The part of me that speaks, the part that obeys
Two chambers evolved from the annulled flashes of the Fall of Man
The soul divided
Swallowed by Hades and released from Pandora’s box,
A bicameral chasm in whose stream I am in want of understanding,
in whose dream life and death reflect the infinite.
In the song of sex desire implodes, decimated by numbers representing
Eros in his transmutation:
The number 2, Himeros and his sirens poised above lovers exquisitely
born from the rhythm of an infallible truth
and 7, a point of light revealing impressions of the Thanatos apparition:
The Temporal Spirit
The Conflicted Duad
The days flow like Mayan vibration without the grace of pleasure
or the wisdom of prophecy.
The essence of my thought feasts on the demeanor of death
My lineage traipsing a fold in transmission, and without pause,
Riddled by the vileness of cadenced blood, Karma takes to the air
but never speaks of the wind or whispers
to the scattered hallowed lands.
Its ascension, an appropriation of desire unraveling in the object desire:
A temple of opium flesh that has returned from a past life less spent
coloring the veils of the daughters of a lost Horus elemental.
They come by night from the thighs of spirit;
from the line of dream melded to the shadowless woman’s breast;
from occult spells draped across deflowered contracted continents.
We enter gender and exit through language
A Logos of purest omniscience powered by the representation
of the subversive body light in flux.
I immerse myself in the rays to warp the æther
with languid narcoleptic undulations
Extinguishing discourse at odd ghosted angles.
The part of me that’s static, the part in motion
An illusive union compelled by a Dionysian upheaval
in a flash of insurrection.
The slinking aura beacons the moon:
Sensorial in its whirling of myth
Inscrutable in its darkened compulsion
A helix of vacuums triggered by the tourniquets of desire and
picked raw by corruption.
In the end the white man’s intuitives conspire in corridors.
dragged by the venom of a Pentecostal boredom.
Numbed by the jay of Christian-fiber stupor, the fire in my loin
is the fissure of a hidden nocturnal,
the softest drift to the language of the abyss.
Weary but not blessed with death, I hear the schism mounting,
but it never occurred to me to swallow divinity’s sword.
Denser and empowered by rage, Proserpine hangs her purest dream
over the brink of reason
Hovering measureless in the intricate ferment of ruination.
Arthur David Spota is a Surrealist, a writer of poetry/prose, a musician, video editor and a native New Yorker still residing in New York City.
As a member of The Collaborative Group, a collective of surrealist artists and writers whose core membership was primarily US based but conspired with many other estranged souls from across the globe, he participated in collaborations in various mediums, automatic texts and progressive writing projects, and created and initiated games of an Exquisite Corpse nature.
He is a fraction or the whole of the electronic music collective Into the Vortex, has published two chapbooks of Surrealist poetry and is currently seeking publication for Navigations (for Andre Breton), a collection of recent poems, texts and collaborative writings, and Innumerous Doubles, a dream narrative novella.
His recent writing has been published in multiple issues of the Surrealist Journal Peculiar Mormyrid, and David Detrich’s publication Surrealist Star Clustered Illuminations, and has been featured at NowSurreal, Dream People, Upland Trout, TorchArt, Zazie’s Zone and Paracosm.
Image: Collage by Joan Pope