From midnight on, I watch the sea foam and the rising weight of the waters of your speaking jaw bring melody to life: The radiance, the good vibration, the slow shimmer in my body, able finally to hear anything at all beyond the strong-arm tactic of morning birds disguised as delicacy.
Ah,
breath moving from the abdomen, ah, the solar plexus, the rib cage and ah the chest, clavicles and shoulders that plow like the silver fins of dead fish the carbon pencil dust of creation, the fallow fields of your thieving neighbors, as we all spin together with meaning, senselessly in pools of crude in the black carboniferous forests of free persons.
The door opens on obsession, where the body is Aurora Borealis in bed, among a bed of stars, beads gone loose in blankets, whose folds become cut-glass edges of black terror, happy and glinting in the obsidian night.
The deific principle in man builds into the heroic principle in man which makes the creative principle in man the feminine principle in man.
We fold the leaves of lilies from green paper while the "real" pink of the bottoms of our feet scuff across highly polished hardwood floors in another era. It is almost Easter. Red valentine hearts and birthday balloons abound in overall decay. Everything is disposed to being splintered and deflated for partaking of ease in works too complex to be believable.
Move beyond what you retrieve. Recovery is for cowards. I prefer gods on unmoving thrones carved of heavy jade. I like rich people. Love is totally blind. No real thing but in song, and the unheard ones those best to brighten eyes: Compose yourself.
Aphrodite is a blue star, and the sky's body has red hair.
From midnight on, awake, I am pierced by blue diamond light conjured from Leslie Fuller's eyes long before time began, for I am he whose mirror doublet is an aria of blue smoke in the form of a schizophrenic girl who carries in her womb the delightful invisibility of the Shi'ite Mahdi who disappeared from this world in 765 AD, and whose disappearance now forms the womb around his own gestation, nourished by the necessity of having around it a mutated girl to feed him messages of resurrection and lamb's milk and honeyed wine and opiates.
Leslie Fuller is my lover. Leslie Fuller is my mother. Leslie Fuller is completely Other.
Letters home from alienated soldiers are written in water drops on a raging river.
Sympathizers lap up the foam and feel nicely elevated.
Stories are unnecessary. We need only flowers to wear at sunset, and lips to mouth the dawn. A finger is always up to the present in myself, and a voice, saying, “No, not her: Neither him. It is yet time for naught but forbidding you these, our pleasures.” Communion means keeping your hand over your mouth, and letting your palm go wet.
Reading Celine's Death on the Installment Plan in Peter's driveway in mid-September rot, I laughed so hard I had to be helpd back into the house.
And about Leslie Fuller, in 1963, Leslie Fuller, in her apartment on 23 Milk Street, Leslie Fuller with whom I tried on clothes bought second hand, that we switched off, that wouldn't fit, and wouldn't fit and wouldn't fit. Leslie Fuller with his baseball glove playing center field deep and later Leslie Fuller with his right hand draped over the wheel of a new second-hand car, eight-cylindered and egg-blue. Leslie Fuller kept her hand over my mouth, her hand over my mouth, from the womb. For when
the Mahdi returns to the Delta, the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, the Mississippi delta of Charlie Patton, the Delta of Venus, the eroica and erotica will rise and out of the sky will fall silver strands of hair as moonlight and starlight, and bridge after bridge after bridge descending in the bright reflection of total darkness that alone can reveal the aphrodisia of the Fravarti coming down and going down on everything in unstrained Marxist ballyhoo,
yes! Leslie Fuller told me this, Leslie Fuller and her disembodied voice, her yet-to-be-made self-evident voice from beyond the grave and before birth. Leslie Fuller, who is a bi-sexual toxin vitamin retrieval system, Leslie Fuller, mother of the Mahdi whose blue-veined breasts fed all those with a story to tell, whose telling would rip it to pieces in this one-chance life of being pulled by unseen strings, Leslie Fuller as a man in a crouch behind a set of low cloud, a man with a radio between his legs, asking “can you hear it, can you hear it?”
It's a searing life, understanding little yet collecting its vast and almost completely unrestrained manuscripts for the silage bins of culture. Fool rose blossoms for peyote buttons and wear a casual shirt that shows you are a brick.
Guard your novel life from the uncanny glow of raw stone that wants to be carved, and become an arrested chiseler.
Leslie Fuller is a man, a manuscript, a male of preeminently delivered invisible strings. Those are the line of sculptural beauty. Post me. He pulls me toward and I suck him back.
Before time began, Leslie Fuller was all there was, to the left and to the right, above and below, inside out, she was golden. And silver. Sun and moon: Tongue and groove. That everything might fit together, velvet tides, rip cords and the exit from the tunnel of love.
Now we wait. The heat hangs low, and in humidity there is a dry scorpion to urge you on to sting. Sing! O quick flash of eyelid, O lonely supper, O silver flash when the stash hits, O checkered tablecloth of rural fresh-caught trout! Leslie Fuller, O
Leslie Fuller. And Leslie Fuller. Yes. The united kingdom falls apart in the crunch of birth. The light is a thistle received from a lake through a lady with bitter eyes. Return has always had a salty taste. Boys are born from egg-blue cars, and girls are born in blood. Together we will go to carve a 25 cent 1963 hamburger hop out of the nation of Babylon.
Your blood type's fixed. Mona is on the rise, the man in the moon, the burning yellow wax of animal bodies used by burning cosmic relation: The birth of the capital project that stripped schizophrenia down to its basic axle grease, ashes and heroin.
Always keep a trigger finger on every wingy chariot: Original emanation is always superior to grand theft auto. Ennui = neurolepsy. Ecstasy is the Mahdi about to be born from the splintering stop-and-waste heart of Leslie Fuller, 48 years back to the first and final weekend, whose heart is puked back into Mind, Mind, Mind.
Each day will have a different voice.
Or, the nature of the proposition. Tomato is just another name, waiting for her prince. “If we die, it is to the end of having brought forth much fruit.” And another three gray hairs in my beard. Coffin nails. Or, “a possible state of affairs.” The music is sophia in quietude, to which I bring the mourning excitement of fresh black orchids, tumescent dark hell fires a-glow for Leslie Fuller, a kind of end product mirrored from the solar plexus, and Death be not glad upon us.
It is better for the flush of innocence to be always known by other names.
Rise now, and aerate the squirming walls of your bright worm hut.
Text by Stephen Ellis. Recited by Stephen Ellis. Music and montage by Jeff Gburek.
Guitarist, composer, sound designer, field recordist, shortwave radio poet, blending electro-acoustic, electronica, spectral
comp., cracked circuits, sounding organic objects with an ear towards earth voices. Studied Javanese and Balinese gamelan and theories of Partch and Xenakis. Working with dance/theater/butoh co. Djalma Primordial Science. More than 400 concerts throughout Europe since 2005....more
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