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It is a multiple million eyed monster it is hidden in all its elephants and selves it hummeth in the electric typewriter it is electricity connected to itself, if it hath wires it is a vast Spiderweb and I am on the last millionth infinite tentacle of the spiderweb, a worrier lost, separated, a worm, a thought, a self one of the millions of skeletons of China one of the particular mistakes I allen Ginsberg a separate consciousness I who want to be God I who want to hear the infinite minutest vibration of eternal harmony I who wait trembling my destruction by that aethereal music in the fire I who hat God and give him a name I who make mistakes on the eternal typewriter I who am doomed
But at the far end of the universe the million eyed Spyder that hath no name spinneth of itself endlessly the monster that is no monster approaches with apples, perfume, railroads, Televisions, skulls a universe that eats and drinks itself blood from my skull Tibetan creature with hairy breast and Zodiac on my stomach this sacrificial victim unable to have a good time
My face in the mirror, thin hair, blood congested in streaks down beneath My eyes, cocksucker, a decay, a talking lust a snaeap, a snarl, a tic of consciousness in infinity a creep in the eyes of all Universes trying to escape my Being, unable to pass on to the Eye I vomit, I am in a trance, my body is seized in convulsion, my stomach crawls, water from my mouth, I am here in Inferno dry bones of myriad lifeless mummies naked on the web, the Ghosts, I am A Ghost I cry out where I am in the music, to the room, to whomever near, you, Are You God? No, do you want me to be God? Is there no answer? Must there always be an Answer? you reply, and were it up to me to say Yes or No - Thank God I am not God! Thank God I am not God! But that I long for a Yes of Harmony to penetrate to every corner of the universe, under every condition whatsoever a Yes there is... a Yes I am...a Yes You are... a We
A We and that must be an It, and a They, and a Thing with No Answer It creepeth, it waiteth, it is still, it is begun, it is the Horns of Battle it is Multiple Sclerosis it is not my hope it is not my death at Eternity it is not my word, not poetry beware my Word
It is a Ghost Trap, woven by priest in Sikkim or Tibet a crossframe on which a thousand threads of different color are strung, a spiritual tennis racket in which when I look I see aethereal lightwaves radiate bright energy passing round on the threads as for billions of years the thread-bands magically changing hues one transformed to another as if the Ghost Trap were an image of the Universe in miniature conscious sentient part of the interrelated machine making waves outward in Time to the Beholder displaying its own image in miniature once for all repeated minutely downward with endless variations throughout all of itself it being all the same in every part
This image or energy which reproduces itself at the depths of space from the very Beginning in what might be an O or an Aum and trailing variations made of the same Word circles round itself in the same pattern as its original Appearence creating a larger Image of itself throughout the depths of Time outward circling thru bands of faroff Nebulae & vast Astrologies contained, to be true to itself, in a Mandala painted on an Elephant's hide, or in a photograph of a painting on the side of an imaginary Elephant which smiles, tho how the Elephant looks is an irrelevent joke - it might be a Sign held by a Flaming Demon, or Ogre of Transcience, or in a photograph of my own belly in the void or in my eye or in the eye of the monk who made the Sign or in its own Eye that stares on Itself at least and dies
and tho an eye can die and tho my eye can die the billion-eyed monster, the Nameless, the Answerless, the Hidden-From me, the endless Being one creature that gives birth to itself thrills in its minutest particular, sees out of all eyes differently at once One and not One moves on its own ways I cannot follow
And I have made an image of the monster here and I will make another it feels like Cryptozoids it creeps an undulates beneath the sea it is coming to take over the city it invades beneath every Consciousness it is delicate as the Universe it makes me vomit becaude I am afraid I will miss its appearance it appears anyway it appears anyway in the mirror it washes out of the mirror like the sea it is myriad undulations it washes out of the mirror and drowns the behodler it drowns the world when it drowns the world it drowns itself it floats outward like a corpse filled with music the noise of war in its head a babe laugh in its belly a scream og agony in the dark sea a smile on the lips of a blind statue it was there it was not mine I wanted to use it for myself to be heroic but it is not for sale to this consciousness it goes its own way forever it will complete all creatures it will be the radio of the future it will hear itself in time it wants a rest it is tired of hearing and seeing itself it wants another form another victim it wants me it gives me good reason it gives me reason to exist it gives me endless answers a consciousness to be separate and a consciousness to see I am beckoned to be One or the other, to say I am both and be neither it can take care of itself without me it is Both Answerless ( it answers not to that name ) it hummeth on the elecric typewriter it types a fragmentary word which is a fragmentary word,
-------------------- "But it was alright, he had won the battle against himself, He Loved Big Brother"
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