the 40th venture of septu
(last from this timeline)
into final recesses / recess / recedingness

limbs lost / regrown
knees scraped by desert sand
frenched in rain / orbits cycling outwards, away from each other

the 40th wall of tespu
terminal / buried in lichen / redacted data

life slips from the phantom cab
bleeding out oil into cacti
minions stretch out under the stars, naked
some taken away by lights

drenched in rain

final species of plant medicine
shared among elders, younglings, distant watchers
orbits realign
planets disappearing into
sidelines / starfall

final gravity

last of the meteors

temporal zones for retreat
vernacular of the time bandit



next of the septus
closing the towering doors of the convention centre
waiting in the slim alleyway for the first expedition to return
the ageing ones, from afar, with their grocery bags, their children strapped and hidden from sight
Next of the septus, with hand drum made from tin
tapping the way ahead, a morse code to hidden intelligences



we moved through the vast hanger and found signs of the cities within

Subcultural artefacts, colour coded documents, symbols of prior cybernetworks, stacks of pointless currencies

there were elevators on street levels that led to underground corridors, glassed from the outer world like endangered creatures, cautiously handling plant medicine

37 or the partial exposition on septu


“He drags through the wet heat of day
into the vacant indoors
into distractions of red light and violence
he leaves the withered dream body half buried in the sand of memory
he offers it up to the god of deserts
flesh on a table, waxened, destroyed by time”

an incomplete exposition on the vehicle Septu, by its author.ity Irving Paul Pereira

Ï do not know exactly what I write, but what I write knows me”

data from dreams. revelations via contemplation. methods of self analysis. a mp to understand the terrain of everyday evolution.

Septu is, in spirit
a carrier / a ghost form
I project my concerns, appellations, considerations, processing into it
a he, a she, them , us, we , me
many, legion , as diverse as the mansion within born with this body
A mansion, whose doors lead to a greater reality
the outside word in an inner world, revolving around the axis of creations seed
(while my psyche is upset with literature)

Septu is incomplete as I am
we want to point our existence towards the completion
Which we will only reach at the point of physical death
And that is still only the beginning

So we continue ‘in fragmentaris’
A refusal to shoot straight, to be understood
how can we understand the true mysteries?

Septu is some kind of psychic form
transcendental , a delusion?, another species altogether
Septu dovetails into some kind of missionary being
I’m fighting wars ‘at the right hand’ but alas I’m only sleeping (& dreaming)
we mythologized the day , avant- garde the night missions

I am, we are, here but also not
‘In septu’ I can become much more than flesh
I can touch the hem of the First Born of Creations, First born from the dead
I am preparing for death (for I have touched the hem of her cloak)
but I am also very alive for I sip from the giving cup, the stream by the wayside

there are coat of arms, grimoires, images that move through Septu to me and vice versa

We corrode and corroborate

We are as immortal as all of you are
but to live this is to consciously live with and beyond the flesh
the flesh is a wall but the wall is an illusion

How could we forget that we can never ever truly die?

to remember this is to prepare for death with all our hearts, all our souls
this knowledge is in the key, the sword, the book of Septu
but it written only for me
You have your Septus
there are as many of them as the stars, impossible to count
but there is only one fountainhead



disorientation of the son, septu in hades

I’m emptied out, a soul fatigued by a fog that suffocates
embedded in the terrain of troubled sleep
the seekers are falling apart at the seams
their pastel oracle cards failing them
mini metallic dice to seal false fates
women who adored energies are weeping
shrouded figures behind them, imposing the weight of weariness

I’m pushing along endless unlit corridors
the mall is shuttered and abandoned
life sucked out of her walls
unable to find the way home

unable to find mother and father

I am without compass here
cut off from the loom
frustrated, restless, desperate, departed
in a place that is not theirs but mine

a dead man says he knows me here
from the time of neonmancy
I’m robbed of knowledge
I ply a trade that does not pay

I cannot find father and mother

there are no boats on Acheron or Lethe
the Styx is a knotted mess inside me
no stairways upwards or doorways out
I’m a child left behind in this colourless world
leaving bridal chamber for burial grounds

mother gets up from her wheelchair
but I’m not there to hold her
father is silent
I’m on a lost floor, maps confounded
wounded with perpetual loss
memories, false
sanctuary, crumbling
no signs or voices to lead the way
only hounds, barking without end



and given unto us, the airfield
this solitary womb of the hangar
where the weary has come
slowly, one by one
as if from difficult passages
endless roads, nights of unsleeping, sunless worlds
to lay like wasted flesh upon the stage
feeding on the gaseous forms in this space

I let the unneeded fester in my mouth
my body rejecting orange powder
turning into sludge with saliva
I drool, let it crawl down my chin like a restless aquatic being
I’ve held on to it for far too long

the tired ones are repaired
moving on along a river of dust
freshly watered courses
that opens up to solar embrace
a terrain of grass and sand and stone
roadless yet leading the way



they communicate with me from a place my body can’t go

activity, scenario, environ as language 

stripped of concrete signs but imbued with knowing

I heed the unseen but also grapple

80% trust 20% doubt 

the training ends, payout secure 

but there’s, I thinks price I pay, some 20%



an arc of varied images but one desert
within me (or as I am, with it, is)
illicit substances grown by the heat of a star
presented in forking paths

candelabras, tabernacles, chandeliers, gateways
suspended in sunlight, in gardens

I am a storehouse of motifs

battling hunger
soft mourning
familiar furniture but different in scale
subtle shifting positions
the blessing of young flesh

placing frequencies in the hand of others
cradling the open wounded, diseases in the hallway

an arc of varied deserts but one image

32nd path of septu

I pass through the gates
that landed here before my time
artificial bodies of water

chlorine, garden chairs, elliptical headdress

I follow the motherlode but cannot keep up
spiral stairways, glimpse of ankle, almost calf
into corners disappearing
led into mysteries of the mansion
turquoise, marine atmospheres, a prescience in hidden rooms

her dress has changed
as death clothes are buried in landfills
I’m a bout of circular signals
like the sign on her forehead beyond the veil

I am fissures, breath rising from catacombs
but this is my world and not hers
I am in the dim places still
unlike her, luminous
I am still a shadow treading smoke and mirrors
the scroll of the arc that falleth from blackwashed wall
cathedral gotha, end night shores
the scratching of the trees in spectral moonlight
piercing fantomas, ever iteras

31 ‘ for m’

the first wave descended from circe ceiling
as if crawling out of a sun in the middle of a constellation
limbs and taut bodies stretched in black
moving like spiders to its target

Is this intervention or incursion?
Infiltration / intercession?

your wave was waiting in the prep room, on the verge of activation
I looked at you outside its door

I remember us
both belonging to one Breath

I remember us
our spirits as mirrors
grey light in grey light

I remember us
before we lost each other
before our moment of contact
standing side by side
before a familiar monument