Chroma Fluids Tiger Snake "heads" and worm in a bottle with salt and lemon

Maxx dropt in tonight for a joint and some LSD to relieve Nils chronic attack of insomnia/ Made it worse in that way you so well know/things become focused in detail and the lack of sleep or the sense of wakefulness as the Somnambulists would say becomes a piledriver pounding down on the frontal lobes and sphincter muscle/ aa strange physiological combination I must say// Maxx is an old friend from the 60s who gave up writing to build mud brick houses in the Desert of DogRocks down the Great Ocean Road/has his own Record label now called Exit Records/ Still he has a few lines up his sleeve when he gets full up on Chroma Fluid/ You Know?/ So we did a Robert Desnos and came up with this/
…we die with the one who dies and s/he dies in our place/ adorned with the halo of a crime to exist against and not with ever drifting with the hours of visceral processes thought becomes radically corporal and grinds the image on the bones and sinews of pain/yet everything remains to be done/ the inertia of a dead thing needs to be re-vitalized the word too many of fragile texts/at night the dreams of death when ther one dies with the many others/ Death is overcrowded with the desire to preserve the living/ I refuse this speech which you speak to me of “who are you” and “do you prefer pleasure to pain?”/ I am in yr logic dog of ghosts and in the breath that torments yr lungs with the flame of being unique there is not instant in which you rest from me/ I am in retina yr synapse yr fingertips yr lungs breath my discourse and I yrs/Mouth to mouth revelations /Affliction proceeds and exceeds awareness/
The solitary bed the falling asleep bed this disintegrating bed saturated with loves fluids and penetrations the seminary bed dispersed with living the agitated bed of convoluted lovers/ the body is alarming porous always being penetrated violated possessed and eaten/ there are many superfluous words that affirm what I deny/preventing anything from being silent for even an instant / Still nothing is said which even the evidence of agony does not reveal the transgression to which we feel we are accessories because it is also our own strangeness / this infinite murmur / I cannot find lifes rhythm but have become a nocturnal being falling from a poisonous wound/womb I wished that night would fall in the shadowless solar anus of noon / there no longer is any law any society and yet nothing free nothing safe only a devastating violence of memory and of a suffering presence that extinguishes itself / living with doubt that engages with the surface of every thought / empty transgression that nothing prohibited precedes in the nocturnal space of the vascular groin / there are violations and the dying which breaks the non-possible the impending birth of things which as yet have no name or meaning / it is forbidden it is inevitable you die you do not die to gain an extra moment withdrawn into the NOW of present time / drinking Chroma Fluids dread always and everywhere guilty / a detour of illusion a mask of infidelity / writing and dying are the same thing what death would be in the act of dying / we cannot do otherwise / beyond to duration / finally the trap / we abandon ourselves / failure that finally fails nothing / inhabiting the edge of death life is hidden always elsewhere/ to be perverse enough so that nothing matters not even being mortally wounded when all else falls back into absurdity/ haunting obsession to bring dying back to itself/ the words exchanged under the duplicity of difference/ I seek a complete self possession but suspect that this will come to me in a space of uncertainty and longing/ My tongues are speechless/I play the role of a vulgar woman who lies and pretends to take pleasure in silence and pseudonyms/it has not yet annihilated my strength but has dispersed my masculinity and turned me into a misanthrope/ a recluse who constantly averts his gaze from the infinite network of automata that call themselves human/I am only a self in relation to another self/or perhaps selves/I cannot be one with out at first being at least two/Myself and the other/Contra Freud I affirm a radical exteriority of psychic forces/ What Kathy Acker called her demonology/If it were not enough for him to patience fragile vulnerable and obsessed with objects that lack provocation/ If it were not enough then it was less than enough/the fragility of what had already broken in him was beyond repair/ There was no drug oin the Universe that could eradicate his ancient fear of breaking himself into fragments/the interruption of a sentence was all that it took to render him thoughtless/ I am affected directly by the nausea I am seized and agitated by something that yet remains apart from me and is not accessible to my powers of representation/ I think when and because I am unable to act/ Sensibility begins in pain and pain forces me to think/ Every anomaly of my personality is a point on the catastrophe curve/the trace of discontinuity in my life/ In am here more than that I cannot say/face darkened by insomnia/ Assessing the space of the Krate from the door it seemed immense to her but she crossed the distance in a few steps looking behind as the moon disappeared/But it was a movement she was incapable of finishing the effects of the drugs caused a rigidity in her muscles and she stood an immobile disaster/ Terror had its day and night its unknown galaxies its end s of the earth its place at the bottom of the ocean reaching out for its forgotten lungs which drown in the depth of its plunge/

Regards and affection Lee Kwo and Maxx Blanchot