but a spider is never more singular than when it dies in the very act of multiplication — just as our name also must die [“the way is forever nameless” Lao Tzu] — only the
anonymous anomalous shall inherit the Earth from calamity’s sturm&drang — history on the other hand is a fool’s errand — counting the isotopes in G.O.D.’s jawbone — blood of the True Cross — all the nihilistic antimatter balanced on a mojo pin — whispering of other worlds other Rubicons — but does Schrödinger’s cat know when it’s dead? — humxnity avidly awaits news — all this because once upon a time when death consisted in appearances — as too the art of embalming — or astronomy — to catch the glint in its gauged=out Oedipus eye — the only way to see things that don’t exist is to invent a new kind of language — gaming the scene — spyhole to boss level — big money ur=shot — right into the comedy that keeps coming back — like Earwicker’s widened cunt — glycol days on the outer rim of this Martian timeslip tied in a figure=8 — a woke photofit spamming the middle distance — MEME MEMBER ME! — their eternal daddy complex hedging its bets — the names of the enemy ring out everywhere — spacerocket extermination machines [gravity is everything even the absence of it] — the last line of homo sapient defence was organised resistance in offworld concentration camps — don’t shoot till you can smell the gas! — were they G.O.D.’s secret vengeance weapon? — evolution’s kamikaze pilots? — another Bastille Day’s fireworks redden the sky with hallelujahs to eternity — in these or any other mouths wld surrender taste as sweet — manna from the stars — because the world was never really threatened by any of them — & so revolution plays upon their lips — those damned of this posthumous soil — planting nostalgia’d image=sickness in the alloyed hereafter — its liana=threads glimmer in the console’s light — even after the world ended everything remained the same as it had before the world ended — because whatever the Arachnoid touched they passed right through & behind it all just grey fuzz — the bookshelves — the paintings on the walls — the red piano — the analyst’s couch — initially the street outside where it shld’ve been though later a TV screen — things in the air wrapping around the eye — filling the lungs — the Arachnoid kept moving at first falteringly then frantically — impossible to know where the virus wld turn up next — the passionate series must be contrasted interlocked & kept in a state of rivalry & exaltation — this warring that pretends to be the warring of all others — unwanted supposedly by those who call themselves humxn beings [those prissy little cunts] — hatred of what can barely be killed — fear of what’s barely alive — they will subjugate it by the very thought of subjection — all behind their masks obeying one kind of G.O.D. or another — crying in the only kind of sleep they know — because the True Path isn’t the one that can be named — but is it then the true path? — sticking a needle in the last vein left standing — metaphysics is for bodybags — DIE YOUNG LEAVE BEATIFIC COPS — toe=tagging eternity by the stairs — the fix is in — wingèd eye of Horus=mind craving dawn — liftshaft denizens of Babelsberg tuned to numbers=station poésie — zero zero zero zero einz — etc. — contrary to belief nothing adds up — [inertia mon amour IL EST TEMPS] — the immovable object they wrap in silk w/ scented lubricant — smell the roses kid — how many dead ends can humxnity run up against before the semes start coming apart? — patterns of brain activity not fixed but alterable over time — the consciousness in question — a glass menagerie at 800° — are these the hidden invariables y’ve been seeking for? — washed up comatose on a fossil shore — a piece of blundering ammonite — or the proverbial stone tossed through the front window — there’s always a predicament waiting to embrace you — occasionally vampyrs — setting their teeth against the iron in the soul — let us make no sense if we choose to — “that I have been the mother of my own mother” — the distance in a funhouse only appears unfathomable — THERE ARE NO INERT OBJECTS — wanting only to drink sleep argue hurt destroy — like the black widow that consumes its mate while dancing the Lola Montez — but who or what is the hubristic creature that weaves its fate? — the secret counterpart pulling the strings on the far side of the mirror — in a graveyard of trapped recurrence — actions w/out futures — each divided instant branching & consubstantially looping back — [everything its own incident its own precession] — such that the number Sn of spider trees with n nodes is the same as the number of integer partitions of n=1 into 3 or more parts — i.e. the self in postmortem times — what was our mission when we first set out? — to kill to eat to construct a habitus — the world comes in by the eyes etc. — there at the first turning — to set upon the task — to sit & be entertained — in an arbour of ol’ Ἀθῆναι listening to the burbling G.O.D. in the brook the philosophy of rustling leaves — love leaves you colder than hemlock — mortality w/out seduction — words w/out betrayal — the pure diamond exists only beneath an Everest of inexorables — like a mind ground to glass so as to clearly see once & for all — look! — a snail crawling along the edge of a straight razor — scorched — lacerated — serene — weaving dead languages in yr head — darkmatter=permeable — the body is firstly removed from the body that gives it — secondly bondage contraption or the world in lockdown theory — “an autobiographic objectionist fugue” — to be silent isn’t to be silenced — arms legs spread against side of building — cop car revolving blue — first accommodate their fears then burn ’em to the ground — a secondary movement under the class ceiling — this organisation has spent centuries killing & raping in the name of their révisionniste G.O.D. — time for a full=frontal Bolshevik to walk out into the traffic & deal some hard sentiment — rubbish=bin=through=the=windscreen stuff — causing a temporary snarl=up in the ecclesiastical opium trade — vox pop topping the charts — history’s owned by whoever runs the biggest mouthwash operation — PR hacks & cosplay masochists trying it for size — another Polybius w/ ankles cuffed to their chinstrap — KY equals greatest invention since sliced white — right? — close as a blade or yr money back! — saying w/ a straight face how the pen is mightier than a rusty syringe — or Roger Ramjet punking the Beats down in CDMX w/ that William Tell con [“right between the eyes kid”] — one more headshot for the family album — pearlywhites & narcoleptic Cyclops stare — someone’s gotta pay so why not YOU? — knockknock nobodaddy’s home — this cld be the Road to Paradise — this cld be the Republic of Burma Shave — catching up w/ yr own shadow on the detuned carrousel — virus repetition=mania wearing a hole in the back of yr head you can see through to what’s in store — a 4=square padded selenium cell w/ Judas=hole — TODAY’S MINDFUCK BROUGHT TO YOU BY HOLIDAYZOLOFT! — putting the reverb peddle flat to the floor — scenery multiplies the eye’s romance w/ imaginary objects — what’ll they think in 46 billion years when TV finally makes it to the back=end of the cosmos? — Stooky Bill dummying=up before Turing Cops can read him his Mirandas hahaha — first “man” in space to be hacked to bits by an image=dissector — spread like confetti across the galactic filigree — a widowmaker’s mantilla — blackeyed — femmefatale — deathstar tractorbeam gloryhole — every hydra its antihydra — a blind Rosicrucian worm flying in the night — gouging out conic sections of joyless oblivion — videodromic antechambers to Our Father’s House — in every window an exploding Molotov of heavenly light — no sooner freed than sucked relentlessly back into that conflagration — those are blackholes that were its eyes — blasts of ungratified desire wafting like expressive rage headfirst through a windscreen — they say the future’s the foreigner who can never be kept out — a foghorn=imperilled sea — Jupiter’s red=hot eye — Martian spiders under the skin — let us elaborate TO BECOME IS NOT TO BE — making preposterous Hamlet=faces at the CCTV because the entrycode doesn’t work — just another electrified baby slashing at steel doors — art holds a mirror to exclusion selfwilled from prevailing condition — THE FREEDOM STRICTURES — tuned to a rained=out Shinjuku sky — twinkletwinkle little asterisk — & time once more lying verbless on the tongue — do words become more beautiful as they grow old? [all words benefit from being deleted IMHO] — watch them kneel praying to the Immortal Consenter to be teleported at last — oh Glitch in Himmel! — [nothing that enters ever exits this machine] — [eternal cosmodrome] — [return=of=return] — learning to die isn’t the same as being already dead — though all paths must eventually cross — the place of End Times called Arachnocene — or simply THE WEB — which through countless eons has assumed many inchoate forms many protolinguas — FOR I IS LEGION — [commune within secret commune etc.] — this is where the voiceover in the dark comes to tell the sleepers to make up the story themselves & not be slaves to diktat — can’t believe everything you see & hear now can you? — more than just another adventure in perception — desperately seeking involvement even if it necessitate the committing of crimes — yes even against humxnity — [suffering’s nothing if not personal but not only personal] — slowmotion collective suicide by subcortical command to breathe not breathe — air quality always their primary devotion — conserving rarefied atmosphere in ventilated highrise because closer to G.O.D. — oh how the hungry ozones turn up the heat — just making it work takes all the effort left in this world — a tragedian’s farce — the audience knows who the perpetrators are & where they live but still just sitting there waiting for the end to do their dirty work for them — every child knows by heart the hero’s complaint — how whenever they open their eyes the enemy’s right there staring them in the face — like trying to murder yr own shadow — or wake up screaming ENUCLEATION’S A BIRTHRIGHT! — hands raised in Vitus palsy like some congregation at Colonus groping for a crack in the grey CGI interior — the shell of the egg! the shell of the egg!
Louis Armand is the author of THE COMBINATIONS (2016), THE GARDEN (2020) & VAMPYR (2021). He lives in Prague & Beja. www.louis-armand.com