Thee Seeding Ship

Thee Seeding Ship for Simon Dwyer


There is coumthing eerie and magickal about thee luxurious appraisal ov letters just before dawn in a forest deep in thee heart. Each broke down in tears, could hardly speak, thee words broken and shattered as they jumbled and fought to refuse their meaning, coumtimes words DO refuse to serve us, and wriggle and spit at thee injustices we force them to describe. We gave these words no choice when we bore them, we instructed them to name what we could not explain, to give order to experiences and phenomena that mystified and terrified us. Fire from thee skies, great bears that tore our children to shreds, rains that washed away our winter food, snow that settled in deathly layers across our meagreness without allowing explanation. Thee storytellers dreamed ov making sense ov all this, an empowermeant that gave them a moment ov glorious passage towards a hidden lineage that later would turn on us as power and ownership. Up they would scream, pointing their sticks, bones, fingers and tongues in anger at thee inexplicable, thee horror ov impotence, and they would invent words, names, powers, and forms, create DESCRIPTIONS, and songs ov containment for thee infinitely changing. Thee silence ov what was, had no say in this, no part to play, for change is quite separate from control ov any kind, and change coumtinues to change no matter what words we human species throw at it for security. So it has all ways been. Ill fitting suits ov words, baggage and trivia shaping our immortal arrogance to absurd and useless dimensions. We squabble, wage war, define and separate our Selves, and name our species, creating, wells, fences, earthquakes, and endless disasters with torrential downpours and tremors ov words. What a useless vessel we store our winter nourishment within. Is there a demon, a geni secreted within, surely not if a word or two release it. Power yes, power hidden, butter not by these words, not by these bindings that sterilise our process and progress towards balance and coumpassion. It is not an accident thee most holy order is silent. Huh! My self, a wordsman, a wordsman too...and wordless E breathe and thee breath goes inside me and finds no person to enwrap and keep safe, vouch safe my spirit, wraithlike, there is no one at home, only thee many stifled by my acceptance ov words, my compliance with an illusion ov control. Breath, oh breath, struggling asthmatic for a pretence ov thee naming that gives childlike safety to our illusion. Searching through me was nothing, and thee breath returned as a tear, a tear so embarassed to admit its being, that it couldn’t make corporeal it’s TIME. Trapped like a THOUGHT, that inviolate hallucination that has no density or manifestation in any matter, trapped thus my breath ebbed and died, wordless, cordless and adrift, finally back to thee sense most original, thee sense ov value lost precisely as recognized. There, there in a sky thee light scares and burns, and thee ancient mouths scream and demand order, and shelter, and in those burning bushes, are hidden thee words that destroy us and make us wholly unuseable to change, and thus to TIME. You may ask, why so much ov words to refute words? Why so much poesie to say, how sad, distraught, stunned, beautified, reminded and ill thee thought ov your owned illness made me feel? You know, E can’t answer that really, really E can’t. It’s thee weigh E all ways go when E go inside, when E offer my heart to a friend without protection or price. E choke on words and feel blessed by them. When E have to be ME, me, me just with YOU, E can do this no other weigh, just speak, speak thee blood music coursing that joins us in bewildering uselessness, and as epitaph to being here. We conjoin through these batterings ov impotent labelling, naming,naming,naming until we drop with power and gasp for forgiveness for ever assuming a name could be. Thee million names ov God,ess,ha, sure buddy, a million names can contain thee absolute, no problem. A million names, and a few more and we’ve got it all locked up son.No prob. See that ship out there, approaching at earth-seeding speed to make consciousness a thing ov thee past? Watch this! “ Hey, ultimate ineffable power seed” No answer.Wordless and aweless, that which points in every direction similtaneously has no language, “ Hows this ... for a name baby!” Thee seeding ov thee planet coumtinues, silence is seen as capitulation, victory is assured and thee worders ov our prison rush on to another seamless victory with that event, this event, thee slime mould that treats us to a second thought. We all ways cried, and sobbed, such useless shitty words. E was speachless, more shitty words. Suddenly, there is no thing to name, thee nameless has rushed in, in to our vacuum, surprised and stopped, wordless. And it won’t go away, thee fucker.This uselessness, won’t fuckin go, and what has value now for all, what are we fucking talking about? You feel, embarassed, dirty, mean, scared, absolutely useless and trivial, patronising, and empty. Yet there is so much fucking love inside you, so much fucking love you want to just becoum crying, and dying, and feeling lost and hurt and cheated, butter most ov all you want to absorb your friend inside and be their mother and their womb, and keep them safe forever, and nurse them with your breasts, back to child, safe, a lifetime still ahead, another moment, another chance to ditch all these words that all ways got in thee way ov saying “I LOVE YOU ”. E am crying now, that’s good, we can never cry enough, and people are more beautifull crying than in any other state. It doesn’t matter if its just self-pity, or pain at thee stealing ov our love by death and cruelty, by that without a NAME that we cannot control, that we all hate and fear so much. No orgasm ever met thee beauty ov a tear, and no tear ever got drowned by a word whatever we might think, and each time we are held in thee arms ov those we adore we are given more life than a single word could dream in its naming. Within all these arms, and tears, and breaths, and fears lie we thee people who fear so, and care so, and lose so, as thee callous naming never stops and ends in its most beloved words ov all war and death. Behold that ship ov seeding as it passes us in its silence, emits no thing and thus emits thee seeding, and thus we see and seeing we feel we must speak, but stop, say no thing, be seeded, breathe, and look away. If we see, we speak too easily, and speaking create endings, and thus coums our trap ov life, nature’s trick for those who seek no relationship with change. We are manifestations ov TIME, we coum from TIME, that which began thought and thus manifested thee physical, and here, being physical we spend TIME, we drench ourselves in two directions. We recall so deeply when as a tiniest vibrating momeant ov TIME, a molecular memory at best, we had infinity as a shroud that was constant as hell, and suddenly a name, a word surprises our reverie as a part ov TIME, that we stupidy named God and so caused “thee Fall”. BOOM! Here we coum, dragged screaming and kicking into a manifestly physical being. Momentarily outside thee womb ov TIME. Living goddamit, like it or not. What do they say? “What are you going to call it then?” BOOM! We’re finished. They’ve named us. We have been limited absolutely now. No chance. Just stuck with working it through until we can return back into TIME. Where we can never end, never be limited, never be lost, be within and a part ov everything, everyone, every every that ever happened, or didn’t happen, or neither, or all, or mystery, mystery, mystical, mystical, illumination, revelation, clap, trap, reality, illusion, hallucination, speculation, theory,dreery,leery,bleary eyed your tears,my tears,tears ov christ,tears ov,thee tears,thee sadness,thee aweful,crying shame ov giving all this stupid fucking shit a bloody NAME! Coumtimes, training, stoicism, unfamiliarity,we just cling tighter to thee steering wheel. Unable to open up right then. It can’t be true. It never can be true. How can anything this useless ever be true. Suddenly, we are here, within this story, blessed with a truth and a trust. Awakened to thee most basic ov sensations, re-minded and re-wounded.



E am burned out . E don’t know to who E am speaking , who E am speaking . So much weirdness suddenly, so much kick back by thee enemies ov life. Weird. Scary. Useless. Within these circles ov fire, screaming words to make thee sun rise each morning, thee moon light thee nights, thee animals breed to give food and warmth, thee women to fall pregnant by most peculiar sorcery, within these circles ov brutality, fired up to perfection by screaming, remains thee most silent seeding ship ov all. TIME. E don’t know what kind ov sense is made. These “words” were for and from you. They serve no conceived, advance purpose, E watched your face in my eyes, til E could hardly see thee keys for tears, and thus thee key is tears. E hope E do not give only sadness, E hope E give a piece ov my Self, that was coumhow yours, for from thee thought ov you it came. E will write more lucidly soon.







INSTRUCTIONS:



“to be read aloud, very loud, repeatedly, until unable to continue through exhaustion.”

TAKE AS DIRECTED...


Genesis Breyer P-orridge CALIFORNIA 1994