blue witch oscillator
by Nick Compton
For the TAC in all its variations.
In this pre-mountainous earth trains move like they slowly saturate the petals with meaning. Idolatry of figurative boredom underpinning discursive relations to conditioner. Spring of 1012, I am entering what will be Leipzig on a horse named Dot, when she stops and says to me, “you know Nick, we are all fungible with time” and I say, “As always Dotty old girl, I am under your Sulawesi.” Delphic and in the Kingdom Of Burgundy is how I luxuriate to bohemian ingenues. Gnarly affective refrain you are talmudic in your insistence upon rain and plesiosaurs to damn up such shadow-play as comes out of the Holland Tunnel. No longer attached to this world or it’s announcements. Trees become a moral identity wishy-washy with time and subject to nativity. Out of the Visigothic, Dot underneath for Haifa to see anyone about learning social displacement. Several severe layers of masculine overwhelm a cow as custom, the letters recombine years later as I’m horrified by cheese. The desire to turn around is unlimited so I get dizzy and fall down. You are a late wet fart in this dawn of persona formation that translates diaspora as tonal shock. I don’t even know if I can go there even in the movie of my desire. But I have shuffled across states of lesser than that, fertility of the system comes across the shuffling of those states like the final simulation of my free time. The horizon is still sexier and goes on evading how I would. Or the thing that gives me luck is a continual flesh relation, so not luck at all. I must gin up a pathological image of leisure and kowtow to the lotic clique of mortality and the exigencies of what I must earn even as I am locked to the brain of this world (and several other relevant domains of pressure?). I am falsely, passionately confirmed by variations on mutant realisms. Even in the soreness of my body is the softness of my situation. Nietzsche says, “For me, seeming is what is truly effective and alive, going so far in its self-mockery as to make me feel that here there is seeming and ghost lights and spirit dances, and nothing more — that among all those dreaming, I, too, the ‘knower,’ dance my dance; that one who knows is a means of drawing out the earthly dance and in this way belongs among the masters of ceremony of existence; and that the sublime consistency and interconnectedness of all knowledge is and will be perhaps the highest means of sustaining the universality of dreaming and the understanding all these dreamers have among themselves, and so, too, even the duration of the dream.” I think this means I can be a virgin again, which is all I want. Depending on which side of the network I decide to ply and be played. At least I must recognize the dimensional stuff, the hershey’s which kept me alive, the couches, the tatters. And now I am in love with no one and the air floats down like cream, I mean when you’re ready you’re ready and everything else is gravy. In New Jersey I convinced myself that everywhere was poison, that the roads flowed backwards, that the story lines were all formulated to denude my interior. I don’t even think I’ve seen anyone which perforates me socially. But I’m enjoying it, the total grammar of optimism, and my health ebbs? but I notice it and am not forcefully tonguing the nadir of my predicament. All things are not temporary. This moral continuity that aligns with the coming and going of snow. There is so much here, all the milk turned sweet and all the fixins. But what of renewal. Even as I dribble overtop antiquity, I want Being And Time. Black Napkins again, how is it that I feel that the snow here is marine, and whathappens when something goes behind another in a perfectly flat world, is it something like defunct notions of black holes, the triumph of blackish thought, negritude, which I’m remembering as a nod toward the future, in which a projected flatness is jettisoned as the prior ingested arrows, that isotropically spirit away and come back again once aimed as messages in a bottle, of recycled plastic, abandoned on the astral shore of a too dim city you find yourself connected to like the highway is to the city. Surf bobbing in and out of glow, forcing into parallax more and more bottles then made shadowy by crests and troughs of the seeming to be done in by the impossibility of more messages, meaning more bottles, meaning more reuse but then and while in glowing again, the waves break around your little death, it’s a circle again. But I’m often so nice. The lights are in eighths, they approve distance as a store of the surrounding organizing desire of numbers, and nearer more pressing funnies and not so much so. And how funny, “is this your beaver,” because that’s not what I mean, even though I laughed till nearly sick. The safety word is throw-your- hands-in-the-air-if-you-think-bacon-and-ice cream-represent-a-well-balanced-diet. I thicken under a space, Jersey seen from here is cochlear, grecian in how it shuttles from you from toll to toll. But what does zone want from I, gwan I thickening and Dot seems a horse.
Work by Nick Compton has appeared in Similar Peaks.
