what am I saying? a mysterious collection of texts appears housed quite compactly in a mysterious bookcase (in fact the fit between books and bookcase is, uncertainty theorem aside, mathematically exact)
my fall from grace was reading these books, taking from this tree
though the fruit was gorgeous waking up from violently lucid dreams and vomiting over the bedspread I figured there might be some value in the sacred prohibitions against the blasphemy of writing reading
but who wrote these books and who wrote the words leaking through the brickwork suddenly manifesting themselves on the walls?
I write down my dream but then read further, find, it was already written suddenly the term “intertextual” is no longer just radical polyphony of meaning but being stretched and pulled apart by the conflicting gravitational pull of dramatically dissonant worlds
I burn all I have written the storehouse of my life stacked in a pyre having failed the inquisition
we are all locked in a fiction, a forever thread-creating, fabric splicing brain
poems 2 die for 