Blasted through the small air; the hunted bodies; in reformations of former postulates of named intent; what had wound itself down before it could again begin unwinding; all deleted keystrokes; no self defense—in the eliding residues of selves already written would be no mission not predicted and counterbalanced against—erased in recitation—a trembling virus on the cusp of being rendered into fat and bone and brain, indistinguishable from whatever had been allowed to blurt the bodies out in repetition—only the wires would come later; only a brushfire in a conviction blessed to writhe where tongues would trace the given names; no name like the present; the gums of mothers, wrapped in silver, smoked for pleasure; I saw you waiting in the rust; waiting that I might turn my head even a second long enough to be throttled with the hands that first had pushed me through the thickest glass; not an instant to remember any else I would believe I would remember how to feel about it once corrupted; once the absence of the glass was all that I could feel.
What would be different on any side; what did not require such forgiveness to still stitch the unwritten mind of land beneath all feeling yet to fade—it had not mattered, would not matter, until the screen clicked; until there no longer was a way to change a view; so that whatever each was seeing then inside the tracing was all they’d ever seen, would ever see in devastation; the bodies undivided in their throbbing even as the shape of day split; the seeing in all our old ideas of silence, filler, timing out; it did not need to have been said to have been said forever—the sky stood underneath our teeth—black elastic—faces at silk windows—the fever frying every ovum in its gush—I could no longer taste the resin in my only implanted friend, so it was rendered—the nearest body to my own among the piles they had not saved for intervention; what new persona could be coveted for dying near to; someone almost enough alike to me to carry on my frame if given plates for faces, rudders for fingers, regardless of how we already knew how nothing would be given; nothing uncoded; where already from above all you could see was glue and pustules eating light, eating each other under the rising veils of ash of human laughter flowing from our corpses in the fields, in a format wider and slicker than any history, kept separate from the domes of mud only for how upon incision our secret bruises could be farmed for all their ether by gold robots, in each of whom I believed in more than I’d believed in something like a life; regardless of the paltry gyres of smoke they gave off, how thin its witness; regardless of how thin they’d shave our dream of graves—in them for only eons could any idea be called up in the silence.
Only the silence would not cease—as in witnessing our dissolution, the keys had learned to stroke themselves; where in the sediment residing in our slickest linings the fundament of something strangely thriving stretched to feed—alphabets disguised in cells of all the prisons we had carried; lard; aortas; alveoli; the demolition of desire without work; pressure without presence; infernal singing where the slits against our person had learned and learned to look to heal; over and over; in waves of waves and mass of cloth; blistered and bugged up and slit to ribbons and inserted into devices that understood our inclinations and eruptions better than our mothers; until again we felt as if we were standing at a sea, watching the sun sink, its previously ceaseless, shapeless heat expunged without so much as a shudder, any wish; all cognitive emotion notwithstanding beyond where from our erased memory of pores there poured from every presence then the nodes of being; a needless, nounless polished substance that at once covered over what had been, both in any reason for believing in death or the want to overcome it and a friction meant to bend, to turn itself over at every instant it could be qualified or counted, by any measure, without pause, no longer subject to eradication, to cause, to cover.
Among the stunning mush, then, there was rest. No word like a hallway through the miles of dissolution of our yearning—I could feel my wonder splaying step by step, becoming flesh in how I felt about even ever having felt with the same condition in any other—a shield of ceilings in the drift, the mists of unseen blood no longer loud as acid, writing our eyes out, but the very flesh of need by which we thought; the mechanism of all impulse in a state of bloated blush, hemispheres of resin and revision, each level brighter than the last; each even less incensed to hold together before the next began elapsing.
released August 21, 2020
MASTERED–RAFAEL ANTON IRISARRI AT BLACK KNOLL STUDIO.
LINER NOTES–BLAKE BUTLER.
JAMES JOYCE RECORDED AT THE LIVING ROOM STUDIOS, ENGINEERED BY ED RAWLS & JUSTIN MCKNIGHT.