through all their doors, we’ll return
vengeful spectres, out from the shadows
with raised fists, we will return”
Because we do not exist the years of our birth are stacked inside the shadows of our mouths like imaginary cities or the pits of heaven and other basic banalities.
Say those rats. Say those rats have names say you know those names. You do not know those names. Say black powder say a lot of things. And then, a fascist victory, say that. And then. Say it seemed like a door was opened like just for a second and we hurtled through that door or was it things hurtled toward us I don’t know and. Say it was just a cloud of powdered blood. Say you know their names and then suffer from beneath those names and live and tunnel inside those names and. Ask what becomes of the motherfucking broken hearted
—————————————————————————————————————————-
Watch out for melancholy.
Tell a few jokes.
Blow up Stonehenge.
So anyway, insomniacs or the wandering dead sleep by walking invisibly through the department, yeh, through the golden city. Well screw them. Do this instead: take some sulphide, some hydrogen, whatever you want, elements, elementals, mash em all up and boil the invisible. Just do it. The ecstasy of oxygen molecules, their barbarism, in disputation, with the technical wheel of the world. Or something like that. Because it is invisible and we are going down in it. Tell me about your holidays.
