Hierophant - V

Slice of the Novella from Tarot Blanco

(Berlin, Summer 1931)

Falling rifle intense toward zeitgeist

Loot and nothing gleans

Film intence lorry matters.

Nero would be proud because of all the balloons popping up and down on the twisted round. And I just need to pick one one balloon pumping up and down while I forget having forgotten and he used myself into a very past a very past. And it feels so good so good until I dream a dreamt forgiveness for my sins. And M marks the spot. And the chimes go through.

And my black hands know the chopping of the flesh. And I cannot stop singing that sweet song. So I wait for the women to go up the sodden halls and cracked within stairs and choose the bouncing popping of the pump balloon, which is held by one little girl who tugs at it with gay delight. Because they even sang that sweet little song that made me merry with delight. Over and over and over and over again singing of the wrath or sweet many angles. Across your cells with one hand place the other and take a drag from the cigarette in your left hand while you tighten on your right the rosary. Lock your keys against your loin for you never know when they will be stolen. To your laundry with the pall wavy kind genuflect genuflect genuflect.

It seems to chime noon, but I still wait for the blonde child to insert the golden head between the pillars. Red with plaster Corpuscles.

Who is the murderer? I say it is not me even though the retrogression bears its mark on my jacket because the progression lies not in our stars but in but in ourselves that we the underlings engage in such petty worries and desires.

-

Elementary is the school I teach and the most important lesson of all is to avoid the strange and the stranger all fancy for your delectation. Is strange to think how many do not learn this until their teeth are wrapped around their throat and the cataclysmic madness comes and I flow with its despairing blissfulness. Together core tenet is to watch the pillars rise up to the ecstatic joy that all women hide and almost all men want. Higher, higher, till the copper bells reach for the stars.

But then I see the little girl ensconced in a row enveloped by stockings of silk and the hand of five waiting to be led up the primrose path ended down into the blinding depth. And the bouncing ball packs the rhythm which I will supply the rhyme. She bounces it even though she does not see the dénouement of my entrance. Who is the murderer? Because we knew who the victims were both last fall and today and as yet another tomorrow yet to kingdom come. Cunnilingus, analingus, and dripping between the invisible sheets.

Clawing into shadow a shadowed brim comes as a nightmare during the endless day.

What a pretty ball! What is your name?

But then everything goes to black.

-

Extra! Extra! Extra!

Why do they not publish my letter, which contains so much information that still needs to be unpacked, repacked, and depacked? I give them everything they need to catch the criminal, yet they respond with concealment and entombment. So, not the police, but the cantankerous news will be the next installment and derangement of my red pencil squibs dripping with the poison that cloys. The anxiety is palpable in the public and the private. It is an impossible problem to resolve by means yet unknown and uninfected.

Sitting in the nascent gallery of the garden I sweat with the urgency of setting this journal for the journalist. Because the writer of the news seeks the same thing I do which is the eye drawn towards the rising son. Publication is the same for both my professional brethren and the confessional self. Continue your investigations for things will happen soon, very soon indeed. This I do declare in the hall of the Mountain King!

Who is the murderer? And what climate does he change to? Aristons in black, the cigarette butt of the killer. This I know.

All the toys each one a prize that hides the surprise impeded in death.

I must be careful because I could be being watched.

Graphologists using all of the open markets and swirls that come from the quotation marks strewn through every line. hunting the pathological sexuality written on each child's face. To turn the white into black and black to white until there is no difference between lies and truth or M into R.

The Phants are loaded.

-

You who think you have caught me don’t you understand that I am merely the vessel for the greater terror that stocks the land and creeps towards every one of you and waits for the chance of expectation of asphyxiation, state protected and free belch the hidden black oil, from far beneath the ground, to the white clouds above under the blood of prophet.

I can’t help what I do! So you must end it for all or boil in darkness.

Film at 11ºC.