Боги. Новые создания (ЛП) - Моррисон Джим (версия книг TXT) 📗

cinema.

The camera is androgynous machine, a kind of mechanical hermaphrodite.

In his retort the alchemist repeats the work of Nature.

Few would defend a small view of Alchemy as «Mother of Chemistry», and

confuse its true goal with those external metal arts. Alchemy is an erotic

science, involved in buried aspects of reality, aimed at purifying and

transforming all being and matter. Not to suggest that material operations are

ever abandoned. The adept holds to both the mystical and physical work.

The alchemists detect in the sexual activity of man a correspondence with the

world's creation, with the growth of plants, and with mineral formations.

When they see the union of rain and earth, they see it in an erotic sense, as

copulation. And this extends to all natural realms of matter. For they can

picture love affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance of stones, or the fertility

of fire.

Strange, fertile correspondences the alchemists sensed in unlikely orders of

being. Between men and planets, plants and gestures, words and weather.

These disturbing connections: an infant's cry and the stroke of silk; the whorl

of an ear and an appearance of dogs in the yard; a woman's head lowered in

sleep and the morning dance of cannibals; these are conjunctions which

transcend the sterile signal of any «willed» montage. These juxtapositions of

objects, sounds, actions, colors, weapons, wounds, and odors shine in an

unheard — of way, impossible ways.

Film is nothing when not an illumination of this chain of being which makes

a needle poised in flesh call up explosions in a foreign capital.

Cinema returns us to anima, religion of matter, which gives each thing its

special divinity and sees gods in all things and beings.

Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.

Surround Emperor of Body.

Bali Bali dancers

Will not break my temple.

Explorers

Suck eyes into the head.

The rosy body cross

secret in flow

controls its flow.

Wrestlers

in body weights dance

and music, mimesis, body.

Swimmers

entertain embryo

sweet dangerous thrust flow.

The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge or control. Our lives are

lived for us. We can only try to enslave others. But gradually, special

perceptions are being developed. The idea of the «Lords» is beginning to form

in some minds. We should enlist them into bands of perceivers to tour the

labyrinth during their mysterious nocturnal appearances. The Lords have

secret entrances, and they know disguises. But they give themselves away in

minor ways. Too much glint of light in the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long

and curious a glance.

The Lords appease us with images. They give us books, concerts, galleries,

shows, cinemas. Especially the cinemas. Through art they confuse us and

blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns our prison walls, keeps us silent and

diverted and indifferent.

Dull lions prone on a watery beach.

The universe kneels at the swamp

to curiously eye its own raw

postures of decay

in the mirror or human consciousness.

Absent and peopled mirror, absorbent

passive to whatever visits

and retains its interest.

Door of passage to the other side,

the soul frees itself in stride.

Turn mirrors to the wall

in the house of the new dead.

THE NEW CREATURES

Snakeskin jacket

Indian eyes

Brilliant hair

He moves in disturbed

Nile insect

Air

You parade thru the soft summer

We watch your eager rifle decay

Your wilderness

Your teeming emptiness

Pale forest on verge of light

decline.

More of your miracles

More of your magic arms

Bitter grazing in sick pastures

Animal sadness the daybed

Whipping.

Iron curtains pried open.

The elaborate sun implies

dust, knives, voices.

Call out of the Wilderness

Call out of fever, receiving

the wet dreams of an Aztec King.

The banks are high and overgrown

rich w/warm green danger.

Unlock the canals.

Punish our sister's sweet playmate distress.

Do you want us that way w/the rest?

Do you adore us?

When you return will you

still want to play w/us?

Fall down.

Strange gods arrive in fast enemy poses.

Their shirts are soft marrying

cloth and hair together.

All along their arms ornaments

conceal veins bluer than blood

pretending welcome.

Soft lizard eyes connect.

Their soft drained insect cries erect

new fear, where fears reign.

The rustling of sex against their skin.

The wind withdraws all sound.

Stamp your witness on the punished ground.

Wounds, stags, arrows

Hooded flashing legs plunge

near the tranquil women.

Startling obedience fom the pool people.

Astonishing caves to plunder.

Loose, nerveless ballets of looting.

Boys are running.

Girls are screaming, falling.

The air is thick w/smoke.

Dead crackling wires dance pools

of sea blood.

Lizard woman

w/your insect eyes

w/your wild surprise.

Warm daughter of silence.

Venom.

Turn your back w/a slither of moaning wisdom.

The unblinking blind eyes

behind walls new histories rise

and wake growling whining

the weird dawn of dreams.

Dogs lie sleeping.

The wolf howls.

A creature lives out the war.

A forest.

A rustle of cut words, choking

river.

The snake, the lizard, the insect eye

the huntsman's green obedience.

Quick, in raw time, serving

stealth slumber,

grinding warm forests into restless lumber.

Now for the valley.

Now for the syrup hair.

Stabbing the eyes, widening skies

behind the skull bone.

Swift end of hunting.

Hug round the swollen torn breast

red-stained throat.

The hounds gloat.

Take her home.

Carry our sister's body, back

to the boat.