CENTESIS

I know where they keep Satan locked up. He's disassembled, in large pieces, behind fences with razorwire and gates that are closed at night. During the day you can go visit his head, stashed between event trailers and some junkers baking in the sun. He is missing his jaw-- he is reduced to a massive, LaVeyan cranium with squinting, pupilless eyes; cheeks tightened in a grin half excised and stuffed elsewhere in lockdown. Somewhere there his batwings and barbed tail are mothballed too, but I never bothered to look. I never bothered to go inside to pay my respects. I just drive by, several times a week. I'm always driving somewhere, aren't I?

Yesterday I drove in the almost-countryside. There was a house with a yard hidden from the road by willows and mulberry trees. I could see through in one place, into a zone of our double murder. Piles of broken white plastic furniture, shaded blue by the diffuse light from the bluegrass. A cold-place blue-- an outer-blue place I could never go. A part of the world blue where You don't exist. Erasure blue. Investigation is the vector of the curse. Ushi no toki mairi. Investigation is the breaking of the curse. Witnesses, witnesses. Inversions. Now you are writing the spells and I'm stabbing your doll. Right in the heart. Drawing down your breath. Breaking the rules. This morning I Iooked up at the sheets of rain, and I saw shiranui in the sky, through the rook ramparts of the heavy trucks waiting to crush me out like a cigarette, or like a beetle. I'm so used to being watched I don't even notice. It's nothing. I'm nothing. Just a messenger, like Ayesha, only clothed in noctuidae.

Ashes of thought. Of will. Mosquitos have become so small that you can't even see them against the grey grey light we are left with. Their centesis is the vector of our disease. All my blood's blue has gone to murder and be murdered. I have mislaid its chroma key. I'm being sampled, bitwise, having my bloody points described so I can be mathematically turned inside out like an obscene manifold. I'm a surface made of other surfaces, like a patchwork of gore. I'm both your patchwork woman and raw material for your next quilt. Practice for your next fatal psychosexual suicide pact. Who will take Satan out of his cage and put him back together? All the king's horses, no doubt. Here is the red wide way then, raw and bleeding; here is the militant illuminated in laser light-- all that is left is for you to strike. Abort and terminate in one release.

A possible semiosis is that aspect of an octopus which reaches into elsewhere; blue broken yards where we do not exist. Razor yards penetrated by its searching tentacles, shunting my curses, hostelizing fear and certainty of decay-- biting with its beak, back into the apple of love's promise, strangling with its inky braided intentionalities our protesting necks, shuffling away, collapsing, and dealing out certain other fictions-- other cards drawn against the rules, against secret conduct in condemned half-lives. Lucy rising with nipples bloody, bitten hard by crooked teeth-- hard-edged angels with plastic swords, hollowing out pumpkins with guarana firebreath, to lay at olied, nymphal feet. To guard the holy flaming triple fuckscene as the ragamuffin hordes slump past.

All yards are beds, all beds are windows, all windows are open graves. Blessed be the gawkers.