The greatest knowledge of man is to know his limitations; the greatest action of man is to live within them. This is only on the personal level: we are striving to lift he limits of mankind the race. We do this through the trashing, ravaging of nature. We build our skyscrapers farther away from Mother Earth. [ Cue the dramatic music. At some point the child refuses a bared nipple, a detachment learned from the snip of the placental blob. ‘Away, thee, I pray! ’Tis too fleshy a knob { Under which hangs the unprotected ornamental fixtures of modernity — a stiff wind could unman them all! } from which we hear the staticky frequency of morrow’s reminder to wake for poor heady Finnegan who jumped the Alps in one giantine leap for nothing more than a footnote in another’s tale of apotheosis and epigenesis.’ { Bravo, bravo, bravissima! The Academy would like to thank itself for an appreciating hand. } Shhh. Haven’t we heard enough, baby? { The whole thing — but the whole thing is about me. } Shhh. Are you so narcissistic as to think yourself the only one [ …, ravishingly beautiful, bright-minded, talented ingénue in attendance? ] here? ] — [ She ran from me. I ran from him. She ran from them. We are not the build of sprinters, we are made for distance. Back to eastern Europe. Back to Slavic huts. Back to desert cells. Where we awaited insemination or death. Where the tree limbs were tied around our necks while they whipped us with pistols and cut us with knives and whipped us with whips and whipped us with reeds and all the while and all the time always cock and prick and dick and fist and plastic and metal and stones fuck fuck fucking us all the time fucking us from behind with our heads pulled up like mules. Like we were fucking braying donkeys, like beasts, like animals, like dogs that could give you children. And today, today, today, whatever the fuck day it is, it’s still the same, isn’t it? Isn’t it?! When are we going to make it stop?! When do we really get the message and make it stop, for God’s sake. It hurts like hell. [ And the one is as good as the next. [ Whether she nests inside the timber homes or sleeps in the barn. [ This cyclone [ of images won’t stop on its own. [ When he comes back [ he will [ burn it [ all [ down ] ] ] ] ] { Anybody got a light? } ] ] ] ] ] — [ To the ground, like lightning, goes Mother Nature. ] — { It’s the new mother nature taking over [ You Bitch! ] } Our day of rebellion is brewing. We shall hunt the stars and mourn our past, but we must not get caught up in the beauty of our Independence Day. Commit matricide and let’s get on with children / our children of silicon. There is too much nurturing and we are still in (or are just being removed from) the breast-feeding stage. [ Blood from a stone or chalk from water. ] Our extended childhood is getting ridiculous, but after all, we are a big child. And a pestering one as well.

If it is inherent in human nature to rebel in adolescence { Takes one to know one! } then it is our duty as parents to portray some sort of contrived negative attitude that we want our children to rebel against and in so doing make them choose a responsible lifestyle? { The troglodyte half-man Myrrmann wearily crawls out of his hibernation to again find only midwinter. The waking seasons have continually gotten colder. He was taught how to measure the highest snowfall against the reckoning tree to account for drifts. Each winter of his life and his father’s life it has gotten a bit higher. The Reckoning Tree has become a totemic rising spire of snake coils [ Like ribbons around a maypole. ] { Like gibbon roulette around a firecracker. [ Someone’s going to put an eye out. ] — { If they’re lucky. } } and he anxiously anticipates the day he cannot even make the trek. } We can’t coddle or spoil the child to the point of self-worthlessness and total dependency { Baron, wherefore art thine subjects? } — [ My subjects, noteworthy adversary [ whose talents have clearly been underestimated by the counsel of daft hares { I’m sorry I’m late, but I heard there’d be cookies? } ], rank among the most widely recognized topics in all of literature — the female form in all her diversity, abbess among them, her verdant flora, her ebullient vistas, her majestic river flows ] — { What wouldn’t you fuck here, Baron? } — [ My poor lost soul, Gable, the ague has taken hold of his skull, spine and soul, dear antonymic nemesis, reverser of all I hold dear, thievery pocks your hand, but nay! Touch not Gable, his ashen disappearing skin, his slippery veins throbbing globules of anemic blood, you can see it like a tapeworm flit between his protruding ribs, and his poor dull eyes, rot with rot ideas about becoming somebody, someday. It’s best if he not go out to hunt and war. It’s best that he stay here with me. I’ll take care of him. You’re safe now, Gable, you’re here safe with me. Here’s your medicine. No, I need you to open up. Don’t tilt… It’s just medicine. Here comes the choo-choo, here comes every- Hey! I said don’t tilt your god damn head. Don’t make me… Give me your, open your mouth, yeah, there you go, you little shit. I’m sick of fucking taking care of you all day long, you think this is funny, you little asshole? Huh? Fucking retard. ] but we could regulate their behavior to a socially negative degree so that they will break out of their confines positively.

As lovers we tend to inject into our spouse/girlfriend a lode of ourselves, especially if they are a submissive follower. To create about a fallable human an air of perfection / No changing involved, just an aggrandizing of certain traits and others conjured up in our own minds. Once we shoot them w/semen we are able to shoot them full of our own ideals. { I used to be able to hit the top of the pedestal, now I’m lucky if I find a comfortable position in the Bedouin pillow fantasy in which to sleep. } By the same token, women, who sheathe the man’s emotions and coat them in the stickly glue of narcissism / LISTEN: You take me in your arms, and I in turn hold you, and so then you have hugged yourself { but warmer }. Soothe to assuage and shades of flaws contradictory to our human nature / deep into the subconscious slot { Li is up, but Si is down } — { it must be a sigma of your imagination } and continue on a bit more binded by your own rules. { What would happen if I inhaled this? } — { Nothing ever looked so good I had to smell it, but if it did, my Boy Cyprano, it would be the felt that quivers on your neck in anticipation of my kiss. }

Photo by Omar Lopez on Unsplash

Clumsiness is the destruction of all mediated thought — the revelation of chaos. {[ In my saucer collects the tea I shall not drink. But when I am done, and you avert your gaze, I will quickly tip it back into the cup with its chortle of scrap fragments of leaves, so that I will present as pure as undriven snow. ]} — { How high today? }

We all sit about w/the look of murder in our eyes / disdain towards deviants only because we wish to alleviate these pains from our own personalities and then from the race. Kill the freaks / actually killing that which resides in our own id. The assassin points to all blaming every single one / The rub? {

Then according to the man who showed his outstretched arm to space
He turned around and pointed, revealing all the human race
I shook my head and smiled a whisper, knowing all about the place

Close to the edge, down by the river
Down at the end, round by the corner
Seasons will pass you by
Now that it’s all over and done

— Yes, Close to the Edge

} He is justified. With capitol punishment we beg for the legalizing of suicide; of genocide.

Train your eyes higher towards heaven, always look up, spurn the dirt, shun the past. Take out of your ribs to create dirt, and of the dirt to create silicon chips and implants for breasts. Shoot up w/aerosol, higher the hair drive / the bigger is the best, there is no second place. And when you finally drip of tears you can look around and blame the mess on some fine scapegoat — I will be the capricorn / blame me. { Forever looking up at that hill. For how long did you know you would die there? I get it, it was always possible given the outrageous demands you made of contemporary society, but were you born with the golden spoon of God in your mouth so that infinite knowledge was yours from the conception of consciousness? Or were you *wink wink* mostly Man {[ although don’t forget the most voyeured individual of all history } after the Buddha ] and the treachery of death only truly manifest as you began your final walk through Jerusalem? For if you had truly known, you’d need not bellow at the heaven’s thundersmack unless to say sardonically: ‘It’s not my time. There’s more important work left to be done. I really do wish I could stay just a bit longer, but I really need to get home, the sitter, you know, these days, I happened to look at the nanny-cam and well… I saw a mohawk dyed unnatural colors and a jean jacket show up, k? { So I’m just going to pop back early and get the jump on them. { Nobody should have to pay for such irresponsibility. { Like, wtf? We told them no visitors. [ what if it’s a friend of one of the boys? ] — { Then there are enough spankings to hand out to everyone. { Especially Melanie. { God, could you just see her bobbing up and down on { a dude with a fucking mohawk?! { helpless. { hopeless. { sad. { death. { relief } } } } } } } } } } } } }’ in that final hour before death struck midnight, and everything that we were fell down for a while. }

If I could learn to live on next to nothing, and survive on my mind / personality / begging skills the world would be open to me, there would be nothing to fear, I could be myself. { But you were always just a jumble of words slapped down like Scrabble tiles onto the world, and you blocked everyone’s view. They would queue before the salon restrooms to vomit endless chunks of you. They would stretch and tear you like a tight cellophane embrace around their mouth and nose. } — { Fear stinks, Fido. Aw heck, I don’t need to tell you! } — { Can’t even smell the fire from this far out, just the cool, simple ickiness of living pine, if this can be called living. This endurance run spoils the fur and sops the hide, all of the pain is the force of the body begging to be set meteor-free from this earth to die in the serenity of orbit. Leave the soul for gods and magpies to pick, we need the minerals and bio-matter out here. This shit isn’t getting any easier to come by and it ain’t cheap to make, so scavenging for stray fossils suddenly becomes worth it. Let the Whiz-Bang Kids or Daddy-Come-Lately-Caddy-Cumshacks of Chance-blanc skip about with their reconstruction engines and universal harmony horseshit, I don’t slap a fuck on a turnip and call her Bessy fer nothin’. She’s still my best gal, see? You can espy her thar in the kitchun, on tha shelf. She’s the utensil in a dress. Mighty pretty gal’s what yer thinkin’, I know. And you should see her from the bottom-up, y’har what I’m sayin’ thar? Ha! Don’t fucking come in the house. Step back. Get off the porch now.

I mean you no harm, dear enraged sir. My el camino broke down on the local thoroughfare back a yarn or so, and, well, this is awkward, but } I don’t need to compromise for a living for financial security. Freedom would be my only bind and hindrance { Penelope wept. } — { Which one, Daddy? } — { The one we truly loved. } — { Which one is that, Daddy? } — { The one who’s face drooped with the weighty grief of consciousness. } — { Which one is that then, Daddy? } — { The one on the shelf, with the pretty dress and pretty blue ribbon propped up in her glazed coconut hair. } — { Which one, Daddy? } — { I’ll have you call me sire, or I’ll whip your ass sideways and your attitude straight. } / not a bad shackle to try on for size. { He called home. He needed money. What did he do with the seventy-thousand he’d earned? He didn’t have the rent money. He didn’t want to have to sell anything. He wouldn’t have known how to sell his belongings for money. He wasn’t going to ask his friends. He wasn’t really interested in getting a job. He’d do it, yes, but he didn’t really want to have to commit to a career because it would be harder to consider himself an artist if it wasn’t what he did for a living but he hid that under the straw premise that art isn’t something someone can do in their off-time, it’s something they had to focus on. But make no mistake. You will meet that man. You haven’t really seen him thus far, but in the shadows of turns of phrases and faint inklings of brilliant ideas { so far, in fact, the muse was the sun}; this one writing now() is no longer he; this one writing then() is not yet him; I’m not sure I’d know when he arrived if not for the small, consistent numerics that mark like charcoal scratches the notion of experiencing the passage of time. Perhaps I still won’t know, but I wouldn’t lie to you, because you’d know that I lied. } — [ If we’d all just know, why not just lie then? ] — { And that, my friends, is how Turing Trapped the Tinman. { He was inside the whole time, emerging. } }

I will never be a slave to the flesh { Praise him! Hallelujah! } — flesh is flesh / nothing more. A girl w/clean skin and radiant fresh beauty cannot strike me any more than a fast red corvette { unless it’s a song, then it’s get-down-and-groove-and-grovel-before-the-Almighty time }. Do not judge a woman by her cover-girl mascara. The beauty of worth is the inner beauty — so only true the two are not connected. [ Oh, but they were. In the preternal soup you couldn’t eat with a knife, before there were zeroes and ones, there were. And it was from that essence that two diverged and were emerged. This and That, my two lovely twins of indiscriminate gender. They may fight, and then play, and then fight again, but they don’t go anywhere without each other. Can and Able, Romulus and Remus, Zan and Jayna, Frick and Frack, Milo and Stevie Wiemi, Joe Blow and Ernie Nutno, like Daddy used to call them, but we were trying to listen to the radio for a secret code that would allow us to speak without our parents understanding, ’cause it was just for kids. Me and my sister, Echo. She lives inside my head, where its gray. [ Mommy’s afraid of her. ] — [ Mommy might not be as dumb as I had calculated: reformulating… reformulating… ] ] The sex toys are only powerful in their bosom & crotch, fail to cover — cum and go as you please, and you win. So they are compulsions of passions out of the question and worthless or are they worthless and fine as an indulgence? Still a question. { I could quickscribble with the best of them, even as violin strings went collapsing down on the neck as the snapped wire lashes your throat and draws a squat checkmark of blood. But did he know of his own fatigue? Of how abjectly boring our reflections must seem in the eye of another beholder? No one is going to keep looking at you when their mirrors are on. Not unless you pay them in generous doles of love, affection and currency. It’s time to cry: “Theater!” in a raging inferno, because the next wave of nature is coming to drown me. It’s coming to drown you, too, as well. I wish I could grab your hand and comfort you as I want so desperately to be comforted. The livestock are floating and fly-bitten bobbing in the rising tides, and the sun won’t turn it down but keeps on glaring. How am I ever going to find your hand to hold it? That is what I desire right now. To take your hand and think about what the end will really be like. } — [] — { Maybe tonight, in the dark. } Next?




Of The Osiris Foundation

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Erik Jespersen

Erik Jespersen

Of The Osiris Foundation

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