Only Death is Real

The world is not fire, but sludge. Sliding, gelatinous matter, Nature like a half-rotten corpse, does not exist in a flux that actively burns, as a living flame, but putrefies and decays.

What about life, you ask? Life cannot exist without death, but death would maintain itself in the dead had life never crumbled off the crust of the earth. Death is immanent in life. And where there is death, decay. Only the theologian presses life into all things, the doctors of the church all Frankensteins, because the divine principle of simplicity, of unity demands it. God must be (in) all things---or rather, all things must be (in) god. Even god's creative ecstasy is a "paroxysm of interiority," as is all mystical experience.[1] But god has died and accomplished nothing in the face of death.

No, it is the demonic principle that struggles in and against Nature. Flux as creation in reverse: the chaos of infinite subdivision, the collapse of forces, the enervation of form. Infinite decay---or, to put it another way, nothingness.

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[1] Cioran, On the Heights of Despair, pgs. 79-80

O

Mind is Void. No-mind. Your voids are ring-like---O. And around again, biting your tail. The object consumes and voids itself.

IN THE BEGINNING
THERE WAS NOTHING
IN THE END
THERE WILL BE NOTHING
IN BETWEEN
IS IRRELEVANT

 Extinction calls, and nothing answers.

Black One

That terror of one thousand forms fingers his maddening flute. What song? There are dancers turning about a slumped mass, a sleepy or self-sacrificial movement, a kind of oneness achieved through dialectical extremes. Motion:rest::infinity:nothingness. It hums. The notes are chaotic, dripping like sludge, and feed back upon themselves in ouroboric decadence. These thousand buzzing forms collapse under their own weight, all distinction lost in a swirl of black tentacles. Not harmony, but noise. Abyss within abyss. And who can tell the drop from the sea?

Geophagia

Listen.
The roots shiver.

A movement of the earth,
Its tectonic oceans under borrowed skin cells

Erupt through volcanic pimples, drowning the pores, catching in matted hair.
She will weather this. She is a seed in the ground as you are a seed in her ground, buried arms-folded and peacefully waiting and dreaming and blind,
And deaf and dumb, alive only in the others still seeding in your ground.

Kali keeps stretching our wombs throughout many seeds;
Ground of grounds, Time herself

Embraces earth
And spreads.

The Child, This Ground

. . . The infant is decapitated, however, and runs blindly in all directions at once; it stretches out with shrieks to cover its mother's silent nakedness. This is the positive void of pure energy, the daughter's womb, in which the mother gestates and comes to be. . . .

We Emerge (Belülről Pusztít)

Woodenly, we cut at our bounds.
(We cut the wood last night,
but you bloodied it on us, you bludgeoned us blind.)
We carve into them our voices,
like a lost woodcut by Dali,
(We---butterflies, brushed of dust---
carved kenotically through infinite air,
our majestic eyes bruised black and bloody scarlet.)
and we emerge.

A Note on the Text

This is not philosophy---it is a riddle and a joke. An oracle, not an argument.