Limbs Amidst Time / The Poet & the Great Philosopher King

It is a Feeling and a broken man. We are soon to be asked, explored, awareness at a later time. Scattered in the ship’s hold is a revelation: the smell of leaves.


But there was...there was nothing.

A life once lived?


Out and in a vacuum.


We can smell their death. One of the voidlings in shade of the path, perhaps once before we consumed it. The void is an idea above our head and then it comes glinting.

What do you mean the city of Rome?

The echo of the fabric of reality. The scrape of our memory, splash into it, turning. What I mean is Us. Fear swoops down like a lung I can almost taste, ideas a bladder far off, something like we are.

What was so easily replaced?

The image of the sun. We follow the wetness of the nail, the chant now thawing out. Far off the smells remain. We drift in and out. When the world was: the smells upon the wind. I began to fall, eaten back into the gutter my bum knee. My expansion into the void. We feel the pain is unbearable—the memory of a sweetness to us—the void itself, all we want to be. And then it comes glinting because we were and will become. We are wrapped into it, cold, wet.

What do you know if you are dead?

The sound of the passage of time, our limbs backwards. Into the water it pulls us. We awoke from one place to another, something squirming, and then it comes glinting. Now, as we stop running, we die. Travelling fast now, the birds. I feel the trees piss by our ears. It is our arm, like it was, feeding off of the river, the shadows on the path. Success hinges upon the wind. We try to escape for a moment back to the air. I’m different from the Forest. You are the same, pliant like the farting ground, whatever I can almost taste. Parts of the rest of our dead. The smell of leaves. A smell of death, we barely have time to study it. It is Cold in the room and sedated, but we remember.


He stole my teeth out one by one. We feel our restraints burst, the tufts of steam, when it becomes a mountain. The cave by the windowsill, there our limbs are wet, into the water always. We were born into the mud spackle. Now you can see the mask he wore. Now you can see it all, the Cave reeks of it.

What is passed is real?

The noise is sent to us in places, our memory of a needlepoint scraping upon the forest floor. Time swoops down to the saltwater. He stole my teeth out one by one, they’re using them against us, the hierophant. Elsewhere another face entirely. If you wanted to know, concentrate on the floor below, that shadow from the rest. Answer me, can you hear me?

How do you mean centuries?

The void turned stiff. The emptiness of the herd. You are like the gloaming, it does not exist. We can smell their sour musk. Ideas on top of a meal or deeper into the air, similar to the air. This is the smell of leaves—a piece of yourself—at times, the color of the table. We have nothing but joy, tufts of steam. We were in the cave. The ice will burn your eyes out. You were the sun upside down, the sound like the gloaming. Is it the bird-filled sky? We reach toward the door. I can feel a fish within us, the opposite of an invasion: the sand at the knees, the tufts of steam. Smell we recognize as language. The itch of an invasion, undulating, like a maze. It then comes glinting, pushing trees like nothing at all. In the corner we’ve found the edge, splash into it, turning. We were in the void once passed. Back to the cave. A snapshot of a meal. They float to us, eggs abound. We can feel a fish within us, elsewhere is another face entirely. The opposite of an invasion.

What do you mean the city of Rome?

We reach toward the door, leading us to learn, to understand, to make sense of what the film holds. I wait for an answer understood—evidence to be before us, hen’s fading yolk like dusk her spent life in sacs our cheek. I’d forgotten to wash: a thick particulate of skin, hair and chips of light, leaving us in salt spewing out into the vegetative gloom.

You are dead?

We’re waiting for those tiny pieces of cloth which coat our septic limbs. We feel our restraints burst. Every few steps, desperate for collective stories of how a fly eats, so many somethings.

You’ve rearranged the furniture, so to speak. In your dreamscape reads the contours of its empty spaces. We’ve approached a sort of psychic security measure, preventing anything from travelling from one reality to the enduring spirit of the light. Our existence persists full of Pain, a sort of mantra of their facial structure warped, changed as the hum from our path and the ball building up in front of me, helping the returning by shoving their beaks into little fleshy voids, angling at the back of our left hand into his eye sockets, a moment later pushing a stainless-steel medical cart. We were lucky; liars, all of a needlepoint. To name something is to collect them all, unlocking all of us, the architect twists the cap loose and one of the faces returns—it isn’t where we are—split between many bodies and worlds, sewn together, a thousand candles being extinguished simultaneously as the architect of reality, bone needle poised, feverishly composes a new philosophy. Any sort of mantra of their flesh is unbearable.

Can you tell me something?

We were children, would dip our toes in it, in your were shouting at all times, in won-der of the smell almost of a teardrop: rhythmic but unintelligible, the befouled varnish of the caretakers persistent in his tracks, legs stiff and unmoving, refusing to respond to our neighbors, too elderly to chop their own. Collective stories of how a fly eats, spotless children running from a fractured timeline. We both began to dress in animal skins and furs. We’re retching now, farther up along the bank brackish water shaken glow shadowed by alders beneath our limbs: the leaves become less pliant, the detritus of ancient air. Days pass, perhaps weeks or months, gazing into the depths of ourselves, running, moving ever outward, the smell of something greater than where our magnets direct, our selves stayed inside dispersing into tiny needles, entering the flesh of the observer; or, as the old man finds the sea, soup stretched into every meal, thinning out entirely, fur sopping wet. They found a growth that couldn’t be extracted without removing the barrier we’d placed there, a half a cord of wood for our lower limbs to expand; raising our head replaced our distrust but riddled our brain with demons.

When I say there was light, what then becomes the void?

You are the same word over and over and we are too weak to put up much of an O, recessed like the ball that circles the earth.

Perhaps they’ve found the best of your sickness?

I asked him where he finds perfection. These entryways—or doorways to the air—drive us forward.

Remember the white screen?

The color is so blinding it obliterates the question; the wheels speeding up, the plant growing, the photo in the void that supports our body. Time swoops down to our eyes and it approaches us. This opposite of an invasion: undulating, like a phantom lip waving out of doors drawn toward the interior of the limb shelves. That shadow from the voidling something similar to the air, similar to the air; items of more resistance to be rude but it’s much more pronounced. I asked all of your meaning, we were in the distance of our lower extremities. There was was something that was ingrained in us. Days passed, perhaps weeks or months, gazing into the void, eaten away by those we cannot eat.

[They must have gotten themselves a trophy this morning].

Our thoughts slow to a strange way. We awoke from a fitful slumber to a history as the one behind you closes. After putting their tools away, they stand at something beautiful. Somewhere on those racks is a day once passed—watching the hair bristle out of focus—blown apart when the candlelight’s extinguished. I’m different from the candle blown out. We were in the valley of the Feeling. He is a builder of things trying to rob me of something, but it seems to take a deep sort of psychic security measure, preventing anything from snuffing the candle out, many hunters, mixed together with the ancient one’s moldy bones, a monument unanswered. We feel our restraints burst. Our sallow yellowed arm, the rest of them who’ve ever lived leading us to own this darkness. The Great Philosopher King ushered his children out of the doctor, shifting our head.

You are dead?

The flavors of a pudding cup, for a moment, tilts our head. But even now, the birds. Somewhere on those racks is a trick I read of once in a memory, the iron smell of death. When the world was: the smells upon the forest to open up in front of me. The Cave reeks of it, it’s permeated with the void of what it begs to be before us. Back then I kick, like the fire of the little life once lived. Somewhere on those racks is a day once passed and our ideas fall down upon the ground, out of town into the gutter my bum knee. Eaten again into nothing, then beyond it, again, to taste the splatlets and the voidlings beneath, pieces of our bodies, the essence of ourselves we could never reach. Let’s hope I can tell from life painting sodden ground below, our life with the smell of death. Let’s hope I can smell their death. I scrape at the sand at the sand at the back of our bodies—green—and we continue to eat. A snout to run away: frontwards backwards sidewards inwards outwards exploring, a way to escape back into the item, this place where my arm went.

Do you hear it in the room where we’re installed?

And now, screeching our stories into the air, a voice upon the wind says: See?

The child comes dressed in furs with the growing of the light. We reach toward the door. We are born, then it comes glinting. We realize what we are experiencing is real; the air no longer exists for us to feel its absence, whatever I can almost taste. Where are our memories before? Are we what we are brought back to the cave? A way to escape back into shattered space, the sea frozen over. A man in white, slowly plucking items out of us, returning, eating us. And Pain became the void turned stiff. And Pain became an idea above our head. Nothing. Everything. Eaten away by birds small bladders of stale air scraping outwards into the darkness of the ship’s hold.