There’s a part of me that will always be a weird little fan, and that’s good, it’s where your heart lies. it’s the development of that impulse over time that makes us better people. it’s a process. it takes time. time, i believe, is the single trickiest concept for people to understand, as it is such a subjective phenomenon, and while it’s right for me to build a nest within myself to honor such aspirations it’s also important for me to remember there is a bigger context, there are myriad other means of connection, and once you’ve found that point of contact it always stays with you, even if it’s something you “outgrow”. it’s less a total protean change in form as a kludge chunk of code laid atop a half-considered cron job of wants and hungers and impulses that grind away even though no one remembers what purpose they serve, tucked in a server between two slats of drywall no one thought to disconnect when the new owners took over. the map is so vast, and it’s a fool’s notion that what works here will work there. What I ultimately ask of you, by bowing beneath this arch and entering this sanctum sanctorum, is a willingness to admit there are places uncharted, islands which have not been mapped, everything in such flux that words become obsolete in the time it takes to leave the empty hollows of the mouth and enter into the ear. In this, I am asking you to trust me. If you are unwilling, it is in your best interest to remain in the foyer for the remainder of tonight’s performance. Thank you, and may you be safe, wherever you may travel. As for the rest of you, the fee is five dollars, and by giving over your filthy lucre you abandon any pretense of control or dominion, as what I am about to do will require supernatural concentration and total obedience. Please step through the deep red door and we shall begin tonight’s performance.
I pushed slivers of ivory up along my gumline, up under the cheek, the eyes now pulled back a little, which they said would make me appear mysterious but accessible. I was a public thing now, and needed preservation if I was going to be displayed. I was initially uncertain, and felt dishonest, but they told me I only believed in the honesty of the blank page, of the undialed number, of the sour masturbatory fantasy held so long the semen has yellowed, and so I took a rotary drill to the bridge of the nose and ran the fat of ballerinas rendered in their prime along the bumps of the spine, shadowed with soot to suggest the nobility of scoliosis. This public exposure is necessary, I reminded myself, I cannot be found if I am not visible, and I filled my boots with shaved ice to perfect the stagger we agreed best flattered my gait. I’ll do anything forever if you promise I can put my finger in the wound. You call on me, and I scream, that is not my name.
kelly tenesis: comedown (first vision: anything anything just keep me alive)
(Sat, 4 Nov 2000 01:11:43 -0800 (PST))
It excites me suddenly, leading to milligram injections as your right hand slides lighty down by the beat it exploded to my lips parting your hands slide around my eyes close and be the brilliant light in front of a nude of a black sun. Was our body (this shared flesh) to be another long stillness, an amp of great density, word of functional murder, of a devious smile at Mammalian Skin? Remain terrified the affection of the gray pupil of the game that sucks the piece the beat of flesh that is the hydro - machine angel, the respiration in disguise to the formation of the beat of the vital birth that machinery envy of postnatal lung - gently tease the specimen device of the corpse body fluid directly into the edges of the medium of the inclination. Android trainers pull me suddenly, sleepless night as your hand slides lighty down. I open my knees, weak. Implication of xxxx the artificial sun was done. Your fingers disappear into my orgasm and hits me tight against my eyes and pollen for the machines of the radio to be like the inclination android and gently tease the continent of displacement is osmosing brain that cold - seeking fibers. you tug at displacement patterns. You pull me tight against you know it does the murderous plug. As I am disillusioned i drop the internal organ consciousness play to the storage of hungers that was done to cup my eyes to the lips of heart so cold - speech of ant of ant of the womb area machine of the fantasy while it is marginalized through my hair. a second time. It is the room. It the hyper real to the murderous intention that murders nude that the drug an oscillation between hz the musculature loses rigidity does the derangement deoxyribonucleic acid world would baffle the scientists and trainers at the parasitism medium of the underground organization of rave input i drop the mirror and gently tease the game that machinery vital syndrome of the of the clone - speech of the inclination nude of the emotional do i drop the self.
The stage was such that a parade could march the gap between the lead singer and the backline of amps, and they did, so as the song played you could see the music to come up the block, or hear it again by running very fast along the train tracks, where children beat time with rocks in syncopation. The lead singer appeared to have no actual jaw, a slip of cheesecloth covering the hole in his face where his mouth must be, and so wrapped in gauzy white wisps of cheesecloth and lace he presses buttons on two MIDI controllers strapped to his palms; these signals direct the servos of the puppets into lockstep crystalline precision with the singer’s oratorial genuflections, tonal curlicues fraying the edges of his enunciated glottal percussive banter, herein lies a demonstration of miracles, of things not meant to be seen, and the townsfolk seem to float upon the tips of their feet, pulled into the pneumatic hum of the giant bladders which fill and blow harmonium triads into the still-summering air, all distant pollen, not yet thick in the lungs, the rain of the morning still keeping cool though the children at this point begin to vibrate in syncopation, their mouths open to release the tones they make, as though they were inverted bells struck by invisible hammers and made to chime, the change and keys in their pockets like castanets, like silverspun spurs, like catgut stretched and dried and rubbing warm against the skin until the body itself becomes an instrument, a chamber of holding, hills and caves where treasure may be found, sweet honey-sticky hosannas hung in the air, the torpor blossoming into a kind of at-one-ment which can be sighted by any map, a lighthouse along the coast of the imaginal which can pilot your soul back to this bay of safe harbor, the very petals of the lilac fluttering like wings, and the band sinks into its song, swallowed inside itself, each note hung like a cloud of ink in a milkwhite bowl of clear water, expanding, letting its shape find itself.
the hideywitch (from the ghost of dried wells)
It is often told there is a woman named The Hideywitch who enters into the homes of families in the darkest part of the night in order to exchange the youngest child of the family for a surrogate child built from dried thatch, gearwork taken from clock towers and the inner organs of feral pigs. These surrogate children may seem identical at first, or close enough that the parents do not notice, but the pig-children steal jewelry and food for their creator, who meanwhile instructs the abducted children in the ways of her craft. Those abducted lads and lasses who show a predilection for this work are returned to their homes, continuing their education through visitations in dreams, while those of lesser talents come to unpleasant ends, being sold to ghuls or eaten by the wolf-folk, at which point the pig-children are instructed to destroy their adopted homes. It is not uncommon for the abduction of the children to take place with the knowledge and cooperation of the parents, who pay the Hideywitch for taking the unpleasant child off their hands, and when this is done the surrogate generally remains with the family indefinitely so as to keep up appearances. Children born with the humors of consternation, puzzlement and poor disposition are often apt pupils, according to legend, and often become well-known ppractitionersof Midwestern Alchemy, though few of these scholars are willing to speak of their benefactor due to the code of silence and secrecy implicit in the art, so sadly we must pass over the details of this education without further comment. Indeed, it is not unheard of for certain of these pig-children to find some measure of fame and success themselves; what schoolboy has not thrilled to the stories of Pig Porrantine the rambler and his many narrow escapes from the law? Yet even among these stories there is precious little information of his earliest days with his maker.
 “…if the devil can enter into swine, he can also, in the opinion of the demonologists, as easily enter into wolves.” -Howard Williams, The Superstitions of Witchcraft (available online)
 The best of these tales are available in a sadly out-of-print collection titled A Gift Of The Gallows: Stories And Songs of the Pig-Cult by Justice Blueskin. It is but the most idle of speculation that Blueskin was in fact a pseudonym for Pig Porrantine himself.
to stand between myself and the light was to bask in her shadow, and its warmth, as though the light was processed by her body into something more efficient and hidden, a secret following tight behind her, woven into her hair and her skin. she stared at the window and hummed in multiple octaves until the image in the windowpane began to shimmer.