a synapse burst in the third eye

& a brain descends to the mouth like a god.


another lapsed momentously unwound

so we rebel yell & cower.


I’m total therefore I do not exist.

I’m ended therefore we can’t.

this is basic logic, common sense.


a grammar of skin peeling off in fluorescence,

cold & dead, how not obvious, we play this.



today in my bag I carried two books & read one.

the book I did not read was passwords by jean baudrillard.

in it he says “we might be said to be already in an abstract, disembodied state where things continue by mere inertia and become simulacra of themselves” (61).

today at the beach there were a lot of thirteen year-old girls wearing teenage bodies &

not much else, drinking something grape out of a black plastic bag & practically making

babies while we watched, “fucking blanquitas” on a blanket, & there was puking

& “put her in the ocean” & awkward writhing triangles screaming to be fucked by anything & careening recklessly towards nothing. while we watched. to be disembodied requires a body in the first place. inertia requires its opposite. sunk into the sand all was worry over death. the book I carried in my bag that I did read was the wasteland & other poems by john beers. in it there is a poem that says the subject of poetry is death. I think maybe the subject of life is death. which is to say that if you do it for an end; the end can only be death. in a yoga class one time the instructor said, “you don’t do it to do something, you do it to feel something.” a human lives & moves towards death so that they might feel life. once an end is reached there can be no more feeling. one becomes entirely, which is to say, one ceases to be.

a simulacrum of a body which was once familiar multiplied taut & trying hard to fuck but doesn’t because. teenage bodies are themselves ends, they are death. the dramatic reaction to life makes sense.

in the book I did not read the end = totality. implies a constant present. that which cannot end because it is already itself & is therefore ended & upending “reality”. the book I did read, when it ended, did not end — it stopped. the difference between ending & stopping is “complete.” perhaps this is the ultimate impossibility. in all the workshops the well-wrought couplet is the ultimate sum of nothing. all endings are radical in their assertion of existence. therefore it is perhaps acceptable to be romantic (by which I mean pessimistic), or the observation recurring in the text is a continuous re-negotiation of all given terms such that the only possible conclusion is particularly conclusion-y. show me an ending that does not require revisiting all previous invocations grandiosely. show me an ending that does not attempt. no such paradigm exists. all guilty parties must cease & desist. that is to say, give up the body. make of it a grammar, a text.

it is through language that the virtual is reached & through language it is negated. the opposite of the virtual is itself, which is to say, the “Real,” or the double of nothing is everything. in this manner the world is created by the scribe & in this manner the scribe is maddened by the World.

from fixed, there is nowhere to go. bodies gyrate against themselves.

they make themselves again & younger. temporally restrained, they play at dying with the appetite of a corseted lover left blue on the bed & fed only sweets. an appendage in the throat. so much material laid waste in the sand. coded symbiosis crashed into again.

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