anyway not offhand but it’s odd when people notice and I want to honor that

when people see what you have been hallucinating, and say so, well, thanks to Jacques Andervilliers for the below

“I seashell myself into the
Wreckage of the angel’s elbow.
Death’s memory and god’s memory
Are switched at birth. I lie to my
Mom. There’s a pill that makes me
Not take pills.” (Barton D. Smock).

The statement of any word is also a statement of its absence. We need a distance to see whatever the word signifies. This very distance is a separation. We associate it as proximity, but it is an original distance, a void. Even when we hug the beloved there is a distance.

Tautology: when one equals one. The levelling, the sometimes brutal sterility of that. It is what it is. There’s a pill to keep me from having to take a pill. The equivalence of pill and pill.

The pill as part of the materialist breakdown of the body. The new age psychic body I suppose can do whatever it wants. But the physical body needs pills. With its valves and ducts it’s partly like an SUV that needs parts. With its ultimate fatality it is the site where death trespasses, either now or in the future, which is transported back to the now through prophecy and foresight and prediction and threat recognition just as much as death is transported by memory to the present from the past.

Death’s memory. Death as a word. The word is already a stigma. It’s already vaguely indecent, even to say it. So there is shame right next to it. Shame is a door to death. “I lie to my mom” as shame.

Although the original initial baby-dreams of seashells and angels are not quite extirpated, they are instantly countered, as if to balance things out, like the other side of a swing-set, by negatives, e.g., “wreckage” of the “elbow,” elbow being a non-idealized, non-fetishized feature.

Each statement is atemporal. Something about it wants to stop time, while another part wants time to be over with, while yet another part knows it is already over, this is already void.

But for better or for worse, the text is being written from the site of life, and it above all wants to be honest, even balefully so, and, lyric, at the same time. There is a torturous beauty growing through the concrete cracks.