It’s all dried up.
There are list poems which list everything that is not beautiful.
We were making our own little books, tiny pulpits, all of us made of billions of billions of point-like pulpits
spherical to within the width of a human hair if
if you’d like
blown up to the size of the moon, the moon rising in the ninth house of error and geomancy, each pulpit really
a disturbance a ripple in the general pulp emitting and or omitting nothing. Each pulpit occupied by an absolute
bastard. One of the pulpits in the left foot of the figure is it a figure has an occupant they are saying “Yes. Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. apply blood apply” Above the figure’s right shoulder near the frame well what’s the frame
made of oh fucking leave it in the pulpit another is saying “Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will
come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.” They couldn’t run a
bath, not a mind a
Here, the bruised ribs of hindsight
if you’d like
It’s all so simple and never beautiful.
Pulpits. goodbye soft serrations of the umpteenth puzzle
piece looking down, stage left, lips purse
the head bobs slightly at first then more the head shakes, eyes narrow then widen
eyes right, it stops
hand gestures, words if you’d like.
Tie some offal to your language fingers. Cycles of mimesis & disavowal.
If you look at the three-dimensional world from four-dimensional space, it’s all flattened out. The three-
dimensional world is a picture from the side, it’s just a line of different colours. Just pulpits with varying
attributes. From four-dimensions it’s all laid out. Nothing blocks whatever is behind it
if you’d like
. The line no longer blocks that which it is a cross section of, the figure. The interiors of sealed spaces become
visible. Even the interior of solids, all their infinitesimal cross sections, all laid out. No pulpit blocks another. The
rules of perspective remain in operation, pulpits far away are indistinct. You don’t see “through” them. It’s all
laid out in the open. So simple and not at all beautiful. Don’t talk to me
Pristine in the crystalline shibboleth of those we most miss.
Voices mumble because made solely for the newest, most sophisticated cinema infrastructure.
voices from each to each spherical to within the width of a human body if blown up to the size of the sun which
is a different ratio
No form of engineering is not social. The obvious is rarely obvious before the paint dries. Things happen one by
one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one