forms

I Am a projection, surely
from the city of spirits
a flicker of candle
passed down from ever fire

the enterer of darkened places

I Am flesh, surely
a prism and not a prison
passing through walls
of caves and constellations

surely then, Am I like
an inner door
a gate-like being

an orbital path of eyes
searching skyward

13/3

we spoke about the horses
on a sovereign shore
touched by the teeth of broken glass

“i will give you a bank of thieves.” you said
“I will give you the blade of seas.”

I merely watched the waves
razing the shapes of faces

“the dandelion is your maze,” I said, “in the sallow hands of my heart.”

we are lost inside the forest of It-ness
fickle about the fruits that made us forlorn
you stepped into a tangle of veins
convinced by the contours of my chest
to rest on a bed of tails

you celebrated poison and sureness
you calibrated your fall
you posed for the final hour
you slept despite the storm

we talked about the trembling of distance
we talked about the depth and coil
“listen to the gargoyle of your love.” you said
“listen to the chime of your failing.”

there is comatose on your tongue
there are enzymes breaking down your daydreams
there is the typical rain of sadness
ruining the soles of your feet

you sought out horses by a sovereign shore
but only found riders, bleeding for manna
you sought out lilies by the lake
but only found the melancholy of mud

 

#irvingpaulpereira

 

18

18

 

 

such and such o-clock
day of something
or other

 

six
nine
two.pm
text to voice recording
archived footage

 

what is seventeen
orion
twenty ?
blue torsos
chameleon cryptogram

 

late morning re-codings
as heard across the traffic jam

 

need to know
where to go
for longer night

 

need to know
innards of folk
river running bright

 

rupert
grapefruit, grasshopper monger
stealing cheese from time pods

 

mortar
opening and closing fun wounds
mecha orifice’d fembot

 

such and such a
mushroom cloud
spore feeding mother

 

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira

day 15

profounding the not found

Tespu leads you to the mouthern gape
typically darkness and stalactite daggers
but tonight- velvet fog, cobwebs, luna pines.

there are baby snails in strange circe formations
slices of eternities cascading in flouro jars
masculine turmoil in sissy garments
erosion planes, mineralsatians, forged heads of fantomas.

Tespu leads you to cleaver fields, oscillating mangrove weapons, softslots, squiggly uranium baths.

You want none of these finite things.

You’re looking for something tespu cannot cope with.
You part ways to wander alone
in monochrome
in Excelsis Deo.

Blind sentient rings project nest forms and nubile nano-neophytes
Those, art born, reveal tides and termites, time displaced.
There are blue scicilia, sarrogheitus, simple infant formulas, soma, but

You need none of these neuro-syncs.
nothing on display encapsulates you

You begin to wither now more than wonder
You do not navigate as much as alienate
The gaze of some quarters, diminish you
At some seabound sites, you metastasize
You beta block, you sacrosanct
you tumble down sabbat holes, searching
but you still cannot find her.

#spwm17 #spwm17day15 #irvingpaulpereira #formbonus

night activity in unll

 

past the turquoise field
outside the range of comms now

when there’s only the ship’s A.I.
when there’s only one physical body in cryo
how does one explain the spectres of doctor, with a family, walking the curvature halls ?
how does one explain the forms, the voices, the actuality?

“there’s only two patients left in the complex’ he says.
by the end of this night, only one will survive

m.arie in an oblong computer processing unit
m.arie is pushed through sliding doors
m.arie and her relieved mother
nurses with masks
we, embedded and watching in the frozen room with
the body artist or the body of the artist
nearly touching the horizon of grief
we belong to that which will not survive
we belong to:

M (body open)
still in theatre
the husband of M, in a house, light years away.
the husband of M, frightened like a white rat.
the ism or son of M in cry0, nearly touching the starlight of grief
dreaming these things.

us at the core, watching

m.arie. the new, young one of unll
wheeled out of artist body
m.arie, the next child, sent into recovery (or nursery)
in the body of unll

M, (body open) filled with doomed past tense
M, the containment unit, contaminated
full of aborted, un-clarities, vagaries and meaningless body politic

M, the damaged body.
M. of the no use. to be cremated.

origin design specs demand only the machine and the body of unll to be moving in deep space
from what chemistry mind soup then, do these activities belong?

one imagines the artist of the body waking up in the unfamiliar.
one imagines him facing the table of night
not the blazing orange statuesque lights
seen through an open door, in the room of M
one imagines the body of the artist waking in familiar space

but he is no longer in known space

outside the range of comms now

past the turquoise field
#prose #fiction #decade4 #exiledartist #irvingpaulpereira #sglit

the village

night lode manifests in the suburb of crime. third world village. irrelevant time node.
grass patches, street corner hills, sand roads and orange earth, bulging and impossible for wheels, dirt ruined by hooves and
grunting animals. low cast oblong spaces built by long forgotten peoples, residential, possibly vacant, flies buzzing in heatstroke sun.

the following events are immediately staged, an occurrence, a module in operation >
coming from four directions, appearing like a swarm; simultaneous and rehearsed: the pigs, devil polis, deep blue, clueless.
constables alighting riot bus with cages fronting windscreens, old blood crusting under wheels sunk in sand. flanking zones. raid alert protocol.

they look at each other. a coordinated confusion. fumbling false alarm.
they look at each other, baton in hand, silver cuffs trembling
but they only see a fraction of walls, rising out of land.
afternoon node time. nein. nothing to target. failed intel.

an officer babbles, searching blank horizons
the criminals, no where, perhaps invisible,
officers of the precinct, misled, trigger fingers fidgeting.
they look at each other, loiter. unsure of how to proceed, how to discharge brutality.

one has a sense that night lode is at the core, moving among the species unseen, making observations, a gloating omnipresence, studying the pale faces of laughing stocks, silver badges trembling, powers in a vacuum. nothing left to do but vanish as quickly as they arrived.

irrelevant time node passes.

night lode as a humanoid form, carrying a black baton, night lode as a parent, scouring the haunts of its children. night lode banging the sides of oil drums used to burn money for the dead in hell. “arise, return.” natives, shirtless and taut, emerging from rusted hiding places. baton clanging against garbage trolleys, “be made flesh, be known to me, you who seek, I, who call you out of shadows, into the day of vu.” bent covers opening for air, local bandits, murderers, rising from trash, spider like, dark skinned, bodies painted with devilish signs and filthy scars, tense erotic bodies in loincloth, fishnets, para-cords, in perpetual hunger, clambering from blind places. they do not wait for voice or command from father/mother lode. they scatter, four directions, under sun, day lode sun hardly moving in the sky. here are the secret pawns of crime, cogs in a beast,from a beast, appeased, sent out, choosing to vanish, to hunt, hungering children, heading for the city of night.

the three pronged path

three pronged path:

there is a diversion in night lode. a three pronged dissection of reality, now half remembered in jaundiced noon.

prong one

the identity of this witchcraftian girl-teen, with a red, blurred out devil mask on her t-shirt, is not specified; but standing close to her in the flesh caused a tightening of the lungs, a slowing of the blood in thickened veins. with right palm spread open, illuminated, like the corona of a moon, the magus taps her chest thrice, and tells her, with struggling breath, to ’think. of. the. sun.’

prong two

there are canopies and umbrella like shelters, pale greying walls, an air of after-rain, like an afterimage of damp existence, an upstairs and a downstairs, perhaps a chalet, and a celebration with little or no human noises. there is a table where the fortune tellers must sit. three of them, taking turns to read the fates of strangers. but there is only one cartomancer, one who must attend to two histories at once. on one hand, inside the hall, a dejected woman, who had married the wrong man. outside, at a wooden table, a meek woman, who had just arrived, scared and alone. torn between the two, which one should be attended to first?

prong three

there’s an overweight man, stair climbing but never sweating, like a fluid-less animal. on one of the levels, by the white doorway, there are three women. the one with the short grey hair, becomes erotically drawn to the man. he wears a tight, light blue thong and nothing else, mounds of fats spilling out over his feminine shaped groin. the stretch marks on the side of his belly is a horned face. sexual anxiety mounts. she had been stalking his aura, his social media, she is declaring her romantic interest, but he averts her advances. he leans against the door frame, hand on waist, painfully aware of his skimpiness.

prong two

She was my eternal she. she doesn’t seem eternal anymore. her miscarriage is no longer a charged memory. the brutal break up with her decade long lover isn’t relieving anymore. she got married to another man on a magical day meant for me. i should show her, her fate, but I feel nothing.

prong one

the sun is a lifelong thing inside me. the nights are no longer weary and worn out with questions. the answer is a lifelong thing inside me. i have swallowed the sun whole. i do not know if my palm on her heart has done anything worthwhile. I have pulled myself away from a destiny as corpse. i might never see her again.

prong three

this grey haired woman does not belong in my bed. no one belongs to my bed except me, except the multitude of my bodies and desires. i sweat and cum alone. like an animal full of listless fluid.

#sglit #irvingpaulpereira

this is how we began

this is the sign of our first contact
the first of her flesh, the youngest flesh i’ve seen
cloaking her spirit

this is her time of dresses
fit for a child, of virgin white
unlike her other lives
unlike the aeons to come
when she would so comfortably inhabit
the colour of her lover, death

this is the way we begin

the scene of our first contact
queued in line with packs of body parts
machines / beep scanning / cash / registering
fresh scalps wrapped in clear plastic
blood pooled on styrofoam plates
clean unwrinkled flesh
eyes, scooped from skill
eyes still bright from final visions

her stance is a dance frozen in time
of motion, paused, still frame innocence
curve of teenage waist and calf
a supple posture of youth and lamb
skin untouched by violence
a bride to be, a witchcraft of woman
the maiden with legs apart

this is how we will begin

the confrontation
the father of disruption
a body borrowed by interrupter
an automaton questioning the strength of my heart

“I will be true to her words,” i tell him

the father babbles, warns, a body jerking, a marionette of horror
“this is a time of vultures but not of corpses.”

she is already in recital, an intelligence of the outer kind
the clarity of babel, hybrid sounds of animal and man
streaming through her
words cascading from nubile lips
light adding light to light.

“I am the night that births your desert
i am the heart full of death
beating in the gut of your cauldron.”

this is how we ended
this is how we began
a moment beyond the great passing
a moment beyond the terminal years
beyond the sediments of fallen shrines

I return to some other start
waking at the edge of the forest
watching in the time of the vultures
waiting for the sickle to fall