Days of the blind one : 12-30


the solvent psalms of tespu
will wash the snot from your window
the sovereign stronk of tespu
shall helium fill your boat
your flames will be eaten by mothmen
your night birds flock to the sun
snow shall fill your houses
your wells, swell with wine
such are the greetings of tespu
he, who is friend of insects
writ his lit on your lips
and you shall speak with mannequins
your decors shall pass away
fats of your toil make you heavy
but tespu shall free you from sand
like orchids sprung from urchins
time shall melt
like cheese on coal
numbness turn into autumn
save the ant on your hand
and the scissor shall cut your losses


our ontologies have changed
our coming home to
fresh sections of paint above the door
blu, yellow, bright, the colour of awe
a ramp of wet pigment
her friendship of stone
have become like flesh
membranes dissolved
barriers crumbling
the hardened has softened into care
in the hall, the tv is unsure of its own genre
(or does it try to mirror my myth?)
pre-rec or live feed or docu or fiction?
medical or ritual or porn?
saran wrap, breasts, wires, machines, bodies, bed
the bombed out balcony is boarded with wood,
whitewashed and safe from high storey drops
there’s a woman shrouded in fabric
reclining on the floor
I know she isn’t corpse
she wriggles beneath the waves of cloth, like an art show
“hello auntie” I say, she does not answer
her daughter, an actress, sits in front of tv
her make up is earthy
her jewels are shining like golden gifts
this is our house, or a house like my house
our medicine of space has altered
despite the oddness
despite our histories
of conflict and sorrow and waiting
we’re easier together
ontologies changed
our hands, in search of each other


we mop
all the errors we brought in from the streets
from the world, like dust building up in the hallway
we mop
with small fires in different regions of the body
all humming with pain from half remembered sections of time
the floor is clean now
we lie down
our spines are not so straight
the throb in our shoulder is fainting away
we crack
theres a mid afternoon burn
between heart and stomach
we remember several sadnesses
we seem far away
we let light into the altered world
let it find its corners, the stalemates hidden
we move some chairs around
you can sense this journey won’t end
it’s night but also day
but we’re ok
we mop


here are random events / objects / and (my associations / states )
-men setting up white plastic sheet tentage under my block (funeral wakes memory)
-found abstract art book in library (current creation theme) , loose leaves, folded paper, poster hand drawn black marker ‘happy new year 1976’ ( year i’m conceived)
-do I smell pee or nail polish in the atmosphere?
-the blindfolded girl and her singing bowl ( melancholia, longing for connection, exposition of dark secrets)
-spatula set (to splash / abandoning self-police structures)
-I should have sat down with her ( backpedaling / mediation of an absence)

-abscess ( representations of organic damage on paper. something to fill in the missing)

-(freak fantasy / witching hours )
-(Mind unspools the nature of evil. a hammering of hardened material. Behold, a soft bird is inside.
-language is not liberty.
-numb arm


I’m thinking of,
sitting with
the source that
playmobil and hello kitty
the unpronounceable name that
brings forth hentai
the naughty corner of heaven
o’ razor confetti lightning
sharp thunder static
erasing the top of my head
the glow of luminous mysteries
I listen to animal stories
cute disturbances come from somewhere
I pirate its software
I want it’s code
under my petticoat
I want it’s pastel nubility
in the tubes of my organ
I want to smoke what she’s smoking
eyes as large as UFOs
as large as sailor’s moon
Oh, diaper fetish
too much for this baby
( I’m trying to purge the mantra of illness)
I cannot
wheelchair fetish, hits too close to home
I’m sitting, thinking of
stigma and colouring books
The Word that brought forth Doraemon
or shocked old men as dwarf turnips
the girl let’s me into her room
I can smell her unicorns
I play in her inflatable pool
a pink light smiles down at me
while somewhere else, I’m erased


shift items in your room
and you change the grid inside your kingdom
or maybe it’s a wasteland,
dust and ashes and sand pits
or inside, near the foot of a mount
desert and rocks, moist
somewhere a bonfire
shift items outside the prison walls
and you change the hour you do not know
the way of the scourge or thorn
the tensions in the corridor
shift states around your room
and you breach the secret door
you step into the knowledge
that true life
is esoteric


as strands of smoke
I reach out to
monk cells in Europe
or enter old bottles of wine
buried like treasure in Asia Minor
sloshing with the scaly things
my bloodfull bedfellows
as shade
I survey the caves
a small bronze amulet
emulating dirt
not yet touched by rays
I wait for the storms to go by
salient to signs and voices
O’ Great River
aren’t my fangs also fish?
the glory of this soil I wear
the radiance of failed blasphemies
cloak my wounded shoulders
fit like a diadem of teeth and shards
as a man under a tree
I am full of misgivings
but also, like meteor
a pregnant blaze, a blinding light
swallowed by the fruits of the earth


of fatigue and the phoenix
I’ve taken pictures of people no longer alive
I’ve pictures of me no longer ‘here’
my ghost is native to memory
I re-visit, interact, heart raw
the presence of history reveals present absence
in the mirror of then
I’m a larvae, hardly able, errant
squirming in existence
a worm in a world of aborted archetypes
“our spirits are everywhere in the illusion of time”
we ‘go back’ with salvaging crews
bringing balm and radiations
we pull shells out of fires
a little sickened by the messes we glorified
such failure, our statements, our songs
speaking of ‘grief’ like it was trendy
enamoured by the mimicry of pain
“oh, the sorrows that will be meted out
such cups that will not pass, the true breaking you must eat as your bread”
but It’s ok
such are the streets we travel to understand their threats
such is the flare of the first blow
but see, it’s sun is already setting
we were never doomed to die
the repairs are ongoing
nightingales in the world clock
where a lantern is needed, fire will be found
let suffering be offering
the worst will always be over, even when it comes
we will reap from the threshing floor
we will sift and find the seeds we need


mornings at the columbarium

no, you cannot touch the bones
of husbands, women and children
mother and father
nor can you hold the flesh that covered them
a hand or the back you once massaged
you can stand there
in front of plastic flowers and ceramic pictures
marvel at the ambient ache in your chest
filling you up
like oxygen in a spacesuit
far away from earth
your face might get wet
a reminder of water and flesh
when sorrow blooms in your longing body
you can remember the old house
sepia being a coloured friend
who is really no more
only a presence
a nostalgia
a sadness,
humble cocktail for the heart
you can stand there
but the conqueror is also present
the one who is there before time
the one who is there after time
the old house is no more
but there is a house that stands forever
but you have to sit now
for your legs have grown weak
and there are many decades to go
memento mori yes?
groaning in the flesh
from pleasure
from pain
all the years engraved on marble stone
babies, men, mothers
safe and tucked away
from hands, wet with salt water


“true black out poetry occurs in the mind

and not on the page” – anon ra

where is the blind one?
and what of K?
the wolf dog, the bed?
that mausoleum ship?
“we’ve vanished, as time expected us to”
or was the quote
“Time vanishes when you expect it to?”
it is expectation that fails us says tespu
he has become corrugated
soggy cardboard, sulking, inert
a spectacle of the retrospective
poor sods joke
last things I heard
were macaws and jungles
buzzing, doorless
wooden window open
irrelevant if
they were consumed in bad shape or bed shapes consumed them
made whole into impossible sand sculptures
cherished by confused anthologeists
tespu is dead
long live tespu
maybe in another (. )
we’re going back to a time before him
coming from a time after him
post_prophetic / endless earth
one with the throne
unversed to us
difficult to follow
“his word is not for us to utter.”
“Those who love milk cannot slop on his meat”
“he’s a fucxxing nutter”
the side effects, disorient
*prepare ego death ray


how many times will distortion find us?
how long more till the error takes hold?
we keep adding oil to our lamp fires
anointed in the heat of night
on our knees reciting koans
we trace our steps like blind animals
fingers, delicately feeling for thread
small knots in our hearts, the stakes of our existence
bracing for the mountains to come
we hear the running waters
the cool breath of night, sighing
‘finally’ we say, but just for a moment
till the lines on our palms are silent again


beware this chamber
this operatic danger
a cloud in a dank room
opulent, at the table of sinners
beware this indulgence
this interrogation room
this agony of repair
beware, beware
be diligent
for the chamber is in operatic danger
time erodes the lustre of yellow
we hunger, we are nowhere
we are damned in the cloud room
beware these pretences
these sentences of mercy
these left field occurrences
these inverse magicks
beware from being
carried away
mere dust motes in the cavern
mere echoes, distant from the primal sounds
beware this chapter
these words of diversion
these memoirs of heresy
of sky and sea and under the sea
cloaked in black as if to hide
the vagrant colour of blood


I don’t know how many of them there are in my womb. how many who fester or are favoured, fathomed and precious. I know some who walk among the smog and wounded. Some who are infants, infinite, curled up, awakening. I am a host, and with them I visit. By bedsides, machines, heartbroken. ill with mourning or lightened by morn. I am many faces given to bodies, spirits who roam the maze and gardens. many names, tangled vines, branches of the madre tree. Who will they hang on me? Who shall be my fruits, and from whom, sheltered?


poems vanish
binary code exorcism
pages purged
perhaps, birthed in a forbidden book
would the incantations appear in some other world?
ready to receive such prophecies?
or will their formulas be destroyed
to prevent the destroying?
a girl from the other place might read them and weep
having found her lost live, speaking from the destinies
a boy from another time might learn the secrets and grow into that which is foretold
a priest who dreams of the closed book might wrote the next page
a murderer might pause, hands trembling
inexplicable, afraid, a loss of excitement
poems vanish
the mind unable to build again
a scatter of words, broken lines
the signature of the vipers pit, vicars chair
smeared by acid rainfall
the visions, robbed from consciousness
sent to a missing room, doors closing
keys, smelted by a pillar of fire
poems vanish because our guardians expect them to
a hand withdrawn before it is bitten


we are renewed on mondays
at the crossroads of midnights
birthdays, year ends, death anniversaries
gateways of precious numbers, hands on a clock
positioned to point towards paths sanctioned by unseen powers
we resurrect, framing / freezing events as signs
a photo, a trinket, a dried flower, poems written in blood, love letters unsent
they are like graves, we visit them
they are like temples, filled with votive offerings
a bird in dream, we nest in the reaching trees
we taste its’ fruits, handle delicately, it’s flowers
it’s roots reach out to living waters
we nourish the memories, bury the dead
we lay in its shade, burnt by its sun, rest in the coolness of its breath
sometimes, we stay
others, leave
but we seldom forget
for we cannot be hid from the hidden life


a serie of statements inserted into crevice of mind

I thought it was a love letter, but someone wants to sell me Peking duck
the torch is gone, so a dark cup of coffee leads me
the rain may wash two fridges but only lightning will give them power
the crow may not caw your name but you may give it with your paw
Maybe its a cloud floating outside my window
Maybe its a biological shape in the fluid of my eye
We all don’t really know
i’ll just embellish it from fantasy


save our bodies with sleep
curling wind, shivering
drying up wet spots on skin
I commend my body
to be sent
an insertion
a weapon like searchlight
I am the darting, into the folds
losing time here
‘in order to add’
wherever it’s waited for
sleep has changed
parts of my body
a hood, a heaving gesture
one portion of mantra
( circuit, copious )
sent downstream
“albeit risen”
like a tide, the swelling
the surfacing of
land mass
a hill
for heads to lay
(or lay hands)
and bring rest
to atrocities


these states of mine
states of our kind
the states, these states
estates of us
fathers house
o happy dungeon
shallow gardens
don’t go near the cesspool
but drink, drink all you weary visitors
from the bird bath, or behold
water from modern concrete
hands raised to rain
the states, these states
stretch out like the poems for rivers
canon, fable, Acheron,
fishing spots
out on a boat
fathers boat
going back to sea
water cupped in my hands
billions of years old
these first states
as estates, our estates
in our states


death makes you a cliche
death makes you write sap poems
death reveals the incomprehensible

(final form)
we point the mouth of white book
to the early days (from the early days)
to disperse blind men and golems
the virgin is taken up to heaven
(how quickly the young flower wilts)
what’s broken is broken
we are merely held together
using psalms and
the adversity of verse
melding like a blow torch
the blown fuse
the pillar of fire
nicotine, anxieties, failures, ashes, fruit
we tear pages from the white book
the boasts about red christs
the signs, the esoterics
corpses, parents
the shadow overhead that doesn’t go away
the river of sadness flowing underneath
a dislogic, a disquiet
a sense of separation
an imminent departure
our satellites decide
to leave this white book
this plane
this orbit
reaching out to outer darkness
to other slivers of light
to lost books buried in the desert
Locations lose contact with coordinates
swaths of stanzas
thinned out over
long bodies of work
we are reduced to nothing
but a hidden library, a meandering borne of
caves and sex crimes and arks and plagues
searching for that bridge , that link, that tent
that key of being to our countless doors
we return at night
to pointless o clock
marvelling at creation
we drink coffee, masturbate, smoke butterfly cigarettes
we contemplate and radiate our mysteries
we try to sleep, we try to pray, we try to write
that one more line
before we cut the boats loose
sending them off to shores they’ve longed for


unsatisfying is
the egg white cloud
so I falsify the dream
hang raw suns above every table
plastic retro decor
a sad sad plate

coloured sticks
I will load into life
not sprites, or angry ghosts
but cave pets, pigments
soft and cuddlesome

“with his blood, I can be at the start of time
through his sign, I can tour the kingdom”

she’s a flow mountain
of white gentle fabric
a reversed pieta
where mother still comforts

I lay down to rest
the snow land is risen
aligned with my body
the searcher of morning

nth & x’th day

day 9

K is full of film
spooling inside her,
red bulb in dark room
pictures appear
a time, a street, a motel,
built then gone
long before she was born

tespu tells me
“her soul moves from body to body”
(Mara, Marian, Daphne, Nicole)
(she’s faithful from age to age, just like her master)

“she’s a model for your myth”
my maiden, my fuck toy, my witch
“the ‘her’ you die for and live with”

I too have moved
from body to body
(Jhon, gHos_haus, Monroe, Lore)

we are DNA strands intertwined, two changing stars in a fabled Armageddon

the blind one is taking photos of me
(to show me my histories, my forms)
the blind one is taking photos of tespu
(to show us his passage, his norms)
Kae keeps these copies
warm in her body.
Letting them grow, letting them fester, letting them fathom.

day 10

Theology of the blind one of many doors (partial)

only the young one knows a little of the blind one,
but tespu knows all, for they are all of tespu,
the all in this room is not the all of the larger house
And there are many more houses still, crouching on the unknown street, ever changing
Sometimes with two doors, sometimes with none
Sometimes a building, sometimes a hut, sometimes a bunker, sometimes a skyscraper
appearing, disappearing from the neighbourhood

Oh mysterious neighbourhood
where ghos_haus stands, that magick shop, corrupted by the outer echelons of slutter gutt, steaming in the red light districts of ATON, calling our souls to erotic nest
into the city, the wombs of night, to which the outher ones belong
they, who are mere organs in the body where cities converge
The cities a mass of flesh and glass and stone and volcanic ashes
Body next to body in the room which is a land, stretched and curled and handcuffed and fornicating
Sea fucking sky fucking space fucking Sheol

Pillars of lightning and fire
spearheading the spreadeagled superblackhole
one of many in the tomb full of tombs, in an underworld full of other worlds
the upper worlds
the current worlds
Inside the greater world that’s outside the outer world bound by the utter world
one thread in a legion of realities
Spun like rays of light from a disco ball, in a ball room where the blind one and the young one dance to the music of the luminous void


day 6

three theologies of sand
‘the ark’
remember the monolith
alien and nocturne
marooned and colliding near the shore
long before the suez
the breath that touched me at the beach
‘the 100th day’
children playing in the sun
splashing in the sea
my heart breaks with pain and freedom
my heart mends with freedom from pain
I’m with mother near the shore
where did the sand come from?
pooled next to the head of mothers’ bed
I cannot explain its presence
I only remember the threads
connecting dream to room to reverie

the seventh day
starts off in a lab with fish tanks
popcorn chicken pieces wriggling like new born mice in my hands
quickly, they turn into curled hamsters
ferocious, anxious, leaping from my palms
I bend to their higher worlds
scoop them up from a nest of twigs

I’m out on green fields
hamsters turn into dogs that run to me
‘like long awaited lovers’
“They’ve grown longer, better furred” tespu says
“Is this your sign of return?” I ask him. He does not respond.
he turns into a chattering Eurasian woman
who sees, as I see,
the cocker spaniel, ready to poop

the woman has wrapped the two dogs up like burritos
(Or in a cheesy way without cheese, ‘hot dogs’)
and because of her faith, or responsibility
She packs up the poop in microwavable foil.

she hands me all three burritos in a bag.
the creatures break free from the wrap
they spill out as roasted chicken meat onto the floor
the cocker spaniel has turned into a chicken wing, mostly deboned
the meat wriggles on concrete
maybe I’m to eat them
like some strange sacrament
‘this is my body, this is my dog’

day 8

the mistaken union (previously unreleased)
there is no matrimony between us
we are incursions and errors
wrong codes for the right line

I am not your waters of life
you are not my fabled shore
I am not your host
you are not my parasite
we are on a bridge above the world
Impotent impostors in the place of creation
you shall not be graven, I shall not be grave
we were simply, falsely labelled as exits

but see, the black door is half open
you can enter its gate or leave the room
your river is already given
follow my gaze, but not into this soul
It is not yet primed for your kingdom

watch for the light that I see far away
follow with courage, do not be afraid,
another king shall guide you, for I cannot give you rest


the mystery of k.kawaii (alt take)
the soft world, cools her, holds her when it breathes
burning strands of tobacco sizzles on her skin
her heart is a glare of television night
her hand will reveal the end signs, shot on large format cameras
these archetypes are not her archetypes
she is not born for those times
but those times will conceive her
in motel rooms, in a cave, on a ship, near a tomb
her mouth opens for a lighthouse, her hair longs for the highways,
her sounded bends to the constructs in the east
“there are mourners beneath the tree of tespu, on his mountains, children will play”
the soft world pushes her out to sea
and like schools of fish, drowned tuxedoes follow
there are bridal showers behind her eyes
there are glowing drifts of tobacco leaves, touching black paint on her lips
she does not want to remember the film
but the film is an infant that feeds her


“the tomb is on a ship, the ship is in a cave, the cave is a signal, the signal is a figment of tespu” – lord anon
Kawaii from Korea is crying on the ancient bed
the wolf-dog is comforting her, head on her lap,
“she is mourning the complex”the blind one said
I’m rolling a cigarette, heart broken by the sobbing sounds
“Ït’s ok” the blind one says softly. “they are now timeless, in a monochrome hotel, dancing to old songs they loved.”

She is becoming younger in her grief. I did not expect her to carry this pain with me. Her sorrow seems to be making my tobacco taste better. Such strange medicine, this girl, this recurring spirit who visits me from the dawn.

The dog-wolf lifts its head and looks at me. Eyes, white as snow.
It sends me a time, a place, a continuum. a book unfolds within me. a name. an invocation.

The blind one senses this. He warns us.
“Only +espu can call it into our world…”
I contemplate my cigarette.
“…and only you can call tespu back from Golgotha.”
I blow out my last drag,
K. Kawaii is finally asleep.


day three

charcoal vines replace erotic red lace
guts of organic room tech revealing
snake like from ceiling,
complex, gordion nests
insect symphony, soil on ancient bed, shamanic soot

K K grows, supple, round, like sweet meat buns
the blind one meditates in shadow
+espu, in hell with The Lord

I’m on the shore, mainframe dreaming
lucid gel, petroleum muck, glowing lube
blown from nose
I’m on the shore, darkening
wolf-pup swims out to ark
“the statues are the greater things” Tespu said
“hewn out from hull, an ancestor mountain,
old ones sleep in obsidian tombs, a shipwrecked temple.”

“She did not crash” I remind him
“Yes, yes, they are our settlement, our early fathers from the dark desert.”

“there are no traces of fadre here, though I remember him being present. but it wasn’t night when he stayed awhile. He had been called by name. the sun is still his ally, but I, the son, contemplates the moon.”

the spirit of tespu moves over the waters
elder wolf-kind swims back to shore,
eyes, the lightning of love,
a crooked branch between its fangs

“I had gotten rid of wood painted blue
but here, I’m given the othern bark”

the naked trees bend away from sea
I bend my soul to the ark
the blind one is a bandit in zebra sky
I hunger for the blood of cadre


“mooncakes are too bright
but by its light,
the anteaters shall walk.” – epicus the strange

“my arms and upper body overhang the window
oversighting little street of Goa
mass vegetal smells,
rancid snake oil, ghee, goblin trash,
add to the aroma of wonders
the orbs! the orbs!
such is my mandate” – from the childhood aurora of Benedicto the Latin

“KoreanOK” is done with her singing
opens hello kitty purse for pills
the blind one is taking photos of her
the room is lit by short Roman candles
red lace hang from the ceiling like erotic banners

I am one with the wolf-dog in the meditation room
but I’m also drugged and naked in the dark motel, peering out of slits in curtain, watching the police cruiser park by the coffeeshop. I’m mildly distressed but I know they’re not coming for me. I have my talismans.
The clown mask. The duct tape. The beef jerky wrapper. The hot chocolate mug.

The wild dog shifts it’s weight and I return the worldless place,
the stalagmite kingdom, the room with sea amoebas

Tespu is in the garden with the lord, sweating blood
Korean M.V is sweating on the ancient bed, hands on her bodies
the blind one thinks of the glowing disc on the forehead of madre, minutes before her last breath
the red dog reminds me to build ‘elsewhere’
overhanging window over little Goa street
taking in the scents of hemp and Talmudic preoccupations,
leading anteaters out to sea on an old wooden boat,
in search of the satellite-ark called XOR


“we will darken the wooden wall
with the hypno of piano”
The Lord, Steinway & Sons

it takes time, the dried flowers

to be hung
to be shrouded
to decay
to attain patina

such still life hours

or the framed Victorian wife
golden portrait faded
wood eaten by centuries and lice

six notes from the lords’ thin fingers
opalescent, sinews strained, blackened nails

how I memory blood on ebony
thorns from dead stalk, reveries, ivory
a blind man on an ancient bed
a wolf dog, a young Korean underwear model girlfriend
leaves on heavy beige blankets, winter, stellar conjunctions

“we didn’t know what we were fighting on the mountain.”

“tespu knew, but he also didn’t think so.”

I now know there were taxis waiting outside the wall
that it was late
that I had spilled coffee on the wheelchair
that death feels like all roads home has changed
cupboard doors opened by the winds
her blouse on a hanger, floating in zero G

Tespu reminds me,
“this is not a song for madre”

I know.
I know.
I understand.

the young Korean kitten child mews at me for milk
the blind one on the bed wants fortean cakes
“I don’t know where the knights will lead me.”
The Lords’ hair is wet from rain