Special to the Corpse from Jim Lopez, trained as a philosophical theologian with an emphasis in the history of the Surrealist Movement.


 
The outstretched arm of God

Illuminated my hallucinatory landscape.

Demonic delusions and

Beautiful illusions bow in retreat.

Mr. Brawn held the pipe and scorched the glass.  The heat seared my throat as I descended into a purple, chaliced portal.  The heavens broke out into harmonic spheres and intervals.  I looked behind me and saw humanity prostituting the Spirit in hopes of finding grace.  Immediately, I shunned this vision.  A kaleidoscope of centrifugal copulations swirled around my peripheral view.  My mind was pricked deep within the wet walls of a celestial vagina, insatiably beckoning me away from my common senses, while igniting my noble senses.

(Wit: sole master of Venus' disease, for she always hangs from Man's berries in hopes that they are big and firm, and strong enough to carry and protect her in all the ways that pertain to life's experiments.)

The pussy was becoming a primordial swamp, and I saw myself as a mere mud-skipper until She bore me into a man.

She appeared, not in flesh and blood, but of a substance that I had never seen before.  "My Venetian Walls are yours to explore," She whispered.

An astronomical amaranth exploded, showering this phantasmagoria with fertile ovaries.  Incertitude ejaculated onto the shore, where a supple, fine-boned cantor bellowed in Celtic spiral mirrors, which sublimated my reality and submerged me deep within the expansive corridors of consciousness.

The cantor morphed into a blue demonic deity, unwilling to sing any other tune but the one that he sang.

A Roman Lemures appeared.  I hesitatingly stared into the familiar dark entity, recalling its horror from my childhood.  I spoke into his eyes, "I know you," subjugating it with my acceptance.  At that moment I became keenly aware that I could not have been who I was without it.

An unlikely merging between a world that I had believed to be real and one that laid deep within my yearnings collided, forming a new sense of belonging.  The sublime cantor shed his demonic blue hue and vanished into the shadows with his song humming in the distance.

Then She appeared again, the fractal female of infinite color.  She took hold of me and peered into my ear with a powerful force that fastened my genitals to my brain.  She was an unwavering metamorphose, caressing me with her euphoric tone.  I surrendered all apprehensions and fell into her arms.  Her patterns ran through me as we pulsated into one another.  Her exquisite manner held me as She whispered on the lips of my mind.  I listened with the attentiveness of a lost man who had just been found,

"Your fertile immortality rests within you, manifest it in the active character of a rigorous mind and an incorruptible heart.  Never look askance upon the nameless."

When I returned Mr. Brawn was quietly sitting, careful not to disturb my new found love affair.  An hour went by.  I thought only of Her.  The hour turned to two and then three until I fell asleep a day later.

I reflected on my lack of amazement for life.  Is it possible that the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is correct?  Does our experience of the world give form to language, where a hymen is busted on a hyphenation creating a hyphenated hymen?  Judgment crept upon me as I took the time to question the meaning wonder.

Is to wonder not to live in the present?
Is the present the constant chase after the future?
How is it that an act in the present can precede its tense?
Is the future a wonder for what was not in the past?
Is wondering a less active verb than a thing completed?
Is a thing done in the present running away from the past?
Does wonder waste the present's active tense?
Is not the chase for choice all that the future offers?

Is the act of wondering simply a recognition of that which is ineffable?

Does not Sophia cast the shadow of her gaze simultaneously into the past, present and future?

Wonder wanders in all the tenses, surprising star-gazers who exhale the breath of Phalaris.  A note is stamped out with no vibrations, yet it resonates for those who have had their eardrums busted wide open on the ever present form of the ineffable.  And

"...if this particular form seemed aberrant, illusory or dangerous, this would in itself be a precious aid to become more aware of what is essential to preserve, as well as the risk we constantly run of making grievous errors and falsifications in our interpretation."

-- Henri Tracol