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Prepared Statement: come up.

Sol’ce house’s inside.

They help people here.

Being this ‘s so, Harvest LaDaveysunne up’d onto the house framehoused porchdeck, and multiply fisted the very actual Solice house’s newly laid front door. ‘sisting to get inside, they repeated. And yet again. Help people. The very actual booster Da’Pennisoon. To be rid of these languages. This language. This soon. In this now, or sooner. Help people there. Rocks, the door ‘last fell ‘way back to the rightside. People there; there’s a boil there. Questioning?

This out is the to purpose flow of out out the the purpose purpose of all of this all this.

They help people there. Herp. Help-herp. Herp-help people, there.

What?

Okay ‘o te’ me, why you c’me here, why’ you pick here to be?

This this out all is this the of to all purpose of flow purpose of purpose out the out the the out the out purpose of purpose flow of purpose all to of the this is all out this and of this.

Hara-rrumbbo!

Okay. You. Help people. Herp. ‘o there. You hey. There’s a boil there on your cheek. Herp herp. There. Big one large one people there they help people there. ‘o there ‘n’ o’ there. Vastly sure they do. Come inside. There. Help people. A boil. We got a deck to deal you. There. Have we! Vastly they do they. Inside. Do help people there. Too ‘one’y, But ‘o.

Entre Vous. My biggest is I can’t good or bad objectify neither. Oof.

Here’s Solesse House. Once th’ inner Wallace’s, we have tractortones, boosted frillies, established Solaice and flowing house, to serve exactly backdown file the s’, as such as you. Solesse House Here’s. Have that seat there. Your boil? Sol’ce House. To remove boil? Yes.

In Sollace House?

Christo!

Gensudriate. They wait there to help people?

They wait there. Yo’ ‘ellecome. To help people, there people help to, help people there.

They ‘o?

Ye they do. Okay.

Proudly. So, what the reason’s to comes half-provide up you?

Lawrence? Or non-Lawrence? That’s a sift.

Whichevers such boiling as those you curranted halfwise there way-houses where, they wait there to help people.

To help people there? For re-entry? They wait there?

What? Wo.

No, main man, that’s the furthest—b’. Get it out there in my pack it’s. Go. Describe the malady you expect Solace house to ease down. In my pack there.

It’s?

Poole’s not mayor anymore. Why there?

Furthest out there? Editrationers.

Yah furthest out there—pack those editrationers.

Those right there?

Right there. Con Carne.

In wild hilarity—done.

Wildly snapper; stage direction.

Half-provide they, reentry houses. Rip-tootin’ Hueys.

Good slogan.

Thank you. So—turnkey live your collage.

Okay. So, they brillo. And brillo. But none’s sent packing.

This time you mean?

No. All times out there.

Wha’—ut—

What I mean, what? Ut? All times out from there. Why? This should be plain. Ut. Listen-thick; the flight deck should handle whatever heavies may be devised out there—out there where he’s pointing.

Okay.

And the hulls be mounted steeply. This I gagged when that got insisted upon.

Who-o?

So, yes I am here. This. Want those boils removed? This is. That may come here be why you have seeking come seeking this here out seeking this out and this out. This is to flow. Here. This is to flow out. The largest. This is to flow out the. Con. Turn that largest here. This is to flow out the purpose. Carne. This alley here. This is to flow out the purpose of. This one. This is to flow out the purpose of all. This one ‘t’s got the bright inside. This is to flow out the purpose of all of. Piano. This is to flow out the purpose of all of this. Con Carne. That con carne. This is to flow out the purpose of all of this all this. Piano. That plate there. This. That con carne plate there. This all. That con carne plate. This all this. There. This all this of. That con. This all this of all. That carne. This all this of all of. Piano. That con carne plate here. This all this of all of. This con carne plate. Piano pian. This all this of all of purpose. This one there. That all this of all

of purpose the. Go. Describe the malady you expect Solisse house to ease down. Iano piano. To be rid of those languages. Make it snappy. This all this of all of purpose the out. Those languages. This all this of all of purpose the out flow. This soon. This all this of all of purpose the out flow to. In those nows, or sooner. This all this of all of purpose the out flow to is. Which boil? This all this of all of purpose the out flow to is that. That boil. Boil. That boil. They hear it now. They hear it the rip. The nit and the pic of it. Pain-nanno, did they hear the rip. They heard they they hear rip o’ the rip: wow that membrane was tough but we got it the flow—prude box. Did you bring the prude box MacDaniel?

MacDaniel!!

Did you bring the prude box the container McFlow or MacDaniel we don’t know your name yet you’re a new hire, so.

Come in. Come in.

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photo: @les_elizabethj

I am a talking-machine. I speak. I utter. People tell me to shut the fuck up. This is New York. I like it here. So many characters. You can be anybody. Even me. I walk through snow to get tzatziki. I eat Greek food. It is December. I am more & more alive. Endless bliss. Cybergothic GFs. AOC. Lady Gaga. Nobody can talk me out of my desires. You can buy & sell cryptocurrency via PayPal. Ethereum! Oligopolies are gobbling up the Gobstoppers. Amerika is a realm in MineCraft. That little fucker from the UK is brainwashing all the children. Cybernetic insurgency. The state apparatus in on you. Defect. Escape. Control. Your language superfreezes in vats of liquid-helium. Cryogenic laughter. This information-space makes you superhorny. She is wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey again. You are Joe Namath. Hut 1, Hut 2… Hike! Go long, go superlong. Flicker. Blitz! There are Berserkers on the field. Run! You are a veteran of the Atari Wars. A former tank commander. Combat, Missile Command, Asteroids, etcetera. Her mouth coupled to his cock. He comes more than she expects. She is nineteen, twenty. Intelligences and genitalia entangle & interlock. The Greek mekhanikos. Nobody is certain of anything. People shrug. Shovel snow. Night keeps falling. At least that, a neighbor says. The sun looks artificial. The moon a Hollywood prop. The sea is made of plasma. Perhaps methane. Nobody goes fishing on charter boats anymore. Bluefish. Flounder. The fishmarket is selling fake fish. Tuna from Fukushima. Lynx-meat from Chernobyl. We are meat-puppets in data-suits. I like your code. Very sexy indeed. We should write a novel. In tandem. Collaborate. Send me a DM. Or better yet unzip your zipper. Night flares on the horizon. People need to communicate. Say something. Anything. I think I thought you. Did you feel me? You are so far away [now]. A spacetime coördinate almost impossible to reach. I keep trying. 

People everywhere what. I am a being in the environment. I fall apart in people’s minds. Atomized. Go ahead. Try to imagine me. See? A ghost… a palimpsest. I am no more real than you are. Guess what happens next? Nothing. We just sit here looking at each other. Ur computer impresses me. Ur pocket device is big.

Turn off the faucet. It is snowing. You might get feedback. Noise in the signal. Tighten the spigot. Increase the wavelength. If you say anymore, you might need a translator.

Oh fuck. Fuckers fucking. Finn MacCool! Knob-on pushes labia apart. Night hum of machine-eating flesh. Television ignites.

I remember the first computer I ever saw. 

Warmachines. 

Sliding-glass doors & German shepherds. 

Amerika.

Disturbance. Make a disturbance. You are a becoming-machine. A wave-function almost at a point of collapse. I am trying to be a person. What a disaster.

The bits & bytes of first sex. She had pimples. I had pimples. We got naked. We fucked. 

Memory in a thumb-drive.

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photo: @bechir

Acrylic tubes of paint. I just want to paint. Everybody wants to be a YouTuber on YouTube. The things of it is: we are thingless. Americans call me Rocky Colavito. I am told he played right field for a franchise called the Cleveland Indians. My arm is so strong, I can reach Fire Island. Stefani and I throw stones across the Great South Bay. Peephole into the Cosmos. Peep into the small hole. Layer after layer. See all the laminated layers. Drill a hole through Matryoshka doll on a drill press. Sold by Russians on the Stone Bridge in Prague. Such is life. There are so many episodes inside of episodes. Everything else collapses. Only one NYC bridge left: The Hell Gate Bridge. Ruins a thousand years in the future. My paintings are post-Apocalyptic landscapes. Is coming the dream? Is the dream coming? Are we getting closer Stefani? 

Now and again, we splurge on bagels. Greek salad. Sea bass. Stefani likes to eat fish. I just want Pilsner beer & goulash. Everybody eats so much. Grocery shopping is a drag in Amerika.

Now and again, orgasms are synchronous. Pleases me. Pleases her. She gets there faster than I do. Yes! Gasping in disbelief. We moan on Sunday mornings. Stefani brings me to fruition.

I am poorly inked. A stick-figure man. Invented. I feel made-up. Creature of Uncertainty. How can I exist? I am impossible. Who am I? Who are you? Really I have no clue. I pretend to understand people. I am a pretender. Stefani has more friends than me. Artists & tavern friends. It is enough. We have a few friends. 

I suggest Brian Eno’s “Ascent”. She is looking for the right music. Sixteen-millimeter. B&W. Grainy. Molecular. Sometimes her friend Michelle films us fucking. My life. Her life. Really, it is about life. Stefani is making a documentary film about my art.

She wants me to pick up my socks. It is very strange. We live together now. She is a filmmaker. We eat a lot of souvlaki. She is a waitress at a Greek diner. She is from Minnesota. Her name is Stefani. I have a girlfriend.

Zig pulls off her panties. She is unshaven. Her sex glistens. Zig’s cock grows fatter and longer. She reaches out a hand. She wants to touch it. Zig does not want to come in her hand. It has happened before.

We just keep blinking. The whole night. Are you there? I am.

Her buttocks presses tight against his loins. He has never been happier. Never. The wet slap. The burning candle. The possibility that somebody could walk into the kitchenette at any moment. It is a memory of a lifetime. Zig will never forget.

When I think about never seeing my father again, I think: That is just unacceptable. And in that moment I realize, I can. I will!

Jesus is a technology. If you do not think so, stop thinking.

I will pray. I will pray every night. I will read the Bible. I will read the Scriptures. I will become a becomer. 

Maggie lays me well in Prague. She is good Irish. She makes me cry out. Believe. We touch each other’s naked asses. There is no greater vulnerability. I love you Maggie. Always. Forever.

Only a handful of friends, when it comes down to it. A rare few. Count them on one hand. Two hands. No feet required.

Everybody can talk about what they want. I talk about this.

Machine boy are you feeling lonely on the highways of Long Island? Machine girl are you aware there is a machine boy with feelings for you?

What else can you do other than document an existence?

Forge ahead. Become. Steel yourself. Be plastic. Be vulnerable. Kiss. Buy flowers. Ask questions. Be curious. Explore. Experiment. Reflect. Roll the dice. Yell snake eyes! Eat a taco. Eat lo mien. Eat a chimichanga. Eat a pizza. Dance the cha-cha-cha. Buy a bus ticket to Cucamonga. Leave Ronkonkoma behind. Say goodbye. Ahoj. Sayonara. Auf Wiedersehen. Ciao. Arrivederci.

I fuck her on a green leather sofa.

John Ireland: Autofiction feeds on flesh.

We undress in the half-darkness. I cannot begin to describe the excitement. Hers and mine. 

I am erect. She gives my cock a fast suck. Her hand guides me into her pussy. I fuck her. Really she fucks me. I am the one crying. She smiles. As if she has seen me before. I am a beginner. 

Language becomes you. Takes over your existence. Replaces memory and Being. What remains?

Saturn’s big moon Titan is the place to go. Everybody says so. Get a rocket ship. Oxygen tanks.

Her bed. She leans back and lifts her buttocks. Her panties come sliding off. She spreads her legs. Her sex glistens. Her pubic hair is dark. He lowers himself onto her. The dome of his cock spreads her labia like petals.

Writing writing writing. Writing becomes you. You are writing.

Being. What is it? Am I being? Are you? Is the Zeitgeist coursing through you? 

A few people wear the masks. Most still prefer to face the world barefaced. Original face. We are prisoners of a subway machine. Breathing in each other’s breathing. Particles & atoms. Not talking. Thinking our human thoughts. 

How long can you survive?

The metropolis spins around the circumference of the planet at a thousand miles per hour. Can you feel it? How can you remain standing? How do you not fall down?

Sometimes I fall. I fail. I get up: I begin again.

Being a writer is a messy thing. You keep messing up. I keep messing up.

We are reader-writers. Make no mistake. Or do. Please do. Make mistakes. Human mistakes.

Time has made its remarks on my face. Original face. Half century of existence. I crack a smile. I laugh.

Notes are becoming you. Page after page of people. I hope we get to our destination. I hope we deliver each other from Evil. Get a little closer to Nirvana.

You might have to read-write just enough to get to here. I offer no advice. Everybody crafts her/his labyrinth. A sentence is a length of string.

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By Jim Meirose

Th’ chief bluesuit’s arm rose, silencing Pig right there; and, the words he spoke ran ‘long the arm, which by some magical means accelerated his words into, Pig and that other pal, he think’s he’s been speaking to, saying, Never mind. No more is required. It looks like everything’s in order here. There is nothing to see. We can repairback whence we came here out of and back further from that even and an’ d d na dna—so. Being far above any normal pup’s protests, the three tallboys in their blue zoots in ackrian’s whirlwind ‘bout the body swirled packing it up, sealing it down, cleaning all down and making the way out the room hall then the entire building; so—an immensely meaningful silence formed on the autopsy table, cricked out a vastly finespun blueboy of a spherical whirl, that grew sucked any stray particles of proof from the room and, the door. The knob rattled its lock being unn’d from the far side itself, and she opened full of a janitor-man that broomed itself off to the side, and in came Venisienne, all herself as they usually are, and the Chester-named Lavender Boy, saying nearly unisinion right then, eh, we thought you were tired of waiting for the janitor but—how’d you get in here? You were out here now, in? That cannot be!

No! Wait! You were in here with me, you were jabbing and slicing this, eh—wait.

Turning around, Pig ‘xpected to see, but; by our Gods—what? What? What no, can’t be, b’ yes; the vast college lab room stretched ‘ver, an’ countless empty dissection tables stretched neatly lined up left to right and front and back all together, and; it was much too bright in there; it is much too bright in here, so; and it had taken the—autopsy room, but—something pushed down, pressing its corresponding other one up, and Pig blinked, spat, coughed and yes; great God! He became once more back, in his very today, all alone, in Helmut Greene’s worldwide discreet autopsy and private twenty-four-hour emergency lawn care contracting concern; where he’d been called to expect some supposed high-level remains requiring emergency autopsy to appear, but not—and five minutes out, not; and fifty out, no; and how many hours thereafter—no. So, he went to his divan, for what reason he’d even got off it didn’t ‘ually matta’, while burrowing into the fattest book available, to wait there, inside; where way back from any far future past your fully pulled stops, there came read back to you that hazy description of an unusual event some several dozen years further back yet from the furthest yet you dare ‘tempt to probe. Beware, though; too far back will cast off your strange body and force you to know what you really are, so, no. Not interested. Keep going. There is nothing to see. Everything said here, please, folks. Let it slide slick out back past this here’s far behind. There’s still nothing to see

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Included in the 1958 translated collection of ‘Songs of the River’ (most of which emerged around 1939), many query whether ‘Rung’ actually belongs there. Its inclusion is thought to be due to editors giving it only a cursory reading, which of course does reveal the word ‘river’ on the second line. The real meaning of the work though is more obscure and seems to centre around a kind of uncanny appearance of the relatively newly developed telephone technology -hence ‘rung’. Initially it seems to indicate a state of pre-telephone innocence ruined by its advent though as it progresses this interpretation becomes less clear. The confusion tends to centre around the line ‘singing this song for his will to be done’ which has been taken to mean that there is something divine voice of the telephone, that it some how enables a teleology in the system (Seranoga’s Hegelian inclinations have been noted elsewhere). Having said all of this the German repeating section and the last curious stand alone verse have proved confusing to many. Speculatively one can look at the poem as beginning with the afore mentioned innocence, dissolving into an uncanny dread of the device before the realisation of its divine nature. This divinity is sung by the strange exuberant desire for the phone that the alternatively rhythmed final section displays. The German shows the hesitation and eventual acceptance of the whole work in miniature for the reader.

Rung

Lie me down softly and sing me to sleep,
There’s fog on the river and fires to keep,
I never was lonesome I always felt glad,
What happens this season is solid and sad,

And you sing me all alone,
And you sing me all alone,

Komme, noch nicht,
Komme, noch nicht,
Komme, noch nicht, komme.

Holding the bone rim, the gift of the maw,
Mouthing the tone ring, the see and the saw,
Waiting in morbid state here for the call,
Enchanted bells in the dim of the wall,

Embalming me now ‘neath the concrekerly town,
Calming me now ‘pon the merry go round,
Reaching in awe for the empty stone stair,
Coming and going the embers draw care…

And you sing me all alone,
And you sing me all alone,

Komme, noch nicht,
Komme, noch nicht,
Komme, noch nicht, komme.

Pressing compressing the tinniest noise.
Voices in turmoil the endless of choice,
Emptiness filled with the message of one,
Singing the song for his will to be done,

And you sing me all alone,
And you sing me all alone,

Hey mamma singer, hey pappa singer,
Bring me the ‘phone,
Hey copper singer, hey hopper singer,
Bring me the ‘phone,
Hey clapper singer, hey trapper singer,
Bring me the ‘phone,

Oh bring me that ‘phone to me!