[-empyre-] Daphne Alla Gory - a tree voiced invention

Rebirth is a dictum of the shallow waves. 

We mourn the Mudern but we do not mourn it as the splendor of a lost
antiquity. We cannot aim to quarrel with a movement, a past eruption,
sliding downward in two directions. We smile at it, a past affair, its
immorality contributing to the intensity of some orgasms, some words, some
silence as we receed to the established scene. After the initial euphoria of
resettling into conformity, the sadness hits us one day, we start to mourn
the lost vitality as the old annoyances built up to the old cold facts, the
all too familiar reasons why we started the affair in the first place.

The shallow waves dictate some things to resurface.

The shallow waves, they do not rise too fast, my every neighbour knows how
to step up or down, they do not swallow her. They merely touch the ankles of
her children, make them cry out with joy because the rhythms ringing out
from it in global tunes are made of what they see, they recognise in them
what lies hidden in a possible smile of the parent. Sometimes the
possibility reflects the real, a rupture of invention, because the void
between two moments prefigures the absence of eruption. They both burst out
in laughter then to cover up the presence of the one inside the other.

Outward, inward. Extraction, recession. One, zero.

The Mooredarn mourn us but they do not mourn us with the splendor of
authority. They seek us out and gain our bones, they pulverise them in full
view of the audience (omnes gentes plaudite manibus), they quarrel with the
slippery remains of our organs while our ghosts pervade their machines, a
trembling futuristic façade that engages the audience with the bathos of a
projected real behind it, a double absence, its immorality contributing to
their eagerness to grasp, to send out ads promising a promise of a new
promise, & some turmoil does resound as we receed from the established
scene. After the initial euphoria of gaining control, a tidal wave hits the
premises of the building, some towers implode in a rush backwards towards
the crack in the bubble.

It is said that every birth causes universal waves to run about the things
that make the universe.

The Mored of Urnings mourn us because we do not impregnate the empty shells
held up to us with our absence.

Children exceed themselves to access the continous presence of the smile.
The smile, wherever it comes out, is rather wry, there is a thing, a sting
of disbelief, a view of dark mud in the dark part of the eye, a memory
turning into something that matters but is left unsaid because another
memory supersedes it before the parent speaks. The parent hastens to conform
the patterns to a shallow wave.

It is said that in the absence of a climax the universe speaks for itself.

The parent, however, cannot hide behind a promised key forever.
She will, she must.




[nuggets of the cardinal engaged towards conception]

Rebirth is a dictum of the shallow waves.

dv @ Neue Kathedrale des erotischen Elends


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