Skip to content

An anti-matter dream

Here we relay our dreaming souls,

Contemplate eroticism, get out of our heads,

The darkness springs forth,

Eyes, crocodiles, the kraken, hieroglyphics;

Left here, sit and listen, make freedom.

Vacillating cacti, circular survival, pure sluts,

Carnival of obscenity.

History is easy,

Our world, phantoms and brains and teeth and rising,

The paradox beyond death,

The nightmare molecule;

Deviants reported in the western lands,

Magical vampirism in the east,

It is calling,

It is calling.

It is what fools call magic, a spell, a forensic face-fuck;

But the effect of dreams on discipline is not mere luck.

The doll is here, she gives out wings, she rants:

“You are an analogue audience, bulging with pants,

You are double-minded lovers, your minds in the wild

Undulate softly like music, like a game, like a child.”

The theatre of the living is a decaying specimen covered in cream,

It’s sort of an anti-matter dream, it’s quick,

In which you can get off the stage and beat the audience with a stick,

And cover their heads with an ox-blood bedspread

To make the light glow red, and so they bled, so they bled.

Hell is won! And so we begun, the cause the escalating

Of detachment, the detachment being nothing but bating

A weak doubt that the solidities of this death

Are pointless and fake like a Rake smoking meth.

The doll knows what she is, archaically petite, a pterodactyl,

A mother-of-pearl messenger fractal,

Here to fly over a wide hole in the cloud,

Shouting: “Clouds of winter!”, she says it loud,

“Passion of dreams! The sky is cracked! The shadows dance!

Let’s fuck in the face of the avalanche’s advance!”

We read this frozen finger tale, we read the night’s sorrow;

And the impious outcast, whose tongue twists straight to crooked,

Will reanimate in galactic spirals tomorrow.

What brings seekers to deserts cannot be found in a book, it

Is the power of darkness unbound, it is

The broken latch lolling like the tongue of a hound,

The beauty of the hippo-shaped forest dome,

That unfathomable bubble where mysteries go home.

We read the night’s altitude, we represent their flight

With objects masturbating each other with figs,

And by manumitting our bed trimmings with UV light,

And wearing decanters as wigs.

And again we heard her voice:

“This is the place of dead roads.

Void your cum here and make your home.

Break bread with me, play dead with me.

It’s all the same in the hippo-shaped dome.”

She had the face and body of a doll,

But her voice was a woman’s, if it were a voice at all.

Her face was painted with reds, oranges, yellows, purples, pinks,

In lines, dots, and flames, and spots. She drinks rum,

Her dress is made of feathers of cum and lead

And she wore a black eye patch, embossed with a bull’s head.

She said:

“There you hide your mathematical mind,

Deny abstinence; give in to their hands,

The lightness jumps back,

Toes, ants, the queen bee, letters;

Right here, jump and scream, break oppression.

Stationary orchids, a square death, impure nuns,

Funeral of abstinence.

Pyromancy is hard,

Our imagination, bodies and machines and tongues and falling,

The sensibilities of life,

The dream entire,

Modesty abandoned on the eastern seas,

And logical fairies falling on the west.

We are shouting,

We are shouting.

Pieces of Sylvia

Two new chapters of ‘Pieces of Sylvia’ are up:

 

Chapter 10: Revelation

Chapter 11: The Rafflesia Garden

 

(To start from the beginning: Chapter 1: The First Piece)

Red lover, red lover

Emotion revealed is the ocean, sweet and beautiful.

I saw a fairy

Filthy and fucking

I defy the universe to take her by the hand –

a rogue element.

Lift her skirt and see she has no knickers on.

Knickers on a chair.

Whispering to each other, laughing at the same joke.

We must make more magick together

in an enormous black ruinous castle.

The cut helps,

The sky kills you,

It accidentally resembles cephalopod cupcakes.

The revolutionary insanity of your love

ran head first into the stairs.

Red lover, red lover.

But it’s supposed to turn blue after you cut it open.

A forest of red trees at night,

sprung in wells of wank and fuck,

touched by a colossal beauty.

Now that we’re in the magical realm,

Phantasmic discipline and devotion,

My mind is aflame.

Eight fingering soft puckers looking out of a window.

A nameless expectancy is clunky in my mouth.

Mischief and lust in a yellow ribbon.

A snake chasing a snake-dog.

Jelly spots and oil wood,

Thunderstorms watch me from a distance.

Ah! Love. Love.

Pink elephant’s teeth or feet.

The energies that build; it’s a scientific fact.

But would we survive a blueberry and tamarind mousse?

Oh my cunting fuck!

His hand grasps my face, watching clouds.

Don’t give up. I know where you are.

The ponies and the monkeys gang up:

It seems to be a staring content.

Joy and light dawning,

A pile of carved wood.

Such cunting potential

Lovefuck

Happy moon

A dark place, but perhaps wooded.

Ferocious lust and rage.

You have to pierce through their brains,

For the sea is black and enormous.

The death courtyard

I’m outside the death courtyard. My individual is called James Sarah, whose mind I remember well, and another man, and a male table (but the table is actually female). It ends very slowly: they are telling me normal statements, putting them into a shoe; but it’s not OK as they are specific death statements that I can’t question, but then all of them end to be unlike park answer statements. For example, I ask them, “Who is the someone-or-other from Protagoras to Heraclitus?”, and they answer “Um, physics?”. I also don’t realise that I did come to the restaurant afterwards and I fairly wanted to come, but we have a flexible restaurant and I can come now. I tell them where Spotless Albfield is; the table says she’ll come there earlier. Before that there were no animals in the courtyard, empty or less – none of them were listeners, but they were abstaining down on my own death! They’re quiet, they’re humming, I can softly smell the answers. In laughter, I say this is perfectly sensible, and I put down my bra and socks and enter.

I come to the open space in the courtyard I was without, not caring to lose who Spotless is, but emptiness is short for open space and I act quickly. However, very slowly I smell something from outside the open space asking for an Eisoj; I say “It’s them!” and they say something about Spotless going. I tell them which courtyard, and he follows me forward to the two I was much earlier without. I tell the table that he has to keep none of the animals here. I feel irritated to be being complacent about this. I wonder whether to bring the misfortune to go to the restaurant. There are two inside this courtyard. I come out. It is beautiful. I crawl around, not trying to find a restaurant that is beautiful. They are clean, there is restaurant cement protruding out of stuff, there are covered water droplets gushing, some dining tables have the containers up which I don’t understand means do go in as they’re empty, some dining tables are proper dining tables and definitely piles of mud or bushes or no container or whoever, some have less than two dining tables in them. I hear Daniel Belsy telling someone the dining table they’ve just been into sucks up water; he says his two don’t as well but at most it has dining table spin.

I go to sleep.

In Orchestra

In Orchestra

 

Collaboration with Paul Day

Image

Jezebel

Jezebel

Hello. Welcome to my page.

Here you will find things I’ve written, old and new, and photos and art. This site is currently a work in progress.

I do not believe in copyright. Use anything on this site in any capacity you want. Read it, use it, plagiarise it, print it off and eat it, use it as confetti, wank into it and stick it on the wall, make paper aeroplanes, give paper cuts to your enemies with it, I don’t care. But I hope you take some pleasure from it.

With love,

Elva Jozef.