THOTH

Storm Reality Studio, and retake the universe

--William S. Burroughs

Ω

Noises have sex with the superior things of the Immense, Sodium, silences reducing noises to their nexus, none. The Immense turns itself around with its Kama Sutra, its Wittgenstein, its walkman that knocks them dead at the festivals of Thoth. Nearly immense, ruined Angkor blooming Vietnams, the sea sets traps for scars, and the skin is a pharaoh ticket.

Ω

The river trembled in membrane, in the brahmin’s mind, in the scale of the shadow, in the soul’s pomp: icy cold; a prise reveals dense valleys –– smells of death: crystals... Life is exiled here, liquid... And as for content, we might say it has to do with an alchemical process incessant as the sound that blows out of rivers or rain of meteors on a lake, the shadow of Iago, and this animal night.

Ω

The invisible scintillae, splinters of Osiris, silence striping the secret of dry petals; rain’s paradox refining its metals. All is made light when light liquifies into sound, rain out of season. Signs. Serpents spiral in their skin, leaving there their double exposure, in the transference of ruins the eye reunites, and ruins. Doped by the opium of caring, with the tenuous distance of a doctor out of position, he razoed the precise, Egyptian thought of a toal dream. Apotheosis of laughter, Osiran rivers, run: jewels in skulls and bones that go down the Nile. How does this become that? They, the modern ones, that bite the bizarre flesh and snatch up their modest ration, their Reality Studio.