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the querent would benefit to know
that the  sphynx's answer is 
both and neither.

HER expression is a dance of moisture that graces
meadows, undergrowth and carpetfibers.

SHE is a shrine of enclosure.
she encloses us little beauties who get to exist
in gorgeous blankets of life and death. 

praise, little babies
little babies us all be
to HER, whose dogs could chase you into experiencing 
three different timelines simultaneously 

SHE is withering growth.
she is honest deceit. 


^7^==the hand

the room is introduced to its reflection,
its sibling distance that's howled itself into being.
snake-shaped templates soak in at the edges.
the room rearranges itself in accordance to these new parameters,
appraises the sibilance of its distances.
a muffled abdominal sermon floats around just over the floor like a balloon 
muttering salad songs of helium lost. 

\\ a pale oroboros howls at itself across an imagined distance //


^7^ plays with the lace at the edges of the _______________.

^7^ electrifies invisible genitals.

^7^ reproduces itself across blank landscapes.

^7^ traces the shadows that paper the walls.

^7^ narrates the ___________  with a chuckle 
of crackling knuckles.

^7^ reproduces itself across blankets of blank-canvas .

^7^ shields our eyes from the ______________________. 


all my little videos play at once.
(let me tell you that this is a moment 
most Solemnly imbued with Grace,
pure and urgent like the need to vomit)
all my little videos play at once.

in a holy haze of visual snow they tell me:

"Everything is music, motherfucker DANCE there's language in your arms, your legs express a begging to be alive DANCE even as you walk
up the steps to work DANCE in the rain in the dead of night on the side of the highway when no one's going to pick you up DANCE with the 
shadows that watch you from the corners of your room when you're alone sometimes DANCE with the lonely moon gone mad with lust for 
gravity's pull DANCE to the bpm of your lover's pulse, if you're lucky enough to be near them DANCE with death every chance you get DANCE
a step for each star in the solar system, for every hair on your body DANCE new genetic sequences DANCE but please not for any reason 
DANCE yourself to sleep/awake just fucking DANCE you might now know it, but you already are."

O holy mood that wraps itself across my silver screen
i only seem to know you every 3.14 days.
If i could wash myself more completely in your pixels
then perhaps i could begin to embrace the elephant's fullestmost beauty;
as currently my bereft hands knead blindly at Skin
and seem to tell me little. 


she shields her eyes from the cigarette smoke
and smothers its ember in a death that she proceeds to embody.
her burial is a sevenfold series of surrendered cups.

{{ereshkigal, we hear you howling from beneath an impossible distance}}
{{ereshkigal, we love you as you may happen to be in this given moment}}

see, there's this baby who's never been born
giving birth to itself
in an endless agony moment 
stretched in moaning oroboros
around an imagined molten moon
or black hole
or pitiless loving void
that exists in the beneath of us.

it's a merciless coyote that wraps its watch around this holy place.
it's a 333 endeavor to pass the sphynx's labyrinth.
not a matter of both and neither.
or matter and spirit.
more of a gnawing at a deep-set root that generates template-packets from a giant turning wheel that always has one half underwater.

to try to describe it might burn my eyelids off.
it's a great game of skin-switching.
it's all a trick of perspective.
like light refracted off the fluxual facets of a river's surface.
a subterranean river whose love engulfs
us in a warm death that renders us metempsychosal fluid
us blind amniots sent on an endless burial ceremony birth rite
or bacterial or interstellar or inestinal flux-dance
us random pattern generators, whose every gesture brings forth new forms
don't we know that we bless the universe with each moment spent existing?
maybe knowing this would spoil the dance's adorable innocence
us vomiting sprinkler-heads, constantly astonished by the galaxies we spew
us baby gods wrapped in bright sheets of fever dream
humming as we sow droplets in secret plain sight
carrying cups and dangling wands across electric blanket landscapes

{{{catharseseum: sisyphus-factories}}}

I - Ceremony

a 23 gun service is held for fallen liquids

whose scents embrace the room in an animal hum
who are set to return to ocean as piss or rain or sweat or vomit
we're talking WATER here, who can take any shape
WATER, medium of tears, come, orange juice, blood, pus, clouds, wine, sap, snow 
and the embryonic fluids in which each our tiny baby-bodies formed
the same water the moon always craves and never knows
(every 29.5 days we bask in the fullestmost expression of its solar neverknows)

snot-blossoms flower in a gold mist,
in a moment frozen for as long as you'd like before we move on 

. . . 
. . . 
. . .
. . .
. . .

II - Invocation

a joke, just a gesture,
oozes into the room on all fours 
looking like it smells like a three course meal or a fresh pack of smokes

the book of joke
whose juicy velvet pages
send sentences dancing through the mud in your head
at night when you're trying to sleep

the alchemist must design the proper environment
to attract the Strange Fauna Woven into the Shimmering Continuum.
the alchemist has to construct a proper corpse
and then plan a birthday party for its prey
invite all its prey's friends to a party at the corpse.
there has to be lots of music and dancing.
it has to be fun.

III - Catharsis 

suddenly everything casts glances at the corners of my eyes
their dances cast data shadows on the room's rock walls
a constant pang blossoms from this realization
and weaves fingers made of darkness into a blanket around me

a full mood rises slowly from my enteric depths
a corncob of realization draped in buttery crescendo
i rattle my magic shaker at the shadows that haunt these distances 

the heavy manic howl of an empty moon runs through me all at once
maybe if this feeling builds i'll finally be able to open my ribcage 
and pull out one of these birds
and ride it to a place where this moon can get some sun
i nuzzle my molotov disposition close til it takes me back to that sweet center outside words
i feel all hot and cold at once
i sort of claw and pick at the rustlike flakes of idea that cake the uterine walls around me

gooty tingles in my jaw
herald of a billion little deaths
i feel so alive with this hunger 
death that eats happily 
tearing open throats with my teeth
soaked in a twinkling skyline of blood

gravity pulls me backwards
the heads of a billion little daggers
i fall up, crashing into the glass
it doesn't break so i beat my head against it repeatedly to see which cracks first

i pry my ribcage open to take a bite from my heart
shrieking and grinning and running around doing a little dependance dance
rattling my magic snake at the moon

} everything winks at me and i don't notice but i wink back. {


a hush runs into the room with its hands out

snot blossoms turning to a page of cusps. he's selling our stories. a seam of cusps. a cup of storms.
 7 of wisps. temperance-dance. a gallery of dances. a gallery of templates. she howls her genital smell. 
it howls a gentle smell. all my cigarette pages. the wrong gods knocking on their doors. gooty is a fool 
forthe howling silence of night time.  forthe slow death of words. forthe laughter trickling through teeth 
filed down to points. forthe wetness of a seven of moons/
/swoons the night-brigade  

selling cigarette-stories, your childhood winks from across the nightmare.

my mind-wand flutters everywhere 
a buttery-winged insect
born of liquid prima materia

therema, the remachine come?s again

a blessed deck of dreams rushes in and shuffles the room
heshes itself to the sun-chipped distance

fled down to the point of no return 
to shake eyes with death
there's a storm outside the idea of a window
there's a sweet corner just outside the world
there's a corn-queen seeding
black cat astral pastures 
with lazy say yes eyes
(three ladies weaving long alien lanes)

there's a rough dance of drums in the distance
open it up and see


the nexus is a place between outsides

little neon lions flank the gates
with fluttery uterine wings
and mouths that open up for∞ver

Honay McClavesita
–is a wave-weaver
–is an endless weave of hearts beating softly
–is the rain in my pockets
–is the fact that bees are flower-genitals

a floral sorcerer
bearing the serpentine
mark of the gardner

a vast woven hand
subliminally strokes
the walls of our

we set the dinner table
with our genitals
our warm arms become tongues
that burrow to the Heart of the Moment

the candle's golden tongue
licks the shadows gathered 
in our corners
a little neon mutter
ruffles its feathers

genital digitalis 
our tongues become

we find the Jewel,
Heart of Earth,
inside eachother's mouths

a warm genital growl
introduces itself to the scene
running in with hands full of silence

the graces catch weightlessness
in non-combustable butterfly nets
the apartment complex 
spends the night
making pies out of sex-noises

.our fever becomes the flower.


Tonight's the night.
It's really going to happen.
The first sense is like a kid at baptism:
confused by the lack of reverence you feel.
It contrast all the grownups' solemn eyes and ceremonial trappings.
An argument between midnight and noon
arrives and lazily crosses your screen.
Empty mouths point up and wait for corn from the sky,
a sea of spoons hoping to scoop, 
a figment of a room full of dolls begging to be performed for. 
A dance gets stuck in your throat.
You don't know what happens next.
You take the stage with a chestful of hilarious chariots. 
A holy pill effervesces in your cup.
A dumb thump of drums rolls around in your chest.
Your mouth fills up with reasons to sing.
But it seems sewn shut by the Sign of the Bolt and its Shapely Cadence.
The pee inside you's shy for light of day. 
Tufts of doubt rise like biscuits. 
A moist residue that steams off your overheating head and condenses against the ceiling into clouds.
Strange shapes fill your little cielo. 
Empty mouths open up
and pour corn from the sky.
Little pieces of idea are scattered around the room.
A zodiac of things you ever said in anger humbly presents itself. 
A look of understanding
lazily crosses your face. 
Ghosts run their shadow-hands all over you, tousling your hair, straightening your collar. 
The sinewave horizon loosens.
You're nipple-deep in oracle now. 
Now you feel ready. 
You overflower to a secret rot. 
You feel the turning of a great underwater wheel.
You catch the next wave and pull it over yourself like a misplaced blanket. 
You participate in your burial ceremony. 
Your green arms feel hungry to shovel dirt onto your corpse. 
The Death that Keeps on Giving sprouts like a fresh pack of snakes. 
Suicide-ghosts stand around in holy sandals humming that you can barely hear them. 
Death That Drifts Lazily pisses on the stars in your eyes. 
You beg that sweet golden water to take you past yourself. 
You feel painted
by the rubber numbers of a Rare Tora Rainbow.
A shapely thump sends its sound bouncing around your skullhouse,
an unrequited deathdance finally finding a shape to take.
Its sleepy cadence fills the lonely folds in your form.
It plays a sea of cellos
to the tune of the Sign of the Crotch-Shaped Branch
where the path forks. 
A series of open-mouthed Ys
sing buttery artery arias to the key of the church of the broken-branch crunch. 

Tonight's the night.
Wrapped up in your interstellar urn,
hidden in the folds of the flood,
you just kind of curl up on the whole ground. 
You fall asleep. 


  Shoni Michaels is standing at the gates with Shiner, talking about what to do next. The gates are dotted with mouths all 
  "Dipwater! Dipwater!"
  ". . . the strangling hold is known across seven of the fourteen . . ."
  "I can't see my hands!"
  Shiner interrupts himself mid-sentence and addresses the the gates.
  "Hey door! Hey, door!"
  The gates' mouths keep chattering over Shiner and eachother.
  "Hey door, I have a question." Shiner says, ignoring the fact that they seem to be ignoring him. "What uh what's the thing,
the creature. What's a kind of creature that stands on one leg in the morning, two legs in the afternoon . . . two legs in the 
afternoon? Let' say two. Two legs in the afternoon and it lays down at night. No. At night it swallows the sun. And in the
morning it scares away the stars and all the moon. (on tuesdays it wears a different hat every week). No. Okay. So it wakes up 
running and in the afternoon it lays down and at night it shakes everyone's hand and says yes. What do you call this creature?"
  All a sudden, the mouths go shut. They stay that way for a little awhile. Shoni Michaels looks at the Shiner, who shrugs back
at her. Their eyes glint like DVDs in the pale moonlight. 
  The mouths keep their sun-cracked lips together. Then one opens up with a little *pop*. It takes in a wisp of breath as if about
to say something, then closes again. Then it opens. Hesitates. Then it speaks:
  "What do you call this creature?"
  It smiles ever so slightly after saying this. Then other lips start to open and shut. They move their tongues around as if trying to
remember how to use them. Then another utters: "What do you call this creature?" Then more mouths join. "What do you call 
this creature?" They pick up the pitch, sprinkling in some glee. "What do you call this creature?" Like the first splat of a rainstorm
or a startled marsh of frogs deciding its okay to sing again, "What do you call this creature?" "What do you call this creature?"
They build a cacophony out of this questions, joyously straining to drown eachother out. "What do you cal this creature?" each
time saying the words like they're a world-bending discovery. "What do you call this creature?"
  The Shiner seems to enjoy this display quite a good amount, but Shoni looks distracted. She's trying to say something to Shiner,
but it doesn't notice because it can't hear her over the howling gatemouths. She touches the Shiner on what would be its shoulder
if it were humanoid and gets its attention.
  "HEY SHINER" she yells over the mouth-sounds "HAVE WE TRIED JUST OPENING IT?"
  The Shiner makes a face like it's laughing and says "OH SHIT YOU'RE RIGHT".
  They grab the handles and give a pull. The yelling doors open easy as if to say "come on in".
  They go on in.


chest [two] transmutations
teeming with half-ghosts is itself a god/dess gardening their beautiful filth it
watches itself in your chamber, she itself seems the lively eye of yesses,
of a dance-packed infinity that you forgot you stapled to your coat.
seeing the ocean in your cup foamy saliva-out three (.3.) pages. all-
spectrum. organs. cellos rise in needs you woven in life, lost inside the hole ONE
sky without the waking-up of hillsides, always eyeballs. middle end of tomorrow loosens.
embedded in factory-throats, new unsung shovels. the out-lung of its fever tenfold in.
new intestines beggin Devinny about their sex noises as tufts of shivering coughs ups
the sleeper looks around and finishes coming into the hotel, inhale the corpse-born
choronzon at its edges. lost. M.O.T.H. in the mouth of our song. the bannister steps off into
protector-secret, germinates gooty-sign morning to the ceiling. it gurgles {{ereshkigal}} to the moaning
neon noon of noone. the obnoxity of death makes its ribcage happen. a rubber knowing opens hands 
around these, clutching a night of snakes and fresh-cracked hangs. there in a 5: rubber sprawl. rubber
from the trees. clovers cover its rite. little mouths make the surface. Big Sign Taxidermy 
prepares the moment. irises up in my corpse, deserves everywhere florida. this also happens. vans
scrambling up the sun's hillside to a vacant stage whose hand hatches eyelids of impossibly crumpled songs.
performs a slippery rearrangement and little speaker says "outside never happened".


hidden ponds
ions on a quest
a series of semi-filled molecules
a tension dance
between abyss and being held
Mt. Rema
is patiently waiting to be noticed

hidden ponds sprouting from your chest
you hesh yourself to the next oncoming distance
you copy/paste yourself onto everything you see
a sleepy cadence creeps into your dance
the moon describes a series of semi-filled-in circles
to everyone in particular
you cheshire yourself to the lunar diagram
hoping to find a party or some treasure
or something that will make you feel congratulated

the flood
coagulates itself
to your surroundings
a little breath of air
lets itself out
and goes home

Mt. Rema's Shimmering Fauna
step so quiet
dancing so slowly
you don't notice til they're all around you
massive shadows

like the feeling you get
on a little boat at night
when a great blue whale
passes just underneath

one comes up
and puts its nose down on the ground in front of you
what you see

hard to explain but you can tell that little people made of
something are coming down from out the nostrils
and yelling to eachother and building lots of things
you realize you're one of them
your hands can't wait to build this thing you're building
you're so glad you were given this life
together with your People, you'll make
a civilization that is going to be just SO much better than any other one
you take pity on civilizations before you
you can see how they were doing their best
but they just didn't have the Specialness that you
and your People have. 

you work very hard and build many things 
and grow old outside the giant beast's nostril
and sometimes at night when you go to bed you can almost convince yourself
that the world you helped build
is actually as great as you thought it would be. 

this is just one of things that the Shimmering Fauna show you. 


little sonatas softly lap at the edges of your sleep
the 5am sound of a jogger's steps slapping the sidewalk
the 5am sound of a shopping cart falsettos the church of the asphalt rattle
the 5am sound of a baby laughing through a car's passing window

a wet field of corpse-born blossoms
half its body always underwater

the world's longest minutes
gather sweetly on the backs of dawn's grass

cigarette lips open up and ask for some water 
drips dangle from the hi-ceiling's noses
you look down at the tarot-roots sprouting from your corpse
the mouth in your belly opens and closes slowly
as if to say

(it's said that the demiurge bought 1/16th of Earth
for the low low price of 96,325,485,378,000 likes)

you're nipple-deep in data
that can't be known
only felt
you feel maybe it was all for nothing
i mean, how could you even try to tell your friends?
"hey guys, i saw the crescent moon turn into
a pacman -mouth that ate the sun."
"dude, i was the living bullet fired by the ocean."
you think these ideas would be well-received?
would they help anyone?

the street seems to move away from you
as you climb higher up into your head
there's a sweetness in the return
that you completely don't notice
because it's like you were never gone
but the part of you that knows
has a little shiver of relief
at coming back.

you hit the spliff and shuffle a deck of coughs.
you see the world. you see all the little lights,
heralds of a sea of cielos. that shiver runs through
the cracks in your inner walls and reaches the rest of you.
it summons itself to your throat
and with a mouthful of graces
you speak --


"i want this for the world. this is all i want for the world, for everyone in the world: it's YOU. you deserve sweet warmth and safety. you deserve love 
reflected off the eyes around you. you deserve the warmth of arms. the warmth of arms and a bellyful of food. you deserve to know the things in your 
life are more real than words on a page or flickers on a screen. you deserve the sweetness of gem in your hand. you have a right to feel the vitality that 
bursts the seams of every single moment. you and only you have the special secret rite, to sink down past the shadows into your profoundestmost depths 
and bask in the light that bounces off the facets found down there.  you have the right to exist outside of language, before it and beyond it. to be primordial 
goo or a solar system. you have a right to know that you're constantly creating worlds more unique and interesting than anything anyone else could imagine. 
you have a right to the loneliness that comes with that, and the knowledge that you share this loneliness with everyone else: nobody could ever understand 
what it's like to be you. that's why i'm fascinated by you. i love you."




∆ cassidy ∆ rios ∆ kane ∆ // person who does different creative-type stuff // editor at mannequin haus // informally educated // freezeframe of being lifted gently from a bog of liquid gum // assembled from specks of ??? found adorning common surfaces // https://www.instagram.com/lvrkwvrk/