From Heirophantics

by Mike Corrao

The recorder is picking up a range anomaly // something about [ Le Stygmate ] or [ The Pale ] 

↓


Holes were introduced . . . burned in water . . . swallowed as shares of his own garment . . . in the contours of the veil. You could make out an unpleasant expression . . . some structure embedded within . . . a remote object . . . no point of arrival . . . stretching out . . . 

↓

Thru these glimpses . . .  without looking down . . . I follow the path of yr gaze . . . into the abandoned warehouse cottage . . . the isolated node . . . projecting certain volatile buoyancies . . . in situ . . . being towards death & all . . . 

↓

We are looking into an entryway . . . quarantined from its various appendages . . . something is in the air . . . resting over the door knobs, curling beneath the rug . . . delicate hailstones, saltwater, a film of volcanic powders . . . the maul of noise . . . lifted with great strain . . . 

↓


All of this whorling & wailing . . . it is impossible to avoid certain . . . distortions, imperfections . . . displaced jawlines . . . their little nests . . . (fade in)

↓

But there is something inside . . . off-gassing a noxious fume . . . yellow bile, its bitter flavors . . . cursed images of [ Le Stygmate ] & its apparent lineage . . . ringing their bells . . . but then, nothing is amiss . . . or without cause . . . 

↓

Overwhelmed by the gestures of these unseen senses . . . whatever is lurking out of sight . . . without sight . . . 

↓

Evoked thru phantom images of the disfigured house . . . the many bugholes in its trim . . . another innocuous dwelling . . . relocated from its ancillary site to the soft inside . . . tied into knuckles . . . curtains, veils . . . stretched as canvas across the floor . . . the topography of one tethered space mirrored here  . . . by the arrangement of tacks . . .  the creases in the vellum . . . what technologies that engender the occult . . .

↓

Drawing samples from each vital organ . . . extending its arms . . . the head between its arms . . . severed & still writhing . . . covered in eyes . . . the quarantine moves on-stage . . . entombed in sand . . . concealed behind heavy drapes . . . and without any comforts afforded. There are few requests I would refuse . . . if only to see what’s done all of this . . . we will analyze this to death later . . 

↓

The urn submerged in pitch . . . disfiguring its limbs . . . from a few paces away . . . it is difficult to articulate the origin of each disembodied voice . . . are they in the room with us right now? Can you feel a presence? Whatever is crowding us . . . overlaps itself, tangles . . .at each moment . . . the head tilts back . . . detaches its lips . . . 

↓

Examining the wound . . . where each appendage has been cut . . . where a hallway should have been . . . skin clenched in yr grip & pulled from its roots . . . laid tight over a new frame & tacked into place . . . the wound swells . . . pressing its weight against the the mirror face of the surface . . . 

↓

What’re the healing powers of concrete? Please lift yrself . . . a liaison for possible bodies . . . that which can be regrown from the remains of a torso . . . 

↓

From within / outside the flooded cellar . . . it slips onto the ground . . . looks up thru their nostrils . . . draws the air from yr open mouth . . . gives it back to [ The Pale ] . . . 

↓

Along the orbital canal [ someone is at yr door ] . . . (pause) . . . another body is found tangled in the canine fields . . . pulled into shape . . . much like a trapdoor . . . where the wood panels have warped . . . you lack a devotion of being . . . (applause) . . . there will always be some kind of unseemly violence . . . if not projected overtop . . . then obscured below . . . 

↓

My throat is as good as any furnace . . . & without legible syntax . . . it’s either this or the [ stilted horse mask ] . . . certain phrases have been known to shatter glass . . . yr voice attuned to whatever’s hanging in the air . . . 

↓

Denoted by markings on the anterior & ulterior faces of the corpse . . . the poor image distorted into the shape of a severed forearm—whatever’s been salvaged from the thrush . . . gangrenous flesh, thins rods of blackened bone-matter . . . 

↓

How poorly formed this place is . . . & even then . . . we cannot unfold the entryway . . . cut out its tumors . . . heavy, slow . . . (silence) . . . the maul of noise pressing against yr skull . . . [ here ] and [ here ] . . . pockmarked by hail . . . a textured mist . . . summoned from the humid air . . . as all materials are . . . 

↓

devoured or— [ w/o depth ]

↓

↓

The body shows evidence of [ a small house ] . . . (cut) . . . something of similar dimensions, structure, composition, that can be extracted thru the gullet and laid to dry . . . 

↓

Denoted by markings on the anterior & ulterior faces of the corpse . . . the poor image distorted into the shape of a severed forearm—whatever’s been salvaged from the thrush . . . gangrenous flesh, thins rods of blackened bone-matter . . . 

↓

How poorly formed this place is . . . & even then . . . we cannot unfold the entryway . . . cut out its tumors . . . heavy, slow . . . (silence) . . . the maul of noise pressing against yr skull . . . [ here ] and [ here ] . . . pockmarked by hail . . . a textured mist . . . summoned from the humid air . . . as all materials are . . . 

Mike Corrao is the author of several books including Gut Text, Surface Studies, and Stealth Anxiety Megamix. He lives in the Midwest.

Image credit:

Mike Corrao, Untitled. 2025.