Foreword to the Colony of Pastorius

 

Foreword to the Colony of Pastorius 

 

Endless checks and body plants, grist for artists buried in the floor. Pills for old age in the last days.  The valley of the passers-through was closed, collapsed at the fall of the *todaelde. This produced a backlog of bodies for ants along the scarab nexus. No wonder passengers held their nose. Beasts crept among fish and fowl. Men shook their fists at the iPhone. Devices of hand and eye mythologemed escape to the iron room: businessmen mosquitoes. Inbetween, true children of the instant calculated prescient movement out of places, fire in restaurants, supper clubs. Sweep the room, mark the exits, never sit publicly with a back to the door. Let's go, no questions,  act. Grief counselors are available with burgers and toys. The Gogites wouldn’t take a Googist seriously, which is why they made colonists take faerie pills and marched them oberbold to Gaul. Visions of awareness, risky neighborhoods protruding, not celebrating holy days, liberality held captive three nights in the belly of earth, it was a thriller of the lower worlds. Firings, destructions, closings, uprootings of coal and steel, the back severance of contracts, preferments, higher up fun guys of Gogol bon mots threw bottles at the tombs. Fall with rain, dare, they pick you up for the French. Thousands of workshop writers were trying to find this camp. "Gyf donne strengra ofer hine cymþ and hine ofer-winþ, ealle his wæpnu, de he on-truwode, he him afyrþ, and todælþ his here-reaf.""

* jadehelm

 

Der stoff of super colliders in one word, cozened open, impossible to reconnoiter boundary stones of sculptures made like severed heads, this fantasy, of course, starts out with  arresting strangeness: Strangeness, report to base! There goes science in its secret labs. Of course, I in my timid body did not wish to have them in the neighborhood, intruding into my relatively safe world, in which it was, for instance, possible to read stories in peace of mind, free from fear. Paronomasia was present in those who intended to pass the land. Commissioners were appointed to search for bones. The notion that it stopped the nose or breath from a stench entombed beneath, suggested they were overrun while passing through, both the searchers, in the case of stepping to elude, and the buriers, who turned faces away from their work, stopped their noses from the effluvium. "Passengers" or travelers, and invaders, whose careers take a certain insouciance visually,were buried in all the noisy tumult that afterwards made the valley bear the multitude's name. Sir Gawain's primary and secondary despoilation incomplete.

 

You will understand that it's hard to accept the time to move on and start over. That's why we write and also because colonists see ourselves in the paradox, to have a thing but not know it, wait a  life for a thing to pursue it, do nothing but wait for the thing to renew it, do nothing but wait for the thing to undo it. Frost beets, cracked skin, stout limb, opaque beneath, lives and minds drive what we don't know while we think we are doing something else, and for different reasons too. Spelunking moles, contracted for the moment, fill in the entrance to their sea cave and write stone letters in shale creeks below, who have seen many things, but pay no attention, whose ears are open, but hear nothing. Such reverse timpanis of Beethoven’s 9^th  pick a phrase, invert it, splice at will. A drum becomes a word. A word becomes a boom echoing in earthquakes. What hubris, to think that after a thousand generations, alive in the last, that the life of governments, books, civilizations disappeared, when they clearly did not, to say that both sides prevented this revelation. Who says there are two sides? Colonists underground and Plain Folk. The one to bring it about the other to dissolve, which thoughts compel the verse I execute.

 

Adverbs before nouns in the foyer, ballistic glass lacerations at Chelyabinsk,  American Ground Zero, fairly intruding, we have these moments to remember. Smart talk on the rug, ambiance, facts please, and then the door. Liqueurs, bracelets, chairs keep the surface. Wittgenstein lifts his head on a pedestal at Airpark. Could that head speak it would say the colonist like a mouse is meant by the Armed Forces to be an experiment to save itself.  But inside the colony, no-colony, to serve the greater cause, I cannot in good conscience  apocalypse  the mouse. We assemble today therefore against this blind cosmic doctrine. Shiites have Nostradamus to thank for their escapes, Nostradamus, Blake, St. John fall on all heads. Colonies and colonists underground stand cataclysm, hide from rocks in rock. The colonial underground is clearly not made to recognize. The moon, Dulce or the Archuleta, take your pick clonies, aliens or gfovernment, although you spell check hard. When the fgov fills in the harbor at night, tigre extremes, you get the pint. I read The Apocalypse of Stars. It is an honor to join our brothers where they throw bodies into tombs that come out alive from Elisha's bones, who only wants to be taken up, but has to wait like and here, now, when the angel looses its vial and Euphrates dries up like a fig, the Kings of the east march. This utterance of language, roots and alphabet is the least spiritual power of the Sons. But the meaning was not in the sound, to look in the sound. The meaning was not in the syntax to look at the connections. The meaning was not in language, for the words, the languages were within the still voice that spoke. Indeed they sounded, but like what language, none or one or all and what did they say, impossible words from the deep?"et erit illa frenans transeuntes" made "a place there, a grave to be buried in; on the east of the sea"; a valley through which travelers used to pass a sulfurous lake, to which there may be  allusion to the sea of Chinnereth, or Jarchi and Kimchi; which sense is a passage to the east of the same sea, a road to the east. Stop of the nose of passengers; the ill smell of  months observes this monument passing where the multitude shall fall, the reason for their being out of the way; which sense again notices that it is near two mountains that a city, as it were, once magnificent, among any that you name that come to mind, Rome, Jerusalem, at their best suffer an implosion, superstructures falling into rubble, parapets mixed with fountains, holy and unholy, better than the organ meat and tissue of the twin towers where  cardboard crumbled, we give it that. These were real brick, marble, stone whose parts withstood demise of the whole, skeins lay tangled, and that's what remained, except the city was a paragraph, the whole precognate concept a rubble together, five sentences tangled in one, images broken and misplaced for the cranes, so to speak, except our cranes are accident and sound demolition which pull the parts out from their tangle to reseat them in the colonies, passengers and the like, the whole city rebuilt as it were, not that it ever existed, but if it didn't how did this mess end up on the ground? You see the point that out of chaos must come order, as if it described the valley where they bury his army, the Grand Seignior general  Antiochus, such of it as remains after the fowls, the bones left; himself also a sepulchre, to perpetuate the memory that this event is future, which Calmet takes to be the army  defeated, "locum ibi sepulchrum", or Starckius; "locum ubi sit sepulchrum", Cocceius. (c) Ebr. Comment. p. 585. (d) Dictionary in the word "Vale" (e) So R. Sol. Urbin. Ohel Moed, fol. 66. 2.((f) "et erit illa obturans transeuntes." Here is an edda to enjoy in the Lindisfarne, Wycliffe, Tyndale, German, Scandinavian or English which Sea captains, gold cargoes, frankincense souls, multinational corps, blondes, City/Woman nations, Gilgamesh starring with Ishtar as "the foul goddess" with bond traders, globe internats unmasked.  Intercourse. Intercourse  Alejandro-Nabucodonosor,  mountaintops and rivers, succubi Christabel now hold their  hands and wait for them to ring. Uncapped pirate samurais with credit cards. That's the adagio.

…

 My first work was to obscure these landings. Like leaves blown into letters on the street, that spell things we do not want to know, I water and tramp the obvious. But word shells wash up. The sea paints pictures in the sand so fast words are futile. I am very busy.  The sand is obvious. By the time you read this forest fires will be burning trees into sentences. It is late.

 Metaphor of the Leaves

Inmates and police had common cells. Their brains are studied to promote robotic sources. Corporations, Universities, hospitals run the arches. Careerists, norm police provoke madness as class rights. The bosses pretend not to notice weekly instances of mutation in the malls. Hospicio Cabañas, built as an orphanage becomes a deconsecrated Man of Fire. Gaslit doubt is built here. Centers for Brain Health make diseased brains. Memory, perception, sanity, projection, introjection hold trials. Psychopathic auto cut flash clip frescoes bloom and darken, crack and spall. It’s certainly too much to believe public events staged. Evidence is an iridescent airbrush. Stagings are incomplete. The needs of further manipulation are a comfort. We are thrown out of the circle.

 Landings
Rival views of the Landings were endlessly ridiculed. No one thought from the staging that the technological revolution was staged. “Facts,” were broadcast with analysis of the “facts.”  You could say I came to the grave worlds to ask, “whose is this, which one is this?” Mummies of a thousand years, white to bone would understand the analogy with Maurois’ Tragedy in France — possess the soul by Vichy confederates and propaganda – or Why England Slept — appease by fabrication and myth. New titles for quislings: Global Science, the Alien Savior.

The first Quakers of new prose took documentary form, gathered first hand, culled from sources. Literature factura. It was a lot like pouring a concrete foundation, prosthesis of flat folded sheets of the unspoken. Should words get a public burial? Authorities overruled. The idol of government held bodies responsible, buried beneath and got on, site of some secret. To bury something dead and gone came every word spoken.

The burial was secret because the kill was. Watchman Lee used to call it dead Adam. The list of beliefs, poets of influence, heard and unheard, cried in vision to hear the same remixed. Cloud powers split words into sheets.


Arches

  There is no obvious connection between this horizon and a series of dreams of dozens of arches I remember from the message of the leaves. A colored image of a nose bleeding among honeysuckle. That was under an arbor of bees flying. Yellow and white fragrant tubes. Coming toward me, my brother, blood flowing from his nose. I am four.

Another arch preoccupies the county home of Uniontown, PA. I visited at ten. Who visits an insane asylum at ten?  A long whitewashed tunnel extended to either end. A padded door swung massively in on metal hinges. The inmates ranged outside the tunnel and in to stumble and moan. The path was elevated above its gutters so it could be hosed. I didn’t smell anything but disinfectant. I am going down this tunnel. There is slobbering on both sides.

Now you see them hunting also in cemeteries at night with spades and boots. Radios, novels, microwaves seek to restore communication with lost powers. Flashlights look for turned earth, but Adam’s residual soul was secret. Oracles out of  power were reduced to writing. A cry in the river of light, to write anything human in speech, to navigate a sea so warm the leather hides of the boat smoked on its stretched frames.

I landed just as the freeways were built, ordered my own dump trucks of dirt so children could slide down feet first as I did the original slag hills where I grew up.  Houses here had been bulldozed to pavement.  Excavation began by flood light at night. There were ringside seats all day. Leave came to walk the barriers, explore the pits, but not one artifact was found. Kmart, at 16th St and Roosevelt, yielded hundreds. We walked the freeway at Christmas that year, picnicked on the bridge over 24th St. before sliding down the berms of shale and dirt.

I lifted one of their dictionaries. The Social Impact of Technological Slavery — begins with the European Discovery of America. The new Indian replaced with social, political, commercial new worlds made room for psychics and glands. Discoveries overturned for murder. Ex-terrestrials bigger than Columbus enthroned King Pentagon. Like the arch angel, timing is all.

…

A HISTORY OF CHE GUEVARA’S HAIR  revised
History of Pyruvate Phosphatase

Revolution does not dialogue with itself. The thing that made this clone was that the shared experience was gone. Each Day brings out the test tube shot, to play it all again, but it doesn’t make you trust this narrative where heads detach. The hallucinated have come to tell you that yr utilities are being shut off.

To spark such riddles the thing is not quite in the middle cloud of nuclear explosions being dodged. And, another decap, the thing that is, is not. Another decap! Just two guys on the assembly line making heads and who trade barbs of inward glory that few can share. “Our mistress thigh is nothing like her bum.” It’s the same metric, and all, and the same rhyme. Only the words are changed.


Two little babies was sittin in bed, standing on the assembly line assembling heads, they sent for the doctor and the doctor said, yammering (in italics),  you go below I’ll stay above,  trading quips to the background noise above. of the heads, of the heads of the suppernumery heads.

This Plus a reminiscence of their arrival by boxcar in the underground with fellow captives, once entitled Psyche, the Sir Edmund Lockerbie.

With a concluding postscript of the fgov. in German,
Me and Wold 

You go below I’ll stay above, the Volksstamm Director thought, as directorate does. So be consumed, Agencies melt to stone. I’ll get back to you. Government functionaries, military illuminate kings and queens. The super horned rich from previous screens. Blood only brood, gene women mainly propagate new. Under cats. Will there be no men? Wie die Farbe witklich!  Will there be no culture? Ground Blink. Human growth culture shock. Lit, music, art drugged, gene pools raise the children and their dogs. Controls oppose proles.

Shrunk heads are a comin, their ears are in sight. I didn’t think the disbods could learn, but they could sure talk. When I told the Company they were unteachable injections were served. I call it a Company. It was an American Adam startup that wanted finally the last of Gibbon. None of the buggers could hear, so we, me and Wold, sang to mock the engineers, the influence of a mind on itself, the dependence of what it does on what others have done and that’s how we found out the heads could talk.


I went down to caverns measureless to man with no markings except codes, wandered 14 levels below the stairways Capitol.  Nun, seine Seele hat Schmerzen! The walls went down from stone to plain carved rock. They storeth artifacts, statues further down. I struck the hours till I found stairways up. None connected to another. I kept walking to an elevator, pushed Up, found myself in a non-public Capitol, told them I was lost. I had a clearance tag. To think I can imagine it. Passages slope to where the hearts are stored. I’m not supposed to say the halls are lined with liver. Busts of decaps escorted me to the main, sanctioned with different means of taking. Professor Filbert said those heads had been transplanted from someone’s empty neck. Prisoners rode that way out west with guillotines attached.

What do I do;
what do I say to myself;
how do I look at people?

 

Rows of heads exhibited at the Underground Met gave insight in three second bursts. Ten thousand times ten thousand galleons supplied a part to act as if the others were. But since Johnny would not head-off grandma subjects were delivered through passages in the mouth.

Heads worried that the bug would unify the H.
Heads worried they wouldn’t be able to fill the NASA quote
when Canaveral replaced Mauthausen.

 

Nobody knew the horror but Mr. Dick. Outsiders policed the house, more like themselves than not, the Strams Mundane Alien Corp. There is a lack of clarity about the imaginability. You need a lotion.
Then I looked up–and there before me were two women who lifted up in a basket Che Guevara’s hair. Comparing DNA hair from the mausoleum in Santa Clara, Cuba with his DNA body finally put an end to Time’s 100. Voice to skull technology, plasma conduit rendered. With wind in their wings like a stork, the eyes of Che burned with impatience. Wold and I could see every good disbob strung up to the Animate Machine: insectothopter, adiabatic qubits, augmented cognition, synthetic cognition.  Lewis’ Devine babbled like the Head of Cuchulain: Three deaths.  first when the body ceases function (meaning Licklider psycho acoustics). Second when consigned to the grave (neuro prosthetics). Third in the future, when your name is spoken last.

There were of course more than three deaths in this underworld. The first was when they took a head from its past and all association and harnessed it up. Bosses on the lookout for more heads sorted these by vocation. Philosopher Wisensteins, Wittgenstein’s head, pontoons of Huxleys, Aldous, Thomas, and Russell went down with McKenna. Oxytocin robot ethics, and LIDAR against fear. You nitpickers call in doubt what you don’t even know, that aircraft carriers were sent in that first attempt to colonize Neptune. Simulacrum never quite conceals the truth—it is the truth which conceals. My Borgs adore you human dyads linked up to machine. 

Many on the waiting list received oxides under old grants. Encephalics breed far more imprints than they can use. Einstein was reassembled, all those autopsied divisions were false. Whole brains  in the underground had so deeply infected de Garis he couldn’t sleep. He stayed up late and talked to the heads. Consciences were swollen with predictions of the coming Third War. Etherized on a table, we heard him mumbling among our heads:

“jolted out of nightmare I see lithium, spraying mood stabilizing, bipolar mania, fine tremor, nausea,  hyperthyroid weight gain. I see Dante leave the malebolge toward the pit. Tuft by tuft in a century or so the hands of giant Nimrod. Blow a horn, other giants chained Abimilech, superior to Mordred, Italians frozen in cracks. It shake me. I don’t….”

We have reached the point exactly where the thigh beam ends at the haunch’s curve.
The palaces of our imprisonment were on the news. Lightning flashes from both sides of the brain detached the vitreous. The head detached-severed brain that minds think under control. Microheads call it dystopic to believe people would be needed. How else invite Colonization with the mouth of Presidents? Nobody has figured it out, but do not close the ears.

In his dream Lockerbie stood next to a jello baby in a carriage. Those pumpkins felt the dilemma of man on the steps of the universe. Wenn es vorkommen kann, illuminations like
“unthinkable and authorizing at one and the same time. First comes the outbound journey, search for the strange, voyage postulate of monsters, storms, then comes the savage. “I am powerless over compulsion. My life is unmanageable, but I want to do good.” Concussed by torches of fat, “Chaos resists  where most I suffered.”

Ninataka uji butter, vortex yam yarn, rayon fiber spinning, first viscose plant marcus hook, american viscose lewistown.

If you’ve never seen an A-head close, outgassed in its suit with the headlights on, these translator models hold dialogue with the Sophias of hierarchy. A-Heads can be promoted to Shiner after their induction–or disappear in smoke. Disrobes had a body, but a true Disbod had none at all. Disbod discarnates emptied into lit.

Lockerbie

Somewhere from a beaker sealed up tight Dr. Lockerbie raved about the giant complex of Vacaville Prison, latter day experiments, anectine on Leary and Manson. Lockerbie wondered that if he worked for all the  parties in question, and then went missing, which one would do it? His Jersey Report put the unthinkable gas on  tapes made during blackouts as they were dragged from cerebellums. Do you know where your microbiologist is tonight? They emptied the prisons first. How ’bout your local computer scientist? He end up in our Boxcar  missing. Seeing the world-vast war citizen, cheap seats in three second bursts, subliminal gold is what St. Stephen saw: you made gods out of stars, worshiped heavenly bodies, had a portable Moloch for your Saturn to carry the idols you worship. That’s what Sir Stephen saw in Weimar B.

Lockerbie gave these discoveries as we rode, information that under the Washington Capitol giant moths were loosed. The world big see. Disturbances covered up the reports that 500 Pumpkins Colonize Saturn. These rumbled down with the Cantwell Titans and their landings on Mars. Lockerbie had two mythless effigies drop in opportune, the severed decaps and the spinners, one by reduction, the other spun. Spinnrade Gretchen a little while. 

Mag-lev shuttles repel below Lockerbie says. Eat the cake and leave the bread. Sakharov, Mayakovsky, Turgenev, Bogdanov injected the mice the fliege-hausen know. How far to make a better life for cows. Prion contamination and encephalopathies easy to sound. That rare Neanderthal Caveman Swelling stacked up at Sufi Port! Cage after cage of A-heads flew according to report.  Smoke manifests at the crater level of space invisible to the naked eye, there! metaversal flesh if you believe.   Would that the touch were employed to clean and  fix.  It wasn’t our fault the heads could talk. Maybe raise up the scopolamine levels. I worked the west where dissidents exited from their ships. Ships, trains, it’s a little hard to nonspeak once below. Don’t worry if planes are trains, or if they aren’t gesucht wird, hängt, It dependeth on what paradigm. Don’t worry if human cells have an impact on animals.

The notion is that if a head is missing you can supply the brain. The brain bypasses. Inject both Kirk and McCoy. That’s how Lockerbie found out the hundred ruses a programmer got. Made to be a Gotling, a goatling deduced from secret signs. Planetary companies invented thousands of substitute names. Many Made One! [MMO] Many Be One, druga, druga! Shaman, priest, prophet, ruminate.  Heads back, that is, before the Anectine. Their dementia synthesized and marketed a search for the old afflatus.

F Gov

If you wonder why I’m telling these staged events as real, they’re not. Clues thrown out of the circle discover a consciousness no one wants to know.  It’s not the eyes that see any more than the ear that hears. The brain fools the eye, the eye doesn’t fool the brain. If the scene is unremembered is never “seen,” never was, even if passed directly into consciousness from Control.

 Somewhere undergrounds monitors turn blank. That slogan, all institutions are demonic?  Three hundred pyramid levels below, Hawthorne found the government roof failing. The history clone died talking.  No outside sun, new to many. If colorless, it gives no sign. Watching algorithms, cameras, microchips, blood pressure, heart rate, brain shift, It was conceivable they watched everybody all the time. Et Tu duty, outside Revelations 18. After losing their first encounter on earth the Neptune forces gave out drugs and meditation.

The unconscious anybody can see these Ararat divines in the EU parliament and in Breughel, or in the Guggenheim and Denver. The FEMA train beast, animated within, originally carried cargo manacled end to end. There must have been a market, there must have been a market.  Rocketing down the night tracks sealed, no cracks in the floors like Weissmandel, rabbi of Slovenia, cut with a dull blade through the bottom of his  Nazi box entering Auschwitz and escaped like Lockerbie.
When it comes to planet, who gets this base? The daemon Blum recruited when the trolls fanned out. Wenn du also sagst, du habest. Natives tranked, stored random guineas, the best and brightest genes of f gov know the calculated ehad Selective Service complements. They tranked.

Infrastructure trained in faculties underground.

Programmers foresaw that iconoclasts must go.
Presume you go where none has gone before.

 

It is necessary to distinguish two governments in this, but the government Underground did not forgo the home market guillotine use. Who would not want a guillotine they grant, where a stray rooster could be dealt, or cut bread. All who join the guillotine throng assume the honor of Sir Thomas More, and if his head is not yet battlement be a subject for Madame Tussaud.

Forty foot containers have a guillotine end.  You find yourself in the Amtrak Branch Beech Grove of the Jersey Report among those martyrs who oppose the gods, who lift the veil, as judged by Psytarch. Even though Lockerbie escaped the Gundersons cars, the airports and underground bases, it hardly seems a bridge to a peaceful mind. Under that circumstance the Psytarch revealed those tin men and undersea rebel tentacles, half human, half animal crabbots, mutants with scaled arms, paramecium, parts of butterfly wings, scales, hydra,  fish with bared teeth, snakes that look like Klansmen, defecating upturned eels, fins, helmets, wasps, falling geese and shattered eggs, clams on half shell contending, angels with red and gold armor, a disc of white above, against the creatures of the water below.

                                                     Before the semiotic tip of DuPont Circle the left ear of a head of secret architecture inhabited by the entertainment patriot matrix, you can get cozy if you want. They said he was a good New Order guy, aught Virgil before Homer, a revival of the old Apollyon  nee Abaddon Altar Pergamos Denver CERN. Screwy acronyms like MOAB, Mother of All Bombs, tipped mine shafts nine craters deep. Locked in the ninth vault of Virgil was the Seal of the United States. It still needs to manifest. Various feedback loops connect this last to what the spinners in formation say. Read these texts asleep and then awake.

Note: hat at
All disbod speech is in italics.