Summer 2005


Summer 2005

On PHILIP LAMANTIA (1927-2005)

The death of Philip Lamantia on March 7, 2005 marks the end of an extraordinary career-a career whose movement touched on issues of Surrealism, drugs, madness, ecology, bohemianism, religion, nature, the occult, and various other things as well. He was one of the readers at the legendary Six Gallery reading on October 7, 1955, the reading at which Allen Ginsberg first read "Howl" and which launched "The San Francisco Renaissance." Lamantia told me once that he was considering calling a new book High Poet-and he meant "high" in all its senses. (The phrase calls to mind the similar phrase, "high priest.") Lamantia was also a consciously Californian poet, born in San Francisco and deliberately exploring aspects of his natal "place." This is a slightly revised version of a review I wrote when his Bed of Sphinxes: New & Selected Poems appeared in 1997.

From virtually all perspectives-early Greek philosopher to twentieth-century specialist-there is agreement that artistic creativity and inspiration involve, indeed require, a dipping into pre-rational or irrational sources while maintaining ongoing contact with reality and "life at the surface." The degree to which individuals can, or desire to, "summon up the depths" is among the more fascinating individual differences. Many highly creative and accomplished writers, composers, and artists function essentially within the rational world, without losing access to their psychic "underground." Others, the subject of this book, are likewise privy to their unconscious streams of thought, but they must contend with unusually tumultuous and unpredictable emotions as well. The integration of these deeper, truly irrational sources with more logical processes can be a tortuous task, but, if successful, the resulting work often bears a unique stamp, a "touch of fire," for what it has been through.

-Kay Redfield Jamison, Touched with Fire (1993), a favorite book of Lamantia’s

A species of herbivorous mermaid-like mammals native to Africa and the Americas, inhabiting the mouths of larger rivers. They play, in West-African myth, a role similar to that of the Sirens in Europe."
-Lilyan Kestleloot: Les Écrivains Noirs de Langue Français quoted at the beginning of Philip Lamantia’s book,
The Blood of the Air (Four Seasons Foundation, 1970)

One of the reasons very little has been written about the poetry of Philip Lamantia is the fact that Lamantia’s poetry is extremely difficult to write about. How does one "explicate" a passage like this, from "Hypodermic Light":

It’s absurd I can’t bring my soul to the eye of odoriferous fire
my soul whose teeth never leave their cadavers
my soul twisted on rocks of mental freeways
my soul that hates music
I would rather not see the Rose in my thoughts take on illusionary prerogatives
it is enough to have eaten bourgeois testicles
it is enough that the masses are all sodomites
Good Morning

Or a line like this, from "From the Front," a poem which refers to "desperate surrealism":

Motorcycles of atonal venetian blind dust of wind rooftop!

Interestingly, and adding to the complexity: the violence of Lamantia’s language is often at some distance from the images of the poet on the covers of his early books: handsome, but gentle.
Lamantia’s biographical note in Donald M. Allen’s New American Poetry (1960) is typically terse:

Born 1927 in San Francisco. Lived in New York City, Mexico, Europe and North Africa. Hailed by André Breton as an authentic surrealist poet; first appearances in View, 1943-45; broke with surrealism by 1946. Since then mostly underground, and traveling.

Ann Charters gives us a little more in her introduction to the Lamantia selections in The Beat Reader (1992):

Philip Lamantia was born in San Francisco on October 23, 1927, the son of Sicilian immigrants. He began writing poetry in elementary school and was briefly expelled from junior high for "intellectual delinquency" when he immersed himself in the work of Edgar Allan Poe and H. P. Lovecraft. At age [fourteen], after being introduced to surrealism by the Miró and Dali retrospectives at the San Francisco Museum of Art, he began to write surrealist poetry, realizing that "the purely revolutionary nature" of surrealism, "even before my knowledge of Surrealist theory, was part of my own individual temperament." Shortly afterward Lamantia left home to join the Surrealists in New York City and was welcomed by André Breton as "a voice that rises once in a hundred years."

There is also a charming chapter on Lamantia in Neeli Cherkovski’s Whitman’s Wild Children (1988) and a complex article, "Destroyed Works: Philip Lamantia’s Excessive Subjectivities," written by Jody Norton and published in Sulfur 29 (Fall, 1991).

Bed of Sphinxes is Philip Lamantia’s second Selected Poems. His first, also published by City Lights, appeared in 1967 as number 20 of the Pocket Poet Series. The new Selected Poems is a handsome production, with a cover design by Rex Ray. The opening poem, "Touch of the Marvelous," evokes Lamantia’s "surreal youth." The poem originally appeared in VVV in 1944:

The mermaids have come to the desert
they are setting up a boudoir next to the camel
who lies at their feet of roses
A wall of alabaster is drawn over our heads
by four rainbow men
whose naked figures give off a light
that slowly wriggles upon the sands
I am touched by the marvelous....

The word "marvelous" alludes to a famous passage in André Breton’s 1924 "Manifesto of Surrealism"-the "First Manifesto":

Let us not mince words: the marvelous is always beautiful, anything marvelous is beautiful, in fact only the marvelous is beautiful...only the marvelous is capable of fecundating works....

How does the marvelous "fecundate" Lamantia’s poem? Mermaids, themselves creatures of the marvelous, belong to the realm of the ocean. In Lamantia’s poem they show up in the desert and are associated with camels-equally marvelous creatures, but, unlike the mermaids, real. Indeed, the desert is blossoming here, at least "at their feet of roses." In the next stanza, a wall "is drawn over our heads." Wouldn’t that make it a ceiling, not a wall? And how can light be said to "wriggle"-an interesting word choice in a passage which begins by sounding almost Biblical: "A wall of alabaster is drawn...." And what about "touched"? Does that mean that the marvelous affects the speaker, "touches" him? Probably. But there is at least a glance at the meaning of "touched" as insane: "I am touched." A moment later, a Muse figure appears. Her name is "BIANCA"-capitalized and meaning "white." She is also "the angelic doll turned black," however, as well as "the child of broken elevators" and "the curtain of holes / that you never want to throw away." The change in the meaning of "of" in those two lines is dizzying, but no matter: not only is BIANCA "the first woman," she is also "the first man." Indeed, the speaker says, "I am lost to have her." Shouldn’t that be lost unless I have her?

In 1953 Breton defined Surrealism as "a far-reaching operation having to do with language," "the rediscovery of the secret of...language," an attack on the "utilitarian usage" of words in an attempt "to emancipate them and restore all their power" ("On Surrealism in Its Living Works").

Surrealism, Breton goes on, took up arms "against the tyranny of a thoroughly debased language"; it was an "operation which tended to bring language back to true life":

The spirit that makes such an operation possible and even conceivable is none other than that which has always moved occult philosophy: according to this spirit, from the fact that expression is at the origin of everything, it follows that "the name must germinate, so to speak, or otherwise it is false." The principal contribution of Surrealism, in poetry as in the plastic arts, is to have so exalted this germination that everything other than it seems laughable.

Lamantia’s poem germinates. The opening lines purport to describe something: they are a a narrative to some degree. Yet "mermaids" (inhabitants of the ocean) and "camels" (inhabitants of the desert) operate in vastly different contexts: they don’t go together any more than a word like "wriggles" goes with a word like "alabaster." But of course the incongruity is the point, as in Lautréamont’s famous chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table. "Realistic" narrative is ego-affirming; it situates us in relation to something we suppose actually exists: if there is a desert, we expect there to be camels. The opening line of "Touch of the Marvelous" appears initially as a narrative-something is described as having occurred-but it is in fact a syntactical yoking together of two utterly separate concepts. The poem places us at precisely the point at which something utterly irrational and magical begins to happen to a world which is ordinarily under severe rational control:

I am touched by the marvelous
as the mermaids’ nimble fingers go through my hair
that has come down forever from my head
to cover my body
the savage fruit of lunacy.

One mode of language-realistic description-is undercut by another: the freedom of the words to mean beyond the restrictions of description, beyond the necessity to "name" the world. In the process, the ego shifts and transforms itself, though it never disappears entirely:

I am looking beyond the hour and the day
to find you BIANCA.

"Touch of the Marvelous" is a masterful and extremely early poem, written perhaps when the author was fifteen, certainly before he turned twenty. One can easily see how exciting this work must have seemed to Breton and others:

In the rose creeping into the tower of exiles
when the buffet is laden with jewels
when the night is filled with hate
when the womb of Eros is deserted
when the sleeping men are awakened
when the old lovers are no longer frightened
-my heart

Philip Lamantia was one of the readers at the famous Six Gallery event-the event at which Allen Ginsberg first read "Howl"-on October 7, 1955. In Dharma Bums, published in 1957, Jack Kerouac presents him as "delicate Francis DaPavia" who "read, from delicate onionskin yellow pages, or pink, which he kept flipping carefully with long white fingers, the poems of his dead chum Altman [actually John Hoffman]"; Lamantia also shows up as David D’Angeli in Desolation Angels (1965). Lamantia’s first book, Erotic Poems, was published in 1946. His second book, Ekstasis, was published by the Auerhahn Press in 1959. In that same year Auerhahn also published Lamantia’s Narcotica. On the title page were the words, "I DEMAND EXTINCTION OF LAWS PROHIBITING NARCOTIC DRUGS!" The opening piece begins,
-against you, psychiatrists would be conscience of the people! No more!-against you, doctors, druggists, sociologists, idiots, asses, the whole fuckingload of shit perpetuated out of STUPIDITY to elevate that most detestable NADA, that void attempting the determination of states of being-of BEING!-and which goes under the name of safety, fuck yr safety, WHO NEEDS IT?

On the cover was a haunting set of photographs, taken by Wallace Bermen, of Lamantia shooting up. At the center of the photographs is a cross.

Ekstasis was followed in 1962 by the amazing book, Destroyed Works, also published by Auerhahn. In his author’s note to Ekstasis Lamantia wrote of the "erotic, mythic, magical and devotional" nature of his poetry: "My object is a revelation, in manifestation, of beauty-its world, natural or supernatural...." Here, in a note not included in Bed of Sphinxes and dated October 20, 1960-three days before his thirty-third birthday-he writes:

For me it is the Vision in its density and the truth of what I see the breath is in the Vision and I come to the rhythms it is above all a question of MY VISION thru which the images are focused, the beat in the activation of this energy field, hence the density, that the Being of poetry erupts out of nerves emotions skeleton muscles eyes spirits beasts birds rockets typewriters into my head and I see, the weir pivot, at that point all is Evidence Clarity Incomprehension Flame of Perfect Form and Chaos.

I have already quoted some lines from the opening poem of the book, "Hypodermic Light." Here are the first two sections of that poem complete:

It’s absurd I can’t bring my soul to the eye of odoriferous fire
my soul whose teeth never leave their cadavers
my soul twisted on rocks of mental freeways
my soul that hates music
I would rather not see the Rose in my thoughts take on illusionary prerogatives
it is enough to have eaten bourgeois testicles
it is enough that the masses are all sodomites
Good Morning
the ships are in I’ve brought the gold to burn Moctezuma
I’m in a tipi joking with seers I’m smoking yahnah
I’m in a joint smoking marijuana with a cat who looks like Jesus Christ
heroin is a door always opened by white women
my first act of treason was to be born!
I’m at war with the Zodiac
my suffering comes on as a fire going out O beautiful world contemplation!
It’s a fact my soul is smoking!

That the total hatred wants to annihilate me!
it’s the sickness of american pus against which I’m hallucinated
I’m sick of language
I want this wall I see under my eyes break up and shatter you
I’m talking all the poems after God
I want the table of visions to send me oriole opium
A state of siege
It’s possible to live directly from elementals! hell stamps out vegetable
spirits, zombies attack heaven! the marvelous put down by
martial law, America fucked by a stick of marijuana
paper money larded for frying corpses!
Here comes the Gorgon! There’s the outhouse!
Come up from dead things, anus of the sun!

Compared to that, even "Howl" sounds a little like a Sunday School picnic. One is not surprised to discover that Allen Ginsberg referred to Lamantia as his "teacher." The religious impulse behind these poems-their thrust towards direct experience of deity-is as clear as day. Reading them, one remembers writers like the fourteenth-century mystic Meister Eckhart, with his term "breakthrough." These passages from Eckhart’s Selected Writings suggest the central focus of Destroyed Works:

I have occasionally spoken of a light in the soul which is uncreated and uncreatable. I constantly return in my sermons to this light, which apprehends God without medium, without concealment and nakedly, just as he is in himself...this light is not satisfied with the simple, still and divine being which neither gives nor takes, but rather it desires to know from where this being comes. It wants to penetrate to the simple ground, to the still desert, into which distinction never peeped, neither Father, Son nor Holy Spirit. There, in that most inward place, where everyone is a stranger, the light is satisfied and there it is more inward than it is in itself...Turn away from everything therefore and exist in your naked being, for whatever is outside being is ‘accidence’ and all forms of ‘accidence’ create a Why.

That we may ‘live in eternity,’ so help us God. Amen.

"There is some way out of Guerrero Street! there must be!," writes Lamantia in "Deamin," "when will he come with the big hypo?" And in "Still Poems": "everywhere immanence of the presence of God...Constant flight in air of the Holy Ghost."

In a short paper it is barely possible to deal with as complex a figure as Philip Lamantia. What I’ve tried to do here is to suggest something of the early development of this amazing American poet who has still not received anything like his proper recognition. Other books followed Destroyed Works: they are Selected Poems (1967), The Blood of the Air (1970), Becoming Visible (1981) and, perhaps the most significant in developmental terms, Meadowlark West (1986). Of the new work published in Selected Poems (1967) Lamantia remarked that "I’m returning to my initial sources-like an act of nature." "Astro-Mancy," one of the most important of the new poems, announces that

I’m recovering
from a decade of poisons
I renounce all narcotic
& pharmacopoeic disciplines
as too heavy 9-to-5-type sorrows
Instead I see America
as one vast palinode
that reverses itself completely until
Gitchi Manito actually returns....

The poem offers a vision of "matter lovingly heightened / by meditation, and spirit / transmuted into matter":

the whole commune conducted by
direct rapid transcription
from a no-past reference
antirational, fantastically poetic...
Each one his own poet
and poetry the central fact....

The Blood of the Air has some fine love poems ("Only for those who love is dawn visible throughout the day"-"visibility" is a theme here and elsewhere) and the extraordinary "Flaming Teeth":

I’m obsessed by death fantasies
And the Night Thoughts of Edward Young
Death is a pineapple in the cake of death
Which wing?
I deny death I don’t know why
Ask the swans who are rocking me under the chair forest....

"Horse Angel" ("All horse cultures / And the horse in dreams!") is to some degree explicated by a note in Becoming Visible:

Cabala-the term cabala has been elucidated by the twentieth century alchemist Fulcanelli in Les Demeures Philosophales where he explains its derivation from the Latin, caballus, for horse, but signifying the transmission of knowledge and "revealing the source of all sciences"...The figurative image of the cabala as spiritual vehicle is the Pegasus of the Hellenic poets which derives from the Greek word for source: "to know the cabala is to speak the language of the horse."

The esoteric and the oneiric-even the obsessional-are constantly meeting in Lamantia’s work. (It is perhaps also relevant to note that the name "Philip" means "lover of horses.")
Becoming Visible contains the title poem of this collection, "Bed of Sphinxes." As the phrase "becoming visible" might indicate, the section plays on modes of visibility and invisibility. (An elaboration of an earlier theme: I cited the love poem in The Blood of the Air; "Invisible" is also the title of the penultimate poem in Touch of the Marvelous.) This is from "In Yerba Buena":

Beauty a great invisible
walks between luminous slabs...
Those natives called Ohlone
in the peculiar humors of the weather
and those who danced
to placate "The Great Invisible"
in the bay of Yerba Buena
"dance on the brink of the world"

Myth and Native American themes are important in this book. Lamantia’s genuinely helpful notes (for the most part not included in Bed of Sphinxes) touch on a number of things, many of them having to do with place. "Yerba Buena," he writes, is Spanish for "good herb," "for the white-flowered wild mint. This was the name of the pueblo, settled in 1835, that was to become the city of San Francisco." Oraibi, "literally ‘high rock,’ [is a] Hopi Indian village, [in] Arizona, founded in the 12th century, the oldest continuously-inhabited settlement in what is now the United States." "Washo-a tribe whose original territory lay in the verdant area of Lake Tahoe, on both sides of the California and Nevada border. Their peyote rite ‘The Tipi Way’ in which I participated in the early 1950s has been a constant source of poetic inspiration." "The Romantic Movement" continues the love poems to "Nancy" which are a prominent feature of The Blood of the Air; it plays upon "romantic" meaning lovers and "romantic" meaning a certain period and style of writing.

In "Multidimensional Superreality," a review of Meadowlark West published in Poetry Flash (October 1986, #161), poet Ivan Argüelles suggested that the book was Lamantia’s Parlement of Foules. Birds have always been important inhabitants of Lamantia’s poems, as they are in many poems of "the Romantic Movement," and one poem in Meadowlark West refers explicitly to "the Dawn-Bringer Meadowlark." "Bird" is of course also the name by which Charlie Parker was known, and that is relevant here as well.

Birds abound in Meadowlark West, as does what Lamantia calls "mystic geography." This is from "America in the Age of Gold":

There are many centers of mystic geography
but the great Black V of gold flashing in the meadow Bird
opening the air like all the lore of the chants
this may serve as shield
for the companions of the kestrel....

The poems in this section are a celebration of "Poetry magic love liberty," of "imaginary birds" as well as real ones. But they are above all a celebration of the Northern California landscape:

all over Northern California still the end day imaginary land
lupines and poppies vegetable craters volcanic whispers

"America in the Age of Gold" explicitly asserts that "these [Pomo] spirits are here now." Argüelles suggests that there is a sense of "coming home" throughout Meadowlark West, and that is surely an element as well: "ancient wood my native land all this that vanishes." The concluding poem of this section is the magisterial and enigmatic "Shasta," a mountain named for the Native Americans who once inhabited the region north of it. Lamantia’s poem contains a moment of ecstatic vision:

I see chthonic man, and it’s the wheel-the hated wheel-sending up a sliver of lucent dawn arched on a sunbeam serrating the vegetable stone: the light of her going by, a superior earth being, her clothes blued as a tissue of incandescent gold, something like an appearance of words-seen.

The vision is "something like an appearance of words-seen." In its thrust towards transcendence poetic language becomes the primary means of naming "Nature," "geography in a mystic state." As he experiences the natural world as "the sublime in the old sense"-and as "image" transforms itself into "language"-the poet’s voice becomes something akin to "the great booming voice of nature":

on that chain of Ohlone mountains
shafts of light on a bobcat
through the thick madrones
first seen emblems that endure cupped my nine years
the great booming voice of nature
(from "There")

Bed of Sphinxes concludes with a section of "Uncollected Poems (1985-1992)." The first of these, "Poem for André Breton," is an homage to Lamantia’s lifelong mentor. With its reference to "oak leaves burnished with mysteries of marvelous love"-druids but Northern California as well-it brings us back to the earliest poems in the book. (The word "marvelous"-like the word "dream"-echoes throughout Bed of Sphinxes.) The poems in this section are testimonies to Lamantia’s continuing power. "Egypt" is a haunting, haunted evocation of "the Companions of Horus" who "come into view as the Resurrection Band." The poet has a vision of "supernatural beings" as well as of the beginnings of language:

These moving realities appear on the Nile
as if a postcard view of it held up a hieratic bird
Silent tonalities a secret passage the beginning of language
supernatural beings somewhere become vanished Horian light
become visible within crepuscular shadows at the nightfall of the
whose matrix is Cairo....

The concluding poem of the book, "Passionate Ornithology Is Another Kind of Yoga," again deals with birds: "Thirty feisty finches at the window." It reminds us that

We, too, were once avian
bridge-window-to another life....

It is a fitting conclusion to a powerful book.

One senses in a considerable amount of Beat art-painting as well as writing-a deliberate evocation of the infinite. In Philip Lamantia’s poetry the infinite is experienced as language. His work is, precisely, "a far-reaching operation having to do with language." Its vast openness allows almost anything in it to connect with anything else. This is from "Ex Cathedra," one of the "Uncollected" poems:

To weave garter belts with chaos and snakes, the nun’s toenail
of crimson phallus, her breast of alligator, her tail, crow’s
buttocks. Steel pricks of the ciborium dovetail her white
pantaloons-snake oil on a eucharistic tongue.

If the garter belts, the white pantaloons and the buttocks remind us of the erotic-even parodic-nature of this writing, the nun and the eucharist remind us that it is also, as Lamantia points out, "devotional." It is no easy task in an unbelieving time to write religious poetry, but that is what Lamantia has done. That the poetry is immensely passionate, challenging and offers far more "riddles" than it does "answers"-it is at times totally baffling!-is one way of measuring the tone of the religious impulse in our time. A bed of sphinxes is hardly a bed of roses. Matthew Fox has called for more "endarkenment" as a corrective to our too intense involvement with "enlightenment." Philip Lamantia’s poetry has plenty of that. He remarks in "Primavera," "This way the poem becomes an open sluice for darkness." And for him"agnosia," the paradoxical knowing of God through not knowing, is as central an issue as it is for Michael McClure: "Poetry knows in the not knowing" ("Isn’t Poetry the Dream of Weapons?").

Can language be a vehicle of the transcendent? Can religious poetry be written outside the church? ("The absolute pulverization of all the churches will be the grace of love’s freedom!" Lamantia writes in "Ex Cathedra," though he will die as a Catholic.) What is the nature of the holy? These are serious questions, and Philip Lamantia’s poetry raises them in a serious, deeply resonant way. It is a considerable achievement, and it involves a constant disruption of the "ordinary"-the "ordinary" is precisely not the "marvelous"-functions of language. "N’importe où hors du monde," writes one of Lamantia’s heroes, Charles Baudelaire, "Anywhere out of this world." (Baudelaire is himself quoting the English poet, Thomas Hood.)

I want to end this essay with two passages that didn’t make it into Bed of Sphinxes. The first is a poem originally published in Wallace Berman’s Semina (no. 4, 1959); it also appeared in Lamantia’s volume, Ekstasis. It was the inspiration for one of artist Jay De Feo’s most haunting drawings, "The Eyes" The poem-which is perhaps too Catholic or too Pre-Raphaelite or even too sentimental for this volume-is simple, direct and beautiful. It is an evocation of the Virgin Mary as Mother Goddess/Muse-the phrase "Queen Mirror" seems to be an interesting metamorphosis of "Queen Mother"-and an affirmation of the religious character of Lamantia’s poetry. The poem does not represent his final direction. In a short time the young man will move beyond the need for an intercessor like the Virgin Mary or Jesus-he will be after something far more direct-but it is fascinating to speculate on what, at this point, he might have meant by "sin":

Ah Blessed Virgin Mary
pray for me I live in you
to sleep in God
and die in God
to praise His Holy Name
O Blessed Virgin Mary
ask Jesus to embed in me
a sword of sorrow
to kill my sin
my sin that wounds His Wounds
Tell Him I have eyes only for Heaven
as I look to you
Queen mirror
of the heavenly court

The second passage is a few lines from the poem, "The Enormous Window"-a play, perhaps, on E.E. Cummings’ title, The Enormous Room. In a way, these lines summarize what this poet is all about:

In the tropics
the doctors prescribe
sand for the heart
Ad astra
Ad astra
All of the poets
Have come to church today
All of the maudit
Have come to mass this morning
For Philip, lover of horses,
Lover of verses
They have come
To be touched
By the marvelous
To be overcome
By the marvelous
To come like mermaids to the desert
Of organized religion
And to say to the non dieu
Je crois que je suis
Par la croix
Par la croix de dieu
Only the marvelous is
And Philip’s ashes
Whirl up in the wind
To touch us
They are whirling
"Listen, man,
That’s the shrine
Of Saint Francis
In the city
Of San Francisco-
You meet me there"
’Frisco born
With his feet of roses
With his tongue of steel
With his eyes of lemon trees
With his voice of reeds
With his hands of manzanita
With his elbows of crabgrass
With his legs of cactus
With his wit of fire
With his eyes of purple undertakers
With his lips of tule reeds
With his cock of redwoods
With his balls of low-lying hills
With his tender
Eruptions of poppies
And pasta
With his massive
Greed for life
-Looks back at us
And says,
How is it back there?
Will none of you ever
Break through?
Will none of you ever
And the speech
As the damned
Crowd the cathedral
Of Philip’s consciousness
The Church of Lamantia
And say:
I demand the extinction
Of every law known to man
I demand
That every boundary be
I demand
The marvelous
The savage fruit
Of lunacy

I am looking for you Bianca
In every North Beach alley
the ships are in I’ve brought the gold to burn Moctezuma
I’m in a tipi joking with seers I’m smoking yahnah
I’m in a joint smoking marijuana with a cat who looks like Jesus Christ
heroin is a door always opened by white women
my first act of treason was to be born!
I’m at war with the Zodiac
my suffering comes on as a fire going out O beautiful beautiful world contemplation!
It’s a fact my soul is smoking!
Come up from dead things, anus of the sun!





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