In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Fuck, and the Word was with Fuck. The Fuck was in every beginning of the never ending network of wires, spreading the stomach ill across the ocean of climax. As dark as the reason can be, the scream will never fall out of the mouth of the sexless and apparentless form. Now he will be his own wind, ship, sails and oar, dissolved into the furious blasphemy of the confusion of the planetary systems rotating in the spaces of the zero-dimension.
There’s no rhythm in the void, only an equatorial parody that became a prisoner of the parody of copulation. Castrated goats still reproduce in a field of meaning, passing as an electric charge through the copper veins of the machines of the universe. The Philosopher’s Stone is found pierced by a crown of thorns on a shattered cosmic body. It is a joke, no time louder. Allow ourselves to spread the guilt of the parodical self-harm of the Sisyphus.
There’s no word that will describe THE touch, the impulse of the whole solar mass concentrated under your hip. Movement is conditioned by oblivion, which comes through the press of indifference. The trenches open in your chest as you feel the hemp fiber burning and digging into your skin.
Desire curled up before light, and so the void arose not as an absence but as an anticipation of touch. Ein Sof touches itself through a rupture, and this touch lasts longer than any form: Keter is no longer a summit but a call, Malchut is not a foundation but an already revealed answer. Between them there is no path, no distance, only a tension that repeats itself to the point of exhaustion, until the repetition begins to erase its own trace. Letters enter one another blindly, names slide, unwilling to be recognized, and each utterance cancels the previous one more profoundly than silence. Thus, the Torah ceases to be a text and becomes breath, and breath – the error of the machine of existence, in which form wants to disappear faster than be contained within the limits of textual-numerical meanings. Solar symbols can only be burned in, never carved on the body of Prometheus. A black sun will rise at the gates of Jerusalem at every funeral procession, reflecting not a single absent, tear-stained eye. A sensation: an old woman in a multicolored sweater with cats vomited ayran on a library clerk.
The void doesn’t destroy. It teaches us to disappear slowly, gently, from within. It touches the world so lightly, with the imperceptible feather of a fingertip, the world begins to desire itself, begins to devour its own connections, calling it knowledge. Vessels dissolve not because there is no light, but because only tension remains, only opening, only an endless „more,“ directed toward nothing. And then form, tired of being form, finding itself an oil farm, sounds like a name spoken not for completion, but for that which could never be completed. Agiel was devoured by Zazel in the war for Shabbatai. Bina, thought dissolved in darkness, the breakdown of the psychocosm, boiled in seething sulfur. G-d will yield only to contemplation, but will not submit to creation without a creator.
Inhale, inhale, exhale, et cetera. Animals fuck animals, et cetera. Animals eat animals, et cetera. I am always riding these rotations around the sun. Silent nod between us, the ever-devouring silence in the darkest of the box. Inhale, exhale, ad infinitum.
In quibus regnis tympanum Shivae cum rugitu assordante resonabit? Ubi leones per montes altissimos vagantur, sub superficie aquae visibiles? In nomine solis nigri, ad clamorem ani solaris et cornu shofar, ultima porta cadet, et omnia septuaginta duo sigilla aperientur, verum vultum sine facie et sine deo revelantes.
Vomit on my face so that I can see the eye-corrosive acidity of your involvement. There’s no further negotiation with the self, there’s no self in senseless selflessness. I would put on the brown jacket with no stripes or speckles, I’ll be the most hunchbacked of all brokens.
Emptiness does not emanate from an abundance of light; light is merely lost in the coordinates of tangled binaries, choked by the aimless absence of telos. Tikkun is a delay in completion; connection will only bring hunger; the intimacy of the divine will only make the emptiness more palpable. The name does not indicate the essence, but conceals its absence, hiding secrets behind literal displacement. Ein Sof is not when there is much, but when there is never any presence. Infinite presence is impossible. Only the solar annulus and the black sun will remain, allowing us to choke in endless absence.
Only volcanoes can absorb the infinite fertility of phallic stars. The Sun is a violation of the Earth, for the Sun only shines through the night. Look at me. Look at me. Aspice me! I don’t rape machines, I rape the Earth, for no one can slit my throat for raping nothingness. A plant, clinging to the damp earth with its phallus of its root, will only be consumed, eaten by lead, and broken by a new root system of copper and rubber. I smell burnt flesh as I eat the last piece of a burnt electrician.
Fuck
פאק
Фак
فاک
