sharing a body is nothing. Sharing
insight is everything. A fine balance maintained by neurosis. When we break
rules, we becoum fools, driven by a desire for ignorance.
Thee rules are created by a wound. We never escape them. We descend into
them. Rats in a trap. All paranoia coums from thee past. It takes us like a
rape and damages.
But in thee morning, after thee night, we fall in love with thee light. the
solution is, to touch skin, and stay safe, deep inside.
Thee first step towards control is ownership. Thee foundation of ownership
is understanding. Ownership of information is thee real system of control. To
know a thing is to pssess it. To possess a thing is to be able to manipulate it.
We see the manipulation of information through thee media of thee people.
Search coumtinues. Control needs time. It's all a matter of time. Takes all
kinds. Time is. Time was. Time is passed.
Turning over thee ancient symbols used to weigh gold in Egypt we terminate
dreams. Regular trips to the undercurrent display of coumfusion and precise
detail. Thee effect is one of accuracy of purpose and description. Images
sequenced to define thee exact nature of time and place. New York. Skeletal
myth jaded and scared. No self-respect breeds cynical self-abuse. Never
return to thee previous character. Always create a new one. What do you see
from thee faded telephone box? Two sides of one street infecting each other
like worms. Visions convinced and betrayed. We becoum what we condemn.
We eat what starves us. We shit what sustains us. A litany common to all
butter God's. Designed by spirits dead and erect. Projections making light of
surface. Endless, endless sadness. Thee resumption of guilt threatens.
Inside a shelter. Old men pissing on trees. Dogs turning circles of animals.
Thee black sickly powder of fear. Speaking thee incantations aloud trapped
in a lump of skin. Instinct breeding the final moves, thee infinite loves. We
accept them on our sholders and leave you free. Then time ends. Eyes burn
and close. Wounded. I wandered in that land. Making plans. Building strange
concoctions of hope. Thee charm. Thee TV. Thee whiskey. Thee fur cellar as
indecent as a beard. From cool to indifference. Visions convinced and
betrayed. Looking from zero point there's all kinds of illusions. It takes all
kinds of illusions, this death.
Thee pains don't ease as you get older. Thee hatred doesn't melt. Thee brains
get blocked. Thee drains stray across to bare flesh, groaning at Nature's trick.
Coum daze are like drug abuse. Coum daze are like friendship. Routines
pulling away from vision, step in and destroy thee direction of youth. Thee
permutation of desire to outclass death. We are sentimental and quite
capable of finding laughter. No iceberg this tension. Thee averted eyes of
youth.
And now it's finished. Process coumplete. Only thee corpse to sacrifice like a
gangster. Thee special forces of rape. Here we see a principle, here we see a
subject. Endless twigs on thee fire. Axle cracked by frost. Resting. Snow has
crushed my camouflage, killed my garden. Thee shelter is still there. Time
was. Thee dogs are now dogs. Still turning circles. Thee eyes still burn. Time
is. Choice as hard as bone. Yet another dream couming into focus. Ice on soil.
Dog resting at my back. Daylight of friendship cracked with shadow. In this
dream it begins and ends in a park at zero point. Pointless passover. Time is
past. Heat of breathing as a door shuts. Affirmation of existence. In they
coum.
"Nothing Here Now But The Recordings." says William S. Burroughs. 23
visions of light. Thee small room. Memories of blood and urine by thee
medical box. Links of old senses in rope....
There were shadows pulling scales from young flesh. Quiet and hooded. Thee
small hands played patterns on thee window. Fog in living rooms. Several
old, old pages curling as dog barks spewed across night time light. Rope
tightened making furrows. No sound. In the essential nature of legends.
Thee Guardian secreted secrets from long utopias. Like alchemist parting
mind from chemical as thee stones in a sexual cathedral drain steel from
endless shadows of bureaucracy. Body shifting on wood, dog outside thee
door.
There is both truth and history, projection and dream. Flickering memories
as trains manoeuvre in old mens eyes. Rope slashing back hard. It's all a
matter of counting. Betrayal of simple agriculture. Thee lack of wild
explosions like a code to rebuild every life. This time thee victim is desired
and wet. These lives are stones, played in ancient dreams of slick young
flesh. Quiet and hooded. Rituals of male. Many shapes tatooed in old
buildings. Old key to old. Resting. Slight shifting. Feet deepening red. No
sound.
Across thee way a boy was grinning. Hard on obvious in old torn grey
trousers. Inherited from an earlier victim of plague. Uniform remnants. Light
of night filtering through where roof tiles slipped their tail and buggered old
senile books across dreams. Nothing salvaging code. Thee same city we all
used to pass away time in....
Each ritual makes demand. Slipping a wooden coil of expensive death under
all those derelict lines. No engines anymore. No ghosts of death playing in
thee grass. Just simple and banal, as you would expect. Terminus. Final flaw.
If one could truly describe that light, of course it's grey, butter, that light, as
images tumble, only eyes hurt from lack of focus. No physical sensations
here. Limbo of stone. Men separated from brickwork. No polarity visible.
Smiles of love from pitted carriages. Semen as thee corpse evolves into
alchemy. Liquid sings of old religions. Hand smearing juice on cock,
squeezing tight as it glides into unfaithfulness. Vanity of accounting. Pride of
hindsight. Crinkling of skin against worn eyes.
There is no need for light. Scanning ripples of boyish flesh used to pass away
time in. Car crumpled, rain on moss. Crack of wood. Only a few see this code.
Grey suit draped across street. Feet derelict. Looking from zero point there's
all kind of truth. In thee wrong camouflage. Not 1984. Taxi making waves
from red lights and green visions. A green magician perhaps. Takes all kinds.
So there it was. From school to outhouse to dream to hands touching. Thee
old theories. Many an alchemist died for less, or so they say....
We live in fragments. Coumfortable ones disturb as much as thee bad. Takes
all kinds. Leaves falling, coumtimes snow. Collapsed my camouflage net this
year. We sit with thee lights on, eyes closed. Thumbing through dictionaries
to explain. What makes this difficult? Happiness paralysing suicide. Is there
madness in this method? Steroids lead to addictive joys and rejective death.
Does guilt lurk like physical weapons waiting to mug us no matter how late.
It's all a matter of time. Visions without affirmation destroy our guts. Thee
ultimate irony of nature's game. Content without content. We play it both
ways. Weighing up thee results. Did you know you can kill thee strongest
boy with hopelessness. Empty, pretending to still dream we becoum still...
and die. A spectral Jim Jones forgetting thee white night. Choices so hard,
like bone. Old myths die soft and paralyse ambitions. Responsibility DOES last
forever.
"Bad advice," says Monte Cazazza.
Always focussed on essence and suffering. It's so silly. Soft in happiness we
slumber. Raw in pain we feel hopeless and dead. Thee outcast can never
relax. Caring is blood. Thereby hangs a thread. This is not about one thing.
Does not belong to one person, one subject. these words belong to anything
we think. It's not thee name anymore. No set piece battles. No solution
turning acid. There is a system evolving whereby all these words apply to
every situation with a minor re-adjustment once in awhile. It takes all kinds
of words, this life.
"Is this thee white path?" says Pociao.
All these marvellous words, teasing us so close to existence. Then time ends.
It's all a matter of time. Blurred self-image corrupting thee game. Dangerous.
During a conference on tactics it was decided to terminate this mission with
extreme prejudice. Butter who holds thee plan, who inherits thee game and
is anyone in ownership. Sinking like a literary Titanic. This mission never
existed. It originates in thee dark side of history. Getting thinner all thee
time. Subject limited to a strip of one. A circle of animals. Motives replace
products in our minds. Ideas replace writing. Objects are camouflage for
ideas. It takes all kinds. Philosophy separates thee person from thee mass.
Exit all legends, Enter thee laws of magick. In this world we entertain not
audiences butter fantasies. We coumplete thee self-image, blurred or not.
Search coumtinues for correct process of re-arranging.
"Proclaim present time over," says Brion Gysin.
Somewhere in thee secret cathedral small movements. Old movies dream
conflict. Thee old, old, area in sheets of snow, reversible, lacking truth. Green
fades. Breathing short as spunk coats a dismembered arm. Part of thee text
on thee wall.
Whenever thee dog turned thee night trembled. Shimmering like water
moved by piss in a forest. Shadow moved in thee light. Peace of history.
Marks of cold spray as thee material fades. Our appetite for miracles makes
traps of time. Daze go by. Viciousness is not enough. Wooden pricks
lubricated against dawn. Slow motion of exact formulae edging fear into
spectres of old death. Key twisting sheet causing rivulets of blood and piss.
Floor stained with patience. Only animals remain. No focus...
"What do you want?"
Next time thee dream whimpered. Who was counting back? Back of hand on
kidneys. No need to define victims. Where do you hide terminus? Routine
dreaming. Mirage that exists. Affirms wax of fur and bullet. In one dark
corner thee exact dimensions concealed. And thee entrance danced to relive
old histories plunging through boyish flesh to poor sore eyes. Lost in light of
night, into that darkness. Always watched, all ways, relying on thee
movement of least action.
To wait.
Always easy in this room. Small room. Chamber of conscience. Plaste flaking
like love. Dreams contained in liquid. Sperm Wars in formulas. Drinking rain
as trees expel thee emptiness of history. Thee temple of light.
Butter he sees you. As he waits. He does not need thee light of night. Thee
serene dream of time, thee flesh ideas are heir to. When all movement and
thought stops we are awake. We are awake because we are empty and
ANYthing at all merely serves to fill us again.
Sad, E saw that game. On side near thee old house. Movement of rat in
corner. Rustle of scales. Rubble crunching like snow, kicked aside like tin. He
was grinning before he jumped. Nothing in particular. Dog shifting and
sleeping. Oxygen short in thee air. Sound of breathing louder than old stone.
Light of night twisted
fading
Sound playing across skin like fingers. Prickling hairs on thee cock. No way
to identify. Empty as flesh. Inside thee box papers inscribed with time.
Several days past. Thee gate remained closed. Shadows at attention marking
time. Orders to thee last as vigils of death ponder flesh and all thee dogs
crawl away. Car passes. Phone rings. Glass cracks. Did you see that? Black
fingernails trapped to linen. Sound of steel beneath flesh, perhaps not deep
enough still. Direction gone. Septic from piss. Line in around heel. Lack of
nails cracked. Glass dreaming as thee doctor fell. Hiding his face they say.
Dry noise in throat washing across winter as trains drift by. Counting.
Noise of dreams at thee door.
Huge tusks curved around thee gate.
"Open, open!"
For no reason.
Just a small drawing, an old routine frozen before.
Before Time.
Defining fate and destiny.
Thee traces remain. Thee sex scene over for now. Last night thee boy came.
Open arms, black hair strong, empty pale face. A volunteer. Light behind in
doorway. Fading painting. Slightly built, slightly tanned. Cock erect. Let
dreams slide across floor of winter, splinters in foot. Gasps of blood. Feet
stamping. Fingers jabbing in groin. Already empty. Drifting in history, no
detail forgotten. No fact erased. Time trapped in a small room. He blinked.
Looking up at thee ceiling, let out a tiny gasp.
There were thee usual number of tiles laid out. Grey as photographs. Thee
same cathedral we all used to pass away death in. Small baby smiled. Kicked.
Such simple structures cascade from box in corner. Fear of self-hate. Lust of
destruction. Loneliness of stolen trust. Coldness of loss. Just a small game.
Light of night twisted. Fading several days past. Dogs crawl away. Slouch in
their corner rustling. Car dumped near pile of earth. Flicker of knife in air.
Responsibility cracked like focussed flesh. thee window slammed shut.
Awake, always. Here we are. Drinking rain as leaves cover dreams. Our
favorite tree. From thee window now, just lumps of flesh moving near water.
A section of wall flaking like death. Dreams contained in liquid.
They made ritual gestures and parted with no message spoken. Emptiness of
history. Thee serene dream of time. Any flesh at all merely serves to spill us
and then dies like spider underfoot. Cold draught and damp Wood of future
placed near dying trees.
Sound playing across skin like light fingers. Needle buried in images. No
sound. Always thee same number. Body tensed on stomach, expression
traced in blood. Night. Inside thee box papers inscribed with time. Pressure
of guilt Paralysing. Eyes useless. Regret forlorn. Heat of tracks counted like
withered grass. Twisted in old hair. Throat washing across winter as old
routine drifts by. No dream forgotten. Links of old senses in rope. Knots of
divinity. Aware of floor on flesh, tubes of water. No thoughts, the best type
of mind. Empty vessel like room alchemy stored stone beside. Thee life
moving. Time gripping tight like a lover's orgasm. Trees bending. Quiet and
hooded. Small noises of rats next door. Cable raw, celibate. Fur trembling like
light. Pulling scales clear of rustling senses. In thee essential nature of
legends shadows steal from endless beams. Thee rest left open. Drifting...
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