by Wes Hansen


∃x(∀y, y↔x)

I’m just not mathematically inclined; quite the opposite, every equation is a war. I’m bleeding right now.

I have a small pair of vice-grips which I use to clamp down on my flesh. I pull the flesh taunt for piercing; the needles slide right through. The needles are six gauge, especially made for piercing, surgical stainless steel. The octopus hooks are six gauge and stainless steel also. The barbs have all been filed off and polished to a sheen; cold worked by a metals master – Black Sheep Suspension. The needles are hollow to accommodate the tapered hooks. When the hooks are inserted they form a natural handle which seats in the palm of one’s hand, ideal for thrusting.

Sometimes I jam through fast, inspired by angst or disgust, inducing a Super Nova mind blast thrill kill smash like freestyle hate mail delivered direct to the neo-cortex – maybe. Other times I jam through slow, inspired by Love, inducing thirty-three miles of road rash skin peel screamer like freestyle love poems delivered direct to the same module – onto, equivalence class, pain set, endure. When jamming through slow one encounters distinct layers of epidermis and distinct gradients of pain; it’s a scientific investigation – psychological semantica – of a pragmatic bent. Some say a relative, utilitarian truth but really they’re wrong. I’m bleeding right now.

After the hooks are set I start cutting, three fountains carved on each arm and each leg and under each eye. Cutting the face is the best and it bleeds the most – freely. By the time I’m finished I’m generally sweating profusely and feeling rather High, as in sensory enhanced mind bending to dissolution – no scientific concerns. It’s really quite elegant in simplicity; a simple form of free expression where audience and performer are one – circular. Yeah, hang out and bleed for as long as endurance allows. It’s a proof without an axiomatic system – true spirituality. Sometimes words just get in the way …

For instance, I haven’t had a meaningful conversation … well, hell, I didn’t have a conversation more than five minutes in duration, with another human, in almost fifteen years and I feel fine. But then I love to bleed; I love the pain; I love to breathe through the pain; I love to breathe consciously, with intent; I love to launch, to fly without a tether. Reality is not really what it seems. You see, I meditate on Death only to awaken the Mistress – Life.

The mysterious rhythm is a dance captured in awareness. I wish I could dance with such expression, with symbols and secret meanings, primitive and violent but violent without aggression – benign angst. Occasionally angst, diffused, catches the careless meanderer which will happen when fools try to convince those less foolish; try to teach and you may be taught … But then the insouciant horde society is naturally reposed in vicious circles

– the liar; don’t listen to the liar – 

anyway, reposed in vicious circles between being and not-being, that is becoming; it’s life blood a rhythm, music, raw, arrogant, yet somehow poetically refined in dissonant caves of reverberating feedback, loops returning to the antecedent from the consequent teaching those who teach how to teach that which has never before been taught.

You see, the teacher must remain the student or all is lost, a pointless discourse amongst fools. If you listen well and long enough, to the dissonant harmonies (sic), they begin to make sense, like flesh suspended and raining blood – Feed the Mistress (Life). As has been expounded upon before, deliverance from the thermodynamically induced nihilism demands extreme measures, measures without regard to the maximum principle, chaotic measures. These ill-founded measures generate incessant structure development where otherwise reigns bleached bone yards devoid of the ripe but putrid flesh necessary for continuance; you with your eyes staring vacantly off into who knows what hell, you know that empty kind of empty – not full empty but empty empty.

Yeah, well anyway, these structures, exquisite corpse on top of exquisite corpse, years of coagulated mind funk striated like psychedelic wafer crème cookies, sickenly sweet but brilliant, are perpetually dissolving into entropic tyranny

– the liar; don’t listen to the liar –

Damn the noise … Can anyone hear? The ghost of Russell …

Allow me to continue: the perpetual act of construction is all that drowns the existential claustrophobia induced by the imperturbable constance of the Lord (Death). But this construction takes root in fear, or desire, or, more aptly, some random convergence of both, some random convergence on some finite interval which can’t possibly be absolutely true. Do you see? Yes? Then feed what has been fed; teach what has been taught. You see, only through awareness can one transcend awareness because, obviously we know, without awareness there’s no-thing to transcend. I think only so that I can stop thinking.

So, I shall cease all thought; I shall dance expressively and communicate like a slayer screaming blood spittle hang endure … I shall feed the Mistress my exquisite corpse and the Mistress shall feed the insouciant horde – dreaming. We dream and the Cosm opens – flowers. We’re all bees chasing nectar and sometimes words are impotent. I have a small pair of vice-grips …

Yeah, you see, the pain, it takes the expression to the Universe, beyond the reach of mathematical symbolism. Out there, beyond the ether, there are no atomic decompositions; out there it’s a point particle, serene, expansive, justified, Singular. If one bleeds enough there is no in there/out there, it’s all fluid – condensate. Yeah, so, if you hear me screaming, know that I am good – as in, okay.

I’m just not mathematically inclined …