Traumatic Aftermath of the Magician’s Morning (r)

 "Traumatic Aftermath of the Magician’s Morning: Adding up to Null at Dawn":

Wearing the suit of a jester, crown a cover for thee eyes.

Name of God as the Unbecoming
Tragedy becomes the word most high
Kneeling before Man’s Might and Right’s Unknowing:
the word as counter-image
Disaster made flesh,
Dead and broken,
Reveals in cryptic lies, life in the form of its remaking
This darkest light that only mirrors keep
And takes for all reality
That which he calls “Real,”
Only now by Kali, conceals in horror

Magic carries onward the Great Mystery
Sounded out like wind across the sea

and truly spoken
As if something once was duly
In times the kinds that one’s child would tell,
Save for some simple rhymes…
Nevermore, hermetically tight
Nevermore, this sealed up matter
Nevermore, fragmented stories
Nevermore, our playgrounds’ haunted

how forebode ends
Of hope, tells tales of
Gavels flatten theses last glimmerings,
and years all but frozen
revision,
Silently betwixt by indecision

Traverse our ominous travails
What used to mark our midnight travels

Propping up ought be forgottens: i.e. otherworldly remains
Puppeteer of this: Sorrow’s Play
These undead feelings, phantom caste upon Hades' stage
All cues hint, but unable to play

echoes faint, a distant matter
Dampening each particle
a veil’s an ode to suffering’s rupture
Depleting joy

Passing over flaccid night
Ruins by morning, aft thereafter

Is what’s left of laughter (our)
Heavenly tears that tare deep, this morass
Unresolved broken ladders,
colorless dull memories

Among unsung reveries:
Hauntingly scattered,
Bands of emotions remain

Given up with barely a mark
every endearing remark
Blotting out every bit of Sun
Numb our notion of love

by A. A., 2019, 7th of Jan., at 41.

Adding up to Null at Dawn

Traumatic Aftermath of the Magician’s Morning: Adding up to Null at Dawn Numb our notion of love Blotting out every bit of Sun every endearing remark Given up with barely a mark Bands of emotions remain Hauntingly scattered, Among unsung reveries: colorless dull memories Unresolved broken ladders, Heavenly tears that tare deep, this morass Is what’s left of laughter Ruins by morning, aft thereafter Passing over flaccid night Depleting joy, a veil’s an ode to suffering’s rupture Dampening each particle echoes faint, a distant matter All cues hint, but unable to play These undead feelings, phantom caste upon Hades’s stage Puppeteer of this: Sorrow’s Play Propping up ought be forgottens: i.e. otherworldly remains What used to mark our midnight travels Traverses our ominous travails Silently betwixt by indecision, revision, and years all but frozen Gavels flat theses last glimmerings, Of hope, tells tales of how forebode ends Nevermore, our playgrounds’ haunted Nevermore, fragmented stories Nevermore, this sealed up matter Nevermore, hermetically tight Save from some simple rhymes… In times the kinds that one’s child would tell, As if something once was duly and truly spoken: Sounded out like wind across the sea: Magic carries onward the Great Mystery Only now by Kali, she conceals with horror That which he calls “Real,” And takes for all reality This darkest light that only mirrors keep Reveals in cryptic lies, life in the form of its remaking Dead and broken, Disaster made flesh, the word as counter-image Kneeling before Man’s Might and Right’s Unknowing: Tragedy becomes the word most high Name of God as the Unbecoming Wearing the suit of a jester, crown a cover for thee eyes. by A. A., 2019 7th of Jan., at 41.

Praying: Life Is But a Dream

Casted as a dismal veil upon my psyche,

An uninvited knowledge that taunts and haunts

Gathers up my heart to my throat, sticking sickly
The fear of a would-be truth

That could not know itself to be afraid

In a word conjures darkness

A hole – atheistic, nihilistic, thee apocalypse

All meaning vanishes, leaks out against the edge of my life

In my mind, blue chairs—velvet cream marble islands

Backed against the moment of my death

Gloms upon, does not strike a call to action

Damned in the flashing of no more

That even if to last in word and memory, colorless

For others to carry on and places contained, I would not know

How could I but caress, discomforted by what shall not be savored  

The verse penned by days and hands gone by, dining no more on yesteryears wines

Makes no wonder in a world of flesh and life's long climb,

This urge to penned down marked meaning, to fence off this stark tune of lament

This striking horror that keeps us from rest, has us extending verse in time

It is to keep at bay, to nullify, to render otherwise, for what is life but a wasted crime

And to take with a stroke the hope of a more, down into the most forgotten,

So down it lacks direction or dimension, and yet in this valley before the fall, is there not hope?

A call in this stillness, a moore in this fall, towards/entwined, in love’s power we seek affirmation 

As if her lips where a promise, her a locket, a cup of wine, a well that pours out thy other-life,

Energic spills, time bends and blends places doubled – a mile in an eye's shot, a thought emotes and travels

To the world's mystery that tells of something of

Beyond beyond’s beyond can be taken
Puddles of memory whirl effervescent contemplations

Of the bodies death forming communities once whole,

A myriad of voices that whispered instinct 

Transform, moving on into other psychic manifestations,
Blue tuned levels of psychic personification,
And as such, we are all one in this continuum of everlasting love's communion

This orgasmic being that we call universe, known also

As all that is… and nevermore…

freewriting by A. Aguero, 11th Dec. 41.

Evaporating Scenes

Evaporating Scenes: Virtual Plastic Soul (truth 

unknown)

Myths telling myths, my storied stories told as yesterday

Homespun tales of youth lies told in the most honest breath

This truth so untruthful my rationality begs to be repeated

Cannot take in the scope of this lie of untruth so truthfully told

So boldly spoken as a matter of fact knowing no fact to hold

And yet against the fiction that bears no resemblance

Against the fiction that pretends not to be truth but knows itself as lie

Even if it states itself as factual, as truth, has no mark of similitude as to be its otherwise

But not this that I tell that holds strict fidelity to happenstance

That tries earnestly to be truthful and in truth it is full of said desire

It barks and harkens, when balked at as other than genuine

It admires its mirror image as present, as if with these vague words they’d conjured up yesterday

In focus this hocus pokes us, gnaws with gnarling reality that these impressions

Sharp and congruent, miss the details that faded into imaginary

Pitting all law and trail of subjects and witnesses thereof, of evidence so solid

As to thought unimpeachable, and yet we rage against this in ruin

Will not except the pandora box that opens with this hated breath of text

This truth of untruth that truth must speak if it is spoken, to fail in its fidelity

No matter how it mimics the facts and general outlines of agreed upon happenings

What happens to this steely moment when the question is arisen, a doubt is made vocal?

But paperweights that crumble like sand, and turn girders into cards stacked against themselves

A gust of distrust knocking away these honest Barings that now have no course but rubble in these contrarians’ happenings

: plastic evaporating scenes, always already tentatively speaking – said the “tentacle beings” of always beginning)


--freeverse poetics, done 8:09pm 10th Dec., 41 annos mei.

In the Key of F: Thoughts on Individuals Figurations and their capacity for Group Identity Formation

In the Key of F: Thoughts on Individuals Figurations and their capacity for Group Identity Formation*

Nations are forged from the creative spirit of kin [semi-chosen family] whom rise from its Spirit, oft within their borders, but not necessarily so, such is that heart – great and wide flung – as wide as a Nomos stretches and in this is the Imperial Heart evermore a Spirit Universal [perhaps a, Homo Universalis] that stretches endlessly like a God Star.**


In death this bright dust builds and sustains fires that grow the national character in the hands of bards and writers, politicians, fable makers and more, as national jewels, these (ought be) glorified treasures, too often passed-over (bigotry and prejudice do a disservice), ignorance is no friend, yet only time and experience seem to provide wisdom, such that these cultural makers oft in their present unrecognized and shunned, will later be celebrated (and for this those that arise to such heights to find these fellows as friends, lament that their dead bodies/their remaining corpus will be all the more ply for so called futureal rigorous analysis/use by future servants of the master university discourse***) for that which ought (and in time will) otherwise be celebrated for their illuminations – being the very mirrors/images/forms of people from which peoples shall know themselves, through their images, their words, contain the soft parts: eyes and tongue (not to forget the brain and intestines, the ancient mythical temple is of man wrought in stones and metals), atop the pyramid and resting inside it, magnifying its social air through intoxication towards aspiration. Yet it is wise to remember that the nomos has teeth, and symmetry in this divine game of sympathetic magic calls forth the science of mimicry which is too well suited for this game; for behold doth not the viper doth mimic its prey?.


A creative soul is always a viper in their own nest, of and from it, standing apart, carved like a Star, a Soul – immanent, material, arising from the weak forces the binds the mass so strongly together, such that to arise above becomes a great feat, and to eschew pessimism even greater, resting yet neither nihilism or a stoic other, but rather joyful and courageous, light and fun, decked with rich veins of colorful character painted by their own brush, adorned with the jeweled-views of the endless would be others, from which a Nation rises, a People arise, a Groupsickle emerges****, that is, emerges from and unlike these groups, these folk arise from the well of the world o.v. a will their own, which is not animal, but rather monster, alien, man, alchemist, and from this a race, a caste/model/a character, as such, a figuration is cast and thus their light aspires a culture, a cause, a pact, a movement, establishes, in light – these myths founding a nation, this status – a call, a kind to be and to become, and in that becoming man unfold their reflections of the social order found in the characters writ large in the metafictions of the times. Altering the character (of the militant, or the priest), providing new characters (in our time the anti-hero), and so forth, these great dividuals that while born in time, stand above as seeming eternals (shall their lives also give infinitely to us to form ourselves from the many we identify).


*Thoughts on collective bundles, emergence through the social, its amplification, and feedback loop, the shaping of the nation through individualized Mythic-Stars, and by that we mean or harken back to the reality that at one time the question of what it means to be "German" answered through the personhood [historical idealizations and characters of] Goethe]


**the "it" is meant to be ambiguous in this section


***see Lacan


****see Guattari's Chaosmosis