The Circulator Beam

by: Chris Moran

Forgotten breed of man, a lone wolf with a broken paw. I, the alien man, consume the illusion. The new desire, the new negative sublimation. Crystal core rock skull.

The invisible dimensions––a pendant––a nudity for the purpose of imagining. A vessel with no other purpose––than imagining.

The strength of the façade cumbersome. It’s the sound of a specter––a flame inside a ghost.

Like an imaginary desert abstracted of all form––as in a scene made up by the mind in future time.

The dizzying vertical nature of becoming.

The world’s my corpse subtracting a veil and the immanence of all forms. Clear white threads
stretch out like the arms of lovers and touch the black prism sun.

The ecstasy of god’s golden tears––the revelation of the method in the more mysterious and
invisible realms. In what flowed out––a style of the letter. The symbol. The myth––dejected,
diseased, ostracized, lodged into my brain. A pure dispersal so immersed in the matrix.

As if there were some cure for the world’s pain. I’m so inside my body but I am more than it. I am more than this. As if I could cure the world’s pain.

The vault of language’s corpse projects a plane outward. Tunnels of reality converge in the black pyramid hovering in my dream. The attention magnetized to oblivion.

Elric enters the other––solid, he becomes all; does everything, becomes nothing.

The prestige of circulation. Abstraction, aberration––the obstruction active––ancient energy––
accumulation of identities. Cruel and despondent like the heroes in the fantasy novels of Michael Moorcock.

The impossible essence floated into the atmosphere and it was the living sword Stormbringer. A
galaxy of forms uncreated or being created in the mind of the heroes in the fantasy novels of
Michael Moorcock.

The word is a sword. The word takes on form. A thought-form which, according to Don Juan
Matus, can become autonomous.

Deny the worst parts of the world until they no longer exist. But they do exist. But I make myself dizzy through my own creation.

A parade of swords rejuvenates the field. My false weapons are dead like the moon. Dead like the void of outer space. And yet it is possible for the very great to inhabit the inside of a vibrant star.

Burning illustriously for ages as the source of all life. The source of all souls. The creation of illusion leads me to question, is the sun alive? Yes, the sun alone is alive.

Formless dark on the horizon, formless dark in front of me. Like a jagged film strip, jagged rainbows and cinematic threshold of horror and romance.

The world is insufficient. The golden essence corroding immaculate reveries of glass. Via the world spectacle, the accretion of history lingers on. The corpse of time dragging itself through the movement of history. A veil refracting unto itself. Access the chrism.