I have felt the encrustation of psyche for quite some time. Once fluid and exposed, free to travel endlessly the realms of possibility, it now sits slack jawed inside me, waiting for direction Slow to rise, slow to change, peeling back the layers of crust over puss I attempt to stretch this atrophied jelly into expressing new mathematical linkages.I wish to be self evident. Which is to say I wish to glide mercifully through the channels of my euphoric dreams and emerge through the sewer grate back into the City. Not swimming through the river of shit to come out clean, but to reek of every waste infested backstroke. An aromatic aura of piss and putrescence. To smell like them, to walk like them, but to speak of some upward nirvana. To tell them that the light streaming in from the holes in the in their sky are not distant balls of gas cantering down their light-year paths, but refractions from a world above. As I have ascended the hidden ladder and allowed myself to return – gelatinous and bubbling – to the street above. Testing Channel °5 and Lancombe Eyes Beautiful I walked, draped in specks of money and disillusionment, reconstituted all over my jelly body.
It's not the end I preach, just the bottom of the beginning. I am God-like in the sewer pits, but I am no martyr nor prophet. I am not Saint neither born-again Messiah. Not even human; I am just a thorn among the throngs, on a mutable hedge.
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