Image of Johann Schröpfer’s Suicide Projected on Smoke
Mouth and Eye meet on a train.
Meet is perhaps the wrong word.
Mouth and Meat and Eye are on the same train. No one says a word.
The train slides through the streets or canals of some Italian city, a stocking wearing animal dragging its waterlogged body behind it. There is no continuity between the plazas that is not the continuity of night. Light has cast off its source, molded itself into a distant palace, a mixture of Byzantine, Gothic, Moorish, and photographs of missing faces.
Meat makes his way to the cockpit to find the butchered captain.
Mouth and Eye make love in the scarlet confines of the cargo bay.
The floor is slick with ejaculated fluids, hydra-headed, and the algal mats and sedimentary deposits common to geothermal springs. Outside an ocean of quicklime writhes in a manner some would describe as rage and others would dismiss as the affectless convulsions of disfigurement.
Despite the captain the train presses on.
In fact, it is because of the corpse that it does so, that it has ever done so.
Funeral processions pass by but they are mostly guesswork.
Meat is flayed into a net of herrings.
In the rooms of the train the bricks turn against sight and touch but fail to evade hunger.
The cells inside the walls, the fissiparous mass of apartments, villas, and monasteries woven into the underside of each surface like a subterranean lake, assume the form of flames to escape.
Mouth chases Eye through decades.
One empire of murder gives way to another, a bloated carcass revealing its strata, the unveiling worn like a horned mask. Chelicerae snap and sing, hold court. The ruins in the burning swamp are pulped back into their moth-eaten fibers, rewoven with streetlamps and what little moonlight is brought in on the waves.
Only when the close up realizes a socket is just a mouth-in-waiting
does the hunt end in the loss of a whole topography.
Sight remains despite the crumbling, but only as a mode of consumption.
Meet is perhaps the wrong word.
Mouth and Meat and Eye are on the same train. No one says a word.
The train slides through the streets or canals of some Italian city, a stocking wearing animal dragging its waterlogged body behind it. There is no continuity between the plazas that is not the continuity of night. Light has cast off its source, molded itself into a distant palace, a mixture of Byzantine, Gothic, Moorish, and photographs of missing faces.
Meat makes his way to the cockpit to find the butchered captain.
Mouth and Eye make love in the scarlet confines of the cargo bay.
The floor is slick with ejaculated fluids, hydra-headed, and the algal mats and sedimentary deposits common to geothermal springs. Outside an ocean of quicklime writhes in a manner some would describe as rage and others would dismiss as the affectless convulsions of disfigurement.
Despite the captain the train presses on.
In fact, it is because of the corpse that it does so, that it has ever done so.
Funeral processions pass by but they are mostly guesswork.
Meat is flayed into a net of herrings.
In the rooms of the train the bricks turn against sight and touch but fail to evade hunger.
The cells inside the walls, the fissiparous mass of apartments, villas, and monasteries woven into the underside of each surface like a subterranean lake, assume the form of flames to escape.
Mouth chases Eye through decades.
One empire of murder gives way to another, a bloated carcass revealing its strata, the unveiling worn like a horned mask. Chelicerae snap and sing, hold court. The ruins in the burning swamp are pulped back into their moth-eaten fibers, rewoven with streetlamps and what little moonlight is brought in on the waves.
Only when the close up realizes a socket is just a mouth-in-waiting
does the hunt end in the loss of a whole topography.
Sight remains despite the crumbling, but only as a mode of consumption.
